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　　《大饭店》作者：[加]阿瑟·黑利【完结】　　
  内容简介
　　在上个世纪后半叶以写通俗作品而闻名欧美文坛的小说家中，阿瑟·黑利实在是很突出的一位。他出生于英国，国籍却是加拿大，而成年后又长期侨居美国；他曾当过公务员、英国皇家空军飞行员、房地产掮客、商业杂志编辑和广告经理人员等。——这些丰富的人生阅历，使他的作品题材广泛，风格独特。    阿瑟·黑利的作品都是以美国社会为背景，而且每一部都是通过讲述发生在一个行业内部的故事，来展示当时美国社会生活的某一个片断画面。    由于阿瑟·黑利作品中的场景大多设置为一个相对固定而又开放的场所，因而牵涉的人物可谓来自五湖四海，比如本书中，有饭店员工，有住店的顾客，有临时来开会的人,有私人侦探，甚至还有小偷。——这些人物看似庞杂，互不关联，却又非常自然地凑在一起。对许多人着墨不多，却常能惟妙惟肖，使其形象跃然纸上。而书中的主要人物，或高尚睿智，或勇敢坚强，或私欲旺盛，或颟顸糊涂，一个个都被用白描的笔法塑造得如见其人，如闻其声，令人读后掩卷难忘。
　　
   主编推荐
　　阿瑟·黑利，1920-2004，“行业小说之王”阿瑟·黑利经典之作。职场实战手册，行业入门指南。酒店管理专业学生必读“教科书”。小说因其写实，入选MBA分析教案。    闷热的新奥尔良，豪华的圣格雷戈里饭店面临严重财政危机，即将被大财阀收购。从周一到周五的时间里，上至高级经理，下到临时清洁工，几乎所有的酒店员工卷入了一场残酷的生存之战。
　　
    作者简介
　　阿瑟·黑利(1920-2004)，他出生英伦，参加皇家空军征战二战，写尽美国社会百态之后，终老于巴哈马，但更愿承认自己是加拿大人。    他的小说改编成电影，引领好莱坞的灾难片风潮；他的小说改编成电视剧，创造出历史最高的收视纪录。    他的小说入选MBA教材，成为从业人员的必读之书；他的小说入选英文课本，是学习写作的经典范本。    他是畅销书之父，作品被译作38种语言，总销量17亿册。他无时无刻不在编织故事，一天却只能创作600字。    他是行业小说之王，人们从他的小说里了解空港经营、酒店管理、媒体运作、金融内幕，他却谦虚道：“我就是个讲故事的人，读者的其他收获不过是偶然罢了。”
　　
    媒体评论
　　阿瑟·黑利是一个传统的现实主义手法的继承者，他以善于描写当代美国社会现实着称，而且对现实的反映比较忠实，这在一定程度上与他丰富的生活经历有关。    ——《大饭店》译者他沉思良久才写上几个字，每天虽只限定600字，却要花上6个小时。    ——希加·黑利
     CONTENTS
　　MONDAY EVENING              1
　　TUESDAY                   57
　　WEDNESDAY                 151
　　THURSDAY                  246
　　FRIDAY                   347
　　Traveller, pray lodge in this unworthy house. The bath is ready. A peaceful
　　room awaits you. Come in! Come inI
　　-Translation of a sign at the doorway of an inn, Takamatsu, Japan.
　　 MONDAY EVENING
　　I
　　If he had had his way, Peter McDermott thought, he would have fired the
　　chief house detective long ago. But he had not had his way and now, once
　　more, the obese ex-policeman was missing when he was needed most.
　　McDermott leaned down from his husky six-and-a-half feet and jiggled the
　　desk telephone impatiently. "Fifteen things break loose at once," he told
　　the girl by the window of the wide, broadloomed office, "and nobody can
　　find him."
　　Christine Francis glanced at her wrist watch. It showed a few minutes
　　before eleven P.m. "There's a bar on Baronne Street you might try."
　　Peter McDermott nodded. "The switchboard's checking Ogilvie's hangouts."
　　He opened a desk drawer, took out cigarettes and offered them to
　　Christine.
　　Coming forward, she accepted a cigarette and McDermott lit it, then did
　　the same for himself. He watched as she inhaled.
　　Christine Francis had left her own smaller office in the St. Gregory
　　Hotel executive suite a few minutes earlier. She had been working late
　　and was on the point of going home when the light under the assistant
　　general manager's door had drawn her in.
　　"Our Mr. Ogilvie makes his own rules," Christine said. "It's always been
　　that way. On W.T.'s orders."
　　McDermott spoke briefly into the telephone, then waited again. "You're
　　right," he acknowledged. "I tried to reor-
　　I
　　    HOTEL
　　ganize our tame detective force once, and my ears were properly pinned
　　back."
　　She said quietly, "I didn't know that."
　　He looked at her quizzically. "I thought you knew everything."
　　And usually she did. As personal assistant to Warren Trent, the
　　unpredictable and irascible owner of New Orleans' largest hotel,
　　Christine was privy to the hotel's inner secrets as well as its
　　day-to-day affairs. She knew, for example, that Peter, who had been
　　promoted to assistant general manager a month or two ago, was virtually
　　running the big, bustling St. Gregory, though at an ungenerous salary and
　　with limited authority. She knew the reasons behind that, too, which were
　　in a file marked Confidential and involved Peter McDermott's personal
　　life.
　　Christine asked, "What is breaking loose?"
　　McDermott gave a cheerful grin which contorted his rugged, almost ugly
　　features. "We've a complaint from the eleventh floor about some sort of
　　sex orgy; on the ninth the Duchess of Croydon claims her Duke has been
　　insulted by a room-service waiter; there's a report of somebody moaning
　　horribly in 1439; and I've the night manager off sick, with the other two
　　house officers otherwise engaged."
　　He spoke into the telephone again and Christine returned to the office
　　window which was on the main mezzanine floor. Head tilted back to keep
　　the cigarette smoke from her eyes, she looked casually across the city.
　　Directly ahead, through an avenue of space between adjoi i g buildings,
　　she could see into the tight, crowded rectangle of the French Quarter.
　　With midnight an hour away, it was early yet for the Quarter, and lights
　　in front of late night bars, bistros, jazz halls, and strip joints-as
　　well as behind darkened shutters-would bum well into tomorrow morning.
　　Somewhere to the north, over Lake Pontchartrain probably, a summer storm
　　was brewing in the darkness. The beginnings of it could be sensed in
　　muted rumblings and an occasional flash of light. With luck, if the storm
　　moved south toward the Gulf of Mexico, there might be rain in New Orleans
　　by morning.
　　The rain would be welcome, Christine thought. For three
　　2
　　                     Monday Evening
　　weeks the city had sweltered in heat and humidity, producing tensions all
　　around. There would be relief in the hotel too. This afternoon the chief
　　engineer had complained again, "If I canna' shut down part of the air
　　conditioning soon, I willna' be responsible for my bearings."
　　Peter McDermott put down the telephone and she asked, "Do you have a name
　　for the room where the moaning is?"
　　He shook his head and lifted the phone again. "I'll find out. Probably
　　someone having a nightmare, but we'd better make sure."
　　As she dropped into an upholstered leather chair facing the big mahogany
　　desk, Christine realized suddenly how very tired she was. In the ordinary
　　way she would have been home at her Gentilly apartment hours ago. But
　　today had been exceptionally fall, with two conventions moving in and a
　　heavy influx of other guests, creating problems, many of which had found
　　their way to her desk.
　　"All right, thanks." McDermott scribbled a name and hung up. "Albert
　　Wells, Montreal."
　　"I know him," Christine said. "A nice little man who stays here every
　　year. If you like, I'll check that one out."
　　He hesitated, eying Christine's slight, trim figure.
　　The telephone shrilled and he answered it. "I'm sorry, sir," the operator
　　said, "we can7t locate Mr. Ogilvie."
　　"Never mind. Give me the bell captain." Even if he couldn't fire the
　　chief house detective, McDermott thought, he would do some hell raising
　　in the morning. Meanwhile he would send someone else to look after the
　　disturbance on the eleventh and handle the Duke and Duchess incident
　　himself.
　　"Bell captain," the phone said, and he recognized the flat nasal voice
　　of Herbie Chandler. Chandler, like Ogilvie, was another of the St.
　　Gregory's old-timers and reputedly controlled more sideline rackets than
　　anyone else on staff .
　　McDermott explained the problem and asked Chandler to investigate the
　　complaint about an alleged sex orgy. As he had half expected, there was
　　an immediate protest. "That ain't my job, Mr. Mac, and we're still busy
　　down here." The tone was typical Chandler-half fawning, half insolent.
　　McDermott instructed, "Never mind the argument, 1 3
　　    HOTEL
　　want that complaint attended to." Making another decision: "And something
　　else: send a boy with a pass key to meet Miss Francis on the main
　　mezzanine." He replaced the phone before there could be any more discussion.
　　"Let's go." His hand touched Christine's shoulders lightly. "Take the
　　bellboy with you, and tell your friend to have his nightmares under the
　　covers."
　　2
　　Herbie Chandler, his weasel-face betraying an inner uneasiness, stood
　　thoughtfully by the bell captain's upright desk in the St. Gregory lobby.
　　Set centrally, beside one of the fluted concrete columns which extended to
　　the heavily ornamented ceiling high above, the bell captain's post
　　commanded a view of the lobby's comings and goings. There was plenty of
　　movement now. The conventioneers had been in and out all evening and, as
　　the hours wore on, their determined gaiety had increased with their liquor
　　intake.
　　As Chandler watched out of habit, a group of noisy revelers came through
　　the Carondelet Street door: three men and two women; they held drinking
　　glasses, the kind that Pat O'Brien's bar charged tourists a dollar for over
　　in the French Quarter, and one of the men was stumbling badly, supported by
　　the others. All three men wore convention name tags. GOLD CROWN COLA the
　　cards said, with their names beneath. Others in the lobby made way
　　good-naturedly and the quintet weaved into the main floor bar.
　　I Occasional new arrivals were still trickling in-from late planes and
　　trains, and several were being roomed now by Chandler's platoon of bellboys,
　　though the "boys" was a figure of speech since none was younger than forty,
　　and several graying veterans had been with the hotel a quarter century or
　　more. Herbie Chandler, who held the power of hiring and firing his bell
　　staff, preferred older men. Someone who had to struggle and grunt a bit with
　　heavy luggage was likely to earn bigger tips than a youngster who swung bags
　　as if they contained nothing more than balsa wood. 4
　　                     Monday Evening
　　One old-timer, who actually was strong and wiry as a mule, had a way of
　　setting bags down, putting a hand over his heart, then picking them up
　　with a shake of his head and carrying on. The performance seldom earned
　　less than a dollar from conscience-stricken guests who were convinced the
　　old man would have a coronary around the next corner. What they did not
　　know was that ten per cent of their tip would find its way into Herbie
　　Chandler's pocket, plus the flat two dollars daily which Chandler exacted
　　from each bellboy as the price of retaining his job.
　　'Me bell captain's private toll system caused plenty of low-toned
　　growlings, even though a fast-moving bellboy could still make a hundred
　　and fifty dollars a week for himself when the hotel was full. On such
　　occasions, as tonight, Herbie Chandler often stayed at his post well
　　beyond the usual hour. Trusting no one, he liked to keep an eye on his
　　percentage and had an uncanny knack of sizing up guests, estimating
　　exactly what each trip to the upstairs floors would yield. In the past
　　a few individualists had tried holding out on Herbie by reporting tips
　　to be less than they really were. Reprisals were unfailingly swift and
　　ruthless, and a month's suspension on some trumped-up charge usually
　　brought non-conformists into line.
　　There was another cause, too, for Chandler's presence in the hotel
　　tonight, and it accounted for his unease which had been steadily growing
　　since,Peter McDermott's telephone call a few minutes earlier. McDermott
　　had instructed: investigate a complaint on the eleventh floor. But Herbie
　　Chandler had no need to investigate because he knew roughly what was
　　happening on the eleventh. The reason was simple: he had arranged it
　　himself.
　　Three hours earlier the two youths had been explicit in their request and
　　he had listened respectfully since the fathers of both were wealthy local
　　citizens and frequent guests of the hotel. "Listen, Herbie," one of them
　　said, "there's a fraternity dance tonight-the same old crap, and we'd
　　like something different."
　　He had asked, knowing the answer, "How different?"
　　"We've taken a suite." The boy flushed. "We want a couple of girls."
　　It was too risky, Herbie decided at once. Both were little
　　5
　　    HOTEL
　　more than boys, and he suspected they had been drinking. He began, "Sorry,
　　gentlemen," when the second youth cut in.
　　"Don't give us any crap about not being able to, because we know you run
　　the call girls here."
　　Herbie had bared his weasel teeth in what passed for a smile. "I can't
　　imagine where you got that idea, Mr. Dixon."
　　The one who had spoken first insisted, "We can pay, Herbie. You know
　　that."
　　The bell captain hesitated, despite his doubts his mind working greedily.
　　Just lately his sideline revenues had been slower than usual. Perhaps,
　　after all, the risk was slight.
　　The one named Dixon said, "Let's quit horsing around. How much?"
　　Herbie looked at the youths, remembered their fathers, and multiplied the
　　standard rate by two. "A hundred dollars."
　　There was a momentary pause. Then Dixon said decisively, "You got a
　　deal." He added persuasively to his companion, "Listen we've already paid
　　for the booze. I'll lend you the rest of your split."
　　92
　　"Well . . .
　　"In advance, gentlemen." Herbie moistened his thin lips with his tongue.
　　"Just one other thing. You'll have to make sure there's no noise. If
　　there is, and we get complaints, there could be trouble for all of us."
　　There would be no noise, they had assured him, but now, it seemed, there
　　had been, and his original fears were proving uncomfortably true.
　　An hour ago the girls had come in through the front entrance as usual,
　　with only an inner few of the hotel's staff aware that they were other
　　than registered hotel guests. If all had gone well, both should have left
　　by now, as unobtrusively as they had come.
　　The eleventh floor complaint, relayed through McDermott and specifically
　　referring to a sex orgy, meant that something had gone seriously wrong.
　　What? Herbie was reminded uncomfortably of the reference to booze.
　　It was hot and humid in the lobby despite the overworked air
　　conditioning, and Herbie took out a silk hand-
　　6
　　                     Monday Evening
　　kerchief to mop his perspiring forehead. At the same time he silently
　　cursed his own folly, wondering whether, at this stage, he should go
　　upstairs or stay wen away.
　　3
　　Peter McDermott rode the elevator to the ninth floor, leaving Christine
　　who was to continue to the fourteenth with her accompanying bellboy. At
　　the opened elevator doorway he hesitated. "Send for me if there's any
　　trouble."
　　"If it's essential I'll scream." As the sliding doors came between them
　　her eyes met his own. For a moment he stood thoughtfully watching the
　　place where they had been, then, long legged and alert, strode down the
　　carpeted corridor toward the Presidential Suite.
　　The St. Gregory's largest and most elaborate suiteknown familiarly as the
　　brasshouse-had, in its time, housed a succession of distinguished guests,
　　including presidents and royalty. Most had Eked New Orleans because after
　　an initial welcome the city had a way of respecting its visitors'
　　privacy, including indiscretions, if any. Somewhat less than heads of
　　state, though distinguished in their way, were the suite's present
　　tenants, the Duke and Duchess of Croydon, plus their retinue of
　　secretary, the Duchess's maid, and five Bedlington terriers.
　　Outside the double padded leather doors, decorated with gold
　　fleur-de-lis, Peter McDermott depressed a mother-ofpearl button and heard
　　a muted buzz inside, followed by a less muted chorus of barkings.
　　Waiting, he reflected on what he had heard and knew about the Croydons.
　　The Duke of Croydon, scion of an ancient family, had adapted himself to
　　the times with an instinct for the common touch. Within the past decade,
　　and aided by his Duchess-herself a known public figure and cousin of the
　　Queen-he had become ambassador-at-large and successful troubleshooter for
　　the British government. More recently, however, there had been rumors
　　that the Duke's career had reached a critical point, perhaps because his
　　touch had become a shade too common in some areas, notably those of
　　liquor and other men's wives. There were 7
　　    HOTEL
　　other reports, though, which said the shadow over the Duke was minor and
　　temporary, and that the Duchess bad the situation well in hand. Supporting
　　this second view were predictions that the Duke of Croydon might soon be
　　named British Ambassador to Washington.
　　From behind Peter a voice murmured, "Excuse me, Mr. McDermott, can I have
　　a word with you?"
　　Turning abruptly be recognized Sol Natchez, one of the elderly room-service
　　waiters, who bad come quietly down the corridor, a lean cadaverous figure
　　in a short white coat, trimmed with the hotel's colors of red and gold. The
　　man's hair was slicked down flatly and combed forward into an old-fashioned
　　forelock. His eyes were pale and rheumy, and the veins in the back of his
　　hands, which he rubbed nervously, stood out like cords with the flesh sunk
　　deep between them.
　　"What is it, Sol?"
　　His voice betraying agitation, the waiter said, "I expect you've come about
　　the complaint-the complaint about me.19
　　McDermott glanced at the double doors. They had not yet opened, nor, apart
　　from the barking, had there been any other sound from within. He said, "Ten
　　me what happened."
　　The other swallowed twice. Ignoring the question, he said in a pleading
　　hurried whisper, "If I lose this job, Mr. McDermott, it's hard at my age to
　　find another." He looked toward the Presidential Suite, his expression a
　　mixture of anxiety and resentment. "They're not the hardest people to serve
　　... except for tonight. They expect a lot, but I've never minded, even
　　though there's never a tip."
　　Peter smiled involuntarily. British nobility seldom tipped, assuming
　　perhaps that the privilege of waiting on them was a reward in itself.
　　He interjected, "You still haven!t told me . .
　　"I'm gettin' to it, Mr. McDermott." From someone old enough to be Petees
　　grandfather, the other man's distress was almost embarrassing. "It was
　　about half an hour ago They'd ordered a late supper, the Duke and Duchess-
　　oysters, champagne, shrimp Creole."
　　"Never mind the menu. What happened?" 8
　　                     Monday Evening
　　"It was the shrimp Creole, sir. When I was serving it . well, it's
　　something, in all these years it's happened very rarely."
　　"For heaven's sake!" Peter had one eye on the suite doors, ready to break
　　off the conversation the moment they opened.
　　"Yes, Mr. McDermott. Well, when I was serving the Creole the Duchess got
　　up from the table and as she came back she jogged my arm. If I didn't
　　know better I'd have said it was deliberate."
　　"That's ridiculous!"
　　"I know, sir, I know. But what happened, you see, was there was a small
　　spot-I swear it was no more than a quarter inch--on the Duke's trousers."
　　Peter said doubtfully, "Is that all this is about?"
　　"Mr. McDermott, I swear to you that's all. But you'd think-the fuss the
　　Duchess made-I'd committed murder. I apologized, I got a clean napkin and
　　water to get the spot off, but it wouldn't do. She insisted on sending
　　for Mr. Trent ... It
　　"Mr. Trent is not in the hotel."
　　He would hear the other side of the story, Peter decided, before making
　　any judgment. Meanwhile he instructed, "If you're all through for tonight
　　you'd better go home. Report tomorrow and you'll be told what will
　　happen."
　　As the waiter disappeared, Peter McDermott depressed the bell push again.
　　There -was barely time for the barking to resume before the door was
　　opened by a moon-faced, youngish man with pince-nez. Peter recognized him
　　as the Croydons' secretary.
　　Before either of them could speak a woman's voice called out from the
　　suites interior. "Whoever it is, tell them not to keep buzzing." For all
　　the peremptory tone, Peter thought, it was an attractive voice with a
　　rich huskiness which excited interest.
　　"I beg your pardon," he told the secretary. "I thought perhaps you hadn't
　　heard." He introduced himself, then added, "I understand there has been
　　some trouble about our service. I came to see if I could help."
　　The secretary said, "We were expecting Mr. Trent."
　　"Mr. Trent is away from the hotel for the evening."
　　9
　　    HOTEL
　　While speaking they had moved from the corridor into the hallway of the
　　suite, a tastefully appointed rectangle with deep broadloom, two
　　upholstered chairs, and a telephone side table beneath a Morris Henry
　　Hobbs engraving of old New Orleans. The double doorway to the corridor
　　formed one end of the rectangle. At the other end, the door to the large
　　living room was partially open. On the right and left were two other
　　doorways, one to the selfcontained kitchen and another to an
　　office-cum-bed-sitting room, at present used by the Croydons' secretary.
　　The two main, connecting bedrooms of the suite were accessible both
　　through the kitchen and living room, an arrangement contrived so that a
　　surreptitious bedroom visitor could be spirited in and out by the kitchen
　　if need arose.
　　"Why can't he be sent for?" The question was addressed without
　　preliminary as the living-room door opened and the Duchess of Croydon
　　appeared, three of the Bedlington terriers enthusiastically at her heels.
　　With a swift fingersnap, instantly obeyed, she silenced the dogs and
　　turned her eyes questioningly on Peter. He was aware of the handsome,
　　high-cheekboned face, familiar through a thousand photographs. Even in
　　casual clothes, he observed, the Duchess was superbly dressed.
　　"To be perfectly honest, Your Grace, I was not aware that you required
　　Mr. Trent personally."
　　Gray-green eyes regarded him appraisingly. "Even in Mr. Trent's absence
　　I should have expected one of the senior executives."
　　Despite himself, Peter flushed. There was a superb hauteur about the
　　Duchess of Croydon which-in a perverse way-was curiously appealing. A
　　picture flashed into his memory. He had seen it in one of the illustrated
　　magazines-the Duchess putting a stallion at a high fence. Disdainful of
　　risk, she had been securely and superbly in command. He had an
　　impression, at this moment, of being on foot while the Duchess was
　　mounted.
　　"I'm assistant general manager. That's why I came personally.
　　There was a glimmer of amusement in the eyes which held his own. "Aren't
　　you somewhat young for that?"
　　"Not really. Nowadays a good many young men are
　　10
　　                     Monday Evening
　　engaged in hotel management." The secretary, he noticed, had disappeared
　　discreetly.
　　"How old are you?"
　　"Thirty-two."
　　The Duchess smiled. When she chose-as at this moment-her face became
　　animated and warm. It was not difficult, Peter thought, to become aware of
　　the fabled charm. She was five or six years older than himself, he
　　calculated, though younger than the Duke who was in his late forties. Now
　　she asked, "Do you take a course or something?"
　　"I have a degree from Cornell University-the School of Hotel
　　Administration. Before coming here I was an assistant manager at the
　　ention the Waldorf, and he was tempted
　　to add: from where I was fired in ignominy, and black-listed by the chain
　　hotels, so that I am fortunate to be working here, which is an independent
　　house. But he would not say it, of course, because a private hell was
　　something you lived with alone, even when someone else's casual questions
　　nudged old, raw wounds within yourself.
　　The Duchess retorted, "The Waldorf would never have tolerated an incident
　　like tonight's."
　　"I assure you, ma'am, that if we are at fault the St. Gregory will not
　　tolerate it either." The conversation, he thought, was like a game of
　　tennis, with the ball lobbed from one court to the other. He waited for it
　　to come back.
　　"If you were at faultl Are you aware that your waiter poured shrimp Creole
　　over my husband?"
　　It was so obviously an exaggeration, he wondered why. It was also
　　uncharacteristic since, until now, relations between the hotel and the
　　Croydons had been excellent.
　　"I was aware there had been an accident which was probably due to
　　carelessness. In that event I'm here to apologize for the hotel."
　　"Our entire evening has been ruined," the Duchess insisted. "My husband and
　　I decided to enjoy a quiet evening in our suite here, by ourselves. We were
　　out for a few moments only, to take a walk around the block, and we
　　returned to supper-and this!"
　　Peter nodded, outwardly sympathetic but mystified by 11
　　    HOTEL
　　the Duchess's attitude. It seemed almost as if she wanted to impress the
　　incident on his mind so he would not forget it.
　　He suggested, "Perhaps if I could convey our apologies to the Duke . . ."
　　The Duchess said firmly, "That will not be necessary."
　　He was about to take his leave when the door to the living room, which had
　　remained ajar, opened fully. It framed the Duke of Croydon.
　　In contrast to his Duchess, the Duke was untidily dressed, in a creased
　　white shirt and the trousers of a tuxedo. Instinctively Peter McDermott's
　　eyes sought the tell-tale stain where Natchez, in the Duchess's words, had
　　"poured shrimp Creole over my husband." He found it, though it was barely
　　visible-a tiny spot which a valet could have removed instantly. Behind the
　　Duke, in the spacious living room a television set was turned on.
　　The Duke's face seemed flushed, and more lined than some of his recent
　　photographs showed. He held a glass in his hand and when he spoke his voice
　　was blurry. "Oh, beg pardon." Then, to the Duchess: "I say, old girl. Must
　　have left my cigarettes in the car."
　　She responded sharply, "I'll bring some." There was a curt dismissal in her
　　voice and with a nod the Duke turned back into the living room. It was a
　　curious, uncomfortable scene and for some reason it had heightened the
　　Duchess's anger.
　　Turning to Peter, she snapped, "I insist on a full report being made to Mr.
　　Trent, and you may inform him that I expect a personal apology."
　　Still perplexed, Peter went out as the suite door closed firmly behind him.
　　But he was allowed no more time for reflection. In the corridor outside,
　　the bellboy who had accompanied Christine to the fourteenth floor was
　　waiting. "Mr. McDermott," he said urgently, "Miss Francis wants you in
　　1439, and please hurryl"
　　12
　　                     Monday Evening
　　4
　　Some fifteen minutes earlier, when Peter McDermott had left the elevator on
　　his way to the Presidential Suite, the bellboy grinned at Christine. "Doing
　　a bit of detectiving, Miss Francis?"
　　"If the chief house officer was around," Christine told him, "I wouldn't
　　have to."
　　The bellboy, Jimmy Duckworth, a balding stubby man whose married son worked
　　in the St. Gregory accounting department, said contemptuously, "Oh, him!"
　　A moment later the elevator stopped at the fourteenth floor.
　　"It's 1439, Jimmy," Christine said, and automatically both turned right.
　　There was a difference, she realized, in the way the two of them knew the
　　geography of the hotel: the bellboy through years of ushering guests from
　　the lobby to their rooms; herself, from a series of mental pictures which
　　familiarity with the printed plans of each floor of the St. Gregory had
　　given her.
　　Five years ago, she thought, if someone at the University of Wisconsin had
　　asked what twenty-year-old Chris Francis, a bright co-ed with a flair for
　　modem languages, was likely to be doing a lustrurn later, not even the
　　wildest guess would have had her working in a New Orleans hotel. That long
　　ago her knowledge of the Crescent City was of the slightest, and her
　　interest less. She had learned in school about the Louisiana Purchase and
　　had seen A Streetcar Natned Desire. But even the last was out of date when
　　she eventually came. The streetcar had become a diesel bus, and Desire was
　　an obscure thoroughfare on the east side of town, which tourists seldom
　　saw.
　　She supposed, in a way, it was this lack of knowledge which brought her to
　　New Orleans. After the accident in Wisconsin, dully and with only the
　　vaguest of reasoning, she had sought a place where she could be unknown and
　　which, as well, was unfamiliar to herself. Familiar things, their touch and
　　sight and sound, had become an ache of heart-all encompassing-which filled
　　the waking day and penetrated sleep. Strangely-and in a way it shamed her
　　13
　　    HOTEL
　　at the time-there were never nightmares; only the steady procession of
　　events as they had been that memorable day at Madison airport. She had been
　　there to see her family leave for Europe: her mother, gay and excited,
　　wearing the bon voyage orchid which a friend had telegraphed; her father,
　　relaxed and amiably complacent that for a month the real and imagined
　　ailments of his patients would be someone else's concern. He had been
　　puffing a pipe which he knocked out on his shoe when the flight was called.
　　Babs, her elder sister, had embraced Christine; and even Tony, two years
　　younger and hating public affection, consented to be kissed.
　　"So long, Haml" Babs and Tony had called back, and Christine smiled at the
　　use of the silly, affectionate name they gave her because she was the
　　middle of their trio sandwich. And they had all promised to write, even
　　though she would join them in Paris two weeks later when term ended. At the
　　last her mother had held Chris tightly, and told her to take care. And a
　　few minutes later the big prop-jet had taxied out and taken off with a
　　roar, majestically, though it barely cleared the runway before it fell
　　back, one wing low, becoming a whirling, somersaulting Catherine wheel, and
　　for a moment a dust cloud, and then a torch, and finally a silent pile of
　　fragments-machinery and what was left of human flesh.
　　It was five years ago. A few weeks after, she left Wisconsin and had never
　　returned.
　　Her own footsteps and the bellboy's were muffled in the carpeted corridor.
　　A pace ahead, Jimmy Duckworth ruminated, "Room 1439-that's the old gent,
　　Mr. Wells. We moved him from a comer room a couple of days ago."
　　Ahead, down the corridor, a door opened and a man, well dressed and
　　fortyish, came out. Closing the door behind him, and ready to pocket the
　　key, he hesitated, eying Christine with frank interest. He seemed about to
　　speak but, barely perceptibly, the bellboy shook his head. Christine, who
　　missed nothing of the exchange, supposed she should be flattered to be
　　mistaken for a call girl. From rumors she heard, Herbie Chandler's list
　　embraced a glamorous membership.
　　14
　　                     Monday Evening
　　When they had passed by she asked, "Why was Mr. Wells's room changed?"
　　"The way I heard it, miss, somebody else had 1439 and raised a fuss. So
　　what they did was switch around."
　　Christine remembered 1439 now; there had been complaints before. It was
　　next to the service elevator and appeared to be the meeting place of all
　　the hotel's pipes. The effect was to make the place noisy and unbearably
　　hot. Every hotel had at least one such room-sorne called it the ha-ha
　　room-which usually was never rented until everything else was full.
　　"If Mr. Wells had a better room why was he asked to move? 99
　　The bellboy shrugged. "You'd better ask the room clerks that."
　　She persisted, "But you've an idea."
　　"Well, I guess it's because he never complains. The old gent's been
　　coming here for years with never a peep out of him. There are some who
　　seem to think it's a bit of a joke." Christine's lips tightened angrily
　　as Jimmy Duckworth went on, "I did hear in the dining room they give him
　　that table beside the kitchen door, the one no one else will have. He
　　doesn't seem to mind, they say."
　　Christine thought grimly: Someone would mind tomorrow morning; she would
　　guarantee it. At the realization that a regular guest, who also happened
　　to be a quiet and gentle man, had been so shabbily treated, she felt her
　　temper bristle. Well, let it. Her temper was not unknown around the hotel
　　and there were some, she knew, who said it went with her red hair.
　　Although she curbed it mostly, once in a while it served a purpose in
　　getting things done.
　　They turned a comer and stopped at the door of 1439. The bellboy knocked.
　　They waited, listening. There was no acknowledging sound and Jimmy
　　Duck-worth repeated the knock, this time more loudly. At once there was
　　a response: an eerie moaning that began as a whisper, reached a
　　crescendo, then ended suddenly as it began.
　　"Use your pass key," Christine instructed. "Open the door---quickly!"
　　She stood back while the bellboy went in ahead; even
　　15
　　    HOTEL
　　a apparent crisis a hotel had rules of decorum which must )e observed. The
　　room was in darkness and she saw Duckworth snap on the ceiling light and
　　go around a comer out of sight. Almost at once he called back, "Miss
　　Francis, you'd better come."
　　The room, as Christine entered, was stiflingly hot, though a glance at
　　the air-conditioning regulator showed it set hopefully to "cool." But
　　that was all she had time to see before observing the struggling figure,
　　half upright, half recumbent in the bed. It was the birdlike little man
　　she knew as Albert Wells. His face ashen gray, eyes bulging and with
　　trembling lips, he was attempting desperately to breathe and barely
　　succeeding.
　　She went quickly to the bedside. Once, years before, in her father's
　　office she had seen a patient in extremis, fighting for breath. There
　　were things her father had done then which she could not do now, but one
　　she remembered. She told Duckworth decisively, "Get the window open. We
　　need air in here."
　　The bellboy's eyes were focused on the face of the man in bed. He said
　　nervously, "The window's sealed. They did it for the air conditioning."
　　"Then force it. If you have to, break the glass."
　　She had already picked up the telephone beside the bed. When the operator
　　answered, Christine announced, "This is Miss Francis. Is Dr. Aarons in
　　the hotel?"
　　"No, Miss Francis; but he left a number. If iVs an emergency I can reach
　　him."
　　"It's an emergency. Tell Dr. Aarons room 1439, and to hurry, please. Ask
　　how long he'll take to get here, then call me back."
　　Replacing the phone, Christine turned to the still-struggling figure in
　　the bed. The frail, elderly man was breathing no better than before and
　　she perceived that his face, which a few moments earlier had been ashen
　　gray, was turning blue. The moaning which they had heard outside had be-
　　gun again; it was the effort of exhaling, but obviously most of the
　　sufferer's waning strength was being consumed by his desperate physical
　　exertion.
　　"Mr. Wells," she said, trying to convey a confidence she was far from
　　feeling, "I think you might breathe more 16
　　                     Monday Evening
　　easily if you kept perfectly still." The bellboy, she noticed, was having
　　success with the window. He had used a coat hanger to break a seal on the
　　catch and now was inching the bottom portion upward.
　　As if in response to Christine's words, the little man's struggles
　　subsided. He was wearing an old-fashioned flannel nightshirt and
　　Christine put an arm around him, aware of his scrawny shoulders through
　　the coarse material. Reaching for pillows, she propped them behind, so
　　that he could lean back, sitting upright at the same time. His eyes were
　　fixed on hers; they were doe-like, she thought, and trying to convey
　　gratitude. She said reassuringly, "I've sent for a doctor. He'll be here
　　at any moment." As she spoke, the bellboy grunted with an extra effort
　　and the window, suddenly freed, slid open wide. At once a draft of cool
　　fresh air suffused the room. So the storm had moved south, Christine
　　thought gratefully, sending a freshening breeze before it, and the
　　temperature outside must be lower than for days. In the bed Albert Wells
　　gasped greedily at the new air. As he did the telephone rang. Signaling
　　the bellboy to take her place beside the sick man, she answered it.
　　"Dr. Aarons is on his way, Miss Francis," the operator announced. "He was
　　in Paradis and said to tell you he'll be at the hotel in twenty minutes."
　　Christine hesitated. Paradis was across the MississippL beyond Algiers.
　　Even allowing for fast driving, twenty minutes was optimistic. Also, she
　　sometimes had doubts about the competence of the portly, Sazerac-drinking
　　Dr. Aarons who, as house physician, lived free in the hotel in return for
　　his availability. She told the operator, "I'm not sure we can wait that
　　long. Would you check our own guest list to see if we have any doctors
　　registered?"
　　"I already did that." There was a touch of smugness in the answer, as if
　　the speaker had studied stories of heroic telephone operators and was
　　determined to live up to them. "There's a Dr. Koenig in 221, and Dr.
　　Uxbridge in 1203."
　　Christine noted the numbers on a pad beside the telephone. "AD right,
　　ring 221, please." Doctors who registered in hotels expected privacy and
　　were entitled to it, 17
　　    HOTEL
　　Once in a while, though, emergency justified a break with protocol.
　　There were several clicks as the ringing continued. Then a sleepy voice
　　with a Teutonic accent answered, "Yes, who is it?"
　　Christine identified herself. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Dr. Koenig, but
　　one of our other guests is extremely M." Her eyes went to the bed. For
　　the moment, she noticed, the blueness around the face had gone, but there
　　was still an ashen-gray pallor, with breathing as difficult as ever. She
　　added, "I wonder if you could come."
　　There was a pause, then the same voice, soft and agreeable: "My dearest
　　young lady, it would be a matter of utmost happiness if, however humbly,
　　I could assist. Alas, I fear that I could not." A gentle chuckle. "You
　　see, I am a doctor of music, here in your beautiful city to 'guest con-
　　duct'-it is the word, I think-its fine symphony orchestra.92
　　Despite the urgency, Christine had an impulse to laugh. She apologized,
　　"I'm sorry for disturbing you."
　　"Please do not concern yourself. Of course, if my unfortunate fellow
　　guest becomes-how shall I put it?-beyond the help of the other kind of
　　doctors, I could bring my violin to play for him." There was a deep sigh
　　down the telephone. "What finer way to die than to an adagio by Vivaldi
　　or Tartini-superbly executed."
　　"Thank you. I hope that won't be necessary." She was impatient now to
　　make the next call.
　　Dr. Uxbridge in 1203 answered the telephone at once in a no-nonsense tone
　　of voice. In reply to Christine's first question he responded, "Yes, I'm
　　a doctor of medicinean internist." He listened without comment while she
　　described the problem, then said tersely, "I'll be there in a few
　　minutes."
　　The bellboy was still at the bedside. Christine instructed him, "Mr.
　　McDermott is in the Presidential Suite. Go there, and as soon as he's
　　free ask him to come here quickly." She picked up the telephone again.
　　"The chief engineer, please."
　　Fortunately there was seldom any doubt about the chief's availability.
　　Doc Vickery was a bachelor who lived
　　18
　　                     Monday Evening
　　in the hotel and had one ruling passion: the St. Gregory's mechanical
　　equipment extending from foundations to the roof. For a quarter century,
　　since leaving the sea and his native Clydeside, he had overseen the
　　installation of most of it and, in lean times when money for replacement
　　equipment was scarce, had a way of coaxing extra performance out of tired
　　machinery. The chief was a friend of Christine's, and she knew that she
　　was one of his favorites. In a moment his Scottish burr was on the line.
　　"Aye?"
　　In a few words she told him about Albert Wells. "The doctor isn't here
　　yet, but he'll probably want oxygen. We've a portable set in the hotel,
　　haven't we?"
　　"Aye, we've oxygen cylinders, Chris, but we use them just for gas
　　welding."
　　"Oxygen is oxygen," Christine argued. Some of the things her father had
　　told her were coming back. "It doesn't matter how you wrap it. Could you
　　order one of your night people to have whatever's necessary sent up?"
　　The chief gave a grunt of agreement. "I will; and soon as I get my breeks
　　on, lassie, I'll be along mysel'. If I don't, some clown will likely open
　　an acetylene tank under yon man's nose, and that'll finish him for sure."
　　"Please hurry!" She replaced the phone, turning back to the bed.
　　The little man7s eyes were closed. No longer struggling, he appeared not
　　to be breathing at all.
　　There was a light tap at the opened door and a tall, spare man stepped
　　in from the corridor. He had an angular face, and hair graying at the
　　temples. A dark blue suit, conservatively cut, failed to conceal beige
　　pajamas beneath. "Uxbridge," he announced in a quiet, firm voice.
　　"Doctor," Christine said, "just this moment . .
　　The newcomer nodded and from a leather bag, which he put down on the bed,
　　swiftly produced a stethoscope. Without wasting time he reached inside
　　the patient's flannel nightshirt and listened briefly to the chest and
　　back. Then, returning to the bag, in a series of efficient movements he
　　took out a syringe, assembled it, and snapped off the neck of a small
　　glass vial. When he had drawn the fluid from the vial into the syringe,
　　he leaned over the bed and pushed a sleeve of the nightshirt upward,
　　twisting it into a rough 19
　　    HOTEL
　　tourniquet. He instructed Christine, "Keep that in place; hold it tightly."
　　With an alcohol swab Dr. Uxbridge cleansed the forearm above a vein and
　　inserted the syringe. He nodded to the tourniquet. "You can release it
　　now." Then, glancing at his watch, he began to inject the liquid slowly.
　　Christine turned, her eyes seeking the doctoes face. Without looking up, he
　　informed her, "Aminophylline; it should stimulate the heart." He checked
　　his watch again, maintaining a gradual dosage. A minute passed. Two. The
　　syringe was half empty. So far there was no response.
　　Christine whispered, "What is it that's wrong?"
　　"Severe bronchitis, with asthma as a complication. I suspect he's had these
　　attacks before."
　　Suddenly the little man's chest heaved. Then he was breathing, more slowly
　　than before, but with fuller, deeper breaths. His eyes opened.
　　The tension in the room had lessened. The doctor withdrew the syringe and
　　began to disassemble it.
　　"Mr. Wells," Christine said. "Mr. Wells, can you understand me?"
　　She was answered by a series of nods. As they had been earlier, the
　　doe-like eyes were fixed on her own.
　　"You were very ill when we found you, Mr. Wells. This is Dr. Uxbridge who
　　was staying in the hotel and came to help."
　　The eyes shifted to the doctor. Then, with an effort: "Thank you." The
　　words were close to a gasp, but they were the first the sick man had
　　spoken. A small amount of color was returning to his face.
　　"If there's anyone to thank it should be this young lady." The doctor gave
　　a cool, tight smile, then told Christine, "The gentleman is still very sick
　　and will need further medical attention. My advice is for immediate
　　transfer to a hospital."
　　"No, no! I don't want that." The words came-a swift and urgent
　　response-from the elderly man in the bed. He was leaning forward from the
　　pillows, his eyes alert, hands lifted from beneath the covers where
　　Christine had placed them earlier. The change in his condition within the
　　space of a few minutes was remarkable, she thought. He was still 20
　　                     Monday Evening
　　breathing wheezily, and occasionally with effort, but the acute distress had
　　gone.
　　For the first time Christine had time to study his appearance. Originally
　　she had judged him to be in his early sixties; now she revised the guess to
　　add a half dozen years. His build was slight, and shortness, plus thin
　　peaked features and the suggestion of a stoop, created the sparrowlike
　　effect she remembered from previous encounters. His hair, what little was
　　left of it, was usually combed in sparse gray strands, though now it was
　　disarranged, and damp from perspiration. His face habitually held an
　　expression which was mfld and inoffensive, almost apologetic, and yet
　　underneath, she suspected, ination.
　　The first occasion she had met Albert Wells had been two years earlier. He
　　had come diffidently to the hotel's executive suite, concerned about a
　　discrepancy in his bill which he had been unable to settle with the front
　　office. The amount involved, she recalled, was seventy-five cents and
　　while-as usually happened when guests disputed small sums-the chief cashier
　　had offered to cancel the charge, Albert WeRs wanted to prove that he had
　　not incurred it at al]. After patient inquiry, Christine proved that the
　　little man was right and, since she herself sometimes had bouts of
　　parsimony-though alternating with wild feminine extravagance-she
　　sympathized and respected him for his stand. She also deduced-from his
　　hotel bill, which showed modest spending, and his clothes which were
　　obviously ready-to-wear-that he was a man of small means, perhaps a
　　pensioner, whose yearly visits to New Orleans were high points of his life.
　　Now Albert Wells declared, "I don't like hospitals. I never have liked
　　them."
　　"If you stay here," the doctor demurred, "you'll. need medical attention,
　　and a nurse for twenty-four hours at least. You really should have
　　intermittent oxygen too."
　　The little man insisted, "The hotel can arrange about a nurse." He urged
　　Christine, "You can, can't you, miss?"
　　"I suppose we could." Obviously Albert Wells's dislike of hospitals must be
　　strong. For the moment it had overcome his customary attitude of not
　　wishing to cause trou21
　　    HOTEL
　　ble. She wondered, though, if he had any idea of the high cost of private
　　nursing.
　　There was an interruption from the corridor. A coveralled mechanic came
　　in, wheeling an oxygen cylinder on a trolley. He was followed by the
　　burly figure of the chief engineer, carrying a length of rubber tubing,
　　some wire and a plastic bag.
　　"This isn't hospital style, Chris," the chief said. "I fancy it'll work,
　　though." He had dressed hurriedly-an old tweed jacket and slacks over an
　　unbuttoned shirt, revealing an expanse of hairy chest. His feet were.
　　thrust into loose sandals and beneath his bald, domed head a pair of
　　thickrimmed spectacles were, as usual, perched at the tip of his nose.
　　Now, using the wire, he was fashioning a connection between the tube and
　　plastic bag. He instructed the mechanic who had stopped uncertainly, "Set
　　up the cylinder beside the bed, laddie. If you move any slower, I'll
　　think it's you should be getting the oxygen."
　　Dr. Uxbridge seemed surprised. Christine explained her original idea that
　　oxygen might be needed, and introduced the chief engineer. With his hands
　　still busy, the chief nodded, looking briefly over the top of his
　　glasses. A moment later, with the tube connected, he announced, "These
　　plastic bags have suffocated enough people. No reason why one shouldna'
　　do the reverse. Do you think iV11 answer, Doctor?"
　　Some of Dr. Uxbridge's earlier aloofness had disappeared. "I think it
　　will answer very well." He glanced at Christine. "This hotel appears to
　　have some highly competent help."
　　She laughed. "Wait until we mix up your reservations. You'll change your
　　mind."
　　The doctor returned to the bed. "The oxygen will make you more
　　comfortable, Mr. Wells. I imagine yoifve had this bronchial trouble
　　before."
