“It’s simply ‘Beeker,’ sir,” he said.
“Yes, of course,” the manager replied absently. “I was wondering if I might speak with you for a moment?”
“In regards to what, sir?”
“Well”-Bombest glanced around as if he were afraid of eavesdroppers-“I’ve been going over the reservations-manually, as Mr. Phule suggested-and I’m afraid we’re going to need an extra hundred rooms for the opening.”
“Why?”
The manager shrugged. “I can only assume computer error. Most of the reservations were entered correctly, but they don’t seem to appear on any-“
“I meant why are you bringing this to my attention … sir?” Beeker said. “I have no authority in these matters. Surely you were provided with a procedure by which you could report any irregularities through normal channels.”
“I was,” the manager admitted, “but … well, frankly I’ve been reluctant to speak with Mr. Phule directly. He seems quite preoccupied with the arrangements for the opening, and I hate to interrupt him unless it’s important.”
“I’m sure he would feel it was important enough to warrant interruption,” the butler said. “After all, he felt it was important enough to import you specifically for the task, didn’t he?”
“I … I guess so,” Bombest said hesitantly. “I’ve barely spoken with him since my arrival, though. I didn’t expect a brass band, mind you, but my lack of contact has left me feeling that there are higher priorities than my work occupying his mind.”
“More likely it’s a tribute to his confidence in you, Mr. Bombest,” Beeker said easily, long accustomed to soothing the ruffled feathers and bruised feelings which invariably followed in his employer’s wake. “He doubtless feels that you are able to carry out your duties with minimal guidance or input from him.”