　　Albert Wells nodded. He said throatily, "The bronchitis I picked up as
　　a miner. Then the asthma came later." His eyes moved on tn Christine.
　　"I'm sorry about all this, miss.'.
　　"I'm sorry too, but mostly because your room was changed."
　　22
　　                     Monday Evening
　　The chief engineer had connected the free end of the rubber tube to the
　　green painted cylinder. Dr. Uxbridge told him, "We'll begin with five
　　minutes on oxygen and five minutes off." Together they arranged the
　　improvised mask around the sick man's face. A steady hiss denoted that the
　　oxygen was on.
　　The doctor checked his watch, then inquired, "Have you sent for a local
　　doctor?"
　　Christine explained about Dr. Aarons.
　　Dr. Uxbridge nodded approval. "He'll take over when he arrives. I'm from
　　Illinois and not licensed to practice in Louisiana." He bent over Albert
　　Wells. "Easier?" Beneath the plastic mask the little man moved his head
　　confirmingly.
　　There were firm footfalls down the corridor and Peter McDermott strode in,
　　his big frame filling the outer doorway. "I got your message," he told
　　Christine. His eyes went to the bed. "Will he be all right?"
　　"I think so, though I believe we owe Mr. Wells something." Beckoning Peter
　　into the corridor, she described the change in rooms which the bellboy had
　　told her about. As she saw Peter frown, she added, "If he does stay, we
　　ought to give him another room, and I imagine we could get a nurse without
　　too much trouble."
　　Peter nodded agreement. There was a house telephone in a maid's closet
　　across the hallway. He went to it and asked for Reception.
　　"I'm on the fourteenth," he informed the room clerk who answered. "Is there
　　a vacant room on this floor?"
　　There was a perceptible pause. The night room clerk was an old-timer,
　　appointed many years ago by Warren Trent. He had an autocratic way of doing
　　his job which few people ever contested. He had also made known to Peter
　　McDermott on a couple of occasions that he resented newcomers, particularly
　　if they were younger, senior to himself, and from the north.
　　"Well," Peter said, "is there a room or isn't there?"
　　"I have 1410," the clerk said with his best southern planter's accent, "but
　　I'm about to allocate it to a gentleman who has this moment checked in." He
　　added, "In case you're unaware, we are very close to a full house."
　　23
　　     HOTEL
　　Number 1410 was a room Peter remembered. It was large and airy and faced
　　St. Charles Avenue. He asked reasonably, "If I take 1410, can you find
　　something else for your man?"
　　"No, Mr. McDermott. All I have is a small suite on five, and the
　　gentleman does not wish to pay a higher rate."
　　Peter said crisply, "Let your man have the suite at the room rate for
　　tonight. He can be relocated in the morning. Meanwhile I'll use 1410 for
　　a transfer from 1439, and please send a boy up with the key right away."
　　"Just one minute, Mr. McDermott." Previously the clerk's tone had been
　　aloof; now it was openly truculent. "It has always been Mr. Trent's
　　policy - - .11
　　"Right now we're talking about my policy," Peter snapped. "And another
　　thing: before you go off duty leave word for the day clerks that tomorrow
　　I want an explanation of why Mr. Wells was shifted from his original room
　　to 1439, and you might add that the reason had better be good."
　　He grimaced at Christine as he replaced the phone.
　　5
　　"You must have been insane," the Duchess of Croydon protested.
　　"Absolutely, abysmally insane." She had returned to the living room of
　　the Presidential Suite after Peter McDermott's departure, carefully
　　closing the inner door behind her.
　　The Duke shifted uncomfortably as he always did under one of his wife's
　　periodic tongue lashings. "Damn sorry, old girl. Telly was on. Couldn't
　　hear the fellow. Thought he'd cleared out." He took a deep draught from
　　the whiskey and soda he was holding unsteadily, then added plaintively,
　　"Besides, with everything else I'm bloody upset."
　　"Sorryl Upset!" Unusually there was an undernote of hysteria in his
　　wife's voice. "You make it sound as if it's all some sort of game. As if
　　what happened tonight couldn't be the ruination . . ."
　　"Don't think anything of sort. Know ifs all serious. Bloody serious."
　　Hunched disconsolately in a deep leather
　　24
　　                     Monday Evening
　　armchair he seemed a little man, akin to the bowler-hatted mousy genus
　　which English cartoonists were so fond of drawing.
　　The Duchess went on accusingly, "I was doing the best I could. The very
　　best, after your incredible folly, to establish that both of us spent a
　　quiet evening in the hotel. I even invented a walk that we went for in
　　case anyone saw us come -in. And then crassly, stupidly, you blunder in
　　to announce you left your cigarettes in the car."
　　"Only one heard me. That manager chap. Wouldn't notice.
　　"He noticed. I was watching his face." With an effort the Duchess
　　retained her self-control. "Have you any notion of the ghastly mess we're
　　in?9'
　　"AReady said so." The Duke drained his drink, then contemplated the empty
　　tumbler. "Bloody ashamed too. 'F you hadn't persuaded me . . . 'F I
　　hadn't been fuddled . . ."
　　"You were drunki You were drunk when I found you, and you still are."
　　He shook his head as if to clear it. "Sober now." It was his own turn to
　　be bitter. "You would follow me. Butt in. WouldrOt leave things be ...
　　11
　　"Never mind that. It's the other that matters."
　　He repeated, "You persuaded me . . ."
　　"There was nothing we could do. Nothing! And there was a better chance
　　my way."
　　"Not so sure. 'F the police get their teeth in . .
　　"We'd have to be suspected first. That's why I made that trouble with the
　　waiter and followed through. It isn't an alibi but it's the next best
　　thing. IVs set in their minds we were here tonight ... or would have been
　　if you hadn't thrown it all away. I could weep."
　　"Be interesting that" the Duke said. "DiMt think you were enough of a
　　woman." He sat upright in the chair and had somehow thrown off the
　　submissiveness, or most of it. It es
　　bewildered those who knew him, setting them to wondering which was the
　　real person.
　　The Duchess flushed, the effect heightening her statuesque beauty. "That
　　isn't necessary."
　　"Fraps not." Rising, the Duke went to aside table 25
　　    HOTEL
　　where he splashed Scotch generously into his glass, followed by a short
　　snort of soda. With his back turned, he added, "All same, must admit Vat
　　bottom most of our troubles."
　　"I admit nothing of the kind. Your habits are, perhaps, but not mine.
　　Going to that disgusting gambling joint tonight was madness; and to take
　　that woman . . ."
　　"Y'already covered that," the Duke said wearily. "Exhaustively. On our
　　way back. Before it happened."
　　"I wasn1 aware that what I said had penetrated."
　　"Your words, old girl, penetrate thickest mists. I keep trying make them
　　impenetrable. So far haven't succeeded." The Duke of Croydon sipped his
　　fresh drink. "Why'd you marry me?"
　　"I suppose it was mostly that you stood out in our circle as someone who
　　was doing something worth while. People said the aristocracy was effete.
　　You seemed to be proving that it wasn't."
　　He held up his glass, studying it like a crystal ball. "Not proving it
　　now. Eli?"
　　"If you appear to be, it's because I prop you up."
　　"Washington?" The word was a question. ,
　　"We could manage it," the Duchess said. "If I could keep you sober and
　　in your own bed."
　　"Aha!" Her husband laughed hollowly. "A damn cold bed at that."
　　"I already said that isn't necessary."
　　"Ever wondered why I married you?"
　　"I've formed opinions."
　　"Tell you most important." He drank again, as if for courage, then said
　　thickly, "Wanted you in that bed. Fast. Legally. Knew was only way."
　　"I'm surprised you bothered. With so many others to choose from-before
　　and since."
　　His bloodshot eyes were on her face. "Didift want others. Wanted you.
　　Still do."
　　She snapped, "That's enough! This has gone far enough."
　　He shook his head. "Something you should hear. Your pride, old girl.
　　Magnificent. Savage. Always appealed to me. Didn't want to break it.
　　Share it. You on your back. Thighs apart. Passionate. Trembling . .
　　26
　　                     Monday Evening
　　"Stop it! Stop it! You ... you lecher!" Her face was white, her voice
　　high pitched. "I don't care if the police catch you! I hope they dol I
　　hope you get ten yearsl"
　　6
　　After his quickly concluded dispute with Reception, Peter McDermott
　　recrossed the fourteenth floor corridor to 1439.
　　"If you approve," he informed Dr. Uxbridge, "we'll transfer your patient
　　to another room on this floor."
　　The tall, sparely built doctor who had responded to Christine's emergency
　　call nodded. He glanced around the tiny ha-ha room with its mess of
　　heating and water pipes. "Any change can only be an improvement."
　　As the doctor returned to the little man in the bed, beginning a new
　　five-minute period of oxygen, Christine reminded Peter, "What we need now
　　is a nurse."
　　"We'll let Dr. Aarons arrange that." Peter mused aloud: "The hotel will
　　have to make the engagement, I suppose, which means we'll be liable for
　　payment. Do you think your friend Wells is good for it?"
　　They had returned to the corridor, their voices low.
　　"I'm worried about that. I dont think he has much money." When she was
　　concentrating, Peter noticed, Christine's nose had a charming way of
　　crinkling. He was aware of her closeness and a faint, fragrant perfume.
　　"Oh well," he said, "we won't be too deep in debt by morning. We'll let
　　the credit department look into it then."
　　When the key arrived, Christine went ahead to open the new room, 1410.
　　"It's ready," she announced, returning.
　　"The best thing is to switch beds," Peter told the others. "Let's wheel
　　this one into 1410 and bring back a bed from there." But the doorway,
　　they discovered, was an inch too narrow.
　　Albert Wells, his breathing easier and with returning color, volunteered,
　　"I've walked all my life, I can do a little bit now." But Dr. Uxbridge
　　shook his head decisively.
　　The chief engineer inspected the difference in widths.
　　27
　　    HOTEL
　　I'll take the door off its hinges," he told the sick man. Then ye'll go
　　out like a cork from a bottle."
　　"Never mind," Peter said. "There's a quicker way-if jou're agreeable, Mr.
　　Wells."
　　The other smiled, and nodded.
　　Peter bent down, put a blanket around the elderly man's shoulders and
　　picked him up bodily.
　　"You've strong arms, son," the little man said.
　　Peter smiled. Then, as easily as if his burden were a child, he strode
　　down the corridor and into the new room.
　　Fifteen minutes later all was functioning as if on nyloned bearings. The
　　oxygen equipment had been successfully transferred, though its use was
　　now less urgent since the air conditioning in the more spacious quarters
　　of 1410 had no competition from hot pipes, hence the air was sweeter. The
　　resident physician, Dr. Aarons, had arrived, portly, jovial, and
　　breathing bourbon in an almost-visible cloud. He accepted with alacrity
　　the offer of Dr. Uxbridge to drop in in a consultant capacity the
　　following day, and also grasped eagerly a further suggestion that
　　cortisone might prevent a recurrence of the earlier attack. A private
　　duty nurse, telephoned affectionately by Dr. Aarons ("Such wonderful
　　news, my dear! We're going to be a team again.") was reportedly on the
　　way.
　　As the chief engineer and Dr. Uxbridge took their leave, Albert Wells was
　　sleeping gently.
　　Following Christine into the corridor, Peter carefully closed the door
　　on Dr. Aarons who, while waiting for his nurse, was pacing the room in
　　his own accompaniment, pianissimo, of the Toreador Song from Carmen.
　　("Pom, POM, pom, POM-POMI* Pom-pom-pom, Pom-pom
　　The latch clicked, cutting the minstrelsy off.
　　It was a quarter to twelve.
　　Walking toward the elevators, Christine said, "I'm glad we let him stay."
　　Peter seemed surprised. "Mr. Wells? Why wouldn't we?"
　　"Some places wouldn't. You know how they are: the least thing out of the
　　ordinary, and no one can be bothered. All they want is people to check
　　in, check out, and pay the bill; that's all."
　　"Those are sausage factories. A real hotel is for hospi-
　　28
　　                     Monday Evening
　　tality; and succor if a guest needs it. The best ones started that way.
　　Unfortunately too many people in this business have forgotten."
　　She regarded him curiously. "You think we've forgotten here?"
　　"You're damn right we have! A lot of the time, anyway. If I had my way
　　there'd be a good many changes . . ." He stopped, embarrassed at his own
　　forcefulness. "Never mind. Most of the time I keep such traitorous thoughts
　　to myself."
　　"You shouldn't, and if you do you should be ashamed." Behind Christine's
　　words was the knowledge that the St. Gregory was inefficient in many ways
　　and in recent years had coasted under the shadow of its former glories.
　　Currently, too, the hotel was facing a financial crisis which might force
　　drastic transitions whether its proprietor, Warren Trent, was in favor or
　　not.
　　"There's heads and brick walls," Peter objected. "Beating one against the
　　other doesn't help. W.T. isn't keen on new ideas."
　　"That's no reason for giving up."
　　He laughed. "You sound like a woman.'9
　　"I am a woman."
　　"I know," Peter said. "I've just began to notice."
　　It was true, he thought. For most of the time he had known Christine-since
　　his own arrival at the St. Gregory -he had taken her for granted. Recently,
　　though, he had found himself increasingly aware of just how attractive and
　　personable she was. He wondered what she was doing for the rest of the
　　evening.
　　He said tentatively, "I didn't have dinner tonight; too much going on. If
　　you feel like it, how about joining me for a late supper?"
　　Christine said, "I love late suppers."
　　At the elevator he told her, "There's one more thing I want to check. I
　　sent Herbie Chandler to look into that trouble on the eleventh but I don't
　　trust him. After that I'll be through." He took her arm, squeezing it
　　lightly. "Will you wait on the main mezzanine?"
　　His hands were surprisingly gentle for someone who might have been clumsy
　　because of his size. Christine
　　29
　　    HOTEL
　　glanced sideways at the strong, energetic proffle with its jutting jaw
　　that was almost lantern-like. It was an interesting face, she thought,
　　with a hint of determination which could become obstinacy if provoked. She
　　was aware of her senses quickening.
　　"All right," she agreed. "I'll wait."
　　7
　　Marsha Preyscott wished fervently that she had spent her nineteenth
　　birthday some other way, or at least had stayed at the Alpha Kappa
　　Epsilon fraternity ball on the hotel's convention floor, eight stories
　　below. The sound of the ball, muted by distance and competing noises,
　　came up to her now, drifting through the window of the eleventhfloor
　　suite, which one of the boys had forced open a few minutes ago when the
　　warmth, cigarette smoke, and general odor of liquor in the tightly packed
　　room became overly oppressive, even for those whose grasp of such details
　　was rapidly diminishing.
　　It had been a mistake to come here. But as always, and rebelliously, she
　　had sought something different, which was what Lyle Dumaire had promised,
　　Lyle whom she had known for years and dated occasionally, and whose
　　father was president of one of the city's banks as well as a close friend
　　of her own father. Lyle had told her while they were dancing, "This is
　　kid stuff, Marsha. Some of the guys have taken a suite and we've been up
　　there most of the evening. A lot of things are going on." He essayed a
　　manly laugh which somehow became a giggle, then asked directly, "Why
　　don't you come?"
　　Without thinking about it she had said yes, and they had left the
　　dancing, coming upstairs to the small, crowded suite 1126-7, to be
　　enveloped as they went in by stale air and high-pitched clamor. There
　　were more people than she expected, and the fact that some of the boys
　　were already very drunk was something she had not bargained for.
　　There were several girls, most of whom she knew, though none intimately,
　　and she spoke to them briefly, though it 30
　　                     Monday Evening
　　was hard to hear or be heard. One who said nothing, Sue Phillipe, had
　　apparently passed out and her escort, a boy from Baton Rouge, was pouring
　　water over her from a shoe he kept replenishing in the bathroom. Sue's
　　dress of pink organdy was already a sodden mess.
　　The boys greeted Marsha more effusively, though almost at once returning
　　to the improvised bar, set up by turning a glass-fronted cabinet upon its
　　side. Someoneshe wasn't sure who-put a glass clumsily into Marsha's hand.
　　It was obvious too that something was happening in the adjoining room,
　　to which the door was closed, though a knot of boys whom Lyle Dumaire had
　　joined-leaving Marsha alone-was clustered around it. She heard snatches
　　of talk, including the question, "What was it like?" but the answer was
　　lost in a shout of ribald laughter.
　　When some further remarks made her realize, or at least suspect, what was
　　happening, disgust made her want to leave. Even the big lonely Garden
　　District mansion was preferable to this, despite her dislike of its
　　emptiness, with just herself and the servants when her father was away,
　　as he had been for six weeks now, and would continue to be for at least
　　two more.
　　The thought of her father reminded Marsha that if he had come home as he
　　originally expected and promised, she would not have been here now, or
　　at the fraternity ball either. Instead, there would have been a birthday
　　celebration, with Mark Preyscott presiding in the easy jovial way he had,
　　with a few of his daughter's special friends who, she knew, would have
　　declined the Alpha Kappa Epsilon invitation if it had conflicted with her
　　own. But he had not come home. Instead, he had telephoned, apologetically
　　as he always did, this time from Rome.
　　"Marsha, honey, I really tried but I couldn't make it. My business here
　　is going to take two or three weeks more, but I'll make it up to you,
　　honey, I really will when I come home." He inquired tentatively if Marsha
　　would like to visit her mother and her mother's latest husband in Los
　　Angeles, and when she declined without even thinking about it, her father
　　had urged, "Well, anyway, have a wonderful birthday, and there's
　　something on the way 1 31
　　    HOTEL
　　think you'll like." Marsha had felt like crying at the sweet sound of his
　　voice, but hadn't because she had long ago taught herself not to. Nor was
　　there any point in wondering why the owner of a New Orleans department
　　store, with a platoon of highly paid executives, should be more inflexibly
　　tied to business than an office boy. Perhaps there were other things in Rome
　　which he wouldn't tell her about, just as she would never tell him what was
　　happening in room 1126 right now.
　　When she made her decision to leave she had moved to put her glass on a
　　window ledge and now, down below, she could hear them playing Stardust. At
　　this time of evening the music always moved on to the old sentimental
　　numbers, especially if the band leader was Moxie Buchanan with his All-Star
　　Southern Gentlemen who played for most of the St. Gregory's silver-plated
　　social functions. Even if she had not been dancing earlier she would have
　　recognized the arrangement-the brass warm and sweet, yet dominant, which
　　was'the Buchanan trademark.
　　Hesitating at the window, Marsha pondered a return to the dance floor,
　　though she knew the way it would be there now: the boys increasingly hot in
　　their tuxedoes, some fingering their collars uncomfortably, a few
　　hobbledehoys wishing they were back in jeans and sweatshirt, and the girls
　　shuttling to and from the powder room, behind its doors sharing giggled
　　confidences; the whole affair, Marsha decided, as if a group of children
　　were dressed to play charades. Youth was a dull time, Marsha often thought,
　　especially when you had to share it with others the same age as yourself.
　　There were moments-and this was onewhen she longed for companionship that
　　was more mature.
　　She would not find it though in Lyle Dumaire. She could see him, still in
　　the group by the communicating door, his face flushed, starched shirtfront
　　billowed and black tie askew. Marsha wondered how she could ever have taken
　　him seriously, as she had for a while.
　　Others as well as herself were beginning to leave the suite, heading for
　　the outer doorway in what seemed to be a general exodus. One of the older
　　boys whom she knew as Stanley Dixon came out from the other room. As he
　　nodded toward the door which he carefully closed behind 32
　　                     Monday Evening
　　him, she could hear snatches of his words. ". . . girls sa3 they're going
　　... had enough ... scared ... disturbance."
　　Someone else said                told you we shouldn't have had
　　all this . . ."
　　"Why not somebody from here?" It was Lyle Dumaire's voice, much less under
　　control than it had been earlier.
　　"Yeah, but who?" The eyes of the small group swung around the room
　　appraisingly. Marsha studiedly ignored them.
　　Several friends of Sue Phillipe, the girl who had passed out, were trying
　　to help her to her feet, but not succeeding. One of the boys, more steady
　　than the rest, called out concernedly, "Marshal Sue's in pretty bad shape.
　　Can you help her?"
　　Reluctantly Marsha stopped, looking down at the girl who had opened her
　　eyes and was leaning back, her childlike face pallid, mouth slack, with its
　　lipstick smeared messily. With an inward sigh Marsha told the others, "Help
　　me get her to the bathroom." As three of them lifted her, the drunken girl
　　began to cry.
　　At the bathroom one of the boys seemed inclined to follow, but Marsha
　　closed the door firmly and bolted it. She turned to Sue Phillipe who was
　　staring at herself in the mirror with an expression of horror. At least,
　　Marsha thought gratefully, the shock had been sobering.
　　"I wouldn't worry too much," she remarked. "They say it has to happen once
　　to all of us."
　　"Oh, God! My mother will kill me." The words were a moan, ending with a
　　dive to the toilet bowl in order to be sick.
　　Seating herself on the edge of the bathtub, Marsha said practically,
　　"You'll feel a lot better after that. When you're through I'll bathe your
　　face and we can try some fresh make-up."
　　Her head still down, the other girl nodded dismally.
　　It was ten or fifteen minutes before they emerged and the suite was almost
　　cleared, though Lyle Dumaire and his cronies were still huddled together.
　　If Lyle planned to escort her, Marsha thought, she would turn him down. The
　　only other occupant was the boy who had appealed for help. He came forward,
　　explaining hurriedly, "We've 33
　　    HOTEL
　　arranged for a girl friend of Sue's to take her home, and Sue can probably
　　spend the night there." As he took the other girl's arm, she went with him
　　compliantly. Over his shoulder the boy called back, "We've a car waiting
　　downstairs. Thanks a lot, Marsha." Relieved, she watched them go.
　　She was retrieving her wrap, which she had put down to help Sue Phillipe,
　　when she heard the outer door close. Stanley Dixon was standing in front
　　of it, his hands behind him. Marsha heard the lock click softly.
　　"Hey, Marsha," Lyle Dumaire said. "What's the big rush?"
　　Marsha had known Lyle since childhood, but now there was a difference.
　　This was a stranger, with the mien of a drunken bully. She answered, "I'm
　　going home."
　　"Aw, come on." He swaggered toward her. "Be a good sport and have a
　　drink."
　　"No, thank you."
　　As if he had not heard: "You're going to be a good sport, kid, aren't
　　you?"
　　"Just privately," Stanley Dixon said. He had a thick nasal voice with a
　　built-in leer. "Some of us have had a good time already. It's made us
　　want more of the same." The other two, whose names she didn't know, were
　　grinning.
　　She snapped, "I'm not interested in what you want." Though her voice was
　　firm, she was aware of an underlying note of fear. She went toward the
　　door, but Dixon shook his head. "Please," she said, "please let me go."
　　"Listen, Marsha," Lyle blustered. "We know you want to." He gave a coarse
　　giggle. "All girls want to. They never really mean no. What they mean is
　　'come and get it."' He appealed to the others. "Eh, fellas?"
　　The third boy crooned softly, "That's the way it is. You gotta get in
　　there and get it."
　　They began to move closer.
　　She wheeled. "I'm warning you: if you touch me I shall scream."
　　"Be a pity if you did that," Stanley Dixon murmured. "You might miss all
　　the fun." Suddenly, without seeming to move, he was behind her, clapping
　　a big sweaty hand 34
　　                     Monday Evening
　　across her mouth, another pinioning her arms. His head was close to hers,
　　the smell of rye whiskey overpowering.
　　She struggled, and tried to bite the hand, but without success.
　　"Listen, Marsha," Lyle said, his face twisted into a smirk, "you're going
　　to get it, so you might as well enjoy it. That's what they always say,
　　isn't it? If Stan lets go, will you promise not to make any noise?"
　　She shook her head furiously.
　　One of the others seized her arm. "Come on, Marsha. Lyle says you're a
　　good sport. Why don't you prove it?"
　　She was struggling madly now, but unavailingly. The grip around her was
　　unyielding. Lyle had the other arm and together they were forcing her
　　toward the adjoi i g bedroom.
　　"The hell with it," Dixon said. "Somebody grab her feet." The remaining
　　boy took hold. She tried to kick, but all that happened was her
　　high-heeled pumps came off. With a sense of unreality Marsha felt herself
　　being carried through the bedroom doorway.
　　"This is the last time," Lyle warned. The veneer of good humor had
　　vanished. "Are you going to co-operate or not?"
　　Her answer was to struggle more violently.
　　"Get her things off," someone said. And another voice -she thought it was
　　from whoever was holding her feetasked hesitantly, "Do you think we
　　should?"
　　"Quit worrying." It was Lyle Dumaire. "Nothing'11 happen. Her old man's
　　whoring it up in Rome."
　　There were twin beds in the room. Resisting wildly, Marsha was forced
　　backward onto the nearest. A moment later she lay across it, her head
　　pressed back cruelly until all she could see was the ceiling above, once
　　painted white but now closer to gray, and ornamented in the center where
　　a light fitting glowed. Dust had accumulated on the fitting and beside
　　it was a yellowed water stain.
　　Abruptly the ceiling light went out, but there was a glow in the room
　　from another lamp left on. Dixon had shifted his grip. Now he was half
　　sitting on the bed, near her head, but the grasp on her body as well as
　　across her mouth was inflexible as ever. She felt other hands, and
　　hysteria swept 35
　　    HOTEL
　　over her. Contorting herself, she attempted to kick but her legs were
　　pinned down. She tried to roll over and there was a rending sound as her
　　Balenciaga gown tore.
　　"I'm first," Stanley Dixon said. "Somebody take over here." She could
　　hear his heavy breathing.
　　Footsteps went softly on the rug around the bed. Her legs were still held
　　firmly, but Dixon's hand on her face was moving, another taking its
　　place. It was an opportunity. As the new hand came over, Marsha bit
　　fiercely. She felt her teeth go into flesh, meeting bone.
　　There was an anguished cry, and the hand withdrawn.
　　Inflating her lungs, Marsha screamed. She screamed three times and ended
　　with a desperate cry. "Help! Please help me!"
　　Only the last word was cut off as Stanley Dixon's hand slammed back into
　　place with a force that made her senses swim. She heard him snarl, "You
　　fool! You stupid goon!"
　　"She bit me!" The voice was sobbing with pain. "The bitch bit my hand."
　　Dixon said savagely, "What did you expect her to do, kiss it? Now we'll
　　have the whole goddamned hotel on our necks."
　　Lyle Dumaire urged, "Let's get out of here."
　　"Shut up!" Dixon commanded. They stood listening.
　　Dixon said softly, "There's nothing stirring. I guess nobody heard."
　　It was true, Marsha thought despairingly. Tears clouded her vision. She
　　seemed to have lost the power to struggle any more.
　　There was a knock on the outside door. Three taps, firm and assertive.
　　"Christ!" the third boy said. "Somebody did hear." He added with a moan,
　　"Oh God!-my hand!"
　　The fourth asked nervously, "What do we do?"
　　The knocking was repeated, this time more vigorously.
　　After a pause a voice from outside called, "Open the door, please. I
　　heard someone shout for help." The caller's speech had a soft, southern
　　accent.
　　Lyle Dumaire whispered, "There?s only one; he's by himself. Maybe we can
　　stall."
　　"It's worth a try," Dixon breathed. "I'll go." He mur36
　　                     Monday Evening
　　mured to one of the others, "Hold her down and this time don't make any
　　mistake."
　　The hand on Marsha's mouth changed swiftly and another held her body.
　　A lock clicked, followed by a squeak as the door opened partially.
　　Stanley Dixon, as if surprised, said, "Oh."
　　"Excuse me, sir. I'm an employee of the hotel." It was the voice they had
　　heard a moment earlier. "I happened to be passing and heard someone cry
　　out."
　　"Just passing, eh?" Dixon's tone was oddly hostile. Then, as if deciding
　　to be diplomatic, he added, "Well, thanks anyway. But it was only my wife
　　having a nightmare. She went to bed before me. She's all right now."
　　"Well . . ." The other appeared to hesitate. "If you're sure there's
　　nothing."
　　"Nothing at all," Dixon said. "It's just one of those things that happen
　　once in a while." He was convincing, and in command of the situation. In
　　a moment, Marsha knew, the door would close.
　　Since she had relaxed she had become aware that the pressure on her face
　　had lessened also. Now she tensed herself for one final effort. Twisting
　　her body sideways, momentarily she freed her mouth. "Help!" she called.
　　"Don't believe him! Please help!" Once more, roughly, she was stopped.
　　There was a sharp exchange outside. She heard the new voice say, "I'd
　　like to come in, please."
　　"This is a private room. I told you my wife is having a nightmare."
　　"I'm sorry, sir; I don't believe you."
　　"All right," Dixon said. "Come in."
　　As if not wishing to be witnessed, the hands upon Marsha removed
　　themselves. As they did, she rolled over, pushing herself partially
　　upright facing the door. A young Negro was entering. In his early
　　twenties, he had an intelligent face and was neatly dressed, his short
　　hair parted and carefully brushed.
　　He took in the situation at once and said sharply, "Let the young lady
　　go."
　　"Take a look, fellas," Dixon said. "Take a look at who's giving orders."
　　37
　　    HOTEL
　　Dimly, Marsha was aware that the door to the corridor was still partially
　　open.
　　"All right, nigger boy," Dixon snarled. "You asked for it." His right
　　fist shot out expertly, the strength of his big broad shoulders behind
　　the blow which would have felled the young Negro if it had found its
　　target. But in a single movement, agile as a ballet step, the other moved
　　sideways, the extended arm going harmlessly past his head, with Dixon
　　stumbling forward. In the same instant the Negro's own left fist snapped
　　upward, landing with a hard, sharp crack at the side of his attacker's
　　face.
　　Somewhere along the corridor another door opened and closed.
　　A hand on his cheek, Dixon said, "You son-of-a-bitch!" Turning to the
　　others, he urged, "Let's get him!"
　　Only the boy with the injured hand held back. As if with a single
　　impulse, the other three fell upon the young Negro and, before their
　　combined assault, he went down. Marsha heard the thud of blows and
　　also-from outsidea growing hum of voices in the corridor.
　　The others heard the voices too. "The roof is falling in," Lyle Dumaire
　　warned urgently. "I told you we should get out of here."
　　There was a scramble to the door, led by the boy who had not joined in
　　the fighting, the others hastily behind him. Marsha heard Stanley Dixon
　　stop to say, "There's been some trouble. We're going for help."
　　The young Negro was rising from the floor, his face bloody.
　　Outside, a new, authoritative voice rose above the others. "Where is the
　　disturbance, please?"
　　There was screaming and a fight," a woman said excitedly. "In there."
　　Another grumbled, "I complained earlier, but no one took any notice."
　　The door opened wide. Marsha caught a glimpse of peering faces, a tall,
　　commanding figure entering. Then the door was closed from the inside and
　　the overhead light snapped on.
　　Peter McDermott surveyed the disordered room. He inquired, "What
　　happened?"
　　38
　　                     Monday Evening
　　Marsha's body was racked with sobs. She attempted to stand, but fell back
　　weakly against the headboard of the bed, gathering the tom disheveled
　　remnants of her dress in front of her. Between sobs her lips formed
　　words: "Tried . . . rape . . ."
　　McDermott's face hardened. His eyes swung to the young Negro, now leaning
　　for support against the wall, using a handkerchief to stem the bleeding
　　from his face.
　　"Roycel" Cold fury flickered in McDermott's eyes.
　　"No! No!" Barely coherent, Marsha called pleadingly across the room. "It
　　wasn't him! He came to help!" She closed her eyes, the thought of further
　　violence sickening her.
　　The young Negro straightened. Putting the handkerchief away, he mocked,
　　"Why don't you go ahead, Mr. McDermott, and hit me. You could always say
　　afterward it was a mistake."
　　Peter spoke curtly. "I already made a mistake, Royce, and I apologize."
　　He had a profound dislike of Aloysius Royce who combined the role of
　　personal valet to the hotel owner, Warren Trent, with the study of law
　　at Loyola University. Years before, Royce's father, the son of a slave,
　　had become Warren Trent's body servant, close companion, and confidant.
　　A quarter century later, when the old man died, his son Aloysius, who had
　　been born and raised in the St. Gregory, stayed on and now lived in the
　　hotel owner's private suite under a loose arrangement by which he came
　　and went as his studies required. But in Peter McDermott's opinion Royce
　　was needlessly arrogant and supercilious, seeming to combine a distrust
　　of any proffered friendliness with a perpetual chip on his shoulder.
　　"Tell me what you know," Peter said.
　　"There were four of them. Four nice white young gentlemen."
　　"Did you recognize anyone?"
　　Royce nodded. "Two."
　　"That's good enough." Peter crossed to the telephone beside the nearer
　　bed.
　　"Who you calling?"
　　"The city police. We've no choice but to bring them in."
　　39
　　    HOTEL
　　There was a half-smile on the young Negro's face. "If you want some advice,
　　I wouldn't do it."
　　44)"y not?17
　　"Fo' one thing," Aloysius Royce drawled, accenting his speech deliberately,
　　"I'd have to be a witness. An' let me tell you, Mr. McDermott, no court in
　　this sovereign State of Louisiana is gonna take a nigger boy's word in a
　　white rape case, attempted or otherwise. No, sir, not when four upstanding
　　young white gentlemen say the nigger boy is lying. Not even if Miss
　　Preyscott supports the nigger boy, which I doubt her pappy'd let her,
　　considering what all the newspapers and such might make of it."
　　Peter had picked up the receiver; now he put it down. "Sometimes," he said,
　　"you seem to want to make things harder than they are." But he knew that
　　what Royce had said was true. His eyes swinging to Marsha, he asked, "Did
　　you say 'Miss Preyscott'?"
　　The young Negro nodded. "Her father is Mr. Mark Preyscott. The Preyscott.
　　That's right, miss, isn't it?"
　　Unhappily, Marsha nodded.
　　"Miss Preyscott," Peter said, "did you know the people who were responsible
　　for what happened?"
　　The answer was barely audible. "Yes."
　　Royce volunteered, "They were all from Alpha Kappa Epsilon, I think."
　　"Is that true, Miss Preyscott?"
　　A slight movement of her head, assenting.
　　"And did you come here with them-to this suite?"
　　Again a whisper. "Yes."
　　Peter looked questioningly at Marsha. At length, he said, "It's up to you,
　　Miss Preyscott, whether you make an official complaint or not. Whatever you
　　decide, the hotel will go along with. But I'm afraid there's a good deal of
　　truth in what Royce said just now about publicity. There would certainly be
　　some-a good deal, I imagine-and not pleasant." He added: "Of course, it's
　　really something for your father to decide. Don't you think I should call,
　　and have him come here?"
　　Marsha raised her head, looking directly at Peter for the first time. "My
　　father's in Rome. Don't tell him, please -ever."
　　40
　　                     Monday Evening
　　"I'm sure something can be done privately. I don't believe anyone should
　　get away with this entirely." Peter went around the bed. He was startled
　　to see how much of a child she was, and how very beautiful. "Is there
　　anything I can do now?"
　　"I don't know. I don't know." She began to cry again, more softly.
　　Uncertainly, Peter took out a white linen handkerchief which Marsha
　　accepted, wiped the tears, then blew her nose.
　　"Better?"
　　She nodded. "Thank you." Her mind was a turmoil of emotions: hurt, shame,
　　anger, an urge to fight back blindly whatever the consequences, and a
　　desire-which experience told her would not be fulfilled-to be enfolded
　　in loving and protective arms. But beyond the emotions, and exceeding
　　them, was an overwhelming physical exhaustion.
　　"I think you should rest a while." Peter McDermott turned down the
　　coverlet of the unused bed and Marsha slipped under it, lying on the
　　blanket beneath. The touch of the pillow to her face was cool.
　　She said, "I don't want to stay here. I couldn't."
　　He nodded understandingly. "In a little while we'll get YOU home."
　　"Nol Not that either! Please, isn7t there somewhere else ... in the
　　hotel?"
　　He shook his head. "I'm afraid the hotel is full."
　　Aloysius Royce had gone into the bathroom to wash the blood from his
　　face. Now he returned and stood in the doorway of the adjoining living
　　room. He whistled softly, surveying the mess of disarranged furniture,
　　overflowing ash trays, spilled bottles, and broken glass.
　　As McDermott joined him, Royce observed, "I guess it was quite a party."
　　"It seems to have been." Peter closed the communicating door between the
　　living room and bedroom.
　　Marsha pleaded, "There must be some place in the hotel. I couldn't face
　　going home tonight."
　　Peter hesitated. "There's 555, 1 suppose." He glanced at Royce.
　　Room 555 was a small one which went with the assistant
　　41
　　    HOTEL
　　general manager's job. Peter rarely used it, except to change. It was
　　empty now.
　　"It'll be all right," Marsha said. "As long as someone phones my home.
　　Ask for Anna the housekeeper."
　　"If you like," Royce offered, "I'll go get the key."
　　Peter nodded. "Stop in there on the way back-you'll find a dressing gown.
　　I suppose we ought to call a maid."
　　"You let a maid in here right now, you might as well put it all on the
　　radio."
　　Peter considered. At this stage nothing would stop gossip. Inevitably
　　when this kind of incident happened any hotel throbbed backstairs like
　　a jungle telegraph. But he supposed there was no point in adding
　　postscripts.
　　"Very well. We'll take Miss Preyscott down ourselves in the service
　　elevator."
　　As the young Negro opened the outer door, voices filtered in, with a
　　barrage of eager questions. Momentarily, Peter had forgotten the
　　assemblage of awakened guests outside. He heard Royce's answers, quietly
　　reassuring, then the voices fade.
　　. Her eyes closed, Marsha murmured, "You haven't told me who you are."
　　"I'm sorry. I should have explained." He told her his name and his
　　connection with the hotel. Marsha listened without responding, aware of
　　what was being said, but for the most part letting the quiet reassuring
　　voice flow easily over her. After a while, eyes still closed, her
　　thoughts wandered drowsily. She was aware dimly of Aloysius Royce
　　returning, of being helped from the bed into a dressing gown, and being
　　escorted quickly and quietly down a silent corridor. From an elevator
　　there was more corridor, then another bed on which she laid down quietly.
　　The reassuring voice said, "She's just about all in."
　　The sound of water running. A voice telling her that a bath was drawn.
　　She roused herself sufficiently to pad to the bathroom where she locked
　　herself in.
　　There were pajamas in the bathroom, neatly laid out, and afterward Marsha
　　put them on. They were men's, in dark blue, and too large. The sleeves
　　covered her hands and even with the trouser bottoms turned up it was hard
　　not to trip over them.
　　42
　　                     Monday Evening
　　She went outside where hands helped her into bed. Snuggling down in the
　　crisp, fresh linen, she was aware of Peter McDermott's calm, restoring
　　voice once more. It was a voice she liked, Marsha thought-and its owner
　　also. "Royce and I are leaving now, Miss Preyscott. The door to this room
　　is self-locking and the key is beside your bed. You won't be disturbed."
　　"Thank you." Sleepily she asked, "Whose pajamas?"
　　"They're mine. I'm sorry they're so big."
　　She tried to shake her head but was too tired. "No matter ... nice . .
　　." She was glad they were his pajamas. She had a comforting sense of
　　being enfolded after all.
　　"Nice," she repeated softly. It was her final waking thought.
　　8
　　Peter waited alone for the elevator on the fifth floor. Aloysius Royce
　　had already taken the service elevator to the fifteenth floor, where his
　　quarters adjoined the hotel owner's private suite.
　　It had been a full evening, Peter thought-with its share of
　　unpleasantness-though not exceptional for a big hotel, which often
　　presented an exposed slice of life that hotel employees became used to
　　seeing.
　　When the elevator arrived he told the operator, "Lobby, please,"
　　reminding himself that Christine was waiting on the main mezzanine, but
　　his business on the main floor would take only a few minutes.
　　He noted with impatience that although the elevator doors were closed,
　　they had not yet started down. The operator-one of the regular night
　　men-was jockeying the control handle back and forth. Peter asked, "Are
　　you sure the gates are fully closed?"
　　"Yes, sir, they are. It isn't that; ifs the connections I think, either
　　here or up top." The man angled his head in the direction of the roof
　　where the elevator machinery was housed, then added, "Had quite a bit of
　　trouble lately The chief was probing around the other day." He worked
　　43
　　    HOTEL
　　the handle vigorously. With a jerk the mechamsm took hold and the elevator
　　started down.
　　"Which elevator is this?"
　　"Number four."
　　Peter made a mental note to ask the chief engineer exactly what was
　　wrong.
　　It was almost half-past twelve by the lobby clock as he stepped from the
　　elevator. As was usual by this time, some of the activity in and around
　　the lobby had quieted down, but there was still a fair number of people
　　in evidence, and the strains of music from the nearby Indigo Room showed
　　that supper dancing- was in progress. Peter turned right toward Reception
　　but had gone only a few paces when he was aware of an obese, waddling
　　figure approaching him. It was Ogilvie, the chief housu officer, who had
　　been missing earlier. The heavily jowled face of the ex-policeman-years
　　before he had served without distinction on the New Orleans force-was
　　carefully exprt ssionless, though his little pig's eyes darted sideways,
　　sizing up the scene around him. As always, he was accompanied by an odor
　　of stale cigar smoke, and a line of fat cigars, like unfired torpedoes,
　　filled the top pocket of his suit.
　　"I hear you were looking for me," Ogilvie said. It was a flat statement,
　　unconcerned.
　　Peter felt some of his earlier anger return. "I certainly was. Where the
　　devil were you?"
　　"Doing my job, Mr. McDermott." For an outsize man Ogilvie had a
　　surprisingJy falsetto voice. "If you want to know, I was over at police
　　headquarters reporting some trouble we had here. There was a suitcase
　　stolen from the baggage room today."
　　"Police headquarters! Which room was the poker game in?"
　　The piggy eyes glowered resentfully. "If that's the way you feel, maybe
　　you should do some checking. Or speak to Mr. Trent."
　　Peter nodded resignedly. It would be a waste of time, he knew. The alibi
　　was undoubtedly well established, and Ogilvie's friends in headquarters
　　would back him up. Besides, Warren Trent would never take action against
　　Ogilvie, who had been at the St. Gregory as long as the hotel 44
　　                     Monday Evening
　　proprietor himself. There were some who said that the fat detective knew
　　where a body or two was buried, and thus had a hold over Warren Trent. But
　　whatever the reason, Ogilvie's position was unassailable.
　　"Well, you just happen to have missed a couple of emergencies," Peter said.
　　"But both are taken care of now." Perhaps after all, he reflected, it was
　　as well that Ogilvie had not been available. Undoubtedly the house officer
　　would not have responded to the Albert Wells crisis as efficiently as
　　Christine, nor handled Marsha Preyscott with tact and sympathy. Resolving
　　to put Ogilvie out of his mind, with a curt nod he moved on to Reception.
　　The night clerk whom he had telephoned earlier was at the desk. Peter
　　decided to try a conciliatory approach. He said pleasantly, "Thank you for
　　helping me out with that problem on the fourteenth. We have Mr. Wells
　　settled comfortably in 1410. Dr. Aarons is arranging nursing care, and the
　　chief has fixed up oxygen."
　　The room clerk's face had frozen as Peter approached him. Now it relaxed.
　　"I hadn't realized there was anything that serious."
　　"It was touch and go for a while, I think. That's why I was so concerned
　　about why he was moved into that other room."
　　The room clerk nodded sagely. "In that case I'll certainly pursue
　　inquiries. Yes, you can be sure of that."
　　"We've had some trouble on the eleventh, too. Do you mind telling me whose
　　name 1126-7 is in?"
　　The room clerk flipped through his records and produced a card. "Mr.
　　Stanley Dixon."
　　"Dixon." It was one of the two names Aloysius Royce had given him when they
　　talked briefly after leaving Marsha.
　　"He's the car dealer's son. Mr. Dixon senior is often in the hotel."
　　"Thank you." Peter nodded. "You'd better list it as a checkout, and have
　　th,~ cashier mail the bill." A thought occurred to him. "No, have the bill
　　sent to me tomorrow, and I'll write a letter. There'll be a claim for
　　damages after we've figured out what they are."
　　"Very well, Mr. McDermott." The change in the night 45
　　    HOTEL
　　clerk's attitude was most marked. "I'll tell the cashier to do as you ask.
　　I take it the suite is available now."
　　"Yes." There was no point, Peter decided, in advertising Marsha's
　　presence in 555, and perhaps she could leave unnoticed early. The thought
　　reminded him of his promise to telephone the Preyscott home. With a
　　friendly "good night" to the room clerk he crossed the lobby to an
　　unoccupied desk, used in daytime by one of the assistant managers. He
　　found a listing for Mark Preyscott at a Garden District address and asked
　　for the number. The ringing tone continued for some time before a woman's
　　voice answered sleepily. Identifying himself, he announced, "I have a
　　message for Anna from Miss Preyscott."
　　The voice, with a Deep South accent, said, "This is Anna. Is Miss Marsha
　　all right?"
　　"She's all right, but she asked me to tell you that she will stay the
　　night at the hotel."
　　The housekeeper's voice said, "Who did you say that was again?"
　　Peter explained patiently. "Look," he said, "if you want to check, why
　　don't you call back? It's the St. Gregory, and ask for the assistant
　　manager's desk in the lobby."
　　The woman, obviously relieved, said, "Yes, sir, I'll do that." In less
　　than a minute they were reconnected. "It's all right," she said, "now I
　　know who it is for sure. We worry about Miss Marsha a bit, what with her
　　daddy being away and all."
　　Replacing the telephone, he found himself thinking Again about Marsha
　　Preyscott. He decided he would have a talk with her tomorrow to find out
　　just what happened before the attempted rape occurred. The disorder in
　　the suite, for example, posed several unanswered questions.
　　He was aware that Herbie Chandler had been glancing at him covertly from
　　the bell captain's desk. Now, walking over to him, Peter said curtly, "I
　　thought I gave instructions about checking a disturbance on the
　　eleventh."
　　Chandler's weasel face framed innocent eyes. "But I went, Mr. Mac. I
　　walked right around and everything was quiet."
　　And so it had been, Herbie thought. In the end he had gone nervously to
　　the eleventh and, to his relief, whatever 46
　　                     Monday Evening
　　disturbance there might have been earlier had ended by the time he
　　arrived. Even better, on returning to the lobby, he learned that the two
　　call girls had left the hotel without detection.
　　"You couldn't have looked or listened very hard."
　　Herbie Chandler shook his head obstinately. "All I can say is, I did what
　　you asked, Mr. Mac. You said to go up, and I did, even though that isn't
　　our job."
　　"Very well." Though instinct told him that the bell captain knew more
　　than he was saying, Peter decided not to press the point. "I'll be making
　　some inquiries. Maybe I'll talk to you again."
　　As he recrossed the lobby and entered an elevator, he was conscious of
　　being watched both by Herbie Chandler and the house officer, Ogilvie.
　　This time he rode up one floor only, to the main mezzanine.
　　Christine was waiting in his office. She had kicked off her shoes and
　　curled her feet under her in the upholstered leather chair she had
　　occupied an hour and a half before. Her eyes were closed, her thoughts
　　far away in time and distance. She summoned them back, looking up as
　　Peter came in.
　　"Don't marry a hotel man," he told her. "There's never an end to iv,
　　"It's a timely warning," Christine said. "I hadn't told you, but I've a
　　crush on that new sous-chef. The one who looks like Rock Hudson." She
　　uncurled her. legs, reaching for her shoes. "Do we have more troubles?"
　　He grinned, finding the sight and sound of Christine immensely cheering.
　　"Other people's, mostly. I'll tell you as we go."
　　"Where to?"
　　"Anywhere away from the hotel. We've both had enough for one day."
　　Christine considered. "We could go to the Quarter There are plenty of
　　places open. Or if you want to come to my place, I'm a whiz at omelets."
　　Peter helped her up and steered her to the door where he switched off the
　　office lights. "An omelet," he declared, "is what I really wanted and
　　didn't know it."
　　47
　　    HOTEL
　　9
　　They walked together, skirting pools of water which the rain had left,
　　to a tiered parking lot a block and a half from the hotel. Above, the sky
　　was clearing after its interlude of storm, oon
　　beginning to break through, and around them the city center was settling
　　down to silence, broken by an occasional late taxi and the sharp tattoo
　　of their footsteps echoing hollowly through the canyon of darkened
　　buildings.
　　A sleepy parking attendant brought down Christine's Volkswagen and they
　　climbed in, Peter jackknifing his length into the right-hand seat. "This
　　is the life! You don't mind if I spread out?" He draped his arm along the
　　back of the driver's seat, not quite touching Christine's shoulders.
　　As they waited for the traffic lights at Canal Street, one of the new
　　air-conditioned buses glided down the center mall in front of them.
　　She reminded him, "You were going to tell me what happened."
　　He frowned, bringing his thoughts back to the hotel, then in crisp short
　　sentences related what he knew about the attempted rape of Marsha
　　Preyscott. Christine listened in silence, heading the little car
　　northeast as Peter talked, ending with his conversation with Herbie
　　Chandler and the suspicion that the bell captain knew more than he had
　　told.
　　"Herbie always knows more. That's why he's been around a long time."
　　Peter said shortly, "Being around isn't the answer to everything."
　　The comment, as both he and Christine knew, betrayed Peter's impatience
　　with inefficiencies within the hotel which he lacked authority to change.
　　In a normally run establishment, with clearly defined lines of command,
　　there would be no such problem. But in the St. Gregory, a good deal of
　　organization was unwritten, with final judgments depending upon Warren
　　Trent, and made by the hotel owner in his own capricious way.
　　48
　　                     Monday Evening
　　In ordinary circumstances, Peter-an honors graduate of Cornell
　　University's School of Hotel Administrationwould have made a decision
　　months ago to seek more satisfying work elsewhere. But circumstances were
　　not ordinary. He had arrived at the St. Gregory under a cloud, which was
　　likely to remain-hampering his chance of other employment-for a long time
　　to come.
　　Sometimes he reflected glumly on the botchery he had made of his career,
　　for which no one-he admitted candidly-was to blame except himself.
　　At the Waldorf, where he had gone to work after graduation from Cornell,
　　Peter McDermott had been the bright young man who appeared to hold the
　　future in his hand. As a junior assistant manager, he had been selected
　　for promotion when bad luck, plus indiscretion, intervened. At a time
　　when he was supposedly on duty and required elsewhere in the hotel, he
　　was discovered in flagrante in a bedroom with a woman guest.
　　Even then, he might have escaped retribution. Goodlooking young men who
　　worked in hotels grew used to receiving overtures from lonely women, and
　　most, at some point in their careers, succumbed. Managements, aware of
　　this, were apt to punish a single transgression with a stem warning that
　　a similar thing must never happen again. Two factors, however, conspired
　　against Peter. The woman's husband, aided by private detectives, was
　　involved in the discovery, and a messy divorce case resulted, with
　　attendant publicity, which all hotels abhorred.
　　As if this was not enough, there was a personal retribution. Three years
　　before the Waldorf debacle, Peter McDermott had married impulsively and
　　the marriage, soon after, ended in separation. To an extent, his loneli-
　　ness and disillusion had been a cause of the incident in the hotel.
　　Regardless of the cause, and utilizing the readymade evidence, Peter's
　　estranged wife sued successfully for divorce.
　　The end result was ignominious dismissal and blacklisting by the major
　　chain hotels.
　　The existence of a black list, of course, was not admitted. But at a long
　　series of hotels, most with chain affiliations, Peter McDermott's
　　applications for employ-
　　49
　　    HOTEL
　　ment were peremptorily rejected. Only at the St. Gregory, an independent
　　house, had he been able to obtain work, at a salary which Warren Trent
　　shrewdly adjusted to Peter's own desperation.
　　Therefore when he had said a moment ago, Being around isn't the answer
　　to everything, he had pretended an independence which did not exist. He
　　suspected that Christine realized it too.
　　Peter watched as she maneuvered the little car expertly through the
　　narrow width of Burgundy Street, skirting the French Quarter and
　　paralleling the Mississippi a half mile to the south. Christine slowed
　　momentarily, avoiding a group of unsteady wassailers who had wandered
　　from the more populous and brightly lighted Bourbon Street, two blocks
　　away. Then she said, "There's something I think you should know. Curtis
　　O'Keefe is arriving in the morning.99
　　It was the kind of news that he had feared, yet halfexpected.
　　Curtis O'Keefe was a name to conjure with. Head of the world-wide O'Keefe
　　hotel chain, he bought hotels as other men chose ties and handkerchiefs.
　　Obviously, even to the sparsely informed, the appearance of Curtis
　　O'Keefe in the St. Gregory could have only one implication: an interest
　　in acquiring the hotel for the constantly expanding O'Keefe chain.
　　Peter asked, "Is it a buying trip?"
　　"It could be." Christine kept her eyes on the dimly lighted street ahead.
　　"W.T. doesn't want it that way. But it may turn out there isn't any
　　choice." She was about to add that the last piece of information was
　　confidential, but checked herself. Peter would realize that. And as for
　　the presence of Curtis O'Keefe, that electrifying news would telegraph
　　itself around the St. Gregory tomorrow morning within minutes of the
　　great man's arrival.
　　"I suppose it had to come." Peter was aware, as were other executives in
　　the hotel, that in recent months the St. Gregory had suffered severe
　　financial losses. "All the same, I think it's a pity."
　　Christine reminded him, "It hasn't happened yet. I said W.T. doesn't want
　　to sell."
　　50
　　                     Monday Evening
　　Peter nodded without speaking.
　　They were leaving the French Quarter now, turning left on the boulevarded
　　and tree-lined Esplanade Avenue, deserted except for the receding
　　taillights of another car disappearing swiftly toward Bayou St. John.
　　Christine said, "There are problems about refinancing. W.T. has been
　　trying to locate new capital. He still hopes he may."
　　"And if he doesn't?"
　　"Then I expect we shall be seeing a lot more of Mr. Curtis O'Keefe."
　　And a whole lot less of Peter McDermott, Peter thought. He wondered if
　　he had reached the point where a hotel chain, such as O'Keefe, might
　　consider him rehabilitated and worth employing. He doubted it. Eventually
　　it could happen if his record remained good. But not yet.
　　It seemed likely that he might soon have to search for other employment.
　　He decided to worry when it happened.
　　"The O'Keefe-St. Gregory," Peter ruminated. "When shall we know for
　　sure?"
　　"One way or the other by the end of this week."
　　"That soon!"
　　There were compelling reasons, Christine knew, why it had to be that
　　soon. For the moment she kept them to herself .
　　Peter said emphatically, "The old man won't find new financing."
　　"What makes you so sure?"
　　"Because people with that kind of money want a sound investment. That
　　means good management, and the St. Gregory hasn't got it. It could have,
　　but it hasn't."
　　They were headed north on Elysian Fields, its wide dual lanes empty of
　　other traffic, when abruptly a flashing white light, waving from side to
　　side, loomed directly ahead. Christine braked and, as the car stopped,
　　a uniformed traffic officer walked forward. Directing his flashlight onto
　　the Volkswagen, he circled the car, inspecting it. While he did, they
　　could see that the section of road immediately ahead was blocked off by
　　a rope barrier. Beyond the barrier other uniformed men, and some in plain
　　clothes, were examining the road surface with the aid of powerful lights.
　　51
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　　Christine lowered her window as the officer came to her side of the car.
　　Apparently satisfied by his inspection, he told them, "You'll have to
　　detour, folks. Drive slowly through the other lane, and the officer at the
　　far end will wave you back into this one."
　　"What is it?" Peter said. "What's happened?"
　　"Hit and run. Happened earlier tonight."
　　Christine asked, "Was anyone killed?"
　　The policeman nodded. "Little girl of seven." Responding to their shocked
　　expressions, he told them, "Walking with her mother. The mother's in the
　　hospital. Kid was killed outright. Whoever was in the car must have known.
　　They drove right on." Beneath his breath he added, "Bastards111
　　"Will you find out who it is?"
　　"We'll find out." The officer nodded grimly, indicating the activity behind
　　the barrier. "The boys usually do, and this one's upset them. There's glass
　　on the road, and the car that did it must be marked." More headlights were
　　approaching from behind and he motioned them on.
　　They were silent as Christine drove slowly through the detour and, at the
　　end of it, was waved back into the regular lane. Somewhere in Peter's mind
　　was a nagging impression, an errant half-thought he could not define. He
　　supposed the incident itself was bothering him, as sudden tragedy always
　　did, but a vague uneasiness kept him preoccupied until, with surprise, he
　　heard Christine say, "We're almost home."
　　They had left Elysian Fields for Prentiss Avenue. A moment later the little
　　car swung right, then left, and stopped in the parking area of a modem,
　　two-story apartment building.
　　"If all else fails," Peter called out cheerfully, "I can go back to
　　bartending." He was mixing drinks in Christine's living room, with its soft
　　tones of moss-green and blue, to the accompanying sound of breaking
　　eggshells from the kitchen adjoining.
　　"Were you ever one?"
　　"For a while." He measured three ounces of rye whiskey, dividing it two
　　ways, then reached for Angostura and
　　52
　　                     Monday Evening
　　Peychaud's bitters. "Sometime I'll tell you about it." As an afterthought
　　he increased the proportion of rye, using a handkerchief to mop some extra
　　drops which had fallen on the Wedgwood-blue rug.
　　Straightening up, he cast a glance around the living room, with its
　　comfortable mixture of furnishings and color -a French provincial sofa
　　with a leaf-design tapestry print in white, blue, and green; a pair of
　　Hepplewhite chairs near a marble-topped chest, and the inlaid mahogany
　　sideboard on which he was mixing drinks. The walls held some Louisiana
　　French prints and a modem impressionist oil. The effect was of warmth and
　　cheerfulness, much like Christine herself, he thought. Only a cumbrous
　　mantel clock on the sideboard beside him provided an incongruous note.
　　The clock, ticking softly, was unmistakably Victorian, with brass
　　curlicues and a moisture-stained, timeworn face. Peter looked at it
　　curiously.
　　When he took the drinks to the kitchen, Christine was emptying beaten
　　eggs from a mixing dish into a softly sizzling pan.
　　"Three minutes more," she said, "that's all."
　　He gave her the drink and they clinked glasses.
　　"Keep your mind on my omelet," Christine said. "It's ready now."
　　It proved to be everything she had promised-light, fluffy, and seasoned
　　with herbs. "The way omelets should be," he assured her, "but seldom
　　are."
　　"I can boil eggs too."
　　He waved a hand airily. "Some other breakfast."
　　Afterward they returned to the living room and Peter mixed a second
　　drink. It was almost two A.M.
　　Sitting beside her on the sofa he pointed to the oddappearing clock. "I
　　get the feeling that thing is peering at me-announcing the time in a
　　disapproving tone."
　　"Perhaps it is," Christine answered. "It was my father's. It used to be
　　in his office where patients could see it. It's the only thing I saved."
　　There was a silence between them. Once before Christine had told him,
　　matter-of-factly, about the airplane accident in Wisconsin. Now he said
　　gently, "After it happened, you must have felt desperately alone."
　　53
　　    HOTEL
　　She said simply, "I wanted to die. Though you get over that, of
　　course-after a while."
　　"How long?"
　　She gave a short, swift smile. "The human spirit mends quickly. That
　　part-wanting to die, I mean-took just a week or two."
　　"And -after?"
　　"When I came to New Orleans," Christine said, "I tried to concentrate on
　　not thinking. It got harder, and I had less success as the days went by. I
　　knew I had to do something but I wasn't sure what-or where."
　　She stopped and Peter said, "Go on."
　　"For a while I considered going back to university, then decided not.
　　Getting an arts degree just for the sake of it didn't seem important and
　　besides, suddenly it seemed as if I'd grown away from it all."
　　"I can understand that."
　　Christine sipped her drink, her expression pensive. Observing the firm line
　　of her features, he was conscious of a quality of quietude and
　　self-possession about her.
　　"Anyway," Christine went on, "one day I was walking on Carondelet and saw
　　a sign which said 'Secretarial School.' I thought-that's it! I'll learn
　　what I need to, then get a job involving endless hours of work. In the end
　　that's exactly what happened."
　　"How did the St. Gregory fit in?"
　　"I was staying there. I had since I came from Wisconsin. Then one morning
　　the Times-Picayune arrived with breakfast, and I saw in the classifieds
　　that the managing director of the hotel wanted a personal secretary. It was
　　early, so I thought I'd be first, and wait. In those days W.T. arrived at
　　work before everyone else. When he came, I was waiting in the executive
　　suite."
　　"He hired you on the spot?"
　　"Not really. Actually, I don't believe I ever was hired. It was just that
　　when W.T. found out why I was there he called me in and began dictating
　　letters, then firing off instructions to be relayed to other people in the
　　hotel. By the time more applicants arrived I'd been working for hours, and
　　I took it on myself to tell them the job was filled."
　　54
　　                     Monday Evening
　　Peter chuckled. "It sounds like the old man."
　　"Even then he might never have known who I was, except about three days
　　later I left a note on his desk. I think it read 'My name is Christine
　　Francis,' and I suggested a salary. I got the note back without
　　comment-just initialed, and that's all there's ever been."
　　"It makes a good bedtime story." Peter rose from the sofa, stretching his
　　big body. "That clock of yours is staring again. I guess I'd better go."
　　"It isn't fair," Christine objected. "All we've talked about is me." She
　　was conscious of Peter's masculinity. And yet, she thought, there was a
　　gentleness about him too. She had seen something of it tonight in the way
　　that he had picked up Albert Wells and carried him to the other room. She
　　found herself wondering what it would be like to be carried in his arms.
　　"I enjoyed it-a lovely antidote to a lousy day. Anyway, there'll be other
　　times." He stopped, regarding her directly. "Won't there?"
　　As she nodded in answer, he leaned forward, kissing her lightly.
　　In the taxi for which he had telephoned from Christine's apartment, Peter
　　McDermott relaxed in comforting weariness, reviewing the events of the
　　past day, which had now spilled over into the next. The daytime hours had
　　produced their usual quota of problems, culminating in the evening with
　　several more: the brush with the Duke and IXchess of Croydon, the near
　　demise of Albert Wells, and the attempted rape of Marsha Preyscott. There
　　were also unanswered questions concerning Ogilvie, Herbie Chandler, and
　　now Curtis O'Keefe, whose advent could be the cause of Peter's own
　　departure. Finally there was Christine, who had been there all the time,
　　but whom he had not noticed before in quite the way he had tonight.
　　But he warned himself: women had been his undoing twice already.
　　Whatever, if anything, developed between Christine and himself should
　　happen slowly, with caution on his own part.
　　On Elysian Fields, heading back toward the city, the taxi moved swiftly.
　　Passing the spot where he and Chris-
　　55
　　    HOTEL
　　tine had been halted on the outward journey, he observed that the barrier
　　across the road had disappeared and the police were gone. But the reminder
　　produced once again the vague uneasiness he had experienced earlier, and
　　it continued to trouble him all the way to his own apartment a block or
　　two from the St. Gregory Hotel.
　　56
　　 TUESDAY
　　As with all hotels, the St. Gregory stiffed early, coming awake like a
　　veteran combat soldier after a short, light sleep. Long before the
　　earliest waking guest stumbled drowsily from bed to bathroom, the
　　machinery of a new innkeeping day slid quietly into motion.
　　Near five A.M., night cleaning parties which for the past eight hours had
　　toiled through public rooms, lower stairways, kitchen areas and the main
　　lobby, tiredly began dissembling their equipment, preparatory to storing
　　it for another day. In their wake floors gleamed and wood and metalwork
　　shone, the whole smelling pleasantly of fresh wax.
　　One cleaner, old Meg Yetmein, who had worked nearly thirty years in the
　　hotel, walked awkwardly, though anyone noticing might have taken her
　　clumsy gait for tiredness. The real reason, however, was a three-pound
　　sirloin steak taped securely to the inside of her thigh. Half an hour
　　ago, choosing an unsupervised few minutes, Meg had snatched the steak
　　from a kitchen refrigerator. From long experience she knew exactly where
　　to look, and afterward how to conceal her prize in an old polishing rag
　　en route to the women's toilet. T"here, safe behind a bolted door, she
　　brought out an adhesive bandage and fixed the steak in place. The hour
　　or so's cold, clammy discomfort was well worth the knowledge that she
　　could walk serenely past the house detective who guarded the staff
　　entrance and suspiciously checked outgoing packages or bulging pockets.
　　57
　　    HOTEL
　　The procedure-of her own devising-was foolproof, as she had proven many
　　times before.
　　Two floors above Meg and behind an unmarked, securely locked door on the
　　convention mezzanine, a switchboard operator put down her knitting and made
　　the first morning wake-up call. The operator was Mrs. Eunice Ball, widow,
　　grandmother, and tonight senior of the three operators who maintained the
　　graveyard shift. Sporadically, between now and seven A.M., the switchboard
　　trio would awaken other guests whose instructions of the night before were
　　recorded in a card-index drawer in front of them, divided into quarter
　　hours. After seven o'clock the tempo would increase.
　　With experienced fingers, Mrs. Ball flipped through the cards. As usual,
　　she observed, the peak would be 7:45, with close to a hundred and eighty
　　calls requested. Even working at high speed, the three operators would have
　　trouble completing that many in less than twenty minutes, which meant they
　　would have to start early, at 7:35-assuming they were through with the 7:30
　　calls by thenand continue until 7:55, which would take them smack into the
　　eight o'clock batch.
　　Mrs. Ball sighed. Inevitably today there would be complaints from guests to
　　management alleging that some stupid, asleep-at-the-switchboard operator
　　had called them either too early or too late.
　　One thing was to the good, though. Few guests at this time of morning were
　　in a mood for conversation, or were likely to be amorous, the way they
　　sometimes were at night-the reason for the locked, unma ed outer door.
　　Also, at eight A.M., the day operators would be coming in -a total of
　　fifteen by the day's peak period--and by nine the night shift, including
　　Mrs. BalL would be home and abed.
　　Time for another wake-up. Once more abandoning her knitting, Mrs. Ball
　　pressed a key, letting a bell far above her ring out stridently.
　　Two floors below street level, in the engineering control room, Wallace
　　Santopadre, third-class stationary engineer, put down a paperback copy of
　　Toynbee's Greek Civilization and finished a peanut butter sandwich he had
　　begun
　　58
　　                          Tuesday
　　earlier. Things had been quiet for the past hour and he had read
　　intermittently. Now it was time for the final stroll of his watch around
　　the engineers' domain. The hum of machinery greeted him as he opened the
　　control-room door.
　　He checked the hot-water system, noting a stepped-up temperature which
　　indicated, in turn, that the time-controlled thermostat was doing its
　　job. There would be plenty of hot water during the heavy demand period
　　soon to come, when upwards of eight hundred people might decide to take
　　morning baths or showers at the same time.
　　The massive air conditioners-twenty-five hundred tons of specialized
　　machinery-were running more easily as the result of a comfortable drop
　　in outside air temperature during the night. The comparative coolness had
　　made it possible to shut down one compressor, and now the others could
　　be relieved alternately, permitting maintenance work which had had to be
　　delayed during the heat wave of the past few weeks. The chief engineer,
　　Wallace Santopadre thought, would be pleased about that.
　　The old man would be less happy, though, about news of an interruption
　　in the city power supply which had occurred during the night-around two
　　A.m. and lasting eleven minutes, presumably due to the storm up north.
　　There had been no real problem in the St. Gregory, and only the briefest
　　of blackouts which most guests, soundly asleep, were unaware of.
　　Santopadre had switched over to emergency power, supplied by the hoters
　　own generators which had performed efficiently. It had, however, taken
　　three minutes to start the generators and bring them to fall power, with
　　the result that every one of the St. Gregory's electric clocks-some two
　　hundred all told-was now three minutes slow. The tedious business of
　　resetting each clock manually would take a maintenance man most of the
　　following day.
　　Not far from the engineering station, in a torrid, odorous enclosure,
　　Booker T. Graham totted up the substance of a long night's labor amid the
　　hotel garbage. Around him the reflection of flames flickered fitfully on
　　smoke-grimed walls.
　　Few people in the hotel, including staff, had ever seen Booker T.'s
　　domain, and those who did declared it was like 59
　　    HOTEL
　　an evangelist's idea of hell. But Booker T., who looked not unlike an
　　amiable devil himself-with luminous eyes and flashing teeth in a
　　sweat-shining black face-enjoyed his work, including the incinerator's
　　heat.
　　One of the very few hotel staff whom Booker T. Graham ever saw was Peter
　　McDermott. Soon after his arrival at the St. Gregory, Peter set out to
　　learn the geography and workings of the hotel, even to its remotest
　　parts. In the course of one expedition he discovered the incinerator.
　　Occasionally since then-as he made a point of doing with all
　　departments-Peter had dropped in to inquire at firsthand how things were
　　going. Because of this, and perhaps through an instinctive mutual liking,
　　in the eyes of Booker T. Graham, young Mr. McDermott loomed somewhere
　　close to God.
　　Peter always studied the grimed and greasy exercise book in which Booker
　　T. proudly maintained a record of his work results. The results came from
　　retrieving items which other people threw away. The most important single
　　commodity was hotel silverware.
　　Booker T., an uncomplicated man, had never questioned how the silverware
　　got into the garbage. It was Peter McDermott who explained to him that
　　it was a perennial problem which management fretted about in every large
　　hotel. Mostly the cause was hurrying waiters, busboys, and others who
　　either didn't know, or didn't care, that, along with the waste food they
　　shoveled into bins, a steady stream of cutlery was disappearing too.
　　Until several years earlier the St. Gregory compressed and froze its
　　garbage, then sent it to a city dump. But in time the silverware losses
　　became so appalling that an intemal incinerator was built and Booker T.
　　Graham employed to hand feed it.
　　What he did was simple. Garbage from all sources was deposited in bins
　　on trolleys. Booker T. wheeled each trolley in and, a little at a time,
　　spread the contents on a large flat tray, raking the mess back and forth
　　like a gardener preparing topsoil. Whenever a trophy presented itself -a
　　returnable bottle, intact glassware, cutlery, and sometimes a guest's
　　valuables-Booker T. reached in, retrieving 60
　　                          Tuesday
　　it. At the end, what was left was pushed into the fire and a new portion
　　spread out.
　　Today's totting up showed that the present month, almost ended, would prove
　　average for recoveries. So far, silverware had totalled nearly two thousand
　　pieces, each of which was worth a dollar to the hotel. There were some four
　　thousand bottles worth two cents each, eight hundred intact glasses, value
　　a quarter apiece, and a large assortment of other items
　　including-incredibly-a silver soup tureen. Net yearly saving to the hotel:
　　some forty thousand dollars.
　　Booker T. Graham, whose take-home pay was thirtyeight dollars weekly, put
　　on his greasy jacket and went home.
　　By now, traffic at the drab brick staff entrance-located in an alley off
　　Common Street-was increasing steadily. In ones and twos, night workers were
　　trickling out while the first day shift, converging from all parts of the
　　city, was arriving in a swiftly flowing stream.
　　In the kitchen area, lights were snapping on as early duty helpers made
　　ready for cooks, already changing street clothes for fresh whites in
　　adjoining locker rooms. In a few minutes the cooks would begin preparing
　　the hotel's sixteen hundred breakfasts and later-long before the last egg
　　and bacon would be served at mid-morning-start the two thousand lunches
　　which today's catering schedule called for.
　　Amid the mass of simmering cauldrons, mammoth ovens and other appurtenances
　　of bulk food production, a single packet of Quaker Oats provided a homey
　　touch. It was for the few stalwarts who, as every hotel knew, demanded hot
　　porridge for breakfast whether the outside temperature was a frigid zero or
　　a hundred in the shade.
　　At the kitchen fry station Jeremy Boehm, a sixteen-yearold helper, checked
　　the big, multiple deep-fryer he had switched on ten minutes earlier. He had
　　set it to two hundred degrees, as his instructions called for. Later the
　　temperature could be brought quickly to the required three hundred and
　　sixty degrees for cooking. This would be a busy day at the fryer, since
　　fried chicken, southern style, 61
　　    HOTEL
　　was featured as a luncheon special on the main restaurant menu.
　　The fat in the fryer had heated all right, Jeremy observed, though he
　　thought it seemed quite a bit smokier than usual, despite the overhanging
　　hood and vent fan, which was on. He wondered if he should report the
　　smokiness to someone, then remembered that only yesterday an assistant
　　chef had reprimanded him sharply for showing an interest in sauce
　　preparation which, he had been informed, was none of his business. Jeremy
　　shrugged. This was none of his business either. Let someone else worry.
　　Someone was worrying-though not about smoke~-in the hotel laundry half
　　a block away.
　　The laundry, a bustling steamy province occupying an elderly two-story
　　building of its own, was connected to the main St. Gregory structure by
　　a wide basement tunnel. Its peppery, rough-tongued manageress, Mrs. Isles
　　Schulder, had traversed the tunnel a few minutes earlier, arriving as
　　usual ahead of most of her staff. At the moment the cause of her concern
　　was a pile of soiled tablecloths.
　　In the course of a working day the laundry would handle some twenty-five
　　thousand pieces of linen, ranging from towels and bed sheets through
　　waiters' and kitchen whites to greasy coveralls from Engineering. Mostly
　　these required routine handling, but lately a vexing problem had grown
　　infuriatingly worse. Its origin: businessmen who did figuring on
　　tablecloths, using ball-point pens.
　　"Would the bastards do it at home?" Mrs. Schulder snapped at the male
　　night worker who had separated the offending tablecloths from a larger
　　pile of ordinarily dirty ones. "By God!-if they did, their wives'd kick
　　their arses from here to craptown. Plenty of times I've told those jerk
　　head waiters to watch out and put a stop to it, but what do they care?"
　　Her voice dropped in contemptuous mimicry. "Yessir, yessir, I'll kiss you
　　on both cheeks, sir. By all means write on the cloth, sir, and here's
　　another ball-point pen, sir. As long as I get a great fat tip, who cares
　　about the goddam laundry?"
　　Mrs. Schulder stopped. To the night man, who had been staring open
　　mouthed, she said irritably, "Go on home! All you've given me is a
　　headache to start the day."
　　62
　　                          Tuesday
　　Well, she reasoned when he was gone, at least they'd caught this batch
　　before they got into water. Once ballpoint ink got wet, you could write
　　a cloth off because, after that, nothing short of blasting would ever get
　　the ink out. As it was, Nellie-the laundry's best spotter-would have to
　　work hard today with the carbon tetrachloride. With luck they might
　　salvage most of this pile, even thoughMrs. Schulder thought grimly-she
　　would still relish a few words with the slobs who made it necessary.
　　And so it went, through the entity of the hotel. Upon stage, and
　　behind-in service departments, offices, carpenters' shop, bakery,
　　printing plant, housekeeping, plumbing, purchasing, design and
　　decorating, storekeeping, garage, TV repair and others-a new day came
　　awake.
　　2
　　In his private six-room suite on the hotel's fifteenth floor, Warren
　　Trent stepped down from the barber's chair in which Aloysius Royce had
　　shaved him. A twinge of sciatica jabbed savagely in his left thigh like
　　hot lancets-a warning that this would be another day during which his
　　mercurial temper might need curbing. The private barber parlor was in an
　　annex adjoining a capacious bathroom, the latter complete with steam
　　cabinet, sunken Japanesestyle tub and built-in aquarium from which
　　tropical fish watched, broody-eyed, through laminated glass. Warren Trent
　　walked stiffly into the bathroom now, pausing before a wall-width mirror
　　to inspect the shave. He could find no fault with it as he studied the
　　reflection facing him.
　　It showed a deep-seamed, craggy face, a loose mouth which could be
　　humorous on occasion, beaked nose and deep-set eyes with a hint of
　　secretiveness. His hair, jetblack in youth, was now a distinguished
　　white, thick and curly still. A wing collar and neatly tied cravat
　　complemented the picture of an eminent southern gentleman.
　　At other times the carefully cultivated appearance would have given him
　　pleasure. But today it failed to, the mood of depression which had grown
　　upon him over the past few weeks eclipsing all else. So now it was
　　Tuesday of the final
　　63
　　    HOTEL
　　week, he reminded himself. He calculated, as he had on so many other
　　mornings. Including today, there were only four more days remaining: four
　　days in which to prevent his lifetime's work from dissolving into
　　nothingness.
　　Scowling at his own dismal thoughts, the hotel proprietor limped into the
　　dining room where Aloysius Royce had laid a breakfast table. The oak
　　refectory table, its starched napery and silverware gleaming, had a
　　heated trolley beside it which had come from the hotel kitchen at top
　　speed ~ few moments earlier. Warren Trent eased awkwardly into the chair
　　which Royce held out, then gestured to the opposite side of the table.
　　At once the young Negro laid a second place, slipping into the vacant
　　seat himself. There was a second breakfast on the trolley, available for
　　such occasions when the old man's whim changed his usual custom of
　　breakfasting alone.
　　Serving the two portions-shirred eggs with Canadian bacon and hominy
　　grits-Royce remained silent, knowing his employer would speak when ready.
　　There had been no comment so far on Royce's bruised face or the two ad-
　　hesive patches he had put on, covering the worst of the damage from last
　　night's fracas. At length, pushing away his plate, Warren Trent observed,
　　"You'd better make the most of this. Neither of us may be enjoying it
　　much longer.99
　　Royce said, "The trust people haven't changed their mind about renewing?"
　　"They haven't and they won't. Not now." Without warning the old man
　　slammed his fist upon the table top. "By Godl-there was a time when I'd
　　have called the tune, not danced a jig to theirs. Once they were lined
　　upbanks, trust companies, all the rest-trying to lend their money, urging
　　me to take it."
　　"Times change for all of us." Aloysius Royce poured coffee. "Some things
　　get better, others worse."
　　Warren Trent said sourly, "It's easy for you. You're young. You haven't
　　lived to see everything you've worked for fall apart."
　　And it had come to that, he reflected despondently. In four days from
　　now--on Friday before the close of business-a twenty-year-old mortgage
　　on the hotel property 64
　　                         Tuesday
　　was due for redemption and the investment syndicate holding the mortgage
　　had declined to renew. At first, on learning of the decision, his reaction
　　had been surprise, though not concern. Plenty of other lenders, he
　　assumed, would willingly take over-at a higher interest rate, no doubtbut,
　　on whatever terms, producing the two million dollars needed. It was only
　　when he had been decisively turned down by everyone approached-banks,
　　trusts, insurance companies, and private lenders-that his original confi-
　　dence waned. One banker whom he knew well advised him frankly, "Hotels
　　like yours are out of favor, Warren. A lot of people think the day of the
　　big independents is over, and nowadays the chain hotels are the only ones
　　which can show reasonable profit. Besides, look at your balance sheet.
　　You've been losing money steadily. How can you expect lending houses to
　　go along with that kind of situation?"
　　His protestations that present losses were temporary and would reverse
　　themselves when business improved, achieved nothing. He was simply not
　　believed.
　　It was at this impasse that Curtis O'Keefe had telephoned suggesting
　　their meeting in New Orleans this week. "Absolutely all I have in mind
　　is a friendly chat, Warren," the hotel magnate had declared, his easy
　　Texan drawl coming smoothly down the long-distance phone. "After all,
　　we're a couple of aging innkeepers, you and me. We should see each other
　　sometimes." But Warren Trent was not deceived by the smoothness; there
　　had been overtures from the O'Keefe chain before. The vultures are
　　hovering, he thought. Curtis O'Keefe would arrive today and there was not
　　the slightest doubt that he was fully briefed on the St. Gregory's
　　financial woes.
　　With an inward sigh, Warren Trent switched his thoughts to more immediate
　　affairs. "You're on the night report," he told Aloysius Royce.
　　"I know," Royce said. "I read it." He had skimmed the report when it came
　　in early as usual, observing the notation, Complaint of excessive noise
　　in room 1126, and then, in Peter McDermott's handwriting, Dealt with by
　　A. Royce and P. McD. Separate memo later.
　　65
　　    H07ML
　　"Next thing," Warren Trent growled, "I suppose you'll be reading my private
　　mail."
　　Royce grinned. "I haven't yet. Would you like me to?"
　　The exchange was part of a private game they played without admitting it.
　　Royce was well aware that if he had failed to read the report the old man
　　would have accused him of lack of interest in the hotel's affairs.
　　Now Warren Trent inquired sarcastically, "Since everyone else is aware of
　　what went on, would it be taken amiss if I asked for a few details?"
　　"I shouldn't think so." Royce helped his employer to more coffee. "Miss
　　Marsha Preyscott-daughter of the Mr. Preyscott-was almost raped. Do you
　　want me to tell you about it?"
　　For a moment, as Trent's expression hardened, he wondered if he had gone
　　too far. Their undefined, casual relationship was based for the most part
　　upon precedents set by Aloysius Royce's father many years earlier. The
　　elder Royce, who served Warren Trent first as body servant and later as
　　companion and privileged friend, had always spoken out with a sprightly
　　disregard of consequences which, in their early years together, drove Trent
　　to white hot fury and later, as they traded insult for insult, had made the
　　two inseparable. Aloysius was little more than a boy when his father had
　　died over a decade ago, but he had never forgotten Warren Trent's face,
　　grieving and tear stained, at the old Negro's funeral. They had walked away
　　from Mount Olivet cemetery together, behind the Negro jazz band which was
　　playing festively Oh, Didn't He Ramble, Aloysius with his hand in Warren
　　Trent's, who told him gruffly, "You'll stay on with me at the hotel. Later
　　we'll work something out." The boy agreed trustinglyhis father's death had
　　left him entirely alone, his mother having died at his birth-and the
　　"something" had turned out to be college followed by law school, from which
　　he would graduate in a few weeks' time. In the meanwhile, as the boy became
　　a man, he had taken over the running of the hotel owner's suite and, though
　　most of the physical work was done by other hotel employees, Aloysius
　　performed personal services which Warren Trent accepted, either without
　　comment or quarrelsomely as the mood took
　　66
　　                          Tuesday
　　him. At other times they argued heatedly, mostly when Aloysius rose-as he
　　knew he was expected to-to conversational hooks which Warren Trent baited.
　　And yet, despite their intimacy and the knowledge that he could take
　　liberties which Warren Trent would never tolerate in others, Aloysius
　　Royce was conscious of a hairline border never to be crossed. Now he
　　said, "The young lady called for help. I happened to hear." He described
　　his own action without dramatizing, and Peter McDermott's intervention,
　　which he neither commended nor criticized.
　　Warren Trent listened, and at the end said, "McDermott handled everything
　　properly. Why don't you like him?"
　　Not for the first time Royce was surprised by the old man's perception.
　　He answered, "Maybe there's some chemistry between us doesn't mix. Or
　　perhaps I don't like big white football players proving how kind they are
　　by being nice to colored boys."
　　Warren Trent eyed Royce quizzically. "You're a complicated one. Have you
　　thought you might be doing McDermott an injustice?"
　　"Just as I said, maybe it's chemical."
　　"Your father had an instinqt for people. But he was a lot more tolerant
　　than you."
　　"A dog likes people who pat him on the head. That's because his thinking
　　isn't complicated by knowledge and education."
　　"Even if it were, I doubt he'd choose those particular words." Trent's
　　eyes, appraising, met the younger man's and Royce was silent. The
　　remembrance of his father always disturbed him. The elder Royce, born
　　while his parents were still in slavery, had been, Aloysius supposed,
　　what Negroes nowadays contemptuously called an "Uncle Tom nigger." The
　　old man had always accepted cheerfully whatever life brought, without
　　question or complaint. Knowledge of affairs beyond his own limited
　　horizon rarely disturbed him. And yet he had possessed an independence
　　of spirit, as witness his relationship with Warren Trent, and an insight
　　into fellow human beings too deep to be dismissed as cotton-patch wisdom.
　　Aloysius had loved his father with a deep love which at moments like this
　　trans67
　　    HOTEL
　　formed itself to yearning. He answered now, "Maybe I used wrong words, but
　　it doesn't change the sense."
　　Warren Trent nodded without comment and took out his old-fashioned fob
　　watch. "You'd better tell young McDermott to come and see me. Ask him to
　　come here. I'm a little tired this morning."
　　The hotel proprietor mused, "Mark Preyscott's in Rome, eh? I suppose I
　　ought to telephone him."
　　"His daughter was insistent that we shouldn't," Peter McDermott said.
　　The two were in the lavishly furnished living room of Warren Trent's
　　suite, the older man relaxed in a deep, soft chair, his feet raised upon
　　a footstool. Peter sat facing him.
　　Warren Trent said huffily, "I'll be the one to decide that. If she gets
　　herself raped in my hotel she must accept the consequences."
　　"Actually we prevented the rape. Though I do want to find out just what
　　happened earlier."
　　"Have you seen the girl this morning?"
　　"Miss Preyscott was sleeping when I checked. I left a message asking to
　　see her before she leaves."
　　Warren Trent sighed and waved a hand in dismissal. "You deal with it
　　all." His tone made clear that he was already tired of the subject. There
　　would be no telephone call to Rome, Peter reasoned with relief.
　　"Something else I'd like to deal with concerns the room clerks." Peter
　　described the Albert Wells incident and saw Warren Trent's face harden
　　at the mention of the arbitrary room change.
　　The older man growled, "We should have closed off that room years ago.
　　Maybe we'd better do it now."
　　"I don't think it need be closed, providing it's understood we use it as
　　a last resort and tell the guest what he's getting into."
　　Warren Trent nodded. "Attend to it."
　　Peter hesitated. "What I'd like to do is give some specific instructions
　　on room changes generally. There have been other incidents and I think
　　it needs pointing out that our guests aren't to be moved around like
　　checkers on a board."
　　68
　　                          Tuesday
　　"Deal with the one thing. If I want general instructions I'll issue
　　them."
　　The curt rejoinder, Peter thought resignedly, typified much that was
　　wrong with the hotel's management. Mistakes were dealt with piecemeal
　　after they happened, with little or no attempt to correct their root
　　cause. Now he said, "I thought you should know about the Duke and Duchess
　　of Croydon. The Duchess asked for you personally." He described the
　　incident of the spilled shrimp Creole and the differing version of the
　　waiter Sol Natchez.
　　Warren Trent grumbled, "I know that damn woman. She won't be satisfied
　　unless the waiter's fired."
　　"I don't believe he should be fired."
　　"Then tell him to go fishing for a few days-with paybut to keep the hell
　　out of the hotel. And warn him from me that next time he spills
　　something, to be sure it's boiling and over the Duchess's head. I suppose
　　she still has those damn dogs."
　　"Yes." Peter smiled.
　　A strictly enforced Louisiana law forbade animals in hotel rooms. In the
　　Croydons' case, Warren Trent had conceded that the presence of the
　　Bedlington terriers would not be noticed officially, provided they were
　　smuggled in and out by a rear door. The Duchess, however, paraded the
　　dogs defiantly each day through the main lobby. Already, two irate dog
　　lovers were demanding to know why, when their own pets had been refused
　　admittance.
　　"I had some trouble with Ogilvie last night." Peter reported the chief
　　house officer's absence and their subsequent exchange.
　　Reaction was swift. "I've told you before to leave Ogilvie alone. He's
　　responsible directly to me."
　　"It makes things difficult if there's something to be done . . ."
　　"You heard what I said. Forget Ogilvie!" Warren Trent's face was red, but
　　less from anger, Peter suspected, than embarrassment. The
　　hands-off-Ogilvie rule didn't make sense and the hotel proprietor knew
　　it. What was the hold, Peter wondered, that the ex-policeman had over his
　　employer?
　　Abruptly changing the subject, Warren Trent an-
　　69
　　    HOTEL
　　nounced, "Curtis O'Keefe is checking in today. He wants two adjoining
　　suites and I've sent down instructions. You'd better make sure that
　　everything's in order, and I want to be informed as soon as he arrives."
　　"Will Mr. O'Keefe be staying long?"
　　"I don't know. It depends on a lot of things."
　　For a moment Peter felt a surge of sympathy for the older man. Whatever
　　criticisms might be leveled nowadays at the way the St. Gregory was run,
　　to Warren Trent it was more than a hotel; it had been his lifetime's
　　work. He had seen it grow from insignificance to prominence, from a
　　modest initial building to a towering edifice occupying most of a city
　　block. The hotel's reputation, too, had for many years been high, its
　　name ranking nationally with traditional hostelries like the Biltmore,
　　or Chicago's Palmer House or the St. Francis in San Francisco. It must
　　be hard to accept that the St. Gregory, for all the prestige and glamour
　　it once enjoyed, had slipped behind the times. It was not that the
　　slippage had been final or disastrous, Peter thought. New financing and
　　a firm, controlling hand on management could work wonders, even, perhaps,
　　restoring the hotel to its old competitive position. But as things were,
　　both the capital and control would have to come from outside-he supposed
　　through Curtis O'Keefe. Once more Peter was reminded that his own days
　　here might well be numbered.
　　The hotel proprietor asked, "What's our convention situation?"
　　"About half the chemical engineers have checked out; the rest will be
　　clear by today. Coming in-Gold Crown Cola is in and organized. They've
　　taken three hundred and twenty rooms, which is better than we expected,
　　and we've increased the lunch and banquet figures accordingly." As the
　　older man nodded approval, Peter continued, "The Congress of American
　　Dentistry begins tomorrow, though some of their people checked in
　　yesterday and there'll be more today. They should take close to two
　　hundred and eighty rooms."
　　Warren Trent gave a satisfied grunt. At least, he reflected, the news was
　　not all bad. Conventions were the lifeblood of hotel business and two
　　together were a help,
　　70
　　                          Tuesday
　　though unfortunately not enough to offset other recent losses. All the
　　same, the dentistry convention was an achievement. Young McDermott had
　　acted promptly on a hot tip that earlier arrangements by the Dental
　　Congress had fallen through, and had flown to New York, successfully
　　selling New Orleans and the St. Gregory to the convention organizers.
　　"We had a full house last night," Warren Trent said. He added, "In this
　　business it's either feast or famine. Can we handle today's arrivals?"
　　"I checked on the figures first thing this morning. There should be
　　enough checkouts, though it'll be close. Our over-bookings are a little
　　high."
　　Like all hotels, the St. Gregory regularly accepted more reservations
　　than it had rooms available. But also like all hotels, it gambled on the
　　certain foreknowledge that some people who made reservations would fail
　　to show up, so the problem resolved itself into guessing the true
　　percentage of non-arrivals. Most times, experience and luck allowed the
　　hotel to come out evenly, with all rooms occupied-the ideal situation.
　　But once in a while an estimate went wrong, in which event the hotel was
　　seriously in trouble.
　　The most miserable moment in any hotel manager's life was explaining to
　　indignant would-be guests, who held confirmed reservations, that no
　　accommodation was available. He was miserable both as a fellow human
　　being and also because he was despondently aware that never againif they
　　could help it-would the people he was turning away ever come back to his
　　hotel.
　　In Peter's own experience the worst occasion was when a baker's
　　convention, meeting in New York, decided to remain an extra day so that
　　some of its members could take a moonlight cruise around Manhattan. Two
　　hundred and fifty bakers and their wives stayed on, unfortunately without
　　telling the hotel, which expected them to check out so an engineers'
　　convention could move in. Recollection of the ensuing shambles, with
　　hundreds of angry engineers and their women folk encamped in the lobby,
　　some waving reservations made two years earlier, still caused Peter to
　　shudder when he thought of it. In the end, the city's other 71
　　    HOTEL
　　hotels being already filled, the new arrivals were dispersed to motels in
　　outlying New York until next day when the bakers went innocently away. But
　　the monumental taxi bills of the engineers, plus a substantial cash
　　settlement to avoid a lawsuit, were paid by the hotel-more than wiping out
　　the profit on both conventions.
　　Warren Trent lit a cigar, motioning to McDermott to take a cigarette from
　　a box beside him. When he had done !0, Peter said, "I talked with the
　　Roosevelt. If we're in a jam tonight they can help us out with maybe
　　thirty rooms." The knowledge, he thought, was reassuring-an ace-in-the.-
　　hole, though not to be used unless essential. Even fiercely competitive
　　hotels aided each other in that kind of crisis, never knowing when the
　　roles would be reversed.
　　"All right," Warren Trent said, a cloud of cigar smoke above him, "now
　　what's the outlook for the fall?"
　　"It's disappointing. I've sent you a memo about the two big union
　　conventions falling through."
　　"Why have they fallen through?"
　　"It's the same reason I warned you about earlier. We've continued to
　　discriminate. We haven't complied with the Civil Rights Act, and the
　　unions resent it." Involuntarily, Peter glanced toward Aloysius Royce who
　　had come into the room and was arranging a pile of magazines.
　　Without looking up the young Negro said, "Don't yo? worry about sparing
　　my feelings, Mistuh McDermott"Royce was using the same exaggerated accent
　　he had employed the night before,--"because us colored folks are right
　　used to that."
　　Warren Trent, his face creased in thought, said dourly, "Cut out the
　　comic lines."
　　"Yessir!" Royce left his magazine sorting and stood facing the other two.
　　Now his voice was normal. "But I'll tell you this: the unions have acted
　　the way they have because they've a social conscience. They're not the
　　only ones, though. More conventions, and just plain folks, are going to
　　stay away until this hotel and others like it admit that times have
　　changed."
　　Warren Trent waved a hand toward Royce. "Answer hirn," he told Peter
　　McDermott. "Around here we don't mince words."
　　72
　　                          Tuesday
　　"It so happens," Peter said quietly, "that I agree with what he said."
　　"Why so, Mr. McDermott?" Royce taunted. "'You think it'd be better for
　　business? Make your job easier?"
　　"Those are good reasons," Peter said. "If you choose to think they're the
　　only ones, go ahead."
　　Warren Trent slammed down his hand hard upon the chair arm. "Never mind the
　　reasons! What matters is, you're being damn fools, both of you."
　　It was a recurring question. In Louisiana, though hotels with chain
　　affiliations had nominally integrated months before, several
　　independents-spearheaded by Warren Trent and the St. Gregory-had resisted
　　change. Most, for a brief period, complied with the Civil Rights Act, then,
　　after the initial flurry of attention, quietly reverted to their
　　long-established segregation policies. Even with legal test cases pending,
　　there was every sign that the hold-outs, aided by strong local support,
　　could fight a delaying action, perhaps lasting years.
　　"No!" Viciously, Warren Trent stubbed out his cigar. "Whatever's happening
　　anywhere else, I say we're not ready for it here. So we've lost the union
　　conventions. All right, it's time we got off our backsides and tried for
　　something else."
　　From the living room, Warren Trent heard the outer door close behind Peter
　　McDermott, and Aloysius Royce's footsteps returning to the small book-lined
　　sitting room which was the young Negro's private domain. In a few minutes
　　Royce would leave, as he usually did around this time of day, for a
　　law-school class.
　　It was quiet in the big living room, with only a whisper from the air
　　conditioning, and occasional stray sounds from the city below, which
　　penetrated the thick walls and insulated windows. Fingers of morning
　　sunshine inched their way across the broadloomed floor and, watching them,
　　Warren Trent could feel his heart pounding heavily-an effect of the anger
　　which for several minutes had consumed him. It was a warning, he supposed,
　　which he should heed more often. Yet nowadays, it seemed, so many things
　　frustrated him, making emotions hard to control and to remain
　　73
　　    HOTEL
　　silent, harder still. Perhaps such outbursts were mere testiness-a side
　　effect of age. But more likely it was because he sensed so much was
　　slipping away, disappearing forever beyond his control. Besides, anger had
　　always come easily --except for those few brief years when Hester had
　　taught him otherwise: to use patience and a sense of humor, and for a
　　while he had. Sitting quietly here, the memory stirred him. How long ago
　　it seemed!-more than thirty years since he had carried her, as a new,
　　young bride, across the threshold of this very room. And how short a time
　　they had had: those few brief years, joyous beyond measure, until the
　　paralytic polio struck without warning. It had killed Hester in
　　twenty-four hours, leaving Warren Trent, mourning and alone, with the rest
　　of his life to live-and the St. Gregory Hotel.
　　There were few in the hotel who remembered Hester now, and even if a
　　handful of old-timers did, it would be dimly, and not as Warren Trent
　　himself remembered her: like a sweet spring flower, who had made his days
　　gentle and his life richer, as no one had before or since.
　　In the silence, a swift soft movement and a rustle of silk seemed to come
　　from the doorway behind him. He turned his head, but it was a quirk of
　　memory. The room was empty and, unusually, moisture dimmed his eyes.
　　He rose awkwardly from the deep chair, the sciatica knifing as he did.
　　He moved to the window, looking across the gabled rooftops of the French
　　Quarter-the Vieux Carr6 as people called it nowadays, reverting to the
　　older name-toward Jackson Square and the cathedral spires, glinting as
　　sunlight touched them. Beyond was the swirling, muddy Mississippi and,
　　in midstream, a line of moored ships awaiting their turn at busy wharves.
　　It was a sign of the times, he thought. Since the eighteenth century New
　　Orleans had swung like a pendulum between riches and poverty. Steamships,
　　railways, cotton, slavery, emancipation, canals, wars, tourists . . . all
　　at intervals had delivered quotas of wealth and disaster. Now the
　　pendulum had brought prosperity-though not, it seemed, to the St. Gregory
　　Hotel.
　　But did it really matter-at least to himself? Was the hotel worth
　　fighting for? Why not give up, sell out-as he 74
　　                          Tuesday
　　could, this week-and let time and change engulf them both? Curtis O'Keefe
　　would make a fair deal. The O'Keefe chain had that kind of reputation, and
　　Trent himself could emerge from it well. After paying the outstanding
　　mortgage, and taking care of minor stockholders, there would be ample
　　money left on which he could live, at whatever standard he chose, for the
　　remainder of his life.
　　Surrender: perhaps that was the answer. Surrender to changing times.
　　After all, what was a hotel except so much brick and mortar? He had tried
　　to make it more, but in the end he had faded. Let it go!
　　And yet ... if he did, what else was left?
　　Nothing. For himself there would be nothing left, not even the ghosts
　　that walked this floor. He waited, wondering, his eyes encompassing the
　　city spread before him. It too had seen change, had been French, Spanish,
　　and American, yet had somehow survived as itself-uniquely individual in
　　an era of conformity.
　　No! He would not sell out. Not yet. While there was still hope, he would
　　hold on. There were still four days in which to raise the mortgage money
　　somehow, and beyond that the present losses were a temporary thing. Soon
　　the tide would turn, leaving the St. Gregory solvent and independent.
　　Matching movement to his resolution, he walked stifily across the room
　　to an opposite window. His eyes caught the gleam of an airplane high to
　　the north. It was a jet, losing height and preparing to land at Moisant
　　Airport. He wondered if Curtis O'Keefe was aboard.
　　3
　　When Christine Francis located him shortly after 9:30 A.M., Sam Jakubiec,
　　the stocky, balding credit manager, was standing at the rear of
　　Reception, making his daily check of the ledger account of every guest
　　in the hotel. As usual, Jakubiec was working with the quick, nervous
　　haste which sometimes deceived people into believing he was less than
　　thorough. Actually there was almost nothing that the credit chief's
　　shrewd, encyclopedic mind missed, 75
　　    HOTEL
　　a fact which in the past had saved the hotel thousands of dollars in bad
　　debts.
　　His fingers were dancing now over the machine accounting cards-one for each
　　guest and room-as he peered at names through his thick-lensed spectacles,
　　glancing at the itemized accounts and, once in a while, making a notation
　　on a pad beside him. Without stopping, he glanced up briefly, then down
　　again. "I'll be just a few minutes, Miss Francis."
　　"I can wait. Anything interesting this morning?"
　　Without pausing, Jakubiec nodded. "A few things."
　　"For instance?"
　　He made a new note on the pad. "Room 512, H. Baker. Check-in 8: 10 A.M. At
　　8:20 a bottle of liquor ordered and charged."
　　"Maybe he likes to brush his teeth with it."
　　His head down, Jakubiec nodded. "Maybe."
　　But it was more likely, Christine knew, that H. Baker in 512 was a
　　deadbeat. Automatically the guest who ordered a bottle of liquor a few
　　minutes after arrival aroused the credit manager's suspicion. Most new
　　arrivals who wanted a drink quickly-after a journey or a tiring dayordered
　　a mixed drink from the bar. The immediate bottleorderer was often starting
　　on a drunk, and might not intend to pay, or couldn't.
　　She knew, too, what would follow next. Jakubiec would ask one of the floor
　　maids to enter 512 on a pretext and make a check of the guest and his
　　luggage. Maids knew what to look for: reasonable luggage and good clothes,
　　and if the guest had these the credit manager would probably do nothing
　　more, aside from keeping an eye on the account. Sometimes solid,
　　respectable citizens rented a hotel room for the purpose of getting drunk
　　and, providing they could pay and bothered no one else, that was their own
　　business.
　　But if there was no luggage or other signs of substance, Jakubiec himself
　　would drop in for a chat. His approach would be discreet and friendly. If
　　the guest showed ability to pay, or agreed to put a cash deposit on his
　　bill, their parting would be cordial. However, if his earlier suspicions
　　were confirmed, the credit manager could be tough and 76
　　                          Tuesday
　　ruthless, with the guest evicted before a big bill could be run up.
　　"Here's another," Sam Jakubiec told Christine. "Sanderson, room 1207.
　　Disproportionate tipping."
　　She inspected the card he was holding. It showed two room-service
　　charges-one for $1.50, the other for two dollars. In each case a
　　two-dollar tip had been added and signed for.
　　"People who don't intend to pay often write the biggest tips," Jakubiec
　　said. "Anyway, it's one to check out."
　　As with the other query, Christine knew the credit manager would feel his
　　way warily. Part of his job-equally important with preventing fraud-was
　　not offending honest guests. After years of experience a seasoned credit
　　man could usually separate the sharks and sheep by instinct, but once in
　　a while he might be wrong-to the hotel's detriment. Christine knew that
　　was why credit managers occasionally risked extending credit or approved
　　checks in slightly doubtful cases, walking a mental tightrope as they
　　did. Most hotels-even the exalted ones--cared nothing about the morals
　　of those who stayed within their walls, knowing that if they did a great
　　deal of business would pass them by. Their concern-which a credit manager
　　refiected-involved itself with a single basic question: Could a guest
　　pay?
　　With a single, swift movement Sam Jakubiec flipped the ledger cards back
　　in place and closed the file drawer containing them. "Now," he said,
　　"what can I do?"
　　"We've hired a private duty nurse for 1410." Briefly Christine reported
　　the previous night's crisis concerning Albert Wells. "I'm a little
　　worried whether Mr. Wells can afford it, and I'm not sure he realizes how
　　much it will cost." She might have added, but didift, that she was more
　　concerned for the little man himself than for the hotel.
　　Jakubiec nodded. "That private nursing deal can run into big money."
　　Walking together, they moved away from Reception, crossing the
　　now-bustling lobby to the credit manager's office, a small square room
　　behind the concierge's counter. Inside, a dumpy brunette secretary was
　　working against a wall which consisted solely of trays of file cards.
　　77
　　    HOTEL
　　"Madge," Sam Jakubiec: said, "see what we have on Wells, Albert."
　　Without answering, she closed a drawer, opened another and flipped over
　　cards. Pausing, she said in a single breath, "Albuquerque, Coon Rapids,
　　Montreal, take your pick."
　　"It's Montreal," Christine said, and Jakubiec took the card the secretary
　　offered him. Scanning it, he observed, "He looks all right. Stayed with
　　us six times. Paid cash. One small query which seems to have been
　　settled."
　　"I know about that," Christine said. "It was our fault."
　　The credit man nodded. "I'd say there's nothing to worry about. Honest
　　people leave a pattern, same as the dishonest ones." He handed the card
　　back and the secretary replaced it, along with the others which provided
　　a record of every guest who had stayed in the hotel in recent years.
　　"I'll look into it, though; find out what the charge is going to be, then
　　have a talk with Mr. Wells. If he has a cash problem we could maybe help
　　out, give him a little time to pay."
　　"Thanks, Sam." Christine felt relieved, knowing that Jakubiec could be
　　just as helpful and sympathetic with a genuine case, as he was tough with
　　the bad ones.
　　As she reached the office doorway the credit manager called after her,
　　"Miss Francis, how are things going upstairs?"
　　Christine smiled. "They're raffling off the hotel, Sam. I didn't want to
　　tell you, but you forced it out of me."
　　"If they pull my ticket," Jakubiec said, "have 'em draw again. I've
　　troubles enough already."
　　Beneath the flippancy, Christine suspected, the credit manager was as
　　worried about his job as a good many others. The hotel's financial
　　affairs were supposed to be confidential, but seldom were, and it had
　　been impossible to keep the news of recent difficulties from spreading
　　like a contagion.
　　She recrossed the main lobby, acknowledging "good mornings" from
　　bellboys, the hotel florist, and one of the assistant managers, seated
　　self-importantly at his centrally located desk. Then, bypassing the
　　elevators, she ran lightly up the curved central stairway to the main
　　mezzanine.
　　The sight of the assistant manager was a reminder of his
　　78
　　                          Tuesday
　　immediate superior, Peter McDermott. Since last night Christine had found
　　herself thinking about Peter a good deal. She wondered if the time they
　　had spent together had produced the same effect in him. At several moments
　　she caught herself wishing that this was true, then checked herself with
　　an inward warning against an involvement emotionally which might be *
　　premature. Over the years in which she had learned to live alone there had
　　been men in Christine's life, but none she had taken seriously. At times,
　　she sometimes thought, it seemed as if instinct were shielding her from
　　renewing the kind of close relationship which five years ago had been
　　snatched away so savagely. All the same, at this moment she wondered where
　　Peter was and what he was doing. Well, she decided practically, sooner or
　　later in the course of the day their ways would cross.
　　Back in her own office in the executive suite, Christine looked briefly
　　into Warren Trent's, but the hotel proprietor had not yet come down from
　　his fifteenth-floor apartment. The morning mail was stacked on her own
　　desk, and several telephone messages required attention soon. She decided
　　first to complete the matter which had taken her downstairs. Lifting the
　　telephone, she asked for room 1410.
　　A woman's voice answered-presumably the private duty nurse. Christine
　　identified herself and inquired politely after the patient's health.
　　"Mr. Wells passed a comfortable night," the voice informed her, "and his
　　condition is improved."
　　Wondering why some nurses felt they had to sound like official bulletins,
　　Christine replied, "In that case, perhaps I can drop in."
　　"Not for some time, I'm afraid." There was the impression of a guardian
　　hand raised firmly. "Dr. Aarons will be seeing the patient this morning,
　　and I wish to be ready for him."
　　It sounded, Christine thought, like a state visit. The idea of the
　　pompous Dr. Aarons being attended by an equally pompous nurse amused her.
　　Aloud she said, "In that case, please tell Mr. Wells I called and that
　　I'll see him this afternoon."
　　79
　　    HOTEL
　　4
　　The inconclusive conference in the hotel owner's suite left Peter McDermott
　　in a mood of frustration. Striding away down the fifteenth-floor corridor,
　　as Aloysius Royce closed the suite door behind him, he reflected that his
　　encounters with Warren Trent invariably went the same way. As he had on
　　other occasions, he wished fervently that he could have six months and a
　　free hand to manage the hotel himself.
　　Near the elevators he stopped to use a house phone, inquiring from
　　Reception what accommodation had been reserved for Mr. Curtis O'Keefe's
　　party. There were two adjoining suites on the twelfth floor, a room clerk
　　informed him, and Peter used the service stairway to descend the two
　　flights. Like all sizable hotels, the St. Gregory pretended not to have a
　　thirteenth floor, naming it the fourteenth instead.
　　All four doors to the two reserved suites were open and, from within, the
　　whine of a vacuum cleaner was audible as he approached. Inside, two maids
　　were working industriously under the critical eye of Mrs. Blanche du
　　Quesnay, the St. Gregory's sharp-tongued but highly competent housekeeper.
　　She turned as Peter came in, her bright eyes flashing.
　　"I might have known that one of you men would be checking up to see if I'm
　　capable of doing my own job, as if I couldn't figure out for myself that
　　things had better be just so, considering who's coming."
　　Peter grinned. "Relax, Mrs. Q. Mr. Trent asked me to drop in." He liked the
　　middle-aged red-haired woman, one of the most reliable department heads.
　　The two maids were smiling. He winked at them, adding for Mrs. du Quesnay,
　　"If Mr. Trent had known you were giving this your personal attention he'd
　　have wiped the whole thing from his mind."
　　"And if we run out of soft soap in the laundry we'll send for you," the
　　housekeeper said with the trace of a smile as she expertly plumped the
　　cushions of two long settees.
　　80
　　                          Tuesday
　　He laughed, then inquired, "Have flowers and a basket of fruit been
　　ordered?" The hotel magnate, Peter thought, probably grew weary of the
　　inevitable fruit basket-standard salutation of hotels to visiting VIPs.
　　But its absence might be noticed.
　　"They're on the  her cushion
　　arranging and said pointedly, "From what I hear, though, Mr. O'Keefe
　　brings his own flowers, and not in vases either."
　　It was a reference-which Peter understood-to the fact that Curtis O'Keefe
　　was seldom without a feminine escort on his travels, the composition of
　　the escort changing frequently. He discreetly ignored it.
　　Mrs. du Quesnay flashed him one of her quick, pert looks. "Have a look
　　around. There's no charge."
　　Both suites, Peter saw as he walked through them, had been gone over
　　thoroughly. The furnishings-white and gold with a French motif-were
　　dustless and orderly. In bedrooms and bathrooms the linen was spotless
　　and correctly folded, handbasins and baths were dry and shining, toilet
　　seats impeccably scoured and the tops down. Mirrors and windows gleamed.
　　Electric lights all worked, as did the combination TV-radios. The air
　　conditioning responded to changes of thermostats, though the temperature
　　now was a comfortable 68. There was nothing else to be done, Peter
　　thought, as he stood in the center of the second suite surveying it.
　　Then a thought struck him. Curtis O'Keefe, he remembered, was notably
　　devout-at times, some said, to the point of ostentation. The hotelier
　　prayed frequently, sometimes in public. One report claimed that when a
　　new hotel interested him he prayed for it as a child did for a Christmas
　　toy; another, that before negotiations a private church service was held
　　which O'Keefe executives attended dutifully. The head of a competitive
　　hotel chain, Peter recalled, once remarked unkindly, "Curtis never misses
　　an opportunity to pray. That's why he urinates on his knees."
　　The thought prompted Peter to check the Gideon Bibles -one in each room.
　　He was glad he did.
　　As usually happened when they had been in use for any length of time, the
　　Bibles' front pages were dotted with
　　81
　　    HOTEL
　　call girls' phone numbers, since a Gideon Bible-as experienced travelers
　　knew-was the first place to seek that kind of information. Peter showed
　　the books silently to Mrs. du Quesnay. She clucked her tongue. "Mr.
　　O'Keefe won't be needing these, now will he? I'll have new ones sent up."
　　Taking the Bibles under her arm, she regarded Peter questioningly. "I
　　suppose what Mr. O'Keefe likes or doesn't is going to make a difference
　　to people keeping their jobs around here."
　　He shook his head. "I honestly don't know, Mrs. Q. Your guess is as good
　　as mine."
　　He was aware of the housekeeper's eyes following him interrogatively as
　　he left the suite. Mrs. du Quesnay, he knew, supported an invalid husband
　　and any threat to her job would be cause for anxiety. He felt a genuine
　　sympathy for her as he rode an elevator to the main mezzanine.
　　In the event of a management change, Peter supposed, most of the younger
　　and brighter staff members would have an opportunity to stay on. He
　　imagined that most would take it since the O'Keefe chain had a reputation
　　for treating its employees well. Older employees, though, some of whom
　　had grown soft in their jobs, had a good deal more to worry about.
　　As Peter McDermott approached the executive suite, the chief engineer,
　　Doc Vickery, was leaving it. Stopping, Peter said, "Number four elevator
　　was giving some trouble last night, chief. I wondered if you knew."
　　The chief nodded his bald, domed head morosely. "It's a puir business
　　when machinery that needs money spending on it doesna' get it."
　　"Is it really that bad?" The engineering budget, Peter knew, had been
　　pared recently, but this was the first he had heard of serious trouble
　　with the elevators.
　　The chief shook his head. "If you mean shall we have a big accident, the
　　answer's no. I watch the safety guards like I would a bairn. But we've
　　had small breakdowns and sometime there'll be a bigger one. All it needs
　　is a couple of cars stalled for a few hours to throw this building out
　　of joint."
　　Peter nodded. If that was the worse that could happen, 82
　　                          Tuesday
　　there was no point in worrying unduly. He inquired, "What is it you need?"
　　The chief peered over his thick-rimmed spectacles. "A hundred thousand
　　dollars to start. With that I'd rip out most of the elevator guts and
　　replace them, then some other things as well."
　　Peter whistled softly.
　　"I'll tell you one thing," the chief observed. "Good machinery's a lovely
　　thing, and sometimes well nigh human. Most times it'll do more work than
　　you think it could, and after that you can patch it and coax it, and
　　it'll work for you some more. But somewhere along there's a death point
　　you'll never get by, no matter how much you-and the machinery-want to."
　　Peter was still thinking about the chief's words when he entered his own
　　office. What was the death point, he wondered, for an entire hotel?
　　Certainly not yet for the St. Gregory, though for the hotel's present
　　regime he suspected the point was already passed.
　　There was a pile of mail, memos and telephone messages on his desk. He
　　picked up the top one and read: Miss Marsha Preyscott returned your call
　　and will wait in room 555 until she hears from you. It was a reminder of
　　his intention to find out more about last night's events in 1126-7.
　　Another thing: he must drop in soon to see Christine. There were several
　　small matters requiring decisions from Warren Trent, though not important
　　enough to have brought up at this morning's meeting. Then, grinning, he
　　chided himself: Stop rationalizing! You want to see her, and why not?
　　As he debated which to do first, the telephone bell shrilled. It was
　　Reception, one of the room clerks. "I thought you'd want to know," he
　　said. "Mr. Curtis O'Keefe has just checked in."
　　5
　　Curtis O'Keefe marched into the busy, cavernous lobby
　　swiftly, like an arrow piercing an apple's core. And a
　　slightly decayed apple, he thought critically. Glancing
　　83
　　    HOTEL
　　around, his experienced hotel man's eye assimilated the signs. Small
　　signs, but significant: a newspaper left in a chair and uncollected; a
　　half-dozen cigarette butts in a sand urn by the elevators; a button
　　missing from a bellboy's uniform; two burned-out light bulbs in the
　　chandelier above. At the St. Charles Avenue entrance a uniformed doorman
　　gossiped with a news vendor, a tide of guests and others breaking around
　　them. Closer at hand an elderly assistant manager sat brooding at his
　　desk, eyes down.
　　In a hotel of the O'Keefe chain, in the unlikely event of all such
　　inefficiencies occurring at once, there would have been whip-cracking
　　action, slashing reprimands and perhaps dismissals. But the St. Gregory
　　isn't my hotel, Curtis O'Keefe reminded himself. Not yet.
　　He headed for Reception, a slender, dapper six-foot figure in precisely
　　pressed charcoal gray, moving with dance-like, almost mincing, steps. The
　　last was an O'Keefe characteristic whether on a handball court, as he
　　often was, a ballroom floor or on the rolling deck of his oceangoing
　　cruiser Innkeeper IV. His lithe athlete's body had been his pride through
　　most of the fifty-six years in which he had manipulated himself upward
　　from a lower-middleclass nonentity to become one of the nation's
　　richest-and most restless-men.
　　At the marble-topped counter, barely looking up, a room clerk pushed a
　　registration pad forward. The hotelier ignored it.
　　He announced evenly, "My name is O'Keefe and I have reserved two suites,
　　one for myself, the other in the name of Miss Dorothy Lash." From the
　　periphery of his vision he could see Dodo entering the lobby now: all
　　legs and breasts, radiating sex like a pyrotechnic. Heads were turning,
　　with breath indrawn, as always happened. He had left her at the car to
　　supervise the baggage, She enjoyed doing things like that occasionally.
　　Anything requiring more cerebral strain passed her by.
　　His words had the effect of a neatly thrown grenade.
　　The room clerk stiffened, straightening his shoulders. As he faced the
　　cool gray eyes which, effortlessly, seemed to bore into him, the clerk's
　　attitude cbanged from indiffer84
　　                          Tuesday
　　ence to solicitous respect. With nervous instinct, a hand went to his tie.
　　"Excuse me, sir. Mr. Curtis O'Keefe?"
　　The hotelier nodded, with a hovering half smile, his face composed, the
　　same face which beamed benignly from a half-million book jackets of I Am
　　Your Host, a copy placed prominently in every hotel room of the O'Keefe
　　chain. (This book is for your entertainment and pleasure. If you would
　　like to take it with you, please notify the room clerk and $1.25 will be
　　added to your bill.)
　　"Yes, sir. I'm sure your suites are ready, sir. If you'll wait one
　　moment, please."
　　As the clerk shuffled reservation and room slips, O'Keefe stepped back
　　a pace from the counter, allowing other arrivals to move in. The
　　reception desk, which a moment ago had been fairly quiet, was beginning
　　one of the periodic surges which were part of every hotel day. Outside,
　　in bright, warm sunshine, airport limousines and taxis were discharging
　　passengers who had traveled south-as he himself had done-on the breakfast
　　jet flight from New York. He noticed a convention was assembling. A
　　banner suspended from the vaulted lobby roof proclaimed:
　　WELCOME DELEGATES
　　CONGRESS OF AMERICAN DENTISTRY
　　Dodo joined him, two laden bellboys following like acolytes behind a
　　goddess. Under the big floppy picture hat, which failed to conceal the
　　flowing ash-blond hair, her baby blue eyes were wide as ever in the
　　flawless childlike face.
　　"Curtie, they say there's a lotta dentists staying here."
　　He said drily, "I'm glad you told me. Otherwise I might never have
　　known."
　　"Geez, well maybe I should get that filling done. I always mean to, then
　　somehow never . . ."
　　"They're here to open their own mouths, not other peo-
　　99
　　ple's.
　　Dodo looked puzzled, as she did so often, as if events around her were
　　something she ought to understand but somehow didn't. An O'Keefe
　　Hotels manager, who hadn't
　　85
　　    HOTEL
　　known his chief executive was listening, had declared of Dodo not long ago:
　　"Her brains are in her tits; only trouble is, they're not connected."
　　Some of O'Keefe's acquaintances, he knew, wondered about his choice of Dodo
　　as a traveling companion when, with his wealth and influence, he
　　could-within reasonhave anyone he chose. But then, of course, they could
　　only guess-and almost certainly underestimate-the savage sensuality which
　　Dodo could turn on or obligingly leave quietly simmering, according to his
　　own mood. Her mud stupidities, as well as the frequent gaucheries which
　　seemed to bother others, he thought of as merely amusing-perhaps because he
　　grew tired at times of being surrounded by clever, vigilant minds, forever
　　striving to match the astuteness of his own.
　　He supposed, though, he would dispense with Dodo soon. She had been a
　　fixture now for almost a yearlonger than most of the others. There were
　　always plenty more starlets to be plucked from the Hollywood galaxy. He
　　would, of course, take care of her, using his ample influence to arrange a
　　supporting role or two and, who knew, perhaps she might even make the
　　grade. She had the body and the face. Others had risen high on those com-
　　modities alone.
　　The room clerk returned to the front counter. "Everything is ready, sir."
　　Curtis O'Keefe nodded. Then, led by the bell captain Herbie Chandler, who
　　had swiftly materialized, their small procession moved to a waiting
　　elevator.
　　6
　　Shortly after Curtis O'Keefe and Dodo had been escorted to their adjoining
　　suites, Julius "Keycase" Milne obtained a single room.
　　Keycase telephoned at 10:45 A.M., using the hotel's direct line from
　　Moisant Airport (Talk to us Free at New Orleans Finest) to confirm a
　　reservation made several days earlier from out of town. In reply he was
　　assured that his booking was in order and, if he would kindly hasten city-
　　ward, he could be accommodated without delay.
　　86
　　                          Tuesday
　　Since his decision to stay at the St. Gregory had been made only a few
　　minutes earlier, Keycase was pleased at the news, though not surprised,
　　for his advance planning had taken the form of making reservations at all
　　of New Orleans'major hotels, employing a different name for each. At the
　　St. Gregory he had reserved as "Byron Meader," a name he had selected
　　from a newspaper because its rightful owner had been a major sweepstake
　　winner. This seemed like a good omen, and omens were something which
　　impressed Keycase very much indeed.
　　They had seemed to work out, in fact, on several occasions. For example,
　　the last time he had come up for trial, immediately after his plea of
　　guilty, a shaft of sunlight slanted across the judge's bench and the
　　sentence which followed-the sunlight still remaining-had been a lenient
　　three years when Keycase was expecting five. Even the string of jobs
　　which preceded the plea and sentencing seemed to have gone well for the
　　same sort of reason. ffis nocturnal entry into various Detroit hotel
　　rooms had proceeded smoothly and rewardingly, largely-he decided
　　afterward-because all room numbers except the last contained the numeral
　　two, his lucky number. It was this final room, devoid of the reassuring
　　digit, whose occupant awakened and screamed stridently just as he was
　　packing her mink coat into a suitcase, having already stowed her cash and
　　jewelry in one of his specially capacious topcoat pockets.
　　It was sheer bad luck, perhaps compounded by the number situation, that
　　a house dick had been within hearing of the screams and responded
　　promptly. Keycase, a philosopher, had accepted the inevitable with grace,
　　not bothering even to use the ingenious explanation-which worked so well
　　at other times-as to why he was in a room other than his own. That was
　　a risk, though, which anyone who lived by being light-fingered had to
　　take, even a skilled specialist like Keycase. But now, having served his
　　time (with maximum remission for good behavior) and, more recently having
　　enjoyed a successful ten-day foray in Kansas City, he was anticipating
　　keenly a profitable fortnight or so in New Orleans.
　　It had started well.
　　87
　　    HOTEL
　　He had arrived at Moisant Airport shortly before 7:30 A.M., driving from
　　the cheap motel on Chef Menteur Highway where he had stayed the night
　　before. It was a fine, modern terminal building, Keyease thought, with
　　lots of glass and chrome as well as many trash cans, the latter important
　　to his present purpose.
　　He read on a plaque that the airport was named after John Moisant, an
　　Orleanian who had been a world aviation pioneer, and he noted that the
　　initials were the same as his own, which could be a favorable omen too.
　　It was the kind of airport he would be proud to thunder into on one of
　　the big jets, and perhaps he would soon if things continued the way they
　　had before the last spell inside had put him out of practice for a while.
　　Although he was certainly coming back fast, even if nowadays he
　　occasionally hesitated where once he would have operated coolly, almost
　　with indifference.
　　But that was natural. It came from knowing that if he was caught and sent
　　down again, this time it would be from ten to fifteen years. That would
　　be hard to face. At fifty-two there were few periods of that length left.
　　Strolling inconspicuously through the airport terminal, a trim,
　　well-dressed figure, carrying a folded newspaper beneath his arm, Keycase
　　stayed carefully alert. He gave the appearance of a well-to-do
　　businessman, relaxed and confident. Only his eyes moved ceaselessly,
　　following the movements of the early rising travelers, pouring into the
　　terminal from limousines and taxis which had delivered them from downtown
　　hotels. It was the first northbound exodus of the day, and a heavy one
　　since United, National, Eastern, and Delta each had morning jet flights
　　scheduled variously for New York, Washington, Chicago, Miami and Los
　　Angeles.
　　Twice he saw the beginning of the kind of thing he was looking for. But
　　it turned out to be just the beginning, and no more. Two men, reaching
　　into pockets for tickets or change, encountered a hotel room key which
　　they had carried away in error. The first took the trouble to locate a
　　postal box and mail the key, as suggested on its plastic tag. The other
　　handed his to an airline clerk who put it in a cash drawer, presumably
　　for return to the hotel.
　　88
　　                          Tuesday
　　Both incidents were disappointing, but an old experience. Keycase
　　continued to observe. He was a patient man. Soon, he knew, what he was
　　waiting for would happen.
　　Ten minutes later his vigil was rewarded.
　　A florid-faced, balding man, carrying a topcoat, bulging flight bag and
　　camera, stopped to choose a magazine on his way to the departure ramp.
　　At the newsstand cash desk he discovered a hotel key and gave an
　　exclamation of annoyance. His wife, a thin mild woman, made a quiet
　　suggestion to which he snapped, "There isn't time." Keycase, overhearing,
　　followed them closely. Good! As they passed a trash can, the man threw
　　the key in.
　　For Keycase the rest was routine. Strolling past the trash can, he tossed
　　in his own folded newspaper, then, as if abruptly changing his mind,
　　turned back and recovered it. At the same time he looked down, observed
　　the discarded key and palmed it unobtrusively. A few minutes later in the
　　privacy of the men's toilet he read that it was for room 641 of the St.
　　Gregory Hotel.
　　Half an hour later, in a way that often happened when the breaks began,
　　a similar incident terminated with the same kind of success. The second
　　key was also for the St. Gregory-a convenience which prompted Keycase to
　　telephone at once, confirming his own reservation there. He decided not
　　to press his luck by loitering at the terminal any longer. He was off to
　　a good start and tonight he would check the railroad station, then, in
　　a couple of days, maybe, the airport again. There were also other ways
　　to obtain hotel keys, one of which he had set in motion last night.
　　It was not without reason that a New York prosecuting attorney years
　　before had observed in court, "Everything this man becomes involved in,
　　your honor, is a key case. Frankly, I've come to think of him as
　　'Keycase' Milne."
　　The observation had found its way into police records and the name stuck,
　　so that even Keycase himself now used it with a certain pride. It was a
　　pride seasoned by such expert knowledge that given time, patience, and
　　luck, the chances of securing a key to almost anything were extremely
　　good.
　　His present specialty-within-a-specialty was based on people's
　　indifference to hotel keys, an indifference-Key-
　　89
　　    HOTEL
　　case long ago learned-which was the constant despair of hoteliers
　　everywhere. Theoretically, when a departing guest paid his bill, he was
　　supposed to leave his key. But countless people left a hotel with their
　　room keys forgotten in pocket or purse. The conscientious ones eventually
　　dropped the keys in a mailbox, and a big hotel like the St. Gregory
　　regularly paid out fifty dollars or more a week in postage due on keys
　　returned. But there were other -people who either kept the keys or
　　discarded them indifferently.
　　This last group kept professional hotel thieves like Keycase steadily in
　　business.
　　From the terminal building Keycase returned to the parking lot and the
　　five-year-old Ford sedan which he had bought in Detroit and driven first
　　to Kansas City, then New Orleans. It was an ideally inconspicuous car for
　　Keycase, a dull. gray, and neither old nor new enough to be unduly
　　noticed or remembered. The only feature which bothered him a little were
　　the Michigan license platesan attractive green on white. Out-of-state
　　plates were not unusual in New Orleans, but the small distinctive feature
　　was something he would have preferred to be without. He had considered
　　using counterfeit Louisiana plates, but this seemed to be a greater risk,
　　besides which, Keycase was shrewd enough not to step too f ar outside his
　　own specialty.
　　Reassuringly, the car's motor started at a touch, purring smoothly as the
　　result of an overhaul he had performed himself-a skill learned at federal
　　expense during one of his various incarcerations.
　　He drove the fourteen miles to town, carefully observing speed limits,
　　and headed for the St. Gregory which he had located and reconnoitered the
　　day before. He parked near Canal Street, a few blocks from the hotel, and
　　removed two suitcases. The rest of his baggage had been left in the motel
　　room on which he had paid several days' rent in advance. It was expensive
　　to maintain an extra room. It was also prudent. The motel would serve as
　　a cache for whatever he might acquire and, if disaster struck, could be
　　abandoned entirely. He had been careful to leave nothing there which was
　　personally identifiable. The motel 90
　　                          Tuesday
　　key was painstakingly hidden in the carburetor air filter of the Ford.
　　He entered the St. Gregory with a confident air, surrendering his bags to
　　a doorman, and registered as B. W. Meader of Ann Arbor, Michigan. The room
　　clerk, conscious of well-cut clothes and firm chiseled features which
　　bespoke authority, treated the newcomer with respect and allocated room
　　830. Now, Keycase thought agreeably, there would be three St. Gregory keys
　　in his possessionone the hotel knew about and two it didn't.
　　Room 830, into which the bellboy ushered him a few moments later, turned
　　out to be ideal. It was spacious and comfortable and the service stairway,
　　Keycase observed as they came in, was only a few yards away.
　　When he was alone he unpacked carefully. Later, he decided, he would have
　　a sleep in preparation for the serious night's work ahead.
　　7
　　By the time Peter McDermott reached the lobby, Curtis O'Keefe had been
　　efficiently roomed. Peter decided not to follow; there were times when too
　　much attention could be as bothersome to a guest as too little. Besides,
　　the St. Gregory's official welcome would be extended by Warren Trent and,
　　after making sure the hotel proprietor had been informed of O'Keefe's
　　arrival, Peter went on to see Marsha Preyscott in 555.
　　As she opened the door, "I'm glad you came," she said. "I was beginning to
　　think you wouldn't."
　　She was wearing a sleeveless apricot dress, he saw, which obviously she had
　　sent for this morning. It touched her body lightly. Her long black hair
　　hung loosely about her shoulders in contrast to the more
　　sophisticated-though disordered-hairdo of the previous night. There was
　　something singularly provoking-almost breathtaking-in the half-woman,
　　half-child appearance.
　　"I'm sorry it took so long." He regarded her approvingly. "But I see you've
　　used the time."
　　She smiled. "I thought you might need the pajamas."
　　    HOTEL
　　"They're just for emergency-like this room. I use it
　　ery rarely."
　　"That's what the maid told me," Marsha said. "So if
　　ou don't mind, I thought I'd stay on for tonight, at least."
　　"Oh! May I ask why?"
　　"I'm not sure." She hesitated as they stood facing each other. "Maybe
　　it's because I want to recover from what happened yesterday, and the best
　　place to do it is here." But the real reason, she admitted to herself,
　　was a wish to put off her return to the big, empty Garden District
　　mansion.
　　He nodded doubtfully. "How do you feel?"
　　"Better."
　　"I'm glad of that."
　　"It isn't the kind of experience you get over in a few hours," Marsha
　　admitted, "but I'm afraid I was pretty stupid to come here at all-just
　　as you reminded me."
　　"I didn't say that."
　　"No, but you thought it."
　　"If I did, I should have remembered we all get into tough situations
　　sometimes." There was a silence, then Peter said, "Let's sit down."
　　When they were comfortable he began, "I was hoping you'd tell me how it
　　all started."
　　"I know you were." With the directness he was becoming used to, she
　　added, "I've been wondering if I should."
　　Last night, Marsha reasoned, her overwhelming feelings had been shock,
　　hurt pride, and physical exhaustion. But now the shock was gone and her
　　pride, she suspected, might suffer less from silence than by protest. It
　　was likely, too, that in the sober light of morning Lyle Dumaire and his
　　cronies would not be eager to boast of what they had attempted.
　　"I can't persuade you if you decide to keep quiet," Peter said. "Though
　　I'd remind you that what people get away with once they'll try again-not
　　with you, perhaps, but someone else." Her eyes were troubled as he
　　continued, "I don1 know if the men who were in that room last night were
　　friends of yours or not. But even if they were, I can't think of a single
　　reason for shielding them."
　　"One was a friend. At least, I thought so.
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　　"Friend or not," Peter insisted, "the point is what they tried to do-and
　　would have, if Royce hadn't come along. What's more, when they were close
　　to being caught, all four scuttled off like rats, leaving you alone."
　　"Last night," Marsha said tentatively, "I heard you say you knew the
　　names of two."
　　"The room was registered in the name of Stanley Dixon. Another name I
　　have is Dumaire. Were they two?"
　　She nodded.
　　"Who was the leader?"
　　"I think ... Dixon."
　　"Now then, tell me what happened beforehand."
　　In a way, Marsha realized, the decision had been taken from her. She had
　　a sense of being dominated. It was a novel experience, and even more
　　surprisingly, she found herself liking it. Obediently she described the
　　sequence of events beginning with her departure from the dance floor and
　　ending with the welcome arrival of Aloysius Royce.
　　Only twice was she interrupted. Had she, Peter McDermott asked, seen
　　anything of the women in the adjoining room whom Dixon and the others had
　　referred to? Had she observed anyone from the hotel staff? To both ques-
　　tions she shook her head negatively.
　　At the end she had an urge to tell him more. The whole thing, Marsha
　　said, probably would not have happened if it had not been her birthday.
　　He seemed surprised. "Yesterday was your birthday?"
　　"I was nineteen."
　　"And you were alone?"
　　Now that she had revealed so much, there was no point in holding back.
　　Marsha described the telephone call from Rome and her disappointment at
　　her father's failure to return.
　　"I'm sorry," he said when she had finished. "It makes it easier to
　　understand a part of what happened."
　　"It will never happen again. Never."
　　"I'm sure of that." He became more businesslike. "What I want to do now
　　is make use of what you've told me."
　　She said doubtfully, "In what way?"
　　"I'll call the four people-Dixon, Dumaire and the other two--into the
　　hotel for a talk."
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　　"They may not come."
　　"They'll come." Peter had already decided how to make sure they would.
　　Still uncertain, Marsha said, "That way, wouldn't a lot of people find
　　out?"
　　"I promise that when we're finished there'll be even less likelihood of
　　anyone talking."
　　"All right," Marsha agreed. "And thank you for all you've done." She had
　　a sense of relief which left her curiously lightheaded.
　　It had been easier than he expected, Peter thought. And now he had the
　　information, he was impatient to use it. Perhaps, though, he should stay
　　a few minutes more, if only to put the girl at ease. He told her,
　　"There's something I should explain, Miss Preyscott."
　　"Marsha."
　　"AJI right, I'm Peter." He supposed the informality was all right, though
　　hotel executives were trained to avoid it, except with guests they knew
　　very well.
　　"A lot of things go on in hotels, Marsha, that we close our eyes to. But
　　when something like this happens we can be extremely tough. That includes
　　anyone on our staff, if we find out they were implicated."
　　It was one area, Peter knew-involving the hotel's reputation-where Warren
　　Trent would feel as strongly as himself. And any action Peter
　　took-providing he could prove his facts-would be backed solidly by the
　　hotel proprietor.
　　The conversation, Peter felt, had gone as far as it need. He rose from
　　his chair and walked to the window. From this side of the hotel he could
　　see the busy mid-morning activity of Canal Street. Its six traffic lanes
　　were packed with vehicles, fast and slow moving, the wide sidewalks
　　thronged by shoppers. Knots of transit riders waited on the palm-fronded
　　center boulevard where air-conditioned buses glided, their aluminum
　　panels shining in the sunlight. The N.A.A.C.P. was picketing some
　　business again, he noticed. THIS STORE DISCRIMINATES. DO NOT PATRONIZE,
　　one placard advised, and there were others, their bearers pacing stolidly
　　as the tide of pedestrians broke around them.
　　"You're new to New Orleans, aren't you?" Marsha said.
　　94
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　　She had joined him at the window. He was conscious of a sweet and gentle
　　fragrance.
　　"Fairly new. In time I hope to know it better."
　　She said with sudden enthusiasm, "I know lots about local history. Would
　　you let me teach you?"
　　"Well ... I bought some books. It's just I haven't had time.,,
　　"You can read the books after. It's much better to see things first, or be
　　told about them. Besides, I'd like to do something to show how grateful .
　　:'There isn't any need for that."
　　'Well then, I'd like to anyway. Please!" She put a hand on his arm.
　　Wondering if he was being wise, he said, "It's an interesting offer."
　　"Good! That's settled. I'm having a dinner party at home tomorrow night.
　　It'll be an old-fashioned New Orleans evening. Afterward we can talk about
　　history."
　　He protested, "Whoa! . . ."
　　"You mean you've something already arranged?"
　　"Well, not exactly."
　　Marsha said firmly, "Then that's settled too."
　　The past, the importance of avoiding involvement with a young girl who was
　　also a hotel guest, made Peter hesitate. Then he decided: it would be
　　churlish to refuse. And there was nothing indiscreet about accepting an
　　invitation to dinner. There would be others present, after all. "If I
　　come," he said, "I want you to do one thing for me now."
　　:'What?"
　　'Go home, Marsha. Leave the hotel and go home."
　　Their eyes met directly. Once more he was aware of her youthfulness and
　　fragrance.
　　"All right," she said. "If you want me to, I will."
　　Peter McDermott was engrossed in his own thoughts as he re-entered his
　　office on the main mezzanine a few minutes later. It troubled him that
　　someone as young as Marsha Preyscott, and presumably bom with a gold-plated
　　list of advantages, should be so apparently neglected. Even with her father
　　out of the country and her mother decamped-he had heard of the former Mrs.
　　Preyscott's
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　　multiple marriages-he found it incredible that safeguards for a young
　　girl's welfare would not be set up. If I were her father, he thought ...
　　or brother . . .
　　He was interrupted by Flora Yates, his homely frecklefaced secretary.
　　Flora's stubby fingers, which could dance over a typewriter keyboard
　　faster than any others he had ever seen, were clutching a sheaf of
　　telephone messages. Pointing to them, he asked, "Anything urgent?"
　　"A few things. They'll keep until this afternoon."
　　"We'll let them, then. I asked the cashier's office to send me a bill for
　　room 1126-7. It's in the name of Stanley Dixon."
　　"It's here." Flora plucked a folder from several others on his desk.
　　"There's also an estimate from the carpenters' shop for damages in the
　　suite. I put the two together."
　　He glanced over them both. The bill, which included several room service
　　charges, was for seventy-five dollars, the carpenters' estimate for a
　　hundred and ten. Indicating the bill, Peter said, "Get me the phone
　　number for this address. I expect it'll be in his father's name."
　　There was a folded newspaper on his desk which he had not looked at until
　　now. It was the morning TimesPicayune. He opened it as Flora went out and
　　black headlines flared up at him. The hit-and-run fatality of the night
　　before had become a double tragedy, the mother of the slain child having
　　died in the hospital during the early hours of the morning. Peter read
　　quickly through the report which amplified what the policeman had told
　　them when he and Christine had been stopped at the roadblock. "So far,"
　　it revealed, "there are no firm leads as to the death vehicle or its
　　driver. However, police attach credence to the report of an unnamed
　　bystander that a 'low black car moving very fast' was observed leaving
　　the scene seconds after the accident." City and state police, the
　　Times-Picayune added, were collaborating in a state-wide search for a
　　presumably damaged automobile fitting this description.
　　Peter wondered if Christine had seen the newspaper report. Its impact
　　seemed greater because of their own brief contact at the scene.
　　The return of Flora with the telephone number he had asked for brought
　　his mind back to more immediate things. 96
　　                          Tuesday
　　He put the newspaper aside and used a direct outside line to dial the
　　number himself. A deep male voice answered, "The Dixon residence."
　　"I'd like to speak to Mr. Stanley Dixon. Is he at home?"
　　"May I say who is calling, sir?"
　　Peter gave his name and added, "The St. Gregory Hotel."
　　There was a pause, and the sound of unhurried footsteps retreating, then
　　returning at the same pace.
　　"I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Dixon, junior, is not available."
　　Peter let his voice take on an edge. "Give him this, message: Tell him if
　　he doesn't choose to come to the telephone I intend to call his father
　　directly."
　　"Perhaps if you did that . . ."
　　"Get on with it! Tell him what I said."
　　There was an almost audible hesitation. Then: "Very well, sir." The
　　footsteps retreated again.
　　There was a click on the line and a sullen voice announced, "This's Stan
　　Dixon. What's all the fuss?"
　　Peter answered sharply, "The fuss concerns what happened last night. Does
　　it surprise you?"
　　"Who are you?"
　　He repeated his name. "I've talked with Miss Preyscott. Now I'd like to
　　talk to you."
　　"You're talking now," Dixon said. "You got what you wanted."
　　"Not this way. In my office at the hotel." There was an exclamation which
　　Peter ignored. "Four o'clock tomorrow, with the other three. You'll bring
　　them along."
　　The response was fast and forceful. "Like hell I will! Whoever you are,
　　buster, you're just a hotel slob and I don't take orders from you. What's
　　more you'd better watch out because my old man knows Warren Trent."
　　"For your information I've already discussed the matter with Mr. Trent. He
　　left it for me to handle, including whether or not we shall start criminal
　　proceedings. But I'll tell him you prefer to have your father brought in.
　　We'll carry on from there."
　　"Hold it!" There was the sound of heavy breathing, then, with noticeably
　　less belligerence, "I got a class tomorrow at four."
　　"Cut it," Peter told him, "and have the others do the
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　　same. My office is on the main mezzanine. Rememberfour o'clock sharp."
　　Replacing the telephone, he found himself looking forward to tomorrow's
　　meeting.
　　8
　　The disarranged pages of the morning newspaper lay scattered around the
　　Duchess of Croydon's bed. There was little in the news that the Duchess
　　had not read thoroughly and now she lay back, propped against pillows,
　　her mind working busily. There had never been a time, she realized, when
　　her wits and resourcefulness were needed more.
　　On a bedside table a room-service tray had been used and pushed aside.
　　Even in moments of crisis the Duchess was accustomed to breakfasting
　　well. It was a habit carried over from childhood at her family's country
　　seat of Fallingbrook Abbey where breakfast had always consisted of a
　　hearty meal of several courses, often after a brisk cross-country gallop.
　　The Duke, who had eaten alone in the living room, had returned to the
　　bedroom a few moments earlier. He too had read the newspaper avidly as
　　soon as it arrived. Now, wearing a belted scarlet robe over pajamas, he
　　was pacing restlessly. Occasionally he passed a hand through his still
　　disordered hair.
　　"For goodness sake, keep still!" The tenseness they shared was in his
　　wife's voice. "I can't possibly think when you're parading Re a stallion
　　at Ascot."
　　He turned, his face lined and despairing in the bright morning light.
　　"What bloody good will thinking do? Nothing's going to change."
　　"Thinking always helps-if one does enough and it's the right kind. That's
　　why some people make a success of things and others don't."
　　His hand went through his hair once more. "Nothing looks any better than
　　it did last night."
　　"At least it isn't any worse," the Duchess said practically, "and that's
　　something to be thankful for. We're still here-intact."
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　　He shook his head wearily. He had had little sleep during the night. "How
　　does it help?"
　　"As I see it, it's a question of time. Time is on our side. The longer we
　　wait and nothing happens . . ." She stopped, then went on slowly, thinking
　　aloud, "What we desperately need is to have some attention focused on you.
　　The kind of attention that would make the other seem so fantastic it
　　wouldn't even be considered."
　　As if by consent, neither referred to their acrimony of the night before.
　　The Duke resumed his pacing. "Only thing likely to do that is an
　　announcement confirming my appointment to Washington."
　　"Exactly-,,
　　"You can't hurry it. If Hal feels he's being pushed, he'll blow the roof
　　off Downing Street. The whole thing's damn touchy, anyway. . ."
　　"It'll be touchier still if .
　　"Don't you think I bloody well know! Do you think I haven't thought we
　　might as well give up!" There was a trace of hysteria in the Duke of
　　Croydon's voice. He lit a cigarette, his hand shaking.
　　"We shall not give up!" In contrast to her husband, the Duchess's tone was
　　crisp and businesslike. "Even prime ministers respond to pressure if it's
　　from the right quarter. Hal's no exception. I'm going to call London."
　　44_VV`hy?$9
　　"I shall speak to Geoffrey. I intend to ask him to do everything he can to
　　speed up your appointment."
　　The Duke shook his head doubtfully, though not dismissing the idea out of
　　hand. In the past he had seen plenty of evidence of the remarkable
　　influence exerted by his wife's family. All the same he warned, "We could
　　be spiking our own guns, old girl."
　　"Not necessarily. Geoffrey's good at pressure when he wants to be. Besides,
　　if we sit here and wait it may be worse still." Matching action to her
　　words, the Duchess picked up the telephone beside the bed and instructed
　　the operator, "I wish to call London and speak to Lord Selwyn." She gave a
　　Mayfair number.
　　The call came through in twenty minutes. When the
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　　Duchess of Croydon had explained its purpose, her brother, Lord Selwyn, was
　　notably unenthusiastic. From across the bedroom the Duke could hear his
　　brother-in-law's deep protesting voice as it rattled the telephone
　　diaphragm. "By golly, sis, you could be stirring a nest of vipers, and why
　　do it? I don't mind telling you, Simon's appointment to Washington is a
　　dashed long shot right now. Some of those in Cabinet feel he's the wrong man
　　for the time. I'm not saying I agree, but there's no good wearing blinkers,
　　is there?"
　　"If things are left as they are, how long will a decision take?"
　　"Hard to say for sure, old thing. The way I hear, though, it could be
　　weeks."
　　"We simply cannot wait weeks," the Duchess insisted. "You'll have to take
　　my word, Geoffrey, it would be a ghastly mistake not to make an effort
　　now."
　　"Can't see it myself." The voice from London was distinctly huffy.
　　Her tone sharpened. "What I'm asking is for the famfly's sake as well as
　　our own. Surely you can accept my assurance on that."
　　There was a pause, then the cautious question, "Is Simon with you?"
　　"Yes.
　　"What's behind all this? What's he been up to?"
　　"Even if there were an answer," the Duchess of Croydon responded, "I'd
　　scarcely be so foolish as to give it on the public telephone."
　　There was a silence once more, then the reluctant admission, "Well, you
　　usually know what you're doing. I'll say that."
　　The Duchess caught her husband's eye. She gave a barely perceptible nod
　　before inquiring of her brother, "Am I to understand, then, that you'll act
　　as I ask?"
　　"I don't like it, sis. I still don't like it." But he added, "Very well,
　　I'll do what I can."
　　In a few more words they said goodbye.
　　The bedside telephone had been replaced only a moment when it rang again.
　　Both Croydons started, the Duke
　　100
　　                         Tuesday
　　moistening his lips nervously. He listened as his wife answered.
　　"Yes?"
　　A flat nasal voice inquired, "Duchess of Croydon?"
　　"This is she."
　　"Ogilvie. Chief house officer." There was the sound of heavy breathing
　　down the line, and a pause as if the caller were allowing time for the
　　information to sink in.
　　The Duchess waited. When nothing further was said she asked pointedly,
　　"What is it you want?"
　　"A private talk. With your husband and you." It was a blunt unemotional
　　statement, delivered in the same flat drawl.
　　"If this is hotel business I suggest you have made an error. We are
　　accustomed to dealing with Mr. Trent."
　　"Do that this time, and you'll wish you hadn't." The cold, insolent voice
　　held an unmistakable confidence. It caused the Duchess to hesitate. As
　　she did, she was aware her hands were shaking.
　　She managed to answer, "It is not convenient to see you
　　it
　　now.
　　"When?" Again a pause and heavy breathing.
　　Whatever this man knew or wanted, she realized, he was adept at
　　maintaining a psychological advantage.
　　She answered, "Possibly later."
　　"I'll be there in an hour." It was a declaration, not a question.
　　"It may not be . .
　　Cutting off her protest, there was a click as the caller hung up.
　　"Who was it? What did they want?" The Duke approached tensely. His gaunt
　　face seemed paler than before.
　　Momentarily, the Duchess closed her eyes. She had a desperate yearning
　　to be relieved of leadership and responsibility for them both; to have
　　someone else assume the burden of decision. She knew it was a vain hope,
　　just as it had always been for as long as she could remember. When you
　　were born with a character stronger than those around you, there was no
　　escaping. In her own family, though strength was a norm, others looked
　　to her instinctively, following her lead and heeding her advice. Even
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　　Geoffrey, with his real ability and headstrong ways, always listened to
　　her in the end, as he had just now. As reality returned, the moment
　　passed. Her eyes opened.
　　"It was a hotel detective. He insists on coming here in an hour. "
　　:'Then he knows! My God-he knows!"
　　'Obviously he's aware of something. He didn't say what."
　　Unexpectedly the Duke of Croydon straightened, his head moving upright
　　and shoulders squaring. His hands became steadier, his mouth a firmer
　　line. It was the same chameleon change he had exhibited the night before.
　　He said quietly, "It might go better, even now, if I went . .
　　if I admitted . . ."
　　"Nol Absolutely and positively no!" His wife's eyes flashed. "Understand
　　one thing. Nothing you can possibly do could improve'the situation in the
　　slightest." There was a silence between them, then the Duchess said
　　broodingly, "We shall do nothing. We will wait for this man to come, then
　　discover what he knows and intends."
　　Momentarily it seemed as if the Duke would argue. Then, changing his
　　mind, he nodded dully. Tightening the scarlet robe around him, he padded
　　out to the adjoining room. A few minutes later he returned carrying two
　　glasses of neat Scotch. As he offered one to his wife she protested, "You
　　know it's much too early . . ."
　　"Never mind that. You need it." With a solicitousness she was unused to,
　　he pressed the glass into her hand.
　　Surprised, yet yielding, she held the glass and drained it. The undiluted
　　liquor burned, snatching away her breath, but a moment later flooded her
　　with welcome warmth.
　　9
　　"Whatever it is can't be all that bad."
　　At her desk in the outer office of the managing director's suite,
　　Christine Francis had been frowning as she read a letter in her hand. Now
　　she looked up to see Peter McDermott's cheerful rugged face peering
　　around the doorway.
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　　Brightening, she answered, "It's another sling and arrow. But with so
　　many already, what's one more?"
　　"I like that thought." Peter eased his big frame around the door.
　　Christine regarded him appraisingly. "You appear remarkably awake,
　　considering how little sleep you must have had."
　　He grinned. "I had an early morning session with your boss. It was like
　　a cold shower. Is he down yet?"
　　She shook her head, then glanced at the letter she had been reading.
　　"When he comes he won't like this."
　　"Is it secret?"
　　"Not really. You were involved, I think."
　　Peter seated himself in a leather chair facing the desk.
　　"You remember a month ago," Christine said, "-the man who was walking on
　　Carondelet Street when a bottle dropped from above. His head was cut
　　quite badly."
　　Peter nodded. "Damn shame! The bottle came from one of our rooms, no
　　question of that. But we couldn't find the guest who did it."
　　"What sort of a man was he-the one who got hit?"
　　"Nice little guy, as I recall. I talked to him after, and we paid his
　　hospital bill. Our lawyers wrote a letter making clear it was a goodwill
　　gesture, though, and not admitting liability."
　　"The goodwill didn't work. He's suing the hotel for ten thousand dollars.
　　He charges shock, bodily harm, loss of earnings and says we were
　　negligent."
　　Peter said flatly, "He won't collect. I guess in a way it's unfair. But
　　he hasn't a chance."
　　"How can you be so sure?"
　　"Because there's a raft of cases where the same kind of thing has
　　happened. It gives defending lawyers all kinds of precedents they can
　　quote in court."
　　"Is that enough to affect a decision?"
　　"Usually," he assured her. "Over the years the law's been pretty
　　consistent. For example, there was a classic case in Pittsburgh-at the
　　William Penn. A man was hit by a bottle which was thrown from a guest
　　room and went through the roof of his car. He sued the hotel."
　　"And he didn't win?"
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　　"No. He lost his case in a lower court, then appealed to the Supreme
　　Court of Pennsylvania. They turned him down."
　　"Why?"
　　"The court said that a hotel-any hotel-is not responsible for the acts
　　of its guests. The only exception might be if someone in authority-say,
　　the hotel manager-knew in advance what was going to happen but made no
　　attempt to prevent it." Peter went on, frowning at the effort of memory.
　　"There was another case-in Kansas City, I think. Some conventioneers
　　dropped laundry bags filled with water from their rooms. When the bags
　　burst, people on the sidewalk scrambled to get out of the way and one was
　　pushed under a moving car. He was badly injured. After-ward he sued the
　　hotel, but couldn't collect either. There are quite a few other
　　judgments-all the same way.:,
　　Christine asked curiously, "How do you know all this?'
　　"Among other things, I studied hotel law at Cornell."
　　"Well, I think it sounds horribly unjust."
　　"It's hard on anyone who gets hit, but fair to the hotel. What ought to
　　happen, of course, is that the people who do these things should be held
　　responsible. Trouble is, with so many rooms facing a street it's next to
　　impossible to discover who they are. So mostly they get away with it."
　　Christine had been listening intently, an elbow planted on her desk, chin
　　cupped lightly in the palm of one hand. Sunlight, slanting through
　　half-opened venetian blinds, touched her red hair, highlighting it. At
　　the moment a fine of puzzlement creased her forehead and Peter found him-
　　self wanting to reach out and erase it gently.
　　"Let me get this straight," she said. "Are you saying that a hotel isn't
　　responsible legally for anything its guests may do-even to other guests?"
　　"In the way we've been talking about, it certainly isn't. The law's quite
　　clear on that and has been for a long time. A lot of our law, in fact,
　　goes back to the English
　　beginning with the fourteenth century."
　　"Tell me."
　　"I'll give you the shortened version. It starts when the English inns had
　　one great hall, warmed and lighted by a fire, and everyone slept there.
　　While they slept it was
　　104
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　　the landlord's business to protect his guests from thieves uad murderers."
　　"That sounds reasonable."
　　"It was. And the same thing was expected of the landlord when smaller
　　chambers began to be used, because even these were always shared-or could
　　be-by strangers."
　　"When you think about it," Christine mused, "it wasn't much of an age for
　　privacy."
　　"That came later when there were individual rooms, and guests had keys.
　　After that the law looked at thines differently. The innkeeper was
　　obliged to protect his guests from being broken in upon. But beyond that
　　he had no responsibility, either for what happened to them in their rooms
　　or what they did."
　　"So the key made the difference."
　　"It still does," Peter said. "On that, the law hasn't changed. When we
　　give a guest a key it's a legal symbol, just as it was in an English inn.
　　It means the hotel can no longer use the room, or quarter anyone else
　　there. On the other hand, the hotel isn't responsible for the guest once
　　he's closed the door behind him." He pointed to the letter which
　　Christine had put down. "That's why our friend from outside would have
　　to find whoever dropped the bottle on him. Otherwise he's out of luck."
　　"I didn't know you were so encyclopedic."
　　"I didn't mean to sound that way," Peter said. "I imagine W.T. knows the
　　law well enough, though if he wants a list of cases I have one
　　somewhere."
　　"He'll probably be grateful. I'll clip a note on the letter." Her eyes
　　met Peter's directly. "You like all this, don't you? Running a hotel; the
　　other things that go with it."
　　He answered frankly, "Yes, I do. Though I'd like it more if we could
　　rearrange a few things here. Maybe if we'd done it earlier we wouldn't
　　be needing Curtis &Keefe now. By the way, I suppose you know he's
　　arrived."
　　"You're the seventeenth to tell me. I think the phone started ringing the
　　moment he stepped on the sidewalk."
　　"It's not surprising. By now a good many are wondering why he's here. Or
　　rather, when we shall be told officially why he's here."
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　　Christine said, "I've just arranged a private dinner for tonight in W.T.'s
　　suite-for Mr. O'Keefe and friend. Have you seen her? I hear she's something
　　special."
　　He shook his head. "I'm more interested in my own dinner plan-involving
　　you, which is why I'm here."
　　"If that's an invitation for tonight, I'm free and hungry."
　　"Goodl" He jumped up, towering over her. "I'll collect you at seven. Your
　　apartment."
　　Peter was leaving when, on a table near the doorway, he observed a folded
　　copy of the Times-Picayune. Stopping, he saw it was the same edition-with
　　black headlines proclaiming the hit-and-run fatalities-which he had read
　　earlier. He said somberly, "I suppose you saw this."
　　"Yes, I did. It's horrible, isn't it? When I read it I had an awful
　　sensation of watching the whole thing happen because of going by there last
　　night."
　　He looked at her strangely. "It's funny you should say that. I had a
　　feeling too. It bothered me last night and again this morning."
　　"What kind of feeling?"
　　"I'm not sure. The nearest thing is-it seems as if I know something, and
　　yet I don't." Peter shrugged, dismissing the idea. "I expect it's as you
　　say-because we went by." He replaced the newspaper where he had found it.
　　As he strode out he tamed and waved back to her, smiling.
　　As she often did for lunch, Christine had room service send a sandwich and
　　coffee to her desk. During the course of it Warren Trent appeared, but
　　stayed only to read the mail before setting out on one of his prowls of the
　　hotel which, as Christine knew, might last for hours. Observing the strain
　　in the hotel proprietor's face, she found herself concerned for him, and
　　noticed that he walked stiflly, a sure sign that sciatica was causing him
　　pain.
　　At half-past two, leaving word with one of the secretaries in the outer
　　office, Christine left to visit Albert Wells.
　　She took an elevator to the fourteenth floor then, turning down the long
　　corridor, saw a stocky figare approaching. It was Sam Jakubiec, the credit
　　manager. As he came
　　106
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　　nearer, she observed that he was holding a slip of paper and his
　　expression was dour.
　　Seeing Christine, be stopped. "I've been to see your invalid friend, Mr.
　　Wells."
　　"If you looked like that, you couldn't have cheered him up much."
　　"Tell you the truth," Jakubiec said, "he didn't cheer me up either. I got
　　this out of him, but lord knows how good it is. "
　　Christine accepted the paper the credit manager had been holding. It was
　　a soiled sheet of hotel stationery with a grease stain in one comer. On
　　the sheet, in rough sprawling handwriting, Albert Wells had written and
　　signed an order on a Montreal bank for two hundred dollars.
　　"In his quiet sort of way," Jakubiec said, "he's an obstinate old cuss.
　　Wasn't going to give me anything at first. Said he'd pay his bill when
　　it was due, and didn't seem interested when I told him we'd allow some
　　extra time if he needed it."
　　"People are sensitive about money," Christine said. "Especially being
　　short of it."
　　The credit man clucked his tongue impatiently. "Hell!most of us are short
　　of money. I always am. But people go around thinking it's something to
　　be ashamed of when if they'd only level, a lot of the time they could be
　　helped out."
　　Christine regarded the improvised bank draft doubtfully. "Is this legal?"
　　"It's legal if there's money in the bank to meet it. You can write a
　　check on sheet music or a banana skin if you feel like it. But most
　　people who have cash in their accounts at least carry printed checks.
　　Your friend Wells said he couldn't find one."
　　As Christine handed the paper back, "You know what I think," Jakubiec
　　said, "I think he's honest and he has the money-but only just and he's
　　going to put himself in a hole finding it. Trouble is, he already owes
　　more than half of this two hundred, and that nursing bill is soon going
　　to swallow the rest."
　　"What are you going to do?"
　　The credit manager rubbed a hand across his baldness. 107
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　　"First of all, I'm going to invest in a phone call to Montreal to find out
　　if this is a good check or a dud."
　　"And if it isn't good, Sam?"
　　"He'll have to leave-at least as far as I'm concerned. Of course, if you
　　want to tell Mr. Trent and he says differently"-Jakubiec shrugged-"that's
　　something else again."
　　Christine shook her head. "I don't want to bother W.T. But I'd appreciate
　　it if you'd tell me before you do anything."
　　"Be glad to, Miss Francis." The credit manager nodded, t)~en, with short
　　vigorous steps, continued down the corridor.
　　A moment later Christine knocked at the door of room 1410.
　　It was opened by a uniformed, middle-aged nurse, serious-faced and wearing
　　heavy horn-rimmed glasses. Christine identified herself and the nurse
　　instructed, "Wait here, please. I'll inquire if Mr. Wells will see you."
　　There were footsteps inside and Christine smiled as she heard a voice say
　　insistently, "Of course I'll see her. Don't keep her waiting."
　　When the nurse returned, Christine suggested, "If you'd like to have a few
　　minutes off, I can stay until you come back."
　　"Well . . ." The older woman hesitated, thawing a little.
　　The voice from inside said, "You do that. Miss Francis knows what she's up
　　to. If she didn't I'd have been a goner last night."
　　"All right," the nurse said. "I'll just be ten minutes and if you need me,
　　please call the coffee shop."
　　Albert Wells beamed as Christine came in. The little man was reclining,
　　diminutively, against a mound of pillows. His appearance-the scrawny figure
　　draped by a fresh old-fashioned nightshirt-still conveyed the impression of
　　a sparrow, but today a perky one, in contrast to his desperate frailness of
　　the night before. He was still pale, but the ashen pallor of the previous
　　day had gone. His breathing, though occasionally wheezy, was regular and
　　ipparently without great effort.
　　He said, "This is good of you to come 'n see me, miss."
　　108
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　　"It isn't a question of being good," Christine assured him. "I wanted to
　　know how you were."
　　"Thanks to you, much better." He gestured to the door as it closed behind
　　the nurse. "But she's a dragon, that one."
　　"She's probably good for you." Christine surveyed the room approvingly.
　　Everything in it, including the old man's personal belongings, had been
　　neatly rearranged. A tray of medication was set out efficiently on a
　　bedside table. The oxygen cylinder they had used the previous night was
　　still in place, but the improvised mask had been replaced by a more
　　professional one.
　　"Oh, she knows what she's up to all right," Albert Wells admitted,
　　"though another time I'd like a prettier one."
　　Christine smiled. "You are feeling better." She wondered if she should
　　say anything about her talk with Sam Jakubiec, then decided not. Instead
　　she asked, "You said last night, didn't you, that you started getting
　　these attacks when you were a miner?"
　　"The bronchitis, I did; that's right."
　　"Were you a miner for very long, Mr. Wells?"
　　"More years'n I like to think about, miss. Though there's always things
　　to remind you of it-the bronchitis for one, then these." He spread his
　　hands, palms uppermost, on the counterpane and she saw they were gnarled
　　and toughened from the manual work of many years.
　　Impulsively she reached out to touch them. "It's something to be proud
　　of, I should think. I'd like to hear about what you did."
　　He shook his head. "Sometime maybe when you've a lot of hours and
　　patience. Mostly, though, it's old men's tales, 'n old men get boring if
　　you give 'em half a chance."
　　Christine sat on a chair beside the bed. "I do have patience, and I don't
　　believe about it being boring."
　　He chuckled. "There are some in Montreal who'd argue that."
　　"I've often wondered about Montreal. I've never been there."
　　"It's a mixed-up place-in some ways a lot, like New Orleans."
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　　She asked curiously, "Is that why you come here every year? Because it
　　seems the same?"
　　The little man considered, his bony shoulders deep in the pile of
　　pillows. "I never thought about that, missone way or the other. I guess
　　I come here because I like things old-fashioned and there aren't too many
　　places left where they are. It's the same with this hotel. It's a bit
　　rubbed off in places-you know that. But mostly it's homely, 'n I mean it
　　the best way. I hate chain hotels. They're all the same--slick and
　　polished, and when you're in 'ern it's like living in a factory."
　　Christine hesitated, then, realizing the day's events had dispelled the
　　earlier secrecy, told him, "I've some news you won't like. I'm afraid the
　　St. Gregory may be part of a chain before long."
　　"If it happens I'll be sorry," Albert Wells said. "Though I figured you
　　people were in money trouble here."
　　"How did you know that?"
　　The old man ruminated. "Last time or two I've been here I could tell
　　things were getting tough. What's the trouble now-bank tightening up,
　　mortgage foreclosing, something like that?"
　　There were surprising sides to this retired miner, Christine thought,
　　including an instinct for the truth. She answered, smiling, "I've
　　probably talked too much already. What you'll certainly hear, though, is
　　that Mr. Curtis O'Keefe arrived this morning."
　　"Oh no!-not him." Albert Wells' face mirrored genuine concern. "If that
　　one gets his hands on this place he'll make it a copy of all his others.
　　It'll be a factory, like I said. This hotel needs changes, but not his
　　kind."
　　Christine asked curiously, "What kind of changes, Mr. We
　　_11099
　　"A good hotel man could tell you bettern me, though I've a few ideas. I
　　do know one thing, miss-just like always, the public's going through a
　　fad. Right now they want the slickness 'n the chrome and sameness. But
　　in time they'll get tired and want to come back to older things -like
　　real hospitality and a bit of character and atmosphere; something that's
　　not exactly like they found in fifty other cities 'n can find in fifty
　　more. Only trouble is, by
　　110
　　                          Tuesday
　　the time they get around to knowing it, most of the good places-including
　　this one maybe-will have gone." He stopped, then asked, "When are they
　　deciding?"
　　"I really don't know," Christine said. The little man's depth of feeling
　　had startled her. "Except I don't suppose Mr. O'Keefe will be here long."
　　Albert Wells nodded. "He doesn't stay long anywhere from all I've heard.
　　Works fast when he sets his mind on something. Well, I still say it'll
　　be a pity, and if it happens here's one who won't be back."
　　"We'd miss you, Mr. Wells. At least I would-assuming I survived the
　　changes."
　　"You'll survive, and you'll be where you want to be, miss. Though if some
　　young fellow's got some sense it won't be working in any hotel."
　　She laughed without replying and they talked of other things until,
　　preceded by a short staccato knock, the guardian nurse returned. She said
　　primly, "Thank you, Miss Francis." Then, looking pointedly at her watch:
　　"It's time for my patient to have his medication and rest."
　　"I have to go anyway," Christine said. "I'll come to see you again
　　tomorrow if I may, Mr. Wells."
　　"I'd like it if you would."
　　As she left, he winked at her.
　　A note on her office desk requested Christine to call Sam Jakubiec. She
　　did, and the credit manager answered.
　　"I thought you'd like to know," he said. "I phoned that bank at Montreal.
　　It looks like your friend's okay."
　　"That's good news, Sam. What did they say?"
　　"Well, in a way it was a funny thing. They wouldn't tell me anything
　　about a credit rating-the way banks usually do. Just said to present the
　　check for payment. I told them the amount, though, and they didn't seem
　　worried, so I guess he's got it."
　　"I'm glad," Christine said.
　　"I'm glad too, though I'll watch the room account to see it doesn't get
　　too big."
　　"You're a great watchdog, Sam." She laughed. ",Amd thanks for calling."
　　    HOTEL
　　10
　　Curtis O'Keefe and Dodo had settled comfortably into their communicating
　　suites, with Dodo unpacking for both of them as she always enjoyed doing.
　　Now, in the larger of the two living rooms, the hotelier was studying a
　　financial statement, one of several in a blue folder labeled
　　Confidential-St. Gregory, preliminary survey.
　　Dodo, after a careful inspection of the magnificent basket of fruit which
　　Peter McDermott had ordered delivered to the suite, selected an apple and
　　was slicing it as the telephone at O'Keefe's elbow rang twice within a few
　　minutes.
　　The first call was from Warren Trent-a polite welcome and an inquiry
　　seeking assurance that everything was in order. After a genial
　　acknowledgment that it was-"Couldn't be better, my dear Warren, even in an
　　O'Keefe hotel"-Curtis O'Keefe accepted an invitation for himself and Dodo
　　to dine privately with the St. Gregory's proprietor that evening.
　　"We'll be truly delighted," the hotelier affirmed graciously, "and, by the
　　way, I admire your house."
　　"That," Warren Trent said drily down the telephone, "is what I've been
　　afraid of."
　　O'Keefe guffawed. "We'll talk tonight, Warren. A little business if we
　　must, but mostly I'm looking forward to a conversation with a great hotel
　　man."
　　As he replaced the telephone Dodo's brow was furrowed. "If he's such a
　　great hotel man, Curtie, why's he selling out to you?"
　　He replied seriously as he always did, though knowing in advance the answer
　　would elude her. "Mostly because we've moved into another age and he
　　doesn't know it. Nowadays it isn't sufficient to be a good innkeeper; you
　　must become a cost accountant too."
　　"Gee," Dodo said, "these sure are big apples."
　　The second call, which followed immediately, was from a pay telephone in
　　the hotel lobby. "Hullo, Ogden," Curtis O'Keefe said when the caller
　　identified himself, "I'm reading your report now."
　　112
　　                          Tuesday
　　In the lobby, eleven floors below, a balding sallow man who looked like an
　　accountant which-among other things -he was, nodded confirmation to a
　　younger male companion waiting outside the glass-paneled phone booth. The
　　caller, whose name was Ogden Bailey and his home Long Island, had been
　　registered in the hotel for the past two weeks as Richard Fountain of
　　Miami. With characteristic caution he had avoided using a house phone or
　　calling from his own room on the fourth floor. Now, in precise clipped
　　tones he stated, "There are some points we'd like to amplify, Mr. O'Keefe,
　　and some later information I think you'll want."
　　"Very well. Give me fifteen minutes, then come to see me.l~
　　Hanging up, Curtis O'Keefe said amusedly to Dodo, "I'm glad you enjoy the
　　fruit. If it weren't for you, I'd put a stop to all these harvest
　　festivals."
　　"Well, it isn't that I like it so much." The baby blue eyes were turned
　　widely upon him. "But you never eat any, and it just seems awful to waste
　　it."
　　"Very few things in a hotel are wasted," he assured her. "Whatever you
　　leave, someone else will take-probably through the back door."
　　"My mom's mad about fruit." Dodo broke off a cluster of grapes. "She'd go
　　crazy with a basket like this."
　　He had picked up the balance sheet again. Now he put it down. "Why not send
　　her one?"
　　"You mean now?"
　　"Of course." Lifting the telephone once more, he asked for the hotel
　　florist. "This is Mr. O'Keefe. I believe you delivered some fruit to my
　　suite."
　　A woman's voice answered anxiously, "Yes, sir. Is anything wrong?"
　　"Nothing at all. But I would like an identical fruit basket telegraphed to
　　Akron, Ohio, and charged to my bill. One moment." He handed the telephone
　　to Dodo. "Give them the address and a message for your mother."
　　When she had finished, impulsively she flung her arms around him. "Gee,
　　Cur-tie, you're the sweetest!"
　　He basked in her genuine pleasure. It was strange, he reflected, that while
　　Dodo had proven as receptive to ex-
　　113
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　　pensive gifts as any of her predecessors, it was the small things-such as
　　at this moment-which seemed to please her most.
　　He finished the papers in the folder and, in fifteen minutes precisely,
　　there was a knock on the door which Dodo answered. She showed in two men,
　　both carrying briefcases-Ogden Bailey who had telephoned, and the second
　　man, Sean Hall, who had been with him in the lobby. Hall was a younger
　　edition of his superior and in ten years or so, O'Keefe thought, would
　　probably have the same sallow, concentrated look which came, no doubt,
　　from poring over endless balance sheets and drafting financial estimates.
　　The hotelier greeted both men cordially. Ogden Bailey -alias Richard
　　Fountain in the present instance-was an experienced key figure in the
　　O'Keefe organization. As well as having the usual qualifications of an
　　accountant, he possessed an extraordinary ability to enter any hotel and,
　　after a week or two of discreet observation-usually unknown to the
　　hotel's management-produce a financial analysis which later would prove
　　uncannily close to the hotel's own figures. Hall, whom Bailey himself had
　　discovered and trained, showed every promise of developing the same kind
　　of talent.
　　Both men politely declined the offer of a drink, as O'Keefe had known
　　they would. They seated themselves on a settee, facing him, refraining
　　from unzippering their briefcases, as if knowing that other formalities
　　must be completed first. Dodo, across the room, had returned her
　　attention to the basket of fruit and was peeling a banana.
　　"I'm glad you could come, gentlemen," Curtis O'Keefe informed them, as
　　if this meeting had not been planned weeks ahead. "Perhaps, though,
　　before we begin our business it would benefit all of us if we asked the
　　help of Almighty God."
　　As he spoke, with the ease of long practice the hotelier slipped agilely
　　to his knees, clasping his hands devoutly in front of him. With an
　　expression bordering on resignation, as if he had been through this
　　experience many times before, Ogden Bailey followed suit and, after a
　　moment's hesitation, the younger man Hall assumed the same position.
　　O'Keefe glanced toward Dodo, who was eating her 114
　　                          Tuesday
　　banana. "My dear," he said quietly, "we are about to ask a blessing on our
　　intention."
　　Dodo put down the banana. "Okay," she said co-operatively, slipping from
　　her chair, "I'm on your channel."
　　There was a time, months earlier, when the frequent prayer sessions of her
　　benefactor-often at unlikely moments-had disturbed Dodo for reasons she
　　never fully understood. But eventually, as was her way, she had adjusted to
　　the point where they no longer bothered her. "After all," she confided to
　　a friend, "Curtie's a doll, and I guess if I go on my back for him I might
　　as well get on my knees, too."
　　"Almighty God," Curtis O'Keefe intoned, his eyes closed and pink-cheeked,
　　leonine face serene, "grant us, if it be thy will, success in what we are
　　about to do. We ask thy blessing and thine active help in acquiring this
　　hotel, named for thine own St. Gregory. We plead devoutly that we may add
　　it to those already enlisted-by our own organization -in thy cause and held
　　for thee in trust by thy devoted servant who speaketh." Even when dealing
　　with God, Curtis O'Keefe believed in coming directly to the point.
　　He continued, his face uplifted, the words rolling onward like a solemn
　　flowing river: "Moreover if this be thy will -and we pray it may-we ask
　　that it be done expeditiously and with economy, such treasure as we thy
　　servants possess, not being depleted unduly, but husbanded to thy further
　　use. We invoke thy blessing also, 0 God, on those who will negotiate
　　against us, on behalf of this hotel, asking that they shall be governed
　　solely according to thy spirit and that thou shalt cause them to exercise
　　reasonableness and discretion in all they do. Finally, Lord, be with us
　　always, prospering our cause and advancing our works so that we, in turn,
　　may dedicate them to thy greater glory, Amen. Now, gentlemen, how much am
　　I going to have to pay for this hotel?"
　　O'Keefe had already bounced back into his chair. It was a second or two,
　　however, before the others realized that the last sentence was not a part
　　of the prayer, but the opening of their business session. Bailey was first
　　to recover and, springing back adroitly from his knees to the 115
　　    HOTEL
　　settee, brought out the contents of his briefcase. Hall, with a startled
　　look, scrambled to join him.
　　Ogden Bailey began respectfully, "I won't speak as to price, Mr. O'Keefe.
　　As always, of course, you'll make that decision. But there's no question
　　that the two-million-dollar mortgage due on Friday should make bargaining
　　a good deal easier, at least on our side."
　　"There's been no change in that, then? No word of renewal, or anyone else
　　taking it over?"
　　Bailey shook his head. "I've tapped some fairly good sources here, and
　　they assure me not. No one in the financial community will touch it,
　　mostly because of the hotel's operating losses-I gave you an estimate of
　　those--coupled with the poor management situation, which is quite well
　　known."
　　O'Keefe nodded thoughtfully, then opened the folder he had been studying
　　earlier. He selected a single typewritten page. "You're unusually
　　optimistic in your ideas about potential earnings." His bright, shrewd
　　eyes met Bailey's directly.
　　The accountant produced a thin, tight smile. "I'm not prone to
　　extravagant fancies, as you know. There's absolutely no doubt that a good
　　profit position could be established quickly, both with new revenue
　　sources and overhauling existing ones. The key factor is the management
　　situation here. It's incredibly bad." He nodded to the younger man, Hall.
　　"Sean has been doing some work in that direction."
　　A shade self-consciously, and glancing at notes, Hall began, "There is
　　no effective chain of command, with the result that department heads in
　　some cases have gained quite extraordinary powers. A case in point is in
　　food purchasing where . . ."
　　"Just a moment."
　　At the interruption from his employer, Hall stopped abruptly.
　　Curtis O'Keefe said firmly, "It isn't necessary to give me all the
　　details. I rely on you gentlemen to take care of those eventually. What
　　I want at these sessions is the broad picture." Despite the comparative
　　gentleness of the rebuke, 116
　　                          Tuesday
　　Hall flushed and, from across the room, Dodo shot him a sympathetic glance.
　　"I take it," O'Keefe said, "that along with the weakness in management
　　there is a good deal of staff larceny which is siphoning off revenue."
　　The younger accountant nodded emphatically. "A great deal, sir,
　　particularly in food and beverages." He was about to describe his
　　undercover studies in the various bars and lounges of the hotel, but
　　checked himself. That could be taken care of later, after completion of the
　　purchase and when the "wrecking crew" moved in.
　　In his own brief experience Sean Hall knew that the procedure for acquiring
　　a new link in the O'Keefe hotel chain invariably followed the same general
　　pattern. First, weeks ahead of any negotiations, a "spy team"-usually
　　headed by Ogden Bailey-would move into the hotel, its members registering
　　as normal guests. By astute and systematic observation, supplemented by
　　occasional bribery, the team would compile a financial and operating study,
　　probing weaknesses and estimating potential, untapped strengths. Where
　　appropriate-as in the present casediscreet inquiries would be made outside
　　the hotel, among the city's business community. The magic of the O'Keefe
　　name, plus the possibility of future dealings with the nation's largest
　　hotel chain, was sufficient to elicit any information sought. In financial
　　circles, Sean Hall had long ago learned, loyalty ran a poor second to
　　practical selfinterest.
　　Next, armed with this accumulated knowledge, Curtis O'Keefe would direct
　　negotiations which, more often than not, were successful. Then the wrecking
　　crew moved in.
　　The wrecking crew, headed by an O'Keefe Hotels vicepresident, was a
　　tough-minded and swift-working group of management experts. It could, and
　　did, convert any hotel to the standard O'Keefe pattern within a remarkably
　　short time. The early changes which the wrecking crew made usually affected
　　personnel and administration; more wholesale measures, involving
　　reconstruction and physical plant, came later. Above all, the crew worked
　　smilingly, with reassurance to all concerned that there were to be no
　　drastic innovations, even as it made them. As one team
　　117
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　　member expressed it: "When we go in, the first thing we announce is that
　　no staff changes are contemplated. Then we get on with the firings."
　　Sean Hall supposed the same thing would happen soon in the St. Gregory
　　Hotel.
　　Sometimes Hall, who was a thoughtful young man with a Quaker upbringing,
　　wondered about his own part in all these affairs. Despite his newness as
　　an O'Keefe executive, he had already watched several hotels, with
　　pleasantly individual characters, engulfed by chain-management conform-
　　ity. In a remote way the process saddened him, He had uneasy moments,
　　too, about the ethics by which some ends were accomplished.
　　But always, weighed against such feelings were personal ambition and the
　　fact that Curtis O'Keefe paid generously for services rendered. Sean
　　Hall's monthly salary check and a growing bank account were cause for
　　satisfaction, even in moments of disquiet.
　　There were also other possibilities which, even in extravagant
　　daydreaming, he allowed himself to consider only vaguely. Ever since
　　entering this suite this morning he had been acutely aware of Dodo,
　　though at this moment he avoided looking at her directly. Her blond and
　　blatant sexuality, seeming to pervade the room like an aura, did things
　　to Sean Hall that, at home, his pretty brunette wife -a delight on the
　　tennis courts, and recording secretary of the P.T.A.-had never achieved.
　　In considering the presumed good fortune of Curtis O'Keefe, it was a
　　speculative, fanciful thought that in the great man's own early days, he
　　too had been a young, ambitious accountant.
　　The musings were interrupted by a question from O'Keefe. "Does your
　　impression of poor management apply right down the line?"
　　"Not entirely, sir." Sean Hall consulted his notes, concentrating on the
　　subject which, in the past two weeks, had become familiar ground. "There
　　is one man-the assistant general manager, McDermott-who seems extremely
　　competent. He's thirty-two, a Cornell-Statler graduate. Unfortunately
　　there's a flaw in his record. The home office ran a check. I have their
　　report here."
　　O'Keefe perused the single sheet which the young ac118
　　                          Tuesday
　　countant handed him. It contained the essential facts of Peter McDermott's
　　dismissal from the pts-unsuccessful until
　　the St. Gregory -to find new employment.
　　The hotel magnate returned the sheet without comment. A decision about
　　McDermott would be the business of the wrecking crew. Its members,
　　however, would be familiar with Curtis O'Keefe's insistence that all
　　O'Keefe employees be of unblemished moral character. No matter how com-
　　petent McDermott might be, it was unlikely that he would continue under
　　a new regime.
　　"There are also a few other good people," Sean Hall continued, "in lesser
　　posts."
　　For fifteen minutes more the talk continued. At the end Curtis O'Keefe
　　announced, "Thank you, gentlemen. Call me if there's anything new that's
　　important. Otherwise I'll be in touch with you."
　　Dodo showed them out.
　　When she returned, Curtis O'Keefe was stretched fun length on the settee
　　which the two accountants had vacated. His eyes were closed. Since his
　　early days in business he had cultivated the ability to catnap at odd
　　moments during a day, renewing the energy which subordinates sometimes
　　thought of as inexhaustible.
　　Dodo kissed him gently on the lips. He felt their moistness, and the
　　fullness of her body touching his own lightly. Her long fingers sought
　　the base of his skull, massaging gently at the hairline. A strand of soft
　　silken hair fell caressingly beside his face. He looked up, smiling. "I'm
　　charging my batteries." Then, contentedly, "What you're doing helps."
　　Her fingers moved on. At the end of ten minutes he was rested and
　　refreshed. He stretched, opened his eyes once more, and swung upright.
　　Then, standing, he held out his arms to Dodo.
　　She came to him with abandon, pressing closely, shaping her body eagerly
　　to his own. Already, he sensed, her ever-smoldering sensuality had become
　　a fierce, demanding flame.
　　With rising excitement, he led her to the adjoining bedroom.
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　　The chief house officer, Ogilvie, who had declared he would appear at the
　　Croydons' suite an hour after his cryptic telephone call, actually took
　　twice that time. As a result the nerves of both the Duke and Duchess were
　　excessively frayed when the muted buzzer of the outer door eventually
　　sounded.
　　The Duchess went to the door herself. Earlier she had dispatched her maid
　　on an invented errand and, cruelly, instructed the moon-faced male
　　secretary-who was terrified of dogs-to exercise the Bedlington terriers.
　　Her own tension was not lessened by the knowledge that both might return at
　　any moment.
　　A wave of cigar smoke accompanied Ogilvie in. When he had followed her to
　　the living room, the Duchess looked pointedly at the half-burned cigar in
　　the fat man's mouth. "My husband and I find strong smoke offensive. Would
　　you kindly put that out."
　　The house detective's piggy eyes surveyed her sardonically from his gross
　　jowled face. His gaze moved on to sweep the spacious, well-appointed room,
　　encompassing the Duke who faced them uncertainly, his back to a window.
　　"Pretty neat set-up you folks got." Taking his time, Ogilvie removed the
　　offending cigar, knocked off the ash and ffipped the butt toward an
　　ornamental fireplace on his right. He missed, and the butt fell upon the
　　carpet where he ignored it.
　　The Duchess's lips tightened. She said sharply, "I imagine you did not come
　　here to discuss d6cor."
　　The obese body shook in an appreciative chuckle. "No, ma'am; can't say I
　　did. I like nice things, though." He lowered the level of his incongruous
　　falsetto voice. "Like that car of yours. The one you keep here in the
　　hotel. Jaguar, ain't it?"
　　"Aah!" It was not a spoken word, but an emission of breath from the Duke of
　　Croydon. His wife shot him a swift, warning glance.
　　"In what conceivable way does our car concern you?"
　　As if the question from the Duchess had been a sig-
　　120
　　                          Tuesday
　　nal, the house detective's manner changed. He inquired abruptly, "Who else
　　is in this place?"
　　It was the Duke who answered, "No one. We sent them out."
　　"There's things it pays to check." Moving with surprising speed, the fat
　　man walked around the suite, opening doors and inspecting the space
　　behind them. Obviously he knew the room arrangement well. After reopening
　　and closing the outer door, he returned, apparently satisfied, to the
　　living room.
　　The Duchess had seated herself in a straight-backed chair. Ogilvie
　　remained standing.
　　"Now then," he said. "You two was in that hit-'n-run.99
　　She met his eyes directly. "What are you talking about?"
　　"Don't play games, lady. This is for real." He took out a fresh cigar and
　　bit off the end. "You saw the papers. There's been plenty on radio, too."
　　Two high points of color appeared in the paleness of the Duchess of
　　Croydon's cheeks. "What you are suggesting is the most disgusting,
　　ridiculous . . ."
　　"I told you--cut it out!" The words spat forth with sudden savagery, all
　　pretense of blandness gone. Ignoring the Duke, Ogilvie waved the
　　unlighted cigar under his adversary's nose. "You listen to me, your
　　high-an'-mightiness. This city's burnin' mad--cops, mayor, everybody
　　else. They find who done that last night, who killed that kid an' its
　　mother, then high-tailed it, they'll throw the book, and never mind who
　　it hits, or whether they got fancy titles neither. Now I know what I
　　know, and if I do what by rights I should, there'll be a squad of cops
　　in here so fast you'll hardly see 'em. But I come to you first, in
　　fairness, so's you could tell your side of it to me." The piggy eyes
　　blinked, then hardened. "'F you want it the other way, just say so."
　　The Duchess of Croydon-three centuries and a half of inbred arrogance
　　behind her--did not yield easily. Springing to her feet, her face
　　wrathful, gray-green eyes blazing, she faced the grossness of 'the house
　　detective squarely. Her tone would have withered anyone who knew her
　　well. "You unspeakable blackguard! How dare you!"
　　Even the self-assurance of Ogilvie flickered for an in-
　　121
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　　stant. But it was the Duke of Croydon who interjected, "Ws no go, old girl,
　　I'm afraid. It was a good try." Facing Ogilvie, he said, "What you accuse us
　　of is true. I am to blame. I was driving the car and killed the little
　　girl."
　　"That's more like it," Ogilvie said. He lit the fresh cigar. "Now we're
　　getting somewhere."
　　Wearily, in a gesture of surrender, the Duchess of Croydon sank back into
　　her chair. Clasping her hands to conceal their trembling, she asked. "What
　　is it you know?"
　　"Well now, I'll spell it out." The house detective took his time, leisurely
　　puffing a cloud of blue cigar smoke, his eyes sardonically on the Duchess
　　as if challenging her objection. But beyond wrinkling her nose in distaste,
　　she made no comment.
　　Ogilvie pointed to the Duke. "Last night, early on, you went to Lindy's
　　Place in Irish Bayou. You drove there in your fancy Jaguar, and you took a
　　lady friend. Leastways, I guess you'd call her that if you're not too
　　fussy."
　　As Ogilvie glanced, grinning, at the Duchess, the Duke said sharply, "Get
　　on with it!"
　　"Well"--the smug fat face swung back-"the way I hear it, you won a hundred
　　at the tables, then lost it at the bar. You were into a second hundred-with
　　a real swinging party-when your wife here got there in a taxi."
　　"How do you know all this?"
　　"I'll tell you, Duke-I've been in this town and this hotel a long time. I
　　got friends all over. I oblige them; they do the same for me, like letting
　　me know what gives, an' where. There ain't much, out of the way, which
　　people who stay in this hotel do, I don't get to hear about. Most of 'em
　　never know I know, or know me. They think they got their little secrets
　　tucked away, and so they have---except like now."
　　The Duke said coldly, "I see."
　　"One thing I'd like to know. I got a curious nature, ma'am. How'd you
　　figure where he was?"
　　The Duchess said, "You know so much ... I suppose it doesn't matter. My
　　husband has a habit of making notes while he is telephoning. Afterward he
　　often forgets to destroy them."
　　The house detective clucked his tongue reprovingly. "A
　　122
　　                          Tuesday
　　little careless habit like that, Duke-look at the mess it gets you in. Well,
　　here's what I figure about the rest. You an' your wife took off home, you
　　drivin', though the way things turned out it might have been better if she'd
　　have drove."
　　"My wife doesn't drive."
　　Ogilvie nodded understandingly. "Explains that one. Anyway, I reckon you
　　were lickered up, but good. . ."
　　The Duchess interrupted. "Then you don't know! You don't know anything for
　　sure! You can't possibly prove..."
　　"Lady, I can prove all I need to."
　　The Duke cautioned, "Better let him finish, old girl."
　　"That's right," Ogilvie said. "Just set an' listen. Last night I seen you
　　come in-through the basement, so's not to use the lobby. Looked right
　　shaken, too, the pair of you. Just come in myself, an' I got to wondering
　　why. Like I said, I got a curious nature."
　　The Duchess breathed, "Go on."
　　"Late last night the word was out about the hit-'n-run. On a hunch I went
　　over the garage and took a quiet looksee at your car. You maybe don't
　　know-it's away in a comer, behind a pillar where the jockeys don't see it
　　when they're comin' by."
　　The Duke licked his lips. "I suppose that doesn't matter now. 99
　　"You might have something there," Ogilvie conceded. "Anyway, what I found
　　made me do some scoutingacross at police headquarters where they know me
　　too." He paused to puff again at the cigar as his listeners waited
　　silently. When the cigar tip was glowing he inspected it, then continued.
　　"Over there they got three things to go on. They got a headlight trim ring
　　which musta. come off when the kid an7 the woman was hit. They got some
　　headlight glass, and lookin' at the kid's clothin', they reckon there'll be
　　a brush trace."
　　"A what?"
　　"You rub clothes against something hard, Duchess, specially if it's shiny
　　like a car fender, say, an' it leaves a mark the same way as fingerprints.
　　The police lab kin pick it up like they do prints--dust it, an' it shows."
　　"That's interesting," the Duke said, as if speaking of 123
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　　something unconnected with himself. "I didn't know that." "Not many do. In this
　　case, though, I reckon it don't make a lot o' difference. On your car you
　　got a busted headlight, and the trim ring's gone. Ain't any doubt they'd
　　match up, even without the brush trace an' the blood. Oh yeah, I shoulda
　　told you. There's plenty of blood, though it don't show too much on the
　　black paint."
　　"Oh, my God!" A hand to her face, the Duchess turned away.
　　Her husband asked, "What do you propose to do?"
　　The fat man rubbed his hands together, looking down at his thick, fleshy
　　fingers. "Like I said, I come to hear your side of it."
　　The Duke said despairingly, "What can I possibly say? You know what
　　happened." He made an attempt to square his shoulders which did not
　　succeed. "You'd better call the police and get it over."
　　"Well now, there's no call for being hasty." The incongruous falsetto voice
　　took on a musing note. "What's done's been done. Rushin' any place ain't
　　gonna bring back the kid nor its mother neither. Besides, what they'd do to
　　you across at headquarters, Duke, you wouldn't like. No sir, you wouldn't
　　like it at all."
　　The other two slowly raised their eyes.
　　"I was hoping," Ogilvie said, "that you folks could suggest something."
　　The Duke said uncertainly, "I don't understand."
　　"I understand," the Duchess of Croydon said. "You want money, don't you?
　　You came here to blackmail us."
　　If she expected her words to shock, they did not succeed. Ile house
　　detective shrugged. "Whatever names you call things, ma'am, don't matter to
　　me. All I come for was to help you people outa trouble. But I got to live
　　too."
　　"You'd accept money to keep silent about what you know?"
　　"I reckon I might."
　　"But from what you say," the Duchess pointed out, her poise for the moment
　　recovered, "it would do no good. The car.would be discovered in any case."
　　"I guess you'd have to take that chance. But there's 124
　　                          Tuesday
　　some reasons it might not be. Something I ain't told you yet.11
　　"Tell us now, please."
　　Ogilvie said, "I ain't figured this out myself completely. But when you hit
　　that kid you was going away from town, not to it."
　　"We'd made a mistake in the route," the Duchess said. "Somehow we'd become
　　turned around. It's easily done in New Orleans, with the streets winding as
　　they do. Afterward, using side streets, we went back."
　　"I thought it might be that," Ogilvie nodded understandingly. "But the
　　police ain't figured it that way. They're looking for somebody who was
　　headed out. That's why, right now, they're workin' on the suburbs and the
　　outside towns. They may get around to searchin' downtown, but it won't be
　　yet."
　　"How long before they do?"
　　"Maybe three, four days. They got a lot of other places to look first."
　　"How could that help us-the delay?"
　　"It might," Ogilvie said. "Providin' nobody twigs the car-an' seein' where
　　it is, you might be lucky there. An' if you can get it away."
　　"You mean out of the state?"
　　"I mean out o' the South."
　　"That wouldn't be easy?"
　　"No, ma'am. Every state around-Texas, Arkansas, Mississippi, Alabama, all
　　the rest'll be watching for a car damaged the way yours is."
　　The Duchess considered. "Is there any possibility of having repairs made
　　first? If the work were done discreetly we could pay well."
　　The house detective shook his head emphatically. "You try that, you might
　　as well walk over to headquarters right now an' give up. Every repair shop
　　in Louisiana's been told to holler 'cops' the minute a car needing fixin'
　　like yours comes in. They'd do it, too. You people are hot."
　　The Duchess of Croydon kept firm, tight rein on her racing mind. It was
　　essential, she knew, that her thinking remain calm and reasoned. In the
　　last few minutes the conversation had become as seemingly casual as if the
　　dis125
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　　cussion were of some minor domestic matter and not survival itself. She
　　intended to keep it that way. Once more, she was aware, the role of
　　leadership had fallen to her, her husband now a tense but passive
　　spectator of the exchange between the evil fat man and herself. No matter.
　　What was inevitable must be accepted. The important thing was to consider
　　all eventualities. A thought occurred to her.
　　"The piece from our car which you say the police have. What is it
　　called?"
　　"A trim ring.71
　　"Is it traceable?"
　　Ogilvie nodded affmatively. "They can figure what kind o' car it's
　　from-make, model, an' maybe the year, or close to it. Same thing with the
　　glass. But with your car being foreign, it'll likely take a few days."
　　"But after that," she persisted, "the police will know they're looking
　　for a Jaguar?"
　　"I reckon that's so."
　　Today was Tuesday. From all that this man said, they had until Friday or
　　Saturday at best. With calculated coolness the Duchess reasoned - the
　　situation came down to one essential. Assuming the hotel man was bought
　　off, their only chance-a slim one-lay in removing the car quickly. If it
　　could be got north, to one of the big cities where the New Orleans
　　tragedy and search would be unknown, repairs could be made quietly, the
　　incriminating evidence removed. Then, even if suspicion settled on the
　　Croydons later, nothing could be proved. But how to get the car away?
　　Undoubtedly what this oafish detective said was true: As well as
　　Louisiana, the other states through which the car would have to pass
　　would be alert and watchful. Every highway patrol would be on the lookout
　　for a damaged headlight with a missing trim ring. There would probably
　　be roadblocks. It would be hard not to fall victim to some 1harp-eyed
　　policeman.
　　But it might be done. If the car could be driven at night and concealed
　　by day. There were plenty of places to pull off the highway and be
　　unobserved. It would be hazardous, but no more than waiting here for
　　certain detection. There
　　126
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　　would be back roads. They could choose an unlikely route to avoid
　　attention.
　　But there would be other complications and now was the time to consider
　　them. Traveling by secondary roads would be difficult unless knowing the
　　terrain. The Croydons did not. Nor was either of them adept at using
　　maps. And when they stopped for petrol, as they would have to, their
　　speech and manner would betray them, making them conspicuous. And yet ...
　　these were risks which had to be taken.
　　Or had they9
　　The Duchess faced Ogilvie. "How much do you want?"
　　The abruptness took him by surprise. "Well . . . I figure you people are
　　pretty well fixed."
　　She said coldly, "I asked how much."
　　The piggy eyes blinked. "Ten thousand dollars."
　　Though it was twice what she had expected, her expression did not change.
　　"Assuming ount, what would we receive in
　　return?"
　　The fat man seemed puzzled. "Like I said, I keep quiet about what I
　　know."
　　"And the alternative?"
　　He shrugged. "I go down the lobby. I pick up a phone."
　　"No." The statement was unequivocal. "We will not pay
　　19
　　you.
　　As the Duke of Croydon shifted uneasily, the house detective's bulbous
　　countenance reddened, "Now listen, lady . . ."
　　Peremptorily she cut him off. "I will not listen. Instead, you will
　　listen to me." Her eyes were riveted on his face, her handsome,
　　high-cheekboned features set in their most imperious mold. "We would
　　achieve nothing by paying you, except possibly a few days' respite. You
　　have made that abundantly clear."
　　"That's a chance you gotta . .
　　"Silence!" Her voice was a whiplash. Eyes bored into him. Swallowing,
　　sullenly, he complied.
　　What came next, the Duchess of Croydon knew, could be the most
　　significant thing she had ever done. There must be no mistake, no
　　vacillation or dallying because of her own smallness of mind. When you
　　were playing for the
　　127
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　　highest stakes, you made the highest bid. She intended to gamble on the
　　fat man's greed. She must do so in such a way as to place the outcome
　　beyond any doubt.
　　She declared decisively, "We will not pay you ten thousand dollars.
　　But we will pay you twenty-five thousand dollars."
　　The house detective's eyes bulged.
　　"In return for that," she continued evenly, "you will drive our car
　　north."
　　Ogilvie continued to stare.
　　"Twenty-five thousand dollars," she repeated. "Ten thousand now.
　　Fifteen thousand more when you meet us in
　　99
　　Chicago.
　　Still without speaking, the fat man licked his lips. His beady eyes, as
　　if unbelieving, were focused upon her own. The silence hung.
　　Then, as she watched intently, he gave the slightest of nods.
　　The silence remained. At length Ogilvie spoke. "This cigar botherin' you,
　　Duchess?"
　　As she nodded, he put it out.
　　12
　　"It's a funny thing." Christine put down the immense multicolored menu.
　　"I've had a feeling this week that something momentous is going to
　　happen."
　　Peter McDermott smiled across their candlelit table, its silver and
　　starched white napery gleaming. "Maybe it has already."
　　"No," Christine said. "At least, not in the way you mean. IVs an uneasy
　　kind of thing. I wish I could throw it Off .99
　　"Food and drink do wonders."
　　She laughed, responding to his mood, and closed the menu. "You order for
　　both of us."
　　They were in Brennans Restaurant in the French Quarter. An hour earlier,
　　driving a car he rented from the Hertz desk in the St. Gregory lobby,
　　Peter had collected Christine trom. her apartment. They parked the car
　　at Iberville, just
　　128
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　　inside the Quarter, and strolled the length of Royal Street, browsing at
　　windows of the antique shops, with their strange mixture of objets d'art,
　　imported bric-a-brac and Confederate weaponry-Any sword in this box, ten
　　dollars. It was a warm, sultry night, with the sounds of New Orleans
　　surrounding them-a deep growl from buses in narrow streets, the clop and
　　jingle of a horse-drawn fiacre, and from the Mississippi the melancholy
　　wail of an outbound freighter.
　　Brennan's-as befitting the city's finest restaurant-had been crowded with
　　diners. While waiting for their table, Peter and Christine sipped a
　　leisurely Old Fashioned, herbsaint flavored, in the quiet, softly lighted
　　patio.
　　Peter had a sense of well being and a delight in Christine's company. It
　　continued as they were ushered to a table in the cool, main floor dining
　　room. Now, accepting Christines suggestion, he beckoned their waiter.
　　He ordered for them both: 2-2-2 hultres-the house's specialty combining
　　Oysters Rockefeller, Bienville and Roffignac-flounder Nouvelle Orleans,
　　stuffed with seasoned crabmeat, choux fleur Polonaise, pommes au four,
　　and-from the hovering wine steward-a bottle of Montrachet.
　　"It's nice," Christine said appreciatively, "not to have to make
　　decisions." She would be firm, she decided, in throwing off the sense of
　　unease she had mentioned a moment ago. It was, after all, no more than
　　intuition, perhaps simply explained by the fact that she had had less
　　sleep than usual the previous night.
　　"With a well-run kitchen, as they have here," Peter said, "decisions
　　about food ought not to matter much. IVs a question of choice between
　　equal qualities."
　　She chided him: "Your hotelship's showing."
　　"Sorry. I guess it does too often."
　　"Not really. And if you must know, I like it. I've sometimes wondered,
　　though, what got you started to begin with."
　　"In the hotel business? I was a bellhop who became ambitious."
　　"It wasn't really that simple?"
　　"Probably not. I had some luck along with other things. 129
　　    HOTEL
　　L lived in Brooklyn and in summers, between school, got a lob as a bellboy
　　in Manhattan. One night, the second sumner, I put a drunk to bed-helped
　　him upstairs, got him in ?ajamas and tucked him in."
　　"Did everyone get that kind of service?"
　　"No. It happened to be a quiet night and, besides, I'd had a lot of
　　practice. I'd been doing the same thing at home-for my old man-for
　　years." For an instant a flicker of sadness touched Peter's eyes, then
　　he continued, "Anyway, it turned out that the one I'd put to bed was a
　　writer for The New Yorker. A week or two after, he wrote about what
　　happened. I think he called us 'the hotel that's gentler than mother's
　　milk.' We took a lot of kidding, but it made the hotel look good."
　　"And you were promoted?"
　　"In a way. But mostly I got noticed."
　　"Here come the oysters," Christine said. Two aromatic. heated plates,
　　with the baked half shells in their underlayer of rock salt, were placed
　　dextrously in front of them.
　　As Peter tasted and approved the Montrachet, Christine said, "Why is it
　　that in Louisiana you can eat oysters all year round-Y in the month or
　　not?"
　　He answered emphatically, "You can eat oysters anywhere, at any time. The
　　Y-in-the-month idea is an old canard started four hundred years ago by
　　an English country vicar. Name of Butler, I think. Scientists have
　　ridiculed it, the U.S. Government says the rule is silly, but people
　　still believe."
　　Christine nibbled an Oyster Bienville. "I always thought it was because
　　they spawned in summer."
　　"So oysters do--some seasons-in New England and New York. But not in
　　Chesapeake Bay, which is the largest oyster source in the world. There
　　and in the South spawning can happen at any time of year. So there isn't
　　a single good reason why northerners can't eat oysters around the
　　calendar, just as in Louisiana."
　　There was a silence, then Christine said, "When you learn something, do
　　you always remember it?"
　　"Mostly, I guess. I've a queer sort of mind that things stick to-a bit
　　like an old-fashioned flypaper. In a way it's
　　130
　　                          Tuesday
　　been lucky for me." He speared an Oyster Rockefeller, savoring its subtle
　　absinthe flavoring.
　　"How lucky?"
　　"Well, that same summer-the one we were talking about-they let me try other
　　jobs in the hotel, including helping out at the bar. I was getting
　　interested by then and had borrowed some books. One was about mixing
　　drinks." Peter paused, his mind leafing over events he had halfforgotten.
　　"I happened to be at the bar alone when a customer came in. I didn't know
　　who he was, but he said, 'I hear you're the bright boy The New Yorker wrote
　　about. Can you mix me a Rusty Nail?"'
　　"He was kidding?"
　　"No. But I'd have thought so if I hadn't read the ingredients-Drambuie and
　　Scotch-a couple of hours earlier. That's what I mean by luck. Anyway, I
　　mixed it and afterward he said, 'That's good, but you won't learn the hotel
　　business this way. Things have changed since Work of Art.' I told him I
　　didn't fancy myself as Myron Weagle, but wouldn't mind being Evelyn Orcham.
　　He laughed at that; I guess he'd read Arnold Bennett too. Then he gave me
　　his card and told me to see him next day."
　　"He owned fifty hotels, I suppose."
　　"As it turned out, he didn't own anything. His name was Herb Fischer and he
　　was a salesman-bulk canned goods, that kind of stuff. He was also pushy and
　　a braggart, and all the time had a way of talking you down. But he knew the
　　hotel business, and most people in it, because it was there he did his
　　selling."
　　The oyster plates were removed. Now their waiter, backstopped by a
　　red-coated captain, placed the steaming flounder before them.
　　"I'm afraid to eat," Christine said. "Nothing can possibly taste as
　　heavenly as that." She sampled the succulent, superbly seasoned fish. "Um!
　　Incredibly, it's even better."
　　It was several minutes before she said, "Tell me about Mr. Fischer."
　　"Well, at first I thought he was just a big talker-you get a million of 'em
　　in bars. What changed my mind was 131
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　　a letter from Cornell. It told me to report at Statler Hallthe School of
　　Hotel Admin-for a selection interview. The way things turned out, they
　　offered me a scholarship and I went there from high school. Afterward I
　　discovered it happened because Herb badgered some hotel people into
　　recommending me. I guess he was a good salesman."
　　"You only guess!"
　　Peter said thoughtfully, "I've never been quite sure. I owe a lot to Herb
　　Fischer, but sometimes I wonder if people didn't do things, including
　　giving him business, just to get rid of him. After it was fixed about
　　Cornell I only saw him once again. I tried to thank him-the same way I
　　tried to like him. But he wouldn't let me do either; just kept boasting,
　　talking about deals he'd made, or would. Then he said I needed some
　　clothes for college-he was right-and insisted on lending me two hundred
　　dollars. It must have meant a lot, because I found out afterward his
　　commissions weren't big. I paid him back by sending checks for small
　　amounts. Most were never cashed."
　　"I think it's a wonderful story." Christine had listened raptly. "Why
　　don't you see hiirn any more?"
　　"He died," Peter said. "I'd tried to reach him several times, but we
　　never seemed to make it. Then about a year ago I got a phone call from
　　a lawyer-Herb didn't have any family, apparently. I went to the funeral.
　　And I found there were eight of us there-whom he'd all helped in the same
　　kind of way. The funny thing was, with all his boasting he'd never told
　　any of us about the others."
　　"I could cry," Christine said.
　　He nodded. "I know. I felt I wanted to then. I suppose it should have
　　taught me something, though I've never been quite sure what. Maybe it's
　　that some people raise a great big barrier, all the while wishing you'd
　　tear it down, and if you don't you never really know them."
　　Christine was quiet through coffee-by agreement they had both ruled out
　　dessert. At length she asked, "Do any of us really know what we want for
　　ourselves?"
　　Peter considered. "Not entirely, I suppose. Though I
　　know one thing I want to achieve --- or at least something
　　like it." He beckoned a waiter for their bill.
　　"Tell me."
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　　"I'll do better than that," he said. "I'll show you."
　　Outside Brennan's they paused, adjusting from interior coolness to the
　　warm night air. The city seemed quieter than an hour earlier. A few
　　lights around oving on to other
　　cantons. Taking Christine's arm, Peter piloted her diagonally across
　　Royal Street. They stopped at the southwest comer of St. Louis, looking
　　directly ahead. "That's what I'd like to create," he said. "Something at
　　least as good, or maybe better."
　　Beneath graceful grilled balconies and fluted iron columns, flickering
　　gas lanterns cast light and shadow on the white-gray classical fagade of
　　the Royal Orleans Hotel. Through arched and mullioned windows amber light
　　streamed outward. On the promenade sidewalk a doorman paced, in rich gold
　　uniform and visored pillbox cap. High above, in a sudden breeze, flags
　　and halliards snapped upon their staffs. A taxi drew up. The doorman
　　moved swiftly to open its door. Women's heels clicked and men's laughter
　　echoed as they moved inside. A door slammed. The taxi pulled away.
　　I "There are some people," Peter said, "who believe the Royal Orleans is
　　the finest hotel in North America. Whether you agree or not doesn't much
　　matter. The point is: it shows how good a hotel can be."
　　They crossed St. Louis, toward the site which had once been traditional
　　hotel, a center of Creole society; then slave mart, Civil War hospital,
　　state capitol, and now hotel again. Peter's voice took on enthusiasm.
　　"They've everything going for them-history, style, a modern plant and
　　imagination. For the new building there were two firms of New Orleans
　　architects-one tradition steeped, the other modem. They proved you can
　　build freshly yet retain old character."
　　The doorman, who had ceased pacing, held the main door open as they
　　strolled inside. Directly ahead two giant blackamoor statues guarded
　　white marble stairs to the lobby promenade. "The funny thing is," Peter
　　said, "that with all that's individual, the Royal Orleans is a chain
　　hotel." He added tersely, "But not Curtis O'Keefe's kind."
　　"More like Peter McDermott's?"
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　　"There's a long way to go for that. And I took a step backward. I guess
　　you know."
　　"Yes," Christine said, "I know. But you'll still do it. I'd bet a
　　thousand dollars that some day you will."
　　He squeezed her arm. "If you've that kind of money, better buy some
　　O'Keefe Hotels stock."
　　They strolled the length of the Royal Orleans lobbywhite marbled with
　　antique white, citron and persimmon tapestries-leaving by the Royal
　　Street doors.
　　For an hour and a half they sauntered through the Quarter, stopping at
　　Preservation Hall to endure its stifling heat and crowded benches for the
　　joy of Dixieland jazz at its purest; enjoying the comparative coolness
　　of Jackson Square, with coffee at the French market on the river side,
　　inspecting critically some of the bad art with which New Orleans
　　abounded; and later, at the Court of the Two Sisters, sipping cool mint
　　juleps under stars, subdued lights and lacy trees.
　　"It's been wonderful," Christine said. "Now I'm ready to go home."
　　Strolling toward Iberville and the parked car, a small Negro boy, with
　　cardboard box and brushes, accosted them.
　　"Shoe shine, mister?"
　　Peter shook his head. "Too late, son."
　　The boy, bright eyed, stood squarely in their path, surveying Peter's
　　feet. "Ah bet yol twenty-five cents ah kin tell you where yo' got those
　　shoes. Ah kin tell you th' city and th' state; and if ah kin-you give me
　　twenty-five cents. But if ah cain't, ah'll give yol twenty-five cents."
　　A year ago Peter had bought the shoes in Tenafly, New Jersey. He
　　hesitated, with a feeling of taking advantage, then nodded. "Okay."
　　The boy's bright eyes flicked upward. "Mister, yo' got those shoes on yo'
　　feet on the concrete sidewalk of New Orleans, in th' State o' Louisiana.
　　Now remember-ah said ah'd tell yo, where yo, got those shoes, not where
　　yo' bought them.91
　　They laughed, and Christine slipped her arm through Peter's as he paid
　　the quarter. They were still laughing during the drive northward to
　　Christine's apartment.
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　　13
　　In the dining room of Warren Trent's private suite, Curtis O'Keefe puffed
　　appraisingly at a cigar. He had selected it from a cherry-wood humidor
　　proffered him by Aloysius Royce, and its richness mingled agreeably on
　　his palate with the Louis XIII cognac which had accompanied coffee. To
　　O'Keefe's left, at the head of the oak refectory table at which Royce had
　　deftly served their superb five-course dinner, Warren Trent presided with
　　patriarchal benevolence. Directly across, Dodo, in a clinging black gown,
　　inhaled agrecobly on a Turkish cigarette which Royce had also produced
　　and lighted.
　　"Gee," Dodo said, "I feel like I ate a whole pig."
　　O'Keefe smiled indulgently. "A fine meal, Warren. Please compliment your
　　chef."
　　The St. Gregory's proprietor inclined his head graciously. "He'll be
　　gratified at the source of the compliment. By the way, you may like to
　　know that precisely the same meal was availabIc tonight in my main dinin?
　　room.
　　O'Keefe nodded, though unimpressed. In his opinion a large elaboratc menu
　　was as out of place in a hotel dining room as pat~ de foie gras in a
　　lunch pail. Even more to the point- -earlier in the evening he had
　　gjanced into the St. Gregory's main restaurant at what should have been
　　its peak service hour, to find the cavernous expanse barely a third
　　occupied.
　　In tht O'Keefe empire, dining was standard and simplified, with the
　　choice of fare limited to a few popular. pedestri~ln items. Behind this
　　policy was Curtis O'Keefe's conviction-buttressed by experience-that
　　public taste and pr(,ferences about eating were equal, and largely un-
　　imagh*,tivc. In any O'Keefe establishment, though food was pyt-cisely
　　prepared and served with antiseptic cleanliness. there was seldom
　　provision for gourmets, who were regard(d as an unprofitable minority.
　　The hotel magnate observed, "There aren't many hotels nowadays offering
　　that kind of cuisine. Most that did have had to change their ways."
　　"Most but not all. Why should everyone be as docile?"
　　135
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　　"Because our entire business has changed, Warren, since you and I were
　　young in it-whether we like the fact or not. The days of 'mine host' and
　　personal service are over. Maybe people cared once about such things. They
　　don't any more."
　　There was a directness in both men's voices, implying that with the meal's
　　ending the time for mere politeness had gone. As each spoke, Dodo's baby
　　blue eyes shifted curiously between them as if following some action,
　　though barely understood, upon a stage. Aloysius Royce, his back turned,
　　was busy at a sideboard.
　　Warren Trent said sharply, "There are some who'd disagree."
　　,O'Keefe regarded his glowing cigar tip. 'Tor any who do, the answer's in
　　my balance sheets compared with others. For example, yours."
　　The other flushed, his lips tightening. "What's happening here is
　　temporary; a phase. I've seen them before. This one will pass, the same as
　　others."
　　"No. If you think that, you're fashioning a hangman's noose. And you
　　deserve better, Warren-after all these years.tt
　　There was an obstinate pause before the growled reply. "I haven't spent my
　　life building an institution to see it become a cheap-run joint."
　　"If you're referring to my houses, none. of them are that." It was
　　O'Keefe's turn to redden angrily. "Nor am I so sure about this one being an
　　institution."
　　In the cold, ensuing silence Dodo asked, "Will it be a real fight or just
　　a words one?"
　　Both men laughed, though Warren Trent less heartily. It was Curtis O'Keefe
　　who raised his hands placatingly.
　　"She's right, Warren. It's pointless for us to quarrel. If we're to
　　continue our separate ways, at least we should remain friends."
　　More tractably, Warren Trent nodded. In part, his acerbity of a moment
　　earlier had been prompted by a twinge of sciatica which for the time being
　　had passed. Though even allowing for this, he thought bitterly, it was hard
　　not to be resentful of this smooth successful man whose financial conquests
　　so greatly contrasted with his own.
　　136
　　                          Tuesday
　　"You can sum up in three words," Curtis O'Keefe declared, "what the
　　public expects nowadays from a hotel: an 'efficient, economic package.'
　　But we can only provide it if we have effective cost accounting of every
　　move-our guests' and our own; an efficient plant; and above all a minimum
　　wage bill, which means automation, eliminating people and old-style
　　hospitality wherever possible."
　　"And that's all? You'd discount everything else that used to make a fine
　　hotel? You'd deny that a good innkeeper can stamp his personal imprint
　　on any house?" The St. Gregory's proprietor snorted. "A visitor to your
　　kind of hotel doesn't have a sense of belonging, of being someone
　　significant to whom a little more is given-in feeling and
　　hospitality-than is charged for on his bill."
　　"It's a delusion he doesn't need," O'Keefe said incisively. "If a hotel's
　　hospitable it's because it's paid to be, so in the end it doesn't count.
　　People see through falseness in a way they didn't used to. But they
　　respect fairness-a fair profit for the hotel; a fair price to the guest,
　　which is what my houses give. Oh, I grant you there'll always be a few
　　Tuscanys for those who want special treatment and are willing to pay. But
　　they're small places and for the few. The big houses like yours-if they
　　want to survive my kind of competition-have to think as I do."
　　Warren Trent growled, "You'll not object if I continue to think for
　　myself for a while."
　　O'Keefe shook his head impatiently. "There was nothing personal. I was
　　speaking of trends, not particulars."
　　"The devil with trends! I've an instinct tells me plenty of people still
　　like to travel first class. They're the ones who expect something more
　　than boxes with beds."
　　44 You're misquoting me, but I won't complain." Curtis O'Keefe smiled
　　coolly. "I'll challenge your simile, though. Except for the very few,
　　first class is finished, dead."
　　4'Why?"
　　"Because jet airplanes killed first-class travel, and an entire state of
　　mind along with it. Before then, first class had an aura of distinction.
　　But jet travel showed everyone how silly and wasteful the old ways were.
　　Air journeys became swift and short, to the point where first class
　　simply wasn't worth it. So people squeezed into their tourist seats
　　137
　　    HOTEL
　　and stopped worrying about status-the price was too high. Pretty soon
　　there was a reverse kind of status in traveling tourist. The best people
　　did it. First class, they told each other over their box lunches, was for
　　fools and profligates. And what people realize they get from jets-the
　　efficient, economic package-they require from the hotel business too.9)
　　Unsuccessfully Dodo attempted to conceal a yawn behind her hand, then
　　butted her Turkish cigarette. Instantly Aloysius Royce was beside her,
　　proffering a fresh one and deftly lighting it. She smiled warmly, and the
　　young Negro returned the smile, managing to convey a discreet but
　　friendly sympathy. Unobtrusively he replaced used ash trays on the table
　　with fresh, and re0ed Dodo's coffee cup, then the others. As Royce
　　slipped out quietly, O'Keefe observed, "A good man you have there,
　　Warren."
　　Warren Trent responded absently, "He's been with me a long time."
　　Watching Royce himself, he had been wondering how Aloysius's father might
　　have reacted to the news that control of the hotel might soon pass on to
　　other hands. Probably with a shrug. Possessions and money had meant
　　little to the old man. Warren Trent could almost hear him now, asserting
　　in his cracked, sprightly voice, "Yo' had yo' own way so long, could be
　　a passel o' bad times'll be fo' yo' own goodness. God bends our backs an'
　　humbles us, remindin! us we ain't nothin' but His wayward children,
　　'spite our fancy notions other ways." But then, with calculated
　　contrariness the old man might have added, "All th' same, 'f yo' Mieve
　　in somethin7, yo' fight fo' it shore. After yo' dead yo' won't shoot
　　nobody, cos yo' cain't hardly take aim."
　　Taking aim-he suspected, waveringly-Warren Trent insisted, "Your way, you
　　make everything to do with a hotel sound so damna ly antiseptic. Your
　　kind of hotel lacks warmth or humanity. It's for automatons, with
　　punch-card minds, and lubricant instead of blood."
　　O'Keefe shrugged. "It's the kind that pays dividends."
　　"Financial maybe, not human."
　　Ignoring the last remark, O'Keefe said, "I've talked about our business
　　the way it is now. Let's carry things a shade further. In my organization
　　I've had a blueprint de138
　　                          Tuesday
　　veloped for the future. Some might call it a vision, I suppose, though
　　it's more an informed projection of what hotels---certainly O'Keefe
　　hotels-are going to be like a few years ahead.
　　"The first thing we'll have simplified is Reception, where checking in
　　will take a few seconds at the most. The majority of our people will
　　arrive directly from air terminals by helicopter, so a main reception
　　point will be a private roof heliport. Secondarily there'll be
　　lower-floor receiving points where cars and limousines can drive directly
　　in, eliminating transfer to a lobby, the way we do it now. At all these
　　places there'll be a kind of instant sorting office, masterminded by an
　　IBM brain that, incidentally, is ready now.
　　"Guests with reservations will have been sent a keycoded card. They'll
　　insert it in a frame and immediately be on their way by individual
　　escalator section to a room which may have been cleared for use only
　　seconds earlier. If a room isn't ready-and it'll happen," Curtis O'Keefe
　　conceded, "just as it does now-well have small portable way stations.
　　These will be cubicles with a couple of chairs, wash basin and space for
　　baggage, just enough to freshen up after a journey and give some privacy
　　right away. People can come and go, as they do with a regular room, and
　　my engineers are working on a scheme for making the way stations mobile
　　so that later they can latch on directly to the allocated space. That
　　way, the guest will merely open an IBM cleared door, and walk on through.
　　"For those driving their own cars there'll be parallel arrangements, with
　　coded, moving lights to guide them into personal parking stalls, from
　　where other individual escalators will take them directly to their rooms.
　　In all cases we'll curtail baggage handling, using high-speed sorters and
　　conveyors, and baggage will be routed into rooms, actually arriving ahead
　　of the guests.
　　"Similarly, all other services will have automated room delivery
　　systems-valet, beverages, food, florist, drugstore, newsstand; even the
　　final bill can be received and paid by room conveyor. And incidentally,
　　apart from other benefits, I'll have broken the tipping system, a tyranny
　　we've suffered-along with our guests-for years too long."
　　139
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　　There was a silence in the paneled dining room as the hotel magnate, still
　　commandin the stage, sipped coffee before resuming.
　　"My building design and automation will keep to a minimum the need for any
　　guest room to be entered by a hotel employee. Beds, recessing into walls,
　　are to be serviced by machine from outside. Air filtration is already
　　improved to the point where dust and dirt have ceased to be problems. Rugs,
　　for example, can be laid on floors of fine steel mesh, with air space
　　beneath, suctioned once a day when a timed relay cuts in.
　　"All this, and more, can be accomplished now. Our remaining problems, which
　　naturally will be solved"-Curtis O'Keefe waved a hand in his familiar
　　dismissing gesture66our remaining problems are principally of
　　co-ordination, construction, and investment."
　　"I hope," Warren Trent said firmly, "that I never live to see it happen in
　　my house."
　　"You won't," O'Keefe informed him. "Before it can happen here we'll have to
　　tear down your house and build again.,,
　　"You'd do thatl" It was a shocked rejoinder.
　　O'Keefe shrugged. "I can't reveal long-range plans, naturally. But I'd say
　　that would be our policy before too long. If you're concerned about your
　　name surviving, I could promise you that a tablet, commemorating the origi-
　　nal hotel and possibly your own connection with it, would be incorporated
　　in the new structure."
　　"A tablet!" The St. Gregory's proprietor snorted. "Where would you put
　　it-in the mens washroom?"
　　Abruptly Dodo giggled. As the two men turned their beads involuntarily, she
　　remarked, "Maybe they won't have one. I mean, all those conveyor things,
　　who needs it?"
　　Curtis O'Keefe glanced at her sharply. There were moments occasionally when
　　he wondered if Dodo were perhaps a little brighter than generally she
　　allowed herself to seem
　　At Dodo's reaction Warren Trent had flushed with embarrassment. Now he
　　assured her in his most courtly manner, "I apologize, my dear lady, for an
　　unfortunate choice of words."
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　　                          Tuesday
　　"Gee, don7t mind me." Dodo seemed surprised. "Anyway, I think this is a
　　swell hotel." She turned her wide and seemingly innocent eyes toward
　　O'Keefe. "Curtie, why'll you have to pull it down?"
　　He answered testily, "I was merely reviewing a possibility. In any event,
　　Warren, it's time you were out of the hotel business."
　　Surprisingly, the response was mild compared with the asperity of a few
　　minutes earlier. "Even if I was wiffing to be, there are others to
　　consider beside myself. A good many of my old employees rely on me in the
　　same way I've relied on them. You tell. me your plan is to replace people
　　with automation. I couldn't walk out realizing that. I owe my staff that
　　much, at least, in return for the loyalty they've given me."
　　"Do you? Is any hotel staff loyal? Wouldn't all or most of them sell you
　　out this instant if it meant an advantage to themselves?"
　　"I assure you no. I've ran this house for more than thirty years and in
　　that time loyalty builds. Or possibly youNe had less experience in that
　　direction."
　　"I've formed some opinions about loyalty." O'Keefe spoke absently.
　　Mentally he was leafing through the report of Ogden Bailey and the
　　younger assistant Sean Hall which he had read earlier. It was Hall. whom
　　he had cautioned against reporting too many details, but one detail which
　　might now prove useful had been included in the written summary. The
　　hotelier concentrated. At length he said, "You've an old employee, havent
　　you, who runs your Pontalba Bar?"
　　"Yes-Tom Earlshore. He's been working here almost as long as I have
　　myself." In a way, Warren Trent thought, Tom Earlshore epitomized the
　　older St. Gregory employees whom he could not abandon. He himself had
　　hired Earlshore when they were both young men, and nowadays, though the
　　elderly head barman was stooped, and slowing in his work, he was one of
　　those in the hotel whom Warren Trent counted as a personal friend. As one
　　would a friend, he had helped Tom Earlshore too. There had been the time
　　when the Earlshores' baby daughter, born with a deformed hip, had been
　　sent north to Mayo Clinic for suc-
　　141
　　    HOTEL
　　cessful corrective surgery through arrangements made by Warren Trent. And
　　afterward he had quietly paid the bills, for which Tom Earlshore had long
　　ago declared undying gratitude and devotion. The Earlshore girl was now
　　a married woman with children of her own, but the bond between her father
　　and the hotel operator stiff remained. "If there's one man I'd trust with
　　anything," he told Curtis O'Keefe now, "it's Tom."
　　"You'd be a fool if you did," O'Keefe said crisply. "I've information
　　that he's bleeding you white."
　　In the shocked silence O'Keefe recited the facts. There were a
　　multiplicity of ways in which a dishonest bartender could steal from his
　　employer-by pouring short measure to obtain an extra drink or two from
　　each bottle used; by failing to ring every sale into the cash register;
　　by introducing his own privately purchased liquor into the bar, so that
　　an inventory check would show no shortage, but the proceeds-with
　　substantial profit-would be taken by the bartender himself. Tom Earlshore
　　appeared to be using all three methods. As well, according to Sean Hall's
　　informed observations over several weeks, Earlshore's two assistants were
　　in collusion with him. "A high percentage of your bar profit is being
　　skimmed off," O'Keefe declared, "and from the look of things generally,
　　I'd say it's been going on a long time."
　　Throughout the recital Warren Trent had sat immobile, ~is face
　　expressionless, though behind it his thoughts were Jeep and bitter.
　　Despite his long-standing trust of Tom Earlshore, and the friendship he
　　had believed existed, he had not the least doubt that the information
　　provided was true. He had learned too much of chain hotel espionage
　　methods to believe otherwise, nor would Curtis O'Keefe have made the
　　charge without assurance of his facts. Warren Trent had long ago assumed
　　that O'Keefe undercover men had infiltrated the St. Gregory in advance
　　of their chief's arrival. But what he had not expected was this searing
　　and personal humiliation. Now he said, "You spoke of 'other things
　　generally.' What did it mean?"
　　"Your supposedly loyal staff is riddled with corruption. There's scarcely
　　a department in which you aren't being robbed and cheated. Naturally, I
　　haven't all the details,
　　142
　　                         Tuesday
　　but those I have you're welcome to. If you wish I'll have a report
　　prepared."
　　"Thank you." The words were whispered and barely audible.
　　"You've too many fat people working for you. It was the first thing I
　　noticed when I arrived. I've always found it a warning sign. Their bellies
　　are full of hotel food, and here they've battened on you every other way."
　　There was a stillness in the small, intimate dining room, broken only by
　　the subdued ticking of a Dutch canopy clock upon the wall. At last, slowly
　　and with a trace of weariness, Warren Trent announced, "What you have told
　　me may make a difference to my own position."
　　"I thought it might." Curtis O'Keefe seemed about to rub his hands
　　together, then restrained himself. "In any case, now we've reached that
　　point I'd like to have you consider a proposal."
　　Warren Trent said drily, "I imagined you'd get to it."
　　"It's a fair proposition, particularly in the circumstances. Incidentally,
　　I should tell you that I'm familiar with your current financial picture."
　　"I'd have been surprised if you were not."
　　"Let me summarize: Your personal holdings in this hotel amount to fifty-one
　　per cent of all shares, giving you control."
　　"Correct."
　　"You refinanced the hotel in '39-a four-million-dollar mortgage. Two
　　million dollars of the loan is still outstanding and due in its entirety
　　this coming Friday. If you fail to make repayment the mortgagees take
　　over."
　　"Correct again."
　　"Four months ago you attempted to renew the mortgage. You were turned down.
　　You offered the mortgagees better terms which were still rejected. Ever
　　since you've been looking for other financing. You haven't found it. In the
　　short time remaining there is no chance whatever that you
　　1will.1)
　　Warren Trent growled, "I can't accept that. Plenty of refinancings are
　　arranged at short notice."
　　"Not this kind. And not with operating deficits as large as yours."
　　143
　　    HOTEL
　　Apart from a tightening of the lips, there was no rejoinder.
　　"My proposal," Curtis O'Keefe said, "is a purchase price for this hotel of
　　four million dollars. Of this, two millions will be obtained by renewing
　　your present mortgage, which I assure you I shall have no difficulty in
　　arranging."
　　Warren Trent nodded, sourly aware of the other's complacency.
　　"The balance will be a million dollars cash, enabling you to pay off your
　　minority stockholders, and one million dollars in O'Keefe Hotels stock-a
　　new issue to be arranged. Additionally, as a personal consideration you
　　will have the privilege of retaining your apartment here for as long as you
　　live, with my assurance that should rebuilding be undertaken we will make
　　other and mutually satisfactory arrangements."
　　Warren Trent sat motionless, his face neither revealing his thoughts nor
　　his surprise. The terms were better than he had expected. If accepted, they
　　would leave him personally with a million dollars, more or less-no small
　　achievement with which to walk away from a lifetime's work. And,yet it
　　would mean walking away; walking away from all he had built and cared
　　about, or at least-he reflected grimly-that he thought he cared about until
　　a moment or two ago.
　　"I should imagine," O'Keefe said, with an attempt at joviality, "that
　　living here, with no worries, and your man to take care of you, would be
　　moderately endurable."
　　There seemed no point in explaining that Aloysius Royce would shortly
　　graduate from law school and presumably have other ideas affecting his own
　　future. It was a reminder, though, that life in this eyrie, atop a hotel he
　　no longer controlled, would be a lonely one.
　　Warren Trent said abruptly, "Suppose I refuse to sell. What are your
　　plans?"
　　"I shall look for other property and build. Actually, I think you'll have
　　lost your hotel long before that happens. But even if you don't, the
　　competition we'll provide will force you out of business."
　　The tone was studiedly indifferent, but the mind behind it astute and
　　calculating. The truth was: the O'Keefe Hotel
　　144
　　                          Tuesday
　　Corporation wanted the St. Gregory very much, and urgently. The lack of
　　an O'Keefe affiliate in New Orleans was like a missing tooth in the
　　company's otherwise solid bite on the traveling public. It had already
　　entailed a costly loss of referral business to and from other cities-the
　　sustaining oxygen of a successful hotel chain. Disquietingly too,
　　competitive chains were exploiting the gap. The SheratonCharles was long
　　established. Hilton, as well as having its airport inn, was building in
　　the Vieux Carr6. Hotel Corporation of America had the Royal Orleans.
　　Nor were the terms which Curtis O'Keefe had offered Warren Trent other
　　than realistic. The St. Gregory mortgagees had already been sounded out
　　by an O'Keefe emissary and were unco-operative. Their intention, it
　　quickly became evident, was first to obtain control of the hotel and
　　later hold out for a big killing. If the St. Gregory was to be bought
　　reasonably, the crucial moment was now.
　　"How much time," Warren Trent asked, "are you willing to allow me?"
　　"I'd prefer your answer at once."
　　"I'm not prepared to give it."
　　"Very well." O'Keefe considered. "I've an appointment in Naples,
　　Saturday. I'd like to leave here no later than Thursday night. Suppose
　　we set a deadline of noon Thursday."
　　"That's less than forty-eigbt hours!"
　　"I see no reason to wait longer."
　　Obstinacy inclined Warren Trent to hold out for more time. Reason
　　reminded him: he would merely advance by a day the Friday deadline he
　　already faced. He conceded, "I suppose if you insist . . ."
　　"Splendid!" Smiling expansively, O'Keefe pushed back his chair and rose,
　　nodding to Dodo who had been watching Warren Trent with an expression
　　close to sympathy. "It's time for us to go, my dear. Warren, we've
　　enjoyed your hospitality." Waiting another day and a half, he decided,
　　was merely a minor nuisance. After all, there could be no doubt of the
　　eventual result.
　　At the outer doorway Dodo turned her wide blue eyes upon her host.
　　"Thanks a lot, Mr. Trent."
　　145
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　　He took her hand and bowed over it. "I don't recall when these old rooms
　　have been more graced."
　　O'Keefe glanced sharply sideways, suspecting the compliment's sincerity,
　　then realized it was genuinely meant. That was another strange thing
　　about Dodo: a rapport she achieved at times, as if instinctively, with
　　the most unlikely people.
　　In the corridor, her fingers resting lightly on his arm, he felt his own
　　senses quicken.
　　But before anything else, he reminded himself, he must pray to God,
　　giving appropriate thanks for the way the evening had gone.
　　14
　　"There's something downright exciting," Peter McDermott observed, "about
　　a girl fumbling in her handbag for the key to her apartment."
　　"It's a dual symbol," Christine said, still searching. "The apartment
　　shows woman's independence, but losing the key proves she's still
　　feminine. Here!-I've found it."
　　"Hang on!" Peter took Christine's shoulders, then kissed her. It was a
　　long kiss and in course of it his arms moved, holding her tightly.
　　At length, a shade breathlessly, she said, "My rent's paid up. If we are
　　going to do this, it might as well be in private."
　　Taking the key, Peter opened the apartment door.
　　Christine put her bag on a side table and subsided into a deep settee.
　　With relief she eased her feet from the constriction of her
　　patent-leather pumps.
　　He sat beside her. "Cigarette?"
　　"Yes, please."
　　Peter held a match flame for them both.
　　He had a sense of elation and lightheadedness; an awareness of the here
　　and now. It included a conviction that what was logical between them
　　could happen if he chose to make it.
　　"nis is nice," Christine said. "Just sitting, talking."
　　He took her hand. "We're not talking."
　　146
　　                         Tuesday
　　"Then let's."
　　:'Talking wasn't exactly . .
　　'I know. But there's a question of where we're going, and if, and why."
　　:'Couldn't we just spin the wheel .
　　'If we did, there'd be no gamble. Just a certainty." She stopped,
　　considering. "What happened just now was for the second time, and there
　　was some chemistry involved."
　　"Chemically, I thought we were doing fine."
　　"So in the course of things, there'd be a natural progression."
　　"I'm not only with you; Fra ahead."
　　"In bed, I imagine."
　　He said dreamily, "I've taken the left side-as you face the headboard."
　　"I've a disappointment for you."
　　"Don't tell me! I'll guess. You forgot to brush your teeth. Never mind,
　　I'll wait."
　　She laughed. "You're hard to talk
　　9P
　　"Talking wasn't exactly ...
　　"That's where we started."
　　Peter leaned back and blew a smoke ring. He followed it with a second and
　　a third.
　　"I've always wanted to do that," Christine said. "I never could."
　　He asked, "What kind of disappointment?"
　　"A notion. That if what could happen ... happens, it ought to mean
　　something for both of us."
　　"And would it for you?"
　　"It could, I think. I'm not sure." She was even less sure of her own
　　reaction to what might come next.
　　He stubbed out his cigarette, then took Christine's and did the same. As he
　　clasped her hands she felt her assurance crumble.
　　"We need to get to know each other." His eyes searched her face. "Words
　　aren't always the best way."
　　His arms reached out and she came to him, at first pliantly, then with
　　mounting, fierce excitement. Her lips formed eager, incoherent sounds and
　　discretion fled, the reservations of a moment earlier dissolved. Trembling,
　　and to the pounding of her heart, she told herself: whatever was
　　147
　　    HOTEL
　　to happen must take its course; neither doubt nor reasoning would divert
　　it now. She could hear Peter's quickened breathing. She closed her eyes.
　　A pause. Then, unexpectedly, they were no longer close together.
　　"Sometimes," Peter said, "there are things you remember. They crop up at
　　the damnedest times." His arms went around her, but now more tenderly.
　　He whispered, "You were right. Let's give it time."
　　She felt herself kissed gently, then heard footsteps recede. She heard
　　the unlatching of the outer door and, a moment later, its closing.
　　She opened her eyes. "Peter dearest," she breathed. "nere's no need to
　　go. Please don't go!"
　　But there was only silence and, from outside, the faint whirr of a
　　descending elevator.
　　15
　　A few minutes only remained of Tuesday.
　　In a Bourbon Street strip joint the big-hipped blonde leaned closer to
　　her male companion, one hand resting on his thigh, the fingers of the
　　other fondling the base of his neck. "Sure," she said. "Sure I want to
　　go to bed with you, honey."
　　Stan somebody, he had said he was, from a hick town in Iowa she had never
　　heard of. And if he breathes at me any more, she thought, I'll puke.
　　That's not bad breath in his mouth; it's a direct line from a sewer.
　　"Wadda we waitin' for, then?" the man asked thickly. He took her hand,
　　moving it higher on the inside of his thigh. "I got something special for
　　you there, baby."
　　She thought contemptuously: they were all the same, the loud-mouth
　　chawbacons who came here--convinced that what they had between their legs
　　was something exceptional which women panted for, and as irrationally
　　proud as if they had grown it themselves like a prize cucumber. Probably,
　　if put to a real white-hot test, this one would wind up incapable and
　　whimpering, like others. 148
　　                          Tuesday
　　But she had no intention of finding out. Godl-that stinking breath.
　　A few feet from their table the discordant jazz combo, too inexpert to
　　get work at one of the better Bourbon Street places like the Famous Door
　　or Paddock, was raggedly finishing a number. It had been danced-if you
　　chose to call untutored shuffling a dance-by one Jane Mansfield. (A
　　Bourbon Street gimmick was to take the name of a celebrated performer,
　　misspell it slightly, and allocate it to an unknown with the hope that
　　the public passing by might mistake it for the real thing.)
　　"Listen," the man from Iowa said impatiently, "whyn't we blow?"
　　"I already told you, sugar. I work here. I can't leave yet. I got my act
　　to do."
　　"Piss on your act!"
　　"Now, honey, that's not nice." As if with sudden inspiration, the hippy
　　blonde said, "What hotel you staying at?"
　　"St. Gregory."
　　"That's not far from here."
　　"Can have your pants off in five minutes."
　　She chided: "Won't I get a drink first?"
　　"You bet you will! Lefs go!"
　　"Wait, Stanley darlingl I've an idea."
　　The lines were going exactly right, she thought, like a smoothly running
　　playlet. And why not? It was the thousandth performance, give or take a
　　few hundred either way. For the past hour and a half Stan whoever-he-was
　　from somewhere had docilely followed the tired old routine: the first
　　drink-a try-on at four times the price he would have paid in an honest
　　bar. Then the waiter had brought her over to join him. They had been
　　served a succession of drinks, though, like the other girls who worked
　　on bar commission, she had had cold tea instead of cheap whiskey which
　　the customers got. And later she had tipped off the waiter to hustle the
　　full treatment-a split bottle of domestic champagne for which the bill,
　　though Stanley Sucker didn't know it yet, would be forty dollars-and just
　　let him try to get out without paying!
　　So all that remained was to ditch him, though maybe in doing so-if the
　　lines kept going right-she could earn
　　149
　　    HOTEL
　　another small commission. After all, she was entitled to some sort of bonus
　　for enduring that stinking breath.
　　He was asking, "Wha' idea, baby?"
　　"Leave me your hotel key. You can get another at the desk; they always have
　　spares. Soon as I'm through here I'll come and join you." She squeezed
　　where he had placed her hand. "You just make sure you're ready for me."
　　t6i 11 be ready."
　　"All right, then. Give me the key."
　　It was in his hand. But held tightly.
　　He said doubtfully, "Hey, you sure you'll .
　　"Honey, I promise I'll fly." Her fingers moved again. The sickening slob
　　would probably wet his pants in a minute. "After all, Stan, what girl
　　wouldn't?"
　　He pressed the key upon her.
　　Before he could change his mind she had left the table. The waiter would
　　handle the rest, helped by a muscle man if Bad Breath made trouble about
　　the bill. He probably wouldn't, though; just as he wouldn't come back. The
　　suckers never did.
　　She wondered how long he would lie hopefully awake in his hotel room, and
　　how long it would take him to realize she wasn't coming, and never would,
　　even if he stayed there the rest of his useless life.
　　Some two hours later, at the end of a day as dreary as most-though at
　　least, she consoled herself, a little more productive-the big-hipped blonde
　　sold the key for ten dollars.
　　The buyer was Keycase Milne.
　　150
　　 WEDNESDAY
　　As the first gray streaks of a new dawn filtered tenuously above New
　　Orleans, Keycase-sitting on the bed of his room at the St. Gregory-was
　　refreshed, alert, and ready for work.
　　Through the previous afternoon and early evening he had slept soundly.
　　Then he had made an excursion from the hotel, returning at two A.m. For
　　an hour and a half he had slept again, waking promptly at the time he
　　intended. Getting up, he shaved, showered, and at the end turned the
　　shower control to cold. The icy rivulets set his body, first tingling,
　　then glowing as he toweled himself vigorously.
　　One of his rituals before a professional foray was to put on fresh
　　underwear and a clean, starched shirt. Now he could feel the pleasant
　　crispness of the linen, supplementing the fine edge of tension to which
　　he had honed himself. If momentarily a brief, uneasy doubt obtruded-a
　　shadow of fear concerning the awful possibility of being sent down for
　　fifteen years if he was caught once more-he dismissed it summarily.
　　Much more satisfying was the smoothness with which his preparations had
　　gone.
　　Since arriving yesterday he had enlarged his collection of hotel keys
　　from three to five.
　　One of the extra two keys had been obtained last evening in the simplest
　　way possible-by asking for it at the hotel front desk. His own room
　　number was 830. He had asked for the key of 803.
　　151
　　    HOTEL
　　Before doing so he had taken some elementary precautions. He had made sure
　　that an 803 key was in the rack, and that the slot beneath it contained no
　　mail or messages. If there had been, he would have waited. When handing
　　over mail or messages, desk clerks had a habit of asking key claimants for
　　their names. As it was, he had loitered until the desk was busy, then
　　joined a line of several other guests. He was handed the key without
　　question. If there had been any awkwardness, he would have given the be-
　　lievable explanation that he had confused the number with his own.
　　The ease of it all, he told himself, was a good omen. Later today-making
　　sure that different clerks were on duty-he would get the keys of 380 and
　　930 the same way.
　　A second bet had paid off too. Two nights earlier, through a reliable
　　contact, he had made certain arrangements with a Bourbon Street B-girl. It
　　was she who had provided the fifth key, with a promise of more to come.
　　Only the rail terminal-after a tedious vigil covering several train
　　departures-had failed to yield results. The same thing had happened on
　　other occasions elsewhere, and Keycase decided to profit from experience.
　　Train travelers were obviously more conservative than air passengers and
　　perhaps for that reason took greater care with hotel keys. So in future he
　　would eliminate railway terminals from his plans.
　　He checked his watch. There was no longer any cause to delay, even though
　　he was aware of a curious reluctance to stir from the bed where he was
　　sitting. But, overco 1 9 it, he made his last two preparations.
　　In the bathroom he had already poured a third of a tumbler of Scotch. Going
　　in, he gargled with the whiskey thoroughly, though drinking none, and
　　eventually spitting it out into the wash basin.
　　Next he took a folded newspaper-an early edition of today's Times-Picayune,
　　bought last night-and placed it under his arm.
　　Finally, checking his pockets where his collection of keys was disposed
　　systematically, he let himself out of the room.
　　His crepe-soled shoes were silent on the service stairs.
　　152
　　                        Wednesday
　　He went two floors down to the sixth, moving easily, not hurrying.
　　Entering the sixth-floor corridor he managed to take a swift,
　　comprehensive look in both directions, though -in case he should be
　　observed-without appearing to.
　　The corridor was deserted and silent.
　　Keycase had already studied the hotel layout and the system of numbering
　　rooms. Taking the key of 641 from an inside pocket, he held it casually
　　in his hand and walked unhurriedly to where he knew the room to be.
　　The key was the first he had obtained at Moisant Airport. Keycase, above
　　all else, had an orderly mind.
　　The door of 641 was in front of him. He stopped. No light from beneath.
　　No sound from within. He produced gloves and slipped them on.
　　He felt his senses sharpen. Making no sound, he inserted the key. The key
　　turned. The door opened noiselessly. Removing the key, he went in, gently
　　closing the door behind him.
　　Faint shadows -of dawn relieved the inside darkness. Keycase stood stiff,
　　orienting himself as his eyes became accustomed to the partial light. The
　　grayness was one reason why skilled hotel thieves chose this time of day
　　to operate. The light was sufficient to see and avoid obstacles but, with
　　luck, not to be observed. There were other reasons. It was a low-point
　　in the life of any hotel-the night staff still on duty were less alert
　　as the end of their shift approached. Day workers had not yet come on.
　　Guestseven party-ers and stay-out-lates-were back in their rooms and most
　　likely to be sleeping. Dawn, too, gave people a sense of security, as if
　　the perils of the night were over.
　　Keycase could see the shape of a dressing table directly ahead. To the
　　right was the shadow of a bed. From the sound of even breathing, its
　　occupant was well asleep.
　　The dressing table was the place to look for money first.
　　He moved cautiously, his feet exploring in an arc ahead for anything
　　which might cause him to trip. He reached out, touching the dressing
　　table as he came to it. Finger tips explored the top.
　　His gloved fingers encountered a small pile of coins. Forget
　　itl-pocketing loose change meant noise. But where
　　153
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　　there were coins there was likely to be a wallet. Ah!-he had found it. It
　　was interestingly bulky.
　　A bright light in the room snapped on.
　　It happened so suddenly, without any warning sound, that Keycase's quick
　　thinking--on which he prided himself-failed him entirely.
　　Reaction was instinctive. He dropped the wallet and spun around guiltily,
　　facing the light.
　　Ile man who had switched on the bedside lamp was in pajamas, sitting up in
　　bed. He was youngish, muscular, and angry.
　　He said explosively, "What the devil do you think you're doing?"
　　Keycase stood, foolishly gaping, unable to speak.
　　Probably, Keycase reasoned afterward, the awakened sleeper needed a second
　　or two himself to collect his wits, which was why he failed to perceive the
　　initial guilty response of his visitor. But for the moment, conscious of
　　having lost a precious advantage, Keycase swung belatedly into action.
　　Swaying as if drunkenly, he declaimed, "Wadya mean, wha'm I doin'? Wha' you
　　doin' in my bed?" Unobtrusively, he slipped off the gloves.
　　"Damn you!-this is my bed. And my room!"
　　Moving closer, Keycase loosed a blast of breath, whiskey laden from his
　　gargling. He saw the other recoil. Keycase's mind was working quickly now,
　　icily, as it always had. He had bluffed his way out of dangerous situations
　　like this before.
　　It was important at this point, he knew, to become defensive, not
　　continuing an aggressive tone, otherwise the legitimate room owner might
　　become frightened and summon help. Though this one looked as if he could
　　handle any contingency himself.
　　Keycase said stupidly, "Your room? You sure?"
　　The man in bed was angrier than ever. "You lousy drunk! Of course I'm sure
　　it's my rooml"
　　"This 's 614?"
　　"You stupid jerk! it's 641."
　　"Sorry ol' man. Guess 's my mistake." Frorn under his arm Keycase took the
　　newspaper, carried to convey the 154
　　                        Wednesday
　　impression of having come in from the street. "Heresa mornin' paper.
　　Special 'livery."
　　"I don't want your goddam newspaper. Take it and get outl"
　　It had worked! Once more the well-planned escape route had paid off.
　　Already he was on the way to the door. "Said I'm sorry ol' man. No need
　　to get upset. I'm goin'."
　　He was almost out, the man in bed still glaring. He used a folded glove
　　to turn the doorknob. Then he had made it. Keycase closed the door behind
　　him.
　　Listening intently, he heard the man inside get out of bed, footsteps pad
　　to the door, the door rattle, the protective chain go on. Keycase
　　continued to wait.
　　For fully five minutes he stood in the corridor, not stirring, waiting
　　to hear if the man in the room telephoned downstairs. It was essential
　　to know. If he did, Keycase must return to his own room at once, before
　　a hue and cry. But there was no sound, no telephone call. The immediate
　　danger was removed.
　　Later, though, it might be a different story.
　　When Mr. 641 awoke again in the full light of morning he would remember
　　what had occurred. Thinking about it, he might ask himself some
　　questions. For example: Why was it that even if someone arrived at the
　　wrong room, their key fitted and they were able to get in? And once in,
　　why stand in darkness instead of switching on a light? There was also
　　Keycase's initial guilty reaction. An intelligent man, wide awake, might
　　reconstruct that part of the scene and perhaps reassess it. In any case
　　there would be reason enough for an indignant telephone call to the hotel
　　management.
　　Management-probably represented by a house detective-would recognize the
　　signs instantly. A routine check would follow. Whoever was in room 614
　　would be contacted and, if possible, the occupants of both rooms brought
　　face to face. Each would affirm that neither had ever seen the other
　　previously. The house dick would not be surprised, but it would confirm
　　his suspicion that a professional hotel thief was at large in the
　　building. Word would 155
　　    HOTEL
　　spread quickly. At the outset of Keycase's campaign, the entire hotel
　　staff would be alert and watchful.
　　It was likely, too, that the hotel would contact the local police. They,
　　in turn, would ask the FBI for information about known hotel thieves who
　　might be moving around the country. Whenever such a list came, it was a
　　certainty that the name of Julius Keycase Milne would be on it. There
　　would be photographs-police mug shots for showing around the hotel to
　　desk clerks and others.
　　What he ought to do was pack up and run. If he hurried, he could be clear
　　of the city in less than an hour.
　　Except that it ple. He had invested money-the car,
　　the motel, his hotel room, the B-girl. Now. funds were running low. He
　　must show a profit-a good one--out of New Orleans. Think again, Keycase
　　told himself. Think hard.
　　So far he had considered the worst that could happen. Look at it the
　　other way.
　　Even if the sequence of events he had thought of occurred, it might take
　　several days. The New Orleans police were busy. Accordingto the morning
　　paper, all available detectives were working overtime on an unsolved
　　hit-andrun case-a double killing the whole city was excited about. It was
　　unlikely the police would take time out from that when, in the hotel, no
　　crime had actually been committed. They'd get around to it eventually,
　　though. They always did.
　　So how long did he have? Being conservative, another clear day; probably
　　two. He considered carefully. It would be enough.
　　By Friday morning he could have cleaned up and be clear of the city,
　　covering his tracks behind him.
　　The decision was made. Now, what next-at this moment? Return to his own
　　room on the eighth floor, leaving further action until tomorrow, or carry
　　on? The temptation not to continue was strong. The incident of a moment
　　ago had shaken him far more-if he was honest with himself -than the same
　　kind of thing ever used to. His own room seemed a safe and comfortable
　　haven.
　　Then he decided grimly: he must go on. He had once read that when a
　　military airplane pilot crashed through 156
　　                        Wednesday
　　no fault of his own, he was at once sent up again before he could lose his
　　nerve. He must follow the same principle.
　　The very first key he had obtained had failed him. Perhaps it was an omen,
　　indicating that he should reverse the order and try the last. The Bourbon
　　Street B-girl had given him 1062. Another omen!-his lucky two. Counting the
　　flights as he went, Keyease ascended the service stairs.
　　The man named Stanley, from Iowa, who had fallen for the oldest sucker
　　routine on Bourbon Street, was at last asleep. He had waited for the
　　big-hipped blonde, hopefully at first, then, as the hours passed, with
　　diminishing confidence plus a discomfiting awareness that he had been
　　taken, but good. Finally, when his eyes would stay open no longer, he
　　rolled over into a deep, alcoholic sleep.
　　He neither heard Keycase enter, nor move carefully and methodically around
　　the room. He continued to sleep soundly as Keycase extracted the money from
　　his wallet, then pocketed his watch, signet ring, gold cigarette case,
　　matching lighter and diamond cuff links. He did not stir as Keycase, just
　　as quietly, left.
　　It was mid-morning before Stanley from Iowa awoke, and another hour before
　　he was aware-through the miasma of a whopping hangover--of having been
　　robbed. When at length the extent of this new disaster penetrated, adding
　　itself to his present wretchedness plus the costly and unproductive
　　experience of the night before, he sat in a chair and blubbered like a
　　child.
　　Long before then, Keycase cached his gains.
　　Leaving 1062, Keycase had decided it was becoming too light to risk another
　　entry elsewhere, and returned to his own room, 830. He counted the money.
　　It amounted to a satisfactory ninety-four dollars, mostly fives and tens,
　　and all used bills which meant they could not be identified. Happily he
　　added the cash to his own wallet.
　　The watch and other items were more complex. He had hesitated at first
　　about the wisdom of taking them, but had given in to greed and opportunity.
　　It meant, of course, that an alarm would be raised sometime today. People
　　might lose money and not be certain how or where, but the absence of
　　jewelry pointed, conclusively to theft. The possibility of prompt police
　　attention was now much more 157
　　    HOTEL
　　likely, and the time he had allowed himself might be lessened, though
　　perhaps not. He found his confidence increasing, along with more
　　willingness now to take risks if needed.
　　Among his effects was a small businessman's valisethe kind you could
　　carry in and out of a hotel without attracting attention. Keycase packed
　　the stolen items in it, observing that they would undoubtedly bring him
　　a hundred dollars from a reliable fence, though in real value they were
　　worth much more.
　　He waited, allowing time for the hotel to awaken and the lobby to become
　　reasonably occupied. Then he took the elevator down and walked out with
　　the bag to the Canal Street parking lot where he had left his car the
　　night before. From there he drove carefully to his rented room in the
　　motel on Chef Menteur Highway. He made one stop en route, raising the
　　hood of the Ford and pretending engine trouble while he retrieved the
　　motel key hidden in the carburetor air filter. At the motel he stayed
　　only long enough to transfer the valuables to another locked bag. On the
　　way back to town he repeated the pantomime with the car, replacing the
　　key. When he had parked the car-on a different parking lot this
　　time-there was nothing, either on his person or in his hotel room, to
　　connect him with the stolen loot.
　　He now felt so good about everything, he stopped for breakfast in the St.
　　Gregory coffee shop.
　　It was afterward, coming out, that he saw the Duchess of Croydon.
　　She had emerged, a moment earlier, from an elevator into the hotel lobby.
　　The Bedlington terriers-three on one side, two on the other-frisked ahead
　　like spirited outriders. The Duchess held their leashes firmly and with
　　authority, though her thoughts were clearly elsewhere, her eyes focused
　　forward, as if seeing through the hotel walls and far beyond. The superb
　　hauteur, her hallmark, was as evident as always. Only the observant might
　　have noticed fines of strain and weariness in her face which cosmetics
　　and an effort of will power had not obscured entirely.
　　Keycase stopped, at first startled and unbelieving. His eyes reassured
　　him: it was the Duchess of Croydon. Keycase, an avid reader of magazines
　　and newspapers, had 158
　　                        Wednesday
　　seen too many photographs not to b I e sure. And the Duch
　　ess was staying, presumably, in this hotel.
　　His mind raced. The Duchess of Croydon's gem collection was among the
　　world's most fabulous. Whatever the occasion, she never appeared anywhere
　　without being resplendently jeweled. Even now his eyes narrowed at the
　　sight of her rings and a sapphire clip, wom casually, which must be
　　priceless. The Duchess's habit meant that, despite precautions, there would
　　always be a part of her collection close at hand.
　　A half-formed idea-reckless, audacious, impossible ... or was it? ... was
　　taking shape in Keyease's mind.
　　He continued watching as, the terriers preceding, the Duchess of Croydon
　　swept through the St. Gregory lobby and into the sunlit street.
　　2
　　Herbie Chandler arrived early at the hotel, but for his own advantage, not
　　the St. Gregory's.
　　Among the bell captain's sideline rackets was one referred to--in the many
　　hotels where it existed-as "the liquor butt hustle."
　　Hotel guests who entertained in their rooms, or even drank alone, often had
　　an inch or two of liquor left in bottles at the time of their departure.
　　When packing their bags, most of these guests refrained from including the
　　liquor ends, either through fear of leakage or to avoid airline excess
　　baggage charges. But human psychology made them balk at pouring good liquor
　　away and usually it was left, intact, on dressing tables of the vacated
　　rooms.
　　If a bellboy observed such a residue when summoned to carry a guest's bags
　　at checkout time, he was usually back within a few minutes to collect it.
　　Where guests carried their own bags, as many preferred to do nowadays, the
　　floor maid would usually notify a bellboy, who would cut her in on his
　　eventual share of profit.
　　The dribs and drabs of liquor found their way to the
　　comer of a basement storeroom, the private domain of
　　Herbie Chandler. It was preserved as such through the
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　　agency of a storekeeper who, in turn, received help from Chandler with
　　certain larcenies of his own.
　　The bottles were brought here, usually in laundry bags which bellboys
　　could carry within the hotel without arousing comment. In the course of
　　a day or two the amount collected was surprisingly large.
　　Every two or three days-more frequently if the hotel was busy with
　　conventions-the bell captain consolidated his hoard, as he was doing now.
　　Herbie sorted the bottles containing gin into a single group. Selecting
　　two of the more expensive labels, and employing a small well-worn funnel,
　　he emptied the other miscellaneous brands into them. He ended with the
　　first bottle full and the second three quarters full. He capped them
　　both, putting the second bottle aside for topping up at the next
　　consolidation. He repeated the process with bourbon, Scotch, and rye. In
　　all, there were seven full bottles and several partial ones. A lonely few
　　ounces of vodka he emptied, after a moment's hesitation, into the gin.
　　Later in the day the seven full bottles would be delivered to a bar a few
　　blocks from the St. Gregory. The bar owner, only mildly concerned with
　　scruples about quality, served the liquor to customers, paying Herbie
　　half the going price of regularly bottled supplies. Periodically, for
　　those involved within the hotel, Herbie would declare a dividend-usually
　　as small as he dared make it.
　　Recently the liquor butt hustle had been doing well, and today's
　　accumulation would have pleased Herbie if he had not,been preoccupied
　　with other thoughts. Late last night there had been a telephone call from
　　Stanley Dixon. The young man had relayed his own version of the conver-
　　sation between himself and Peter McDermott. He had also reported the
　　appointment-for himself and his croniesin McDermott's office at four P.m.
　　the following afternoon, which was now today. What Dixon wanted to find
　　out was: Just how much did McDermott know?
　　Herbie Chandler had been unable to supply an answer, except to warn Dixon
　　to be discreet and admit nothing. But, ever since, he had been wondering
　　what exactly happened in rooms 1126-7 two nights earlier, and just how
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　　well mformed-concerning the bell captain's own part in it-the assistant
　　general manager was.
　　It was another nine hours until four o'clock. They would, Herbie expected,
　　pass slowly.
　　3
　　As he did most mornings, Curtis O'Keefe showered first and prayed
　　afterward. The procedure was typically efficient since he came clean to God
　　and also dried off thoroughly in a towel robe during the twenty minutes or
　　so he was on his knees.
　　Bright sunshine, entering the comfortable air-conditioned suite, gave the
　　hotelier a sense of well being. The feeling transferred itself to his
　　loquacious prayers which took on the air of an intimate man-to-man chat.
　　Curtis O'Keefe did not forget, however, to remind God of his own continuing
　　interest in the St. Gregory Hotel.
　　Breakfast was in Dodo's suite. She ordered for them both, after frowning at
　　length over a menu, followed by a protracted conversation with room service
　　during which she changed the entire order several times. Today the choice
　　of juice seemed to be causing her the most uncertainty and she
　　vacillated-through an exchange with the unseen order taker lasting several
　　minutes--over the comparative merits of pineapple, grapefruit, and orange.
　　Curtis O'Keefe amusedly pictured the havoc which the prolonged call was
　　causing at the busy room-service order desk eleven floors below.
　　Waiting for the meal to arrive, he leafed through the morning newspapers
　　the New Orleans Times-Picayune and an airmailed New York Times. Locally, he
　　observed, there had been no fresh developments in the hit-and-run case that
　　had eclipsed most other Crescent City news. In New York, he saw, on the Big
　　Board, O'Keefe Hotels stock had slipped three quarters of a point. The
　　decline was not significant-merely a normal fluctuation, and there was sure
　　to be an offsetting rise when word of the chain's new acquisition in New
　　Orleans leaked out, as it probably would before too long.
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　　The thought reminded him of the annoying two days he would have to wait
　　for confirmation. He regretted that he had not insisted on a decision
　　last night; but now, having given his word, there was nothing to do but
　　bide his time patiently. He had not the least doubt of a favorable
　　decision from Warren Trent. There could, in fact, be no possible
　　alternative.
　　Near the end of breakfast there was a telephone callwhich Dodo answered
　　first-from Hank Lemnitzer, Curtis O'Keefe's personal representative on
　　the West Coast. Halfsuspecting the nature of the call, he took it in his
　　own suite, closing the communicating door behind him.
　　The subject he had expected to be raised came up after a routine report
　　on various financial interests-outside the hotel business--on which
　　Lemnitzer astutely rode herd.
　　"There's one thing, Mr. O'Keefe"-the nasal Californian drawl came down
　　the telephone. "It's about Jenny LaMarsh, the doll ... er, the young lady
　　you kindly expressed interest in that time at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
　　You remember her?"
　　O'Keefe remembered well: a striking, rangy brunette with a superb figure,
　　coolly amused smile, and a quick mischievous wit. He had been impressed
　　both with her obvious potential as a woman and the range of her
　　conversation. Someone had said, he seemed to recall, that she was a
　　Vassar graduate. She had a contract of sorts with one of the smaller
　　movie studios.
　　"Yes, I do."
　　"I've talked with her, Mr. O'Keefe-quite a few times. Anyway, she'd be
　　pleased to go along with you on a trip. Or two."
　　There was no need to ask if Miss LaMarsh knew the kind of relationship
　　her trip would entail. Hank Lemnitzer would have taken care of that. The
　　possibilities, Curtis O'Keefe admitted to himself, were interesting.
　　Conversation, as well as other things with Jenny LaMarsh, would be highly
　　stimulating. Certainly she would have no troublc holding her own with
　　people they met together. Nor would she be tom by indecisions about
　　things as simple as choosing fruit juice.
　　But, surprising himself, he hesitated,
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　　"There's one thing I'd like to ensure, and that's Miss Lash's future."
　　Hank Lemnitzer's voice came confidently across the continent. "Don't give
　　it a thought. I'll take care of Dodo, same's I did all the others."
　　Curtis O'Keefe said sharply, "That isn't the point." Despite Lemnitzer's
　　usefulness, at times there were certain subtleties he lacked.
　　"Just what is the point, Mr. O'Keefe?"
　　"I'd like you to line up something for Miss Lash specifically. Something
　　good. And I want to know about it before she leaves."
　　The voice sounded doubtful. "I guess I could. Of course, Dodo isn't the
　　brightest . . ."
　　O'Keefe insisted, "Not just anything, you understand. And take your time
　　if necessary."
　　"What about Jenny LaMarsb?"
　　"She doesn't have anything else ... T'
　　"I guess not." There was the grudging sense of concession to a whim,
　　then, breezily once more: "Okay, Mr. O'Keefe, whatever you say. You'll
　　be hearing from me."
　　When he returned to the sitting room of the other suite, Dodo was
　　stacking their used breakfast dishes on the roomservice trolley. He
　　snapped irritably, "Don't do that! There are hotel staff paid for that
　　kind of work."
　　"But I like doing it, Curtie." She turned her eloquent eyes upon him and
　　momentarily, he saw, there was a bewildered hurt. But she stopped all the
　　same.
　　Unsure of the reason for his own ill humor, he informed her, "I'm going
　　to take a walk through the hotel." Later today, he decided, he would make
　　amends to Dodo by taking her on an inspection of the city. There was a
　　harbor tour, he recalled, on an ungainly old stern-wheeler called the
　　S.S. President. It was usually packed with sightseers and was the kind
　　of thing she would enjoy.
　　At the outer doorway, on impulse, he told her about it. She responded by
　　flinging her arms around his neck. "Curtie; it'll be endsville! I'll fix
　　my hair so it doesn't blow in the wind. Like this!"
　　She removed one lissome arm and with it pulled the flowing ash-blond hair
　　back from her face, twisting it into
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　　a tight, profiling skein. The effect-her face tilted upward, her unaffected
　　joy-was of such breathtaking, simple beauty that he had an impulse to change
　　his immediate plans and stay. Instead, he grunted something about returning
　　soon and abruptly closed the suite door behind him.
　　He rode an elevator down to the main mezzinine and from there took the
　　stairway to the lobby where he resolutely put Dodo out of his mind.
　　Strolling with apparent casualness, he was aware of covert glances from
　　passing hotel employees who, at the sight of him, seemed affected with
　　sudden energy. Ignoring them, he continued to observe the physical
　　condition of the hotel, comparing his own reactions with those in Ogden
　　Bailey's undercover report. His opinion of yesterday that the St. Gregory
　　required a firm directing hand was confirmed by what he saw. He also shared
　　Bailey's view about potential new sources of revenue.
　　Experience told him, for example, that the massive pillars in the lobby
　　were probably not holding anything up. Providing they weren't, it would be
　　a simple matter to hollow out a section of each and rent the derived space
　　as showcases for local merchants.
　　In the arcade beneath the lobby he observed a choice area occupied by a
　　florist shop. The rent which the hotel received was probably around three
　　hundred dollars monthly. But the same space, developed imaginatively as a
　　modem cocktail lounge (a riverboat theme!-why not?) might easily gross
　　fifteen thousand dollars in the same period. The florist could be relocated
　　handily.
　　Returning to the lobby, he could see more space that should be put to work.
　　By eliminating part of the existing public area, another half-dozen sales
　　counters-air lines, car rental, tours, jewelry, a drugstore perhaps-could
　　be profitably squeezed in. It would entail a change in character,
　　naturally; the present air of leisurely comfort would have to go, along
　　with the shrubbery and thick pile rugs. But nowadays, brightly lighted-
　　lobbies with advertising everywhere you looked were what helped to make
　　hotel balance sheets more cheerful.
　　Another thing: most of the chairs should be taken away. If people wanted to
　　sit down, it was more profitable that 164
　　                        Wednesday
　　they be obliged to do so in one of the hotel's bars or restaurants.
　　He had learned a lesson about free seating years ago. It was in his very
　　first hotel-a jerry-built, false-fronted fire trap in a small
　　Southwestern city. The hotel had one distinction: a dozen pay toilets
　　which at various times were used--or seemed to be-by every farmer and
　　ranch hand for a hundred miles around. To the surprisc of young Curtis
　　O'Keefe, the revenue from this source was substantial, but one thing
　　prevented it becoming greater: a state law which required one of the
　　twelve toilets to be operated free of charge, and the habit, which
　　thrifty minded farm hands had acquired- of lining up to use the free one.
　　He solved the problem by hiring the town drunk. For twenty cents an hour
　　and a bottle of cheap wine the man had sat on the free toilet stoically
　　through every busy day. Receipts from the others had soared immediately.
　　Curtis O'Keefe smiled, remembering.
　　The lobby, he noticed, was becoming busier. A group of new arrivals had
　　just come in and were registering, preceding others still checking
　　baggage that was being unloaded from an airport limousine. A small line
　　had formed at the reception counter. O'Keefe stood watching.
　　It was then he observed what apparently no one else, so far, had seen.
　　A middle-aged, well-dressed Negro, valise in hand, had entered the hotel.
　　He came toward Reception. walking unconcernedly as if for an afternoon
　　stroll. At the counter he put down his bag and stood waiting, third in
　　line.
　　The exchange, when it came, was clearly audible.
　　"Good morning," the Negro said. His voice-a Midwestern accent-was amiable
　　and cultured. "I'm Dr. Nicholas; you have a reservation for me." While
　　waiting he had removed a black Homburg hat revealing carefully brushed
　　iron-gray hair.
　　"Yes, sir; if you'll register, please." The words were spoken before the
　　clerk looked up. As he did, his features stiffened. A hand went out,
　　withdrawing the registration pad he had pushed forward a moment earlier.
　　"I'm sorry," he said firmly, "the hotel is full."
　　Unperturbed, the Negro responded smilingly. "I have a 165
　　    HOTEL
　　reservation. The hotel sent a letter confirming it." His hand went to an
　　inside pocket, producing a wallet with papers protruding, from which he
　　selected one.
　　"There must have been a mistake. I'm sorry." The clerk barely glanced at
　　the letter placed in front of him. "We have a convention here."
　　"I know." The other nodded, his smile a shade thinner than before. "It's
　　a convention of dentists. I happen to be one."
　　The room clerk shook his head. "There's nothing I can do for you."
　　The Negro put away his papers. "In that case I'd like to talk with
　　someone else."
　　While they had been speaking still more new arrivals had joined the line
　　in front of the counter. A man in a belted raincoat inquired impatiently,
　　"What's the hold-up here?" O'Keefe remained still. He had a sense that
　　in the now crowded lobby a time bomb was ticking, ready to explode.
　　"You can talk to the assistant manager." Leaning forward across the
　　counter, the room clerk called sharply, "Mr. Baileyl"
　　Across the lobby an elderly man at an alcove desk looked up.
　　"Mr. Bailey, would you come here, please?"
　　The assistant manager nodded and, with a suggestion of tiredness, eased
　　himself upright. As he walked deliberately across, his fined, pouched
　　face assumed a professional greetees smile.
　　An old-timer, Curtis O'Keefe thought; after years of room clerking he had
　　been given a chair and desk in the lobby with authority to handle minor
　　problems posed by guests. The title of assistant manager, as in most
　　hotels, was mainly a sop to the public's vanity, allowing them to believe
　　they were dealing with a higher personage than in reality. The real
　　authority of the hotel was in the executive offices, out of sight.
　　"Nft. Bailey," the room clerk said, "I've explained to this gentleman
　　that the hotel is full.,"
　　"And I've explained," the Negro counter4 "that I have a confirmed
　　reservation."
　　166
　　                        Wednesday
　　The assistant manager beamed benevolently, his manifest good-will
　　encompassing the line of waiting guests. "Well," he acknowledged, "we'll
　　just have to see what we can do." He placed a pudgy, nicotine-stained
　　hand on the sleeve of Dr. Nicholas's expensively tailored suit. "Won't
　　you come and sit down over here?" As the other allowed himself to be
　　steered toward the alcove: "Occasionally these things happen, I'm afraid.
　　When they do, we try to make amends."
　　Mentally Curtis O'Keefe acknowledged that the elderly man knew his job.
　　Smoothly and without fuss, a potentially embarrassing scene had been
　　eased from center stage into the wings. Meanwhile the other arrivals were
　　being quickly checked in with the aid of a second room clerk who had
　　joined the first. Only a youthful, broad-shouldered man, owlish behind
　　heavy glasses, had left the line-up and was watching the new development.
　　Well, O'Keefe thought, perhaps there might be no explosion after all. He
　　waited to see.
　　The assistant manager gestured his companion to a chair beside the desk
　　and eased into his own. He listened carefully, his expression
　　noncommittal, as the other repeated the information he had given the room
　　clerk.
　　At the end the older man nodded. "Well, doctor"-the tone was briskly
　　businesslike-"I apologize for the misunderstanding, but I'm sure we can
　　find you other accommodation in the city." With one hand he pulled a
　　telephone toward him and lifted the receiver. The other hand slid out a
　　leaf from the desk, revealing a list of phone numbers.
　　"Just a moment." For the first time the visitor's soft voice had taken
　　on an edge. "You tell me the hotel is full, but your clerks are checking
　　people in. Do they have some special kind of reservation?"
　　"I guess you could say that." The professional smile had disappeared.
　　"Jim Nicholas!" The boisterously cheerful greeting resounded across the
　　lobby. Behind the voice a small elderly man with a sprightly rubicund
　　face surmounted by a coxcomb of unruly white hair took short hurried
　　strides toward the alcove.
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　　The Negro stood. "Dr. Ingram! How good to see youl" He extended his hand
　　which the older man grasped.
　　"How are you, Jim, my boy? No, don't answer! I can see for myself you're
　　fine. Prosperous too, from the look of you. I assume your practice is
　　going well."
　　"It is, thank you." Dr. Nicholas smiled. "Of course my university work
　　still takes a good deal of time."
　　"Don't I know it! Don't I know it! I spend all my life teaching fellows
　　like you, and then you all go out and get the big-paying practices." As
　　the other grinned broadly: "Anyway you seem to have gotten the best of
　　both-with a fine reputation. That paper of yours on malignant mouth
　　tumors has caused a lot of discussion and we're all looking forward to
　　a first-hand report. By the way, I shall have the pleasure of introducing
　　you to the convention. You know they made me president this year?"
　　"Yes, I'd heard. I cant think of a finer choice."
　　As the two talked, the assistant manager rose slowly from his chair. His
　　eyes moved uncertainly between their faces.
　　The small, white-haired man, Dr. Ingram, was laughing. He patted his
　　colleague jovially on the shoulder. "Give me your room number, Jim. A few
　　of us will be getting together for drinks later on. I'd like to have you
　　join us."
　　"Unfortunately," Dr. Nicholas said, "I've been told I won't be getting
　　a room. It seems to have something to do with my color."
　　There was a shocked silence in which the dentists' president flushed deep
　　red. Then, his face muscles hardening, he asserted, "Jim, I'll deal with
　　this. I promise you there'll be an apology and a room. If there isWt, I
　　guarantee every other dentist will walk out of this hotel."
　　A moment earlier the assistant manager had beckoned a bellboy. Now he
　　instructed urgently, "Get Mr. McDermott-fastl"
　　4
　　For Peter McDermott the day began with a minor piece of organization.
　　Among his morning mail was a memo from Reservations, informing him that
　　Mr. and Mrs. Justin
　　168
　　                        Wednesday
　　Kubek of Tuscaloosa were due to check into the St. Gregory the following
　　day. What made the Kubeks special was an accompanying note from Mrs. Kubek,
　　advising that her husband's height was seven foot one.
　　Seated behind his office desk, Peter wished all hotel problems were that
　　simple.
　　"Tell the carpenters' shop," he instructed his secretary, Flora Yates.
　　"They probably still have that bed and mattress we used for General de
　　Gaulle; if not, they'll have to put something else together. Tomorrow have
　　a room allocated early and the bed made up before the Kubeks get ht-re.
　　Tell Housekeeping too; they'll need special sheets and blankets."
　　Seated composedly on the opposite side of the desk, Flora made her notes,
　　as usual without fuss or question. The instructions would be relayed
　　correctly, Peter knew, and tomorrow-without his needing to remind her-Flora
　　would check to make sure that they had been carried out.
　　He inherited Flora on first coming to the St. Gregory and had long since
　　decided she was everything a secretary should be-competent, reliable,
　　nudging forty, contentedly married, and plain as a cement block wall. One
　　of the handy things about Flora, Peter thought, was that he could like her
　　immensely-as he did-without it proving a distraction. Now, if Christine had
　　been working for him, he reflected, instead of for Warren Trent, the effect
　　would have been far different.
　　Since his impetuous departure from Christine's apartment last night, she
　　had been out of his mind only briefly Even sleeping, he had dreamed about
　　her. The dream was an odyssey in which they floated serenely down a green-
　　banked river (he was not sure aboard what) to an accompaniment of heady
　　music in which harps, he seemed to recall, were featured strongly. He had
　　told Christine this on telephoning her early this morning and she had
　　asked, "Were we going upstream or down?-that ought to be significant." But
　　he could not remember-only that he had enjoyed the whole thing tremendously
　　and hoped (he informed Christine) to pick up later where he had left off
　　last night.
　　Before that, however-sometime this evening-they
　　169
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　　were to meet again. Just when and where would be arranged later, they
　　agreed. "It'll give me an excuse to call you," Peter said.
　　"Who needs a reason?" she had responded. "Besides, this morning I intend to
　　find some terribly unimportant piece of paper that suddenly has to be
　　delivered to you personally." She sounded happy, almost breathless, as if
　　the excitement they had found in each other last night had spilled over
　　into the new day.
　　Hoping Christine would come soon, he returned his attention to Flora and
　　the morning mail.
　　It was a normal mixed batch, including several queries about conventions,
　　which he dealt with first. As usual, Peter assumed his favorite position
　　for dictating-feet elevated on a high leather wastebasket, and his padded
　　swivel chair tilted precariously back, so that his body was almost
　　horizontal. He found he could think incisively in that position, which he
　　had refined through experimentation, so that now the chair was poised at
　　the outer limits of balance, with only a hairsbreadth bet
　　and disaster. As she often did, Flora watched expectantly during pauses in
　　note taking. She just sat watching, making no comment.
　　There was another letter today-which he answered next -from a New Orleans
　　resident whose wife had attended a private wedding reception in the hotel
　　some five weeks earlier. During the reception she placed her wild mink
　　jacket on a piano, along with clothes and belongings of other guests.
　　Subsequently she had discovered a bad cigarette bum, necessitating a
　　one-hundred-dollar repair to the coat. The husband was attempting to
　　collect from the hotel, and his latest letter contained a strongly worded
　　threat to sue.
　　Peter's reply was polite but firm. He pointed out-as he had previously-that
　　the hotel provided checking facilities which the letter writer's wife had
　　chosen not to use. Had she used the check room, the hotel would have con-
　　sidered a claim. As it was, the St. Gregory was not responsible.
　　The husband's letter, Peter suspected, was probably just a try-on, though
　　it could develop into a lawsuit; there had been plenty of equally silly
　　ones in the past. Usually the 170
　　                        Wednesday
　　courts dismissed such claims with costs for the hotel, but they were
　　annoying because of time and effort they consumed. It sometimes seemed,
　　Peter thought, as if the public considered a hotel a convenient milch cow
　　with a cornucopian udder.
　　He had selected another letter when there was a light tap on the door
　　from the outer office. He looked up, expecting to see Christine.
　　61t9s just me," Marsha Preyscott said. "There wasn't anyone outside, so
　　I . . ." She caught sight of Peter. "Oh, my goodness!-won't you fall over
　　backwards?"
　　"I haven't yet," he said-and promptly did.
　　The resounding crash was followed by a second's startled silence.
　　From the floor behind his desk, looking upward, he assessed the damage.
　　His left ankle stung painfully where it had struck a leg of the
　　overturning chair on the way down. The back of his head ached as he
　　fingered it, though fortunately the rug had cushioned most of the impact.
　　And there was his vanished dignity-attested to by Marsha's rippling
　　laughter and Flora's more discreet smile.
　　They came around the desk to help him up. Despite his discomfiture, he
　　was aware once more of Marsha's fresh, breathtaking radiance. Today she
　　had on a simple blue linen dress which somehow emphasized the half-woman,
　　half-child quality he had been conscious of yesterday. Her long black
　　hair, as it had the day before, hung lustrously about her shoulders.
　　"You should use a safety net," Marsha said. "Like they do in a circus."
　　Peter grinned ruefully. "Maybe I could get a clown outfit too."
　　Flora restored the heavy swivel chair to its upright position. As he
　　clambered up, Marsha and Flora taking an elbow each, Christine came in.
　　She stopped at the doorway, a sheaf of papers in her hand. Her eyebrows
　　went up. "Am I intruding?"
　　"No," Peter said. "I ... well, I fell out of my chair."
　　Christine's eyes moved to the solidly standing chair.
　　He said, "It went over back-wards."
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　　"They do that, don't they? All the time." Christine glanced toward
　　Marsha. Flora had quietly left.
　　Peter introduced them.
　　"How do you do, Miss Preyscott," Christine said. "I've heard of you."
　　Marsha had glanced appraisingly from Peter to Christine. She answered
　　coolly, "I expect, working in a hotel, you hear all kinds of gossip, Miss
　　Francis. You do work here, don't you?"
　　"Gossip wasn't what I meant," Christine acknowledged. "But you're right,
　　I work here. So I can come back any old time, when things aren't so
　　hectic or private."
　　Peter sensed an instant antagonism between Marsha and Christine. He
　　wondered what had caused it.
　　As if interpreting his thoughts, Marsha smiled sweetly. "Please don't go
　　on my account, Miss Francis. I just came in for a minute to remind Peter
　　about dinner tonight." She turned toward him. "You hadn't forgotten, had
　　you?"
　　Peter had a hollow feeling in his stomach. "No," he lied, "I hadn't
　　forgotten."
　　Christine broke the ensuing silence. "Tonight?"
　　"Oh dear," Marsha said. "Does he have to work or something?"
　　Christine shook her head decisively. "He won't have a thing to do. I'll
　　see to it myself."
　　"That's terribly sweet of you." Marsha flashed the smile again. "Well,
　　I'd better be off. Oh, yes-seven o'clock," she told Peter, "and it's on
　　Prytania Street-the house with four big pillars. Goodbye, Miss Francis."
　　With a wave of her hand she went out, closing the door.
　　Her expression guileless, Christine inquired, "Would you like me to write
　　that down?-the house with four big pillars. So you won't forget."
　　He raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I know -you and I had
　　a date. When I made it, I'd forgotten about the other arrangement because
　　last night . . . with you ... drove everything else out of my mind. When
　　we talked this morning, I guess I was confused."
　　Christine said brightly, "Well, I can understand that. Who wouldn't be
　　confused with so many women under foot?"
　　172
　　                        Wednesday
　　She was determined-even though with an effort-to be lighthearted and, if
　　necessary, understanding. She reminded herself: despite last night, she
　　had no lien on Peter's time, and what he said about confusion was
　　probably true. She added, "I hope you have a delightful evening."
　　He shifted uncomfortably. "Marsha's just a child."
　　There were limits, Christine decided, even to patient understanding. Her
　　eyes searched his face. "I suppose you really believe that. But speaking
　　as a woman, let me advise you that little Miss Preyscott bears as much
　　resemblance to a child as a kitten to a tiger. But it would be fun I
　　should think-for a man-to be eaten up."
　　He shook his head impatiently. "You couldn't be more wrong. It's simply
　　that she went through a trying experience two nights ago and .
　　"And needed a friend."
　　"That's right."
　　"And there you werel"
　　"We got talking. And I said I'd go to a dinner party at her house
　　tonight. There'll be other people."
　　"Are you sure?"
　　Before he could reply, the telephone shrilled. With a gesture of
　　annoyance, he answered it.
　　"Mr. McDermott," a voice said urgently, "there's trouble in the lobby and
　　the assistant manager says will you please come quickly."
　　When he replaced the telephone, Christine had gone.
　　There were moments of decision, Peter McDermott thought grimly, which you
　　hoped you would never have to face. When and if you did, it was like a
　　dreaded nightmare come to reality. Even worse, your conscience, con-
　　viction, integrity, and loyalties were tom asunder.
　　It had taken him less than a minute to size up the situation in the
　　lobby, even though explanations were still continuing. The dignified,
　　middle-aged Negro, now seated quietly by the alcove desk, the indignant
　　Dr. Ingramrespected president of the dentists' congress, and the
　　assist-
　　173
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　　ant manager's bland indifference now that responsibility had been shifted
　　from his shoulders-these alone told Peter all he needed to know.
　　It was distressingly plain that a crisis had abruptly appeared which, if
　　badly handled, might set off a major explosion.
　　He was aware of two spectators-Curtis O'Keefe, the familiar,
　　much-photographed face watching intently from a discreet distance. The
　　second spectator was a youthful, broad-shouldered man with heavy rimmed
　　glasses, wearing gray flannel trousers with a tweed jacket. He was
　　standing, a well-traveled suitcase beside him, seemingly surveying the
　　lobby casually, yet missing nothing of the dramatic scene beside the
　　assistant manager's desk.
　　The dentists' president drew himself to his full five feet six height,
　　his round rubicund face flushed and tight lipped beneath the unruly white
　　hair. "McDermott, if you and your hotel persist in this incredible
　　insult, I'm giving you fair warning you've bought yourself a pile of
　　trouble." The diminutive doctor's eyes flashed angrily, his voice rising.
　　"Dr Nicholas is a highly distinguished member of our profession. When you
　　refuse to accommodate him, let me inform you it's a personal affront to
　　me and to every member of our congress."
　　If I were on the sidelines, Peter thought, and not involved, I'd probably
　　be cheering for that. Reality cautioned him: I am involved. My job is to
　　get this scene out of the lobby, somehow. He suggested, "Perhaps you and
　　Dr. Nicholas"-his eyes took in the Negro courteously-"would come to my
　　office where we can discuss this quietly."
　　"No, sifl-we'll damn well discuss it right here. There'll be no hiding
　　this in some dark comer." The fiery little doctor had his feet set
　　firmly. "Now then!-will you register my friend and colleague Dr.
　　Nicholas, or not?"
　　Heads were turning now. Several people had paused in their progress
　　through the lobby. The man in the tweed jacket, still feigning
　　disinterest, had moved closer.
　　What quirk of fate was it, Peter McDermott wondered dismally, that placed
　　him in opposition to a man like Dr. Ingram, whom instinctively he
　　admired? It was ironic, too, that only yesterday Peter had argued against
　　the policies 174
　　                        Wednesday
　　of Warren Trent which had created this very incident. The impatiently
　　waiting doctor had demanded: Will you register my friend? For a moment
　　Peter was tempted to say yes, and hang the consequences. But it was
　　useless, he knew.
　　There were certain orders he could give the room clerks, but to admit a
　　Negro as a guest was not among them. On that point there was a firm,
　　standing instruction which could be countermanded only by the hotel
　　proprietor. To dispute this with the room clerks would merely prolong the
　　scene and, in the end, gain nothing.
　　"I'm as sorry as you, Dr. Ingram," he said, "about having to do this.
　　Unfortunately there is a house rule and it prevents me offering Dr.
　　Nicholas accommodation. I wish I could change it, but I don't have
　　authority."
　　"Then a confirmed reservation means nothing at all?"
　　"It means a great deal. But there are certain thmigs we should have made
　　clear when your convention was booked. It's our fault we didn't."
　　"If you had," the little doctor snapped, "you wouldn1 have got the
　　convention. What's more, you may lose it yet29
　　The assistant manager interjected, "I did offer to find other
　　accommodation, Mr. McDermott."
　　"We're not m*terested!" Dr. Ingram swung back to Peter. "McDermott,
　　you're a young man, and intelligent I should imagine. How do you feel
　　about what you're doing at this moment?"
　　Peter thought: Why evade? He replied, "Frankly, Doctor, I've seldom been
　　more ashamed." He added to himself, silently: If I had the courage of
　　conviction, I'd walk out of this hotel and quit. But reason argued: If
　　he did, would anything be achieved? It would not get Dr. Nicholas a room
　　and would effectively silence Peter's own right of protest to Warren
　　Trent, a right he had exercised yesterday and intended to do again. For
　　that reason alone wasn't it better to stay, to do.-in the long run-what
　　you could? He wished, though, he could be more sure.
　　"Goddam, Jim." There was anguish in the older doctor's voice. "I'm not
　　going to settle for this."
　　The Negro shook his head. "I won't pretend it doesn't 175
　　    HOTEL
　　hurt, and I suppose my militant friends would tell me I should make more
　　of a fight." He shrugged. "On the whole, I prefer research. There's an
　　afternoon flight north. I'll try to be on it."
　　Dr. Ingram faced Peter. "Don~t you understand? This man is a respected
　　teacher and researcher. He's to present one of our most important
　　papers."
　　Peter thought miserably: there must be some way.
　　"I wonder," he said, "if you'd consider a suggestion. If Dr. Nicholas
　　will accept accommodation at another hotel, I'll arrange for his
　　attendance at the meetings here." He was being reckless, Peter realized.
　　It would be hard to ensure and would involve a showdown with Warren
　　Trent. But that much he would accomplish-or go himself .
　　"And the social events-the dinner and luncheons?" The Negro's eyes were
　　directly on his own.
　　Slowly Peter shook his head. It was useless to make a promise he could
　　not fulfill.
　　Dr. Nicholas shrugged; his face hardened. "There would be no point. Dr.
　　Ingram, I'll mail my paper so it can be circulated. I think there are
　　some things in it that will inter-
　　21
　　est you.
　　"Jim." The diminutive, white-haired man was deeply troubled. "Jim, I
　　don't know what to tell you, except you haven't heard the last of this."
　　Dr. Nicholas looked around for his bag. Peter said, "I'll get a bellboy."
　　"Nol" Dr. Ingram brushed him aside. "Carrying that bag is a privilege
　　I'll reserve for myself."
　　"Excuse me, gentlemen." It was the voice of the man in the tweed jacket
　　and glasses. As they turned, a camera shutter clicked. "That's good," he
　　said. "Let's try it once more." He squinted through a Rolleiflex
　　viewfinder and the shutter clicked again. Lowering the camera he re-
　　marked, "These fast films are great. Not long ago I'd have needed flash
　　for that."
　　Peter McDermott inquired sharply, "Who are you?"
　　"Do you mean who or what?"
　　"Whichever it is, this is private property. The hotel . .
　　"Oh, come on! Let's not go through that old routine." The picture taker
　　was adjusting his camera settings. He
　　176
　　                        Wednesday
　　looked up as Peter took a step toward him. "And I wouldn't try anything,
　　buster. Your hotel's going to stink when I'm through with it, and if you
　　want to add roughhousing a photog, go ahead." He grinned, as Peter
　　hesitated. "You think fast, I'll say that for you."
　　Dr. Ingram asked, "Are you a newspaperman?"
　　"Good question, Doctor." The man with the glasses grinned. "Sometimes my
　　editor says no, though I guess he won't today. Not when I send him this
　　little gem from my vacation."
　　"What paper?" Peter asked. He hoped it was an obscure one.
　　"New York Herald Trib."
　　"Good!" The dentists' president nodded approvingly. "They'll make the most
　　of this. I hope you saw what happened."
　　"You might say I got the picture," the newspaperman said. "I'll need a few
　　details from you, so I can spell the names right. First, though, I'd like
　　another shot outsideyou and the other doctor together."
　　Dr. Ingram seized his Negro colleague's arm. "It's the way to fight this
　　thing, Jim. We'll drag the name of this hotel through every newspaper in
　　the country."
　　"You're right there," the newspaperman agreed. "The wire services'll go for
　　this; my pictures too, I shouldn't wonder."
　　Dr. Nicholas nodded slowly.
　　There was nothing to do, Peter thought glumly. Nothing at all.
　　Curtis O'Keefe, he noticed, had disappeared.
　　As the others moved away, "I'd like to do this fairly quickly," Dr. Ingram
　　was saying. "As soon as you have your pictures I intend to start pulling
　　our convention out of this hotel. The only way to hit these people is where
　　they feel it most-financially." His forthright voice receded from the
　　lobby.
　　6
　　"Has there been any change," the Duchess of Croydon demanded, "in what the
　　police know?"
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　　It was nearing eleven A.M. Once more, in the privacy of the Presidential
　　Suite, the Duchess and her husband anxiously faced the chief house
　　officer. Ogilvie's great obese body overflowed the cane-seated chair he
　　had chosen to sit on. It creaked protestingly as he moved.
　　They were in the spacious, sunlit living room of the suite, with the
　　doors closed. As on the previous day, the Duchess had dispatched the
　　secretary and maid on invented errands.
　　Ogilvie considered before answering. "They know a lotta places the car
　　they're lookin' for ain't. 'S far's I can find out, they been workin' the
　　out o' town an' suburbs, usin' all the men they got. There's still more
　　ground to cover, though I reckon by tomorrow they'll start thinkin' about
　　closer in."
　　There had been a subtle change since yesterday in the relationship
　　between the Croydons and Ogilvie. Before, they had been antagonists. Now
　　they were conspirators, though still uncertainly, and as if feeling their
　　way toward an alliance, as yet not quite defined.
　　"If there's so little time," the Duchess said, "why are we wasting it?"
　　The house detective's mean eyes hardened. "You figure I should pull the
　　car out now? Right in daylight? Maybe park it on Canal Street?"
　　Unexpectedly, the Duke of Croydon spoke for the first time. "My wife has
　　been under considerable strain. It isn't necessary to be rude to her."
　　Ogilvie's facial expression-a brooding skepticism-remained unchanged. He
　　took a cigar from the pocket of his coat, regarded it, then abruptly put
　　it back. "Reckon we're all a bit strained. Will be, too, till it's all
　　over."
　　The Duchess said impatiently, "It doesn't matter. I'm more interested in
　　what's happening. Do the police have any idea yet they're looking for a
　　Jaguar?"
　　The immense head with its layered jowls moved slowly from side to side.
　　"They do, we'll hear fast enough. Like I said, yours bein' a foreign car,
　　it may take a few days to pin it down for sure."
　　"There isn't any sign of          well, their not being so
　　concerned? Sometimes when a lot of attention is given to
　　178
　　                        Wednesday
　　something, after a day or two with nothing happening, people lose interest."
　　"You crazy?" There was astonishment on the fat man's face. "You seen the
　　mornin' paper?"
　　"Yes," the Duchess said. "I saw it. I suppose my question was a kind of
　　wishful thinking."
　　"Ain't nothin' changed," Ogilvie declared. " 'Cept maybe the police are
　　keener. There's a lot of reputations ridin' on solvin' that hit-'n-run, an'
　　the cops know if they don't come through there'll be a shake-down, startin'
　　at the top. Mayor's as good as said so, so now thete's politics in it too."
　　"So that getting the car clear of the city wW be harder than ever?"
　　"Put it this way, Duchess. Every last cop on the beat knows if he spots the
　　car they're lookin' for-your carhe'U be sewin' stripes on his sleeve within
　　the hour. They got their eyeballs polished. That's how tough it is."
　　There was a silence in which Ogilvie's heavy breathing was the only sound.
　　It was obvious what the next question would have to be, but there seemed a
　　reluctance to ask !~, as if the answer might mean deliverance or the
　　diminution of hope.
　　At length the Duchess of Croydon said, "When do you propose to leave? When
　　will you drive the car north?"
　　At Tonight," Ogilvie answered. "That's why I come to see YOU folks."
　　There was an audible emission of breath from the Duke.
　　"How will you get away?" the Duchess asked. "Without being seen?"
　　"Ain't no guarantee I can. But I done some figuring."
　　"Go on."
　　"I reckon the best time to pull out's around one."
　　"One in the morning?"
　　Ogilvie nodded. "Not much doin' then. Traffic's quiet. Not too quiet."
　　"But you might still be seen?"
　　"Could be seen any time. We got to take a chance on 'win' lucky."
　　"If you get away--clear of New Orleans-how far will you go?"
　　179
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　　"Be light by six. Figure I'll be in Miss'sippa. Most likely 'round Macon."
　　"That isn't far," the Duchess protested. "Only halfway up Mississippi. Not
　　a quarter of the way to Chicago."
　　The fat man shifted in his chair, which creaked in protest. "You reckon I
　　should go speedin'? Break a few records? Maybe get some ticket-happy cop
　　tailin' me?"
　　"No, I don't think so. I'm merely concerned to have the car as far from New
　　Orleans as possible. What will you do during the day?"
　　"Pull off. Lie low. Plenty places in Miss'sippa."
　　"And then?"
　　"Soon's it's dark, I hi' tail it. Up through Alabama, Tennessee, Kentucky,
　　Indiana."
　　"When will it be safe? Really safe."
　　"Indiana, I reckon."
　　"And you'll stop in Indiana Friday?"
　　441 guess."
　　"So that you'll reach Chicago Saturday?"
　　"Sat'day momin'."
　　"Very well," the Duchess said. "My husband and I will fly to Chicago Friday
　　night. We shall register at the Drake Hotel and wait there until we hear
　　from you."
　　The Duke was looking at his hands, avoiding Ogilvie's eyes.
　　The house detective said flatly, "You'll hear."
　　"Is there anything you need?"
　　"I best have a note to the garage. Case I need it. Sayin' I kin take your
　　car.'9
　　"I'll write it now." The Duchess crossed the room to a secretaire. She
　　ent later returned with a sheet of hotel stationery,
　　folded. "This should do."
　　Without looking at the paper, Ogilvie placed it in an inside pocket. His
　　eyes remained fixed on the Duchess's face.
　　There was an awkward silence. She said uncertainly, "It isn't what you
　　wanted?"
　　The Duke of Croydon rose and walked stiffly away. Turning his back, he said
　　testily, "It's the monev. He wwits money."
　　Ogilvie's fleshy features shaped themselves into a sn:Lirk.
　　180
　　                        Wednesday
　　"That's it, Duchess. Ten thousan' now, like we said. Fifteen more in
　　Chicago, Sat'day."
　　The Duchess's jeweled fingers went swiftly to her temples in a distracted
　　gesture. "I don't know how . . . I'd forgotten. There's been so much
　　else."
　　"Don't matter none. I woulda remembered."
　　"It will have to be this afternoon. Our bank must arrange . . ."
　　"In cash," the fat man said. "Nothing bigger'n twenties, an' not new
　　bills."
　　She looked at him sharply. "Why?"
　　"Ain't traceable that way."
　　"You don't trust us?"
　　He shook his head. "In somethin' like this, it ain't smart to trust
　　anybody."
　　"Then why should we trust you?"
　　"I got another fifteen grand ridin'." The odd falsetto voice held an
　　undertone of impatience. "An' rememberthat's to be cash too, an' banks
　　don't open Sat'day."
　　"Suppose," the Duchess said, "that in Chicago we didn't pay you."
　　There was no longer a smile, or even an imitation of one. "I'm sure glad
　　you brought that up," Ogilvie said. "Just so's we understand each other."
　　"I think I understand, but tell me."
　　"What'll happen in Chicago, Duchess, is this. I'll stash the car some
　　place, though you won't know where. I come to the hotel, collect the
　　fifteen g's. When I done that, you get the keys 'n I tell you where the
　　car is."
　　"You haven't answered my question."
　　"I'm gettin' to it." The little pig's eyes gleamed. "Anythin' goes
　　wrong-like f'rinstance you say there's no cash Pcos you forgot the banks
　　wasn't open, I holler cops-right there in Chicago."
　　"You'd have a good deal of explaining to do yourself. For example, how
　　you came to drive the car north."
　　"No mystery about that. All I'd say is, you paid me a couple hundred-I'd
　　have it on me-to bring the car up. You said it was too far. You and the
　　Duke here wanted to fly. Weren't until I got to Chicago an' took a good
　　look
　　181
　　    HOTEL
　　at the car, I figured things out. SoThe enormous
　　shoulders shrugged.
　　"We have no intention," the Duchess of Croydon assured him, "of failing to
　　keep our part of the bargain. But Eke you, I wanted to be sure we
　　understood each other,"
　　Ogilvie nodded. "I reckon we do."
　　"Come back at five," the Duchess said. "The money will be ready."
　　When Ogilvie had gone, the Duke of Croydon returned from his self-imposed
　　isolation across the room. There was a tray of glasses and bottles on a
　　sideboard, replenished since last night. Pouring a stiff Scotch, he
　　splashed in soda and tossed the drink down.
　　The Duchess said acidly, "You're begining early again, I see."
　　"It's a cleansing agent." He poured himself a second drink, though this
　　time sipping it more slowly. "Being in the same room with that man makes me
　　feel dirty."
　　"Obviously he's less particular," his wife said. "Otherwise he might object
　　to the company of a drunken child killer."
　　The Duke's face was white. His hands trembled as he put the drink down.
　　"That's below the belt, old girl."
　　She added, "Who also ran away."
　　"By God-you shan't get away with that." It was an angry shout. His hands
　　clenched and for an instant it seemed as if he might strike out. "You were
　　the one!the one who pleaded to drive on, and afterward not go back. But for
　　you, I would have! It would do no good, you said; what was done was done.
　　Even yesterday I'd have gone to the police. You were against it! So now we
　　have him, that . . . that leper who'll rob us of every last vestige . . ."
　　The voice tailed off.
　　"Am I to assume," the Duchess inquired, "that you've completed your
　　hysterical outburst?" There was no answer, and she continued, "May I remind
　　you that you've needed remarkably little persuasion to act precisely as you
　　have. Had you wished or intended to do otherwise, no opinion of mine need
　　have mattered in the least. As for leprosy, I doubt you'll contract it
　　since you've carefully stood aside, 182
　　                        Wednesday
　　leaving all that had to be done with that man, to be done by me."
　　Her husband sighed. "I should have known better than to argue. I$m
　　sorry."
　　"If argument's necessary to straighten your thinking," she said
　　indifferently, "I've no objection."
　　The Duke had retrieved his drink and turned the glass idly in his hand.
　　"It's a funny thing," he said. "I had the feeling for a while that all
　　this, bad as it was, had brought us together."
　　The words were so obviously an appeal that the Duchess hesitated. For
　　her, too, the session with Ogilvie had been humiliating and exhausting.
　　She had a longing, deep within, for a moment's tranquillity.
　　Yet, perversely, the effort of conciliation was beyond her. She answered,
　　"If it has, I'm not aware of it." Then, more astringently: "In any case,
　　we've scarcely time for sentimentality."
　　"Rightl" As if his wife's words were a signal, the Duke downed his drink
　　and poured another.
　　She observed scathingly, "I'd be obliged if you'd at least retain
　　consciousness. I assume I shall have to deal with the bank, but there may
　　be papers they'll require you to sign.99
　　7
　　Two self-imposed tasks faced Warren Trent, and neither was palatable.
　　The first was to confront Tom Earlshore with Curtis O'Keefe's accusation
　　of the night before. "He's bleeding you white," O'Keefe had declared of
　　the elderly head barman. And: "From the look of things it's been going
　　on a long time."
　　As promised, O'Keefe had documented his charge. Shortly after ten A.M.,
　　a report-with specific details of observations, dates and times-was
　　delivered to Warren Trent by a young man who introduced himself as Sean
　　Hall of the O'Keefe Hotels Corporation. The young man, who had come
　　directly to Warren Trent's fifteenth-floor 183
　　    HOTEL
　　suite, seemed embarrassed. The hotel proprietor thanked him and settled
　　down to read the seven-page report.
　　He began grimly, a mood which deepened as he read on. Not only Tom
　　Earlshore's, but other names of trusted employees appeared in the
　　investigators' findings. It was distressingly apparent to Warren Trent
　　that he was being cheated by the very men and women whom he had relied
　　on most, including some who, like Tom Earlshore, he had considered
　　personal friends. It was obvious, too, that throughout the hotel the
　　depredation must be even more extensive than was documented here.
　　Folding the typewritten sheets carefully, he placed them in an inside
　　pocket of his suit.
　　He knew that if he allowed himself, he could become enraged, and would
　　expose and castigate, one by one, those who had betrayed his trust. There
　　might even be a melancholy satisfaction in doing so.
　　But excessive anger was an emotion which nowadays left him drained. He
　　would personally confront Tom Earlshore, he decided, but no one else.
　　The report, however, Warren Trent reflected, had had one useful effect.
　　It released him from an obligation.
　　Until last night a good deal of his thinking about the St. Gregory had
　　been conditioned by a loyalty which he assumed he owed to the hotel's
　　employees. Now, by the revealed disloyalty to himself, he was freed from
　　this restraint.
　　The effect was to open up a possibility, which earlier he had shunned,
　　for maintaining his own control of the hotel. Even now the prospect was
　　still distasteful, which was why he decided to take the lesser of the two
　　unpleasant steps and seek out Tom Earlshore first.
　　The Pontalba Lounge was on the hotel's main floor, accessible from the
　　lobby through double swing doors ornamented in leather and bronze.
　　Inside, three carpeted steps led down to an L-shaped area containing
　　tables and booths with comfortable, upholstered seating.
　　Unlike most cocktail lounges, the Pontalba was brightly lighted. This
　　meant that patrons could observe each other as well as the bar itself,
　　which extended across the junc184
　　                        Wednesday
　　tion of the L. In front of the bar were a half-dozen padded stools for
　　unaccompanied drinkers who could, if they chose, pivot their seats around to
　　survey the field.
　　it was twenty-five minutes before noon when Warren Trent entered from the
　　lobby. The lounge was quiet, with only a youth and a girl in one of the
　　booths and two men with lapel convention badges talking in low voices at a
　　table nearby. The usual press of lunchtime drinkers would begin arriving in
　　another fifteen minutes, after which the opportunity to speak quietly to
　　anyone would be gone But ten minutes, the hotel proprietor reasoned, should
　　be sufficient for what he had come to do.
　　Observing him, a waiter hurried forward but was waved away. Tom Earlshore,
　　Warren Trent observed, was behind the bar with his back to the room and
　　intent upon a tabloid newspaper he had spread out on the cash register.
　　Warren Trent walked stiffly across and occupied one of the bar stools. He
　　could see now that what the elderly bartender was studying was a Racing
　　Form.
　　He said, "Is that the way you've been using my money?"
　　Earlshore wheeled, his expression startled. It changed to mild surprise,
　　then apparent pleasure as he realized the identity of his visitor.
　　"Why, Mr. Trent, you sure give a fellow the jumps." Tom Earlshore deftly
　　folded the Racing Form, stuffing it into a rear pants pocket. Beneath his
　　domed bald head, with its Santa Claus fringe of white hair, the seamed
　　leathery face creased into a smile. Warren Trent wondered why he had never
　　before suspected it was an ingratiating smile.
　　"It's been a long time since we've seen you in here, Mr. Trent. Too long."
　　"You're not complaining, are you?"
　　Earlshore hesitated. "Well, no."
　　64 1 should have thought that being left alone has given you a lot of
　　opportunities."
　　A fleeting shadow of doubt crossed the head barman's face. He laughed as if
　　to reassure himself. "You always liked your little joke, Mr. Trent. Oh,
　　while you're in there's something I've got to show you. Been meaning to
　　come in to your office, but never got around to it." Earlsbore opened a
　　drawer beneath the bar and took out an envelope
　　185
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　　from which he extracted a colored snapshot. "This is one of Derek-that's
　　my third grandchild. Healthy young tyke -like his mother, thanks to what
　　you did for her a long time ago. Ethel-that's my daughter, you remember-
　　often asks after you; always sends her best wishes, same as the rest of
　　us at home." He put the photograph on the bar.
　　Warren Trent picked it up and deliberately, without looking down, handed
　　it back.
　　Tom Earlshore said uncomfortably, "Is anything wrong, Mr. Trent?" When
　　there was no answer: "Can I mix you something?"
　　About to refuse, he changed his mind. "A Ramos gin
　　19
　　fizz.
　　"Yessir! Coming right up!" Tom Earlshore reached swiftly for the
　　ingredients. It had always been a pleasure to watch him at work.
　　Sometimes in the past, when Warren Trent entertained guests in his suite,
　　he would have Tom come up to handle drinks, mostly because his bartending
　　was a performance which matched the quality of his potions. He had an
　　organized economy of movement and the swift dexterity of a juggler. He
　　exercised his skin now, placing the drink before the hotel proprietor
　　with a final flourish.
　　Warren Trent sipped and nodded.
　　Earlshore asked, "It's all right?"
　　"Yes," Warren Trent said. "It's as good as any you've ever made." His
　　eyes met Earlshore's. "I'm glad of that because it's the last drink
　　you'll ever mix in my hotel."
　　The uneasiness had changed to apprehension. Earlshore's tongue touched
　　his lips nervously. "You don't mean that, Mr. Trent. You couldn't mean
　　it."
　　Ignoring the remark, the hotel proprietor pushed his glass away. "Why did
　　you do it, Tom? Of all people why did it have to be you?"
　　"I swear to God I don't know
　　"Don't con me, Tom. You've done that long enough."
　　"I tell you, Mr. Trent ... 11
　　"Stop lying!" The snapped command cut sharply through the quietness.
　　Within the lounge the peaceful hum of conversation stopped. Watching the
　　alarm in the barman's shifting eyes~
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　　Warren Trent guessed that behind him heads were turning. He was conscious
　　of a rising anger he had intended to control.
　　Earlshore swallowed. "Please, Mr. Trent. I've worked here thirty years.
　　You've never talked to me like this." His voice was barely audible.
　　From the inside jacket pocket where he had placed it earlier, Warren
　　Trent produced the O'Keefe investigators' report. He turned two pages and
　　folded back a third, covering a portion with his hand, He instructed,
　　"Read!"
　　Earlshore fumbled with glasses and put them on. His hands were trembling.
　　He read a few lines then stopped. He looked up. There was no denial now.
　　Only the instinctive fear of a cornered animal.
　　"You can't prove anything."
　　Warren Trent slammed his hand upon the surface of the bar. Uncaring of
　　his own raised voice, he let his rage erupt. "If I choose to, I can. Make
　　no mistake of that. You've cheated and you've stolen, and like all cheats
　　and thieves you've left a trail behind you."
　　In an agony of apprehension Tom Earlshore sweated. It was as if suddenly,
　　with explosive violence, his world which he had believed secure had split
　　apart. For more years than he could remember he had defrauded his ern-
　　ployer-to a point where he had long ago become convinced of his own
　　invulnerability. In his worst forebodings he had never believed this day
　　could come. Now he wondered fearfully if the hotel owner had any idea how
　　large the accumulated loot had been.
　　Warren Trent's forefinger stabbed the document between them on the bar.
　　"These people smelled out the corruption because they didn't make the
　　mistake-my mistake-of trusting you, believing you a friend." Momentarily
　　emotion stopped him. He continued, "But if I dug, I'd find evidence.
　　There's plenty more besides what's here. Isn't there?"
　　Abjectly Tom Earlshore nodded.
　　"Well, you needn't worry; I don't intend to prosecute. If I did, I'd feel
　　I was destroying something of myself."
　　A flicker of relief crossed the elderly barman's face; he tried, as
　　quickly, to conceal it. He pleaded, "I swear if
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　　you'll give me another chance it'll never happen again." "You mean that now
　　you've been caught-after years of thievery and deceit-you'll kindly stop
　　stealing."
　　"It'll be hard for me, Mr. Trent-to get another job at my time. I've a
　　family . . ."
　　. I remember that."
　　Earlshore had the grace to blush. He said awkwardly, "The money I earned
　　here-this job by itself was never enough. There were always bills; things
　　for the children. . ."
　　"And the bookmakers, Tom. Let's not forget them. The bookmakers were
　　always after you, weren't they?-wanting to be paid." It was a random shot
　　but Earlshore's silence showed it had found a target.
　　Warren Trent said brusquely, "There's been enough said. Now get out of
　　the hotel and don't ever come here again."
　　More people were entering the Pontalba Lounge now, coming in through the
　　doorway from the lobby. The hum of conversation had resumed, its volume
　　rising. A young assistant bartender had arrived behind the bar and was
　　dispensing drinks which waiters were collecting. He studiedly avoided
　　looking at his employer and former superior.
　　Tom Earlshore blinked. Unbelievingly he protested, "The lunchtime trade
　　. . ."
　　"It's no concern of yours. You don't work here any more."
　　Slowly, as the inevitability penetrated, the ex-head barman's expression
　　changed. His earlier mask of deference slipped away. A twisted grin took
　　its place as he declared, "All right, I'll go. But you won't be far
　　behind, Mr. Highand-Mighty Trent, because you're getting thrown out too,
　　and everybody around here knows it."
　　"Just what do they know?"
　　Earlshore's eyes gleamed. "They know you're a useless, washed-up old
　　half-wit who couldn't manage the inside of a paper bag, never mind a
　　hotel. It's the reason you'll lose this place for dead damned sure, and
　　when you do I'm one of a good many who'll laugh their guts out." He
　　hesitated, breathing heavily, his mind weighing the consequences of
　　caution and recklessness. The urge to retaliate won out. 188
　　                        Wednesday
　　"For more years'n I remember, you acted like you owned everybody in this
　　place. Well, maybe you did pay a few more cents in wages than some others,
　　and hand out bits of charity the way you did to me, making like Jesus Christ
　　and Moses rolled in one. But you didn't fool any of us. You paid the wages
　　to keep out the unions, and the charity made you feel great, so people knew
　　it was more for you than for them. That's when they laughed at you, and took
　　care of themselves the way I did. Believe me, there's been plenty going
　　on-stuff you'll never learn about." Earlshore stopped, his face revealing a
　　suspicion he had gone too f ar.
　　Behind them the lounge was filling rapidly. Alongside, two of the adjoining
　　bar stools were already occupied. To a growing tempo of sound Warren Trent
　　drummed his fingers thoughtfully upon the leather-topped bar. Strangely,
　　the anger of a few moments ago had left him. In its place was a steely
　　resolution-to hesitate no longer about the second step he had considered
　　earlier.
　　He raised his eyes to the man who, for thirty years, he believed he had
　　known, but never had. "Tom, you'll not know the why or how, but the last
　　thing you've done for me has been a favor. Now go-before I change my mind
　　about sending you to jail."
　　Tom Earlshore turned and, looking neither to right nor left, walked out.
　　Passing through the lobby on his way to the Carondelet Street door, Warren
　　Trent coldly avoided glances from employees who observed him. He was in no
　　mood for pleasantries, having learned this morning that betrayal wore a
　　smile and cordiality could be a sheathing for contempt. The remark that he
　　had been laughed at for his attempts to treat employees well had cut
　　deeply-the more, because it had a ring of truth. Well, he thought; wait a
　　day or two. We'll see who's laughing then.
　　As he reached the busy, sunlit street outside, a uniformed doorman saw him
　　and stepped forward deferentially. Warren Trent instructed, "Get me a
　　taxi." He had intended to walk a block or two, but a twinge of sciatica,
　　189
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　　knifing sharply as he came down the hotel steps, made him change his mind.
　　The doorman blew a whistle and from the press of traffic a cab nosed to
　　the curb. Warren Trent climbed in stiffly, the man holding the door open,
　　then touching his cap respectfully as he slammed it closed. The respect
　　was another empty gesture, Warren Trent supposed. From now on, he knew,
　　he would look suspiciously on a good many things he once accepted at face
　　value.
　　The cab pulled away, and aware of the driver's scrutiny through the
　　rear-view mirror, he instructed, "Just drive me a few blocks. I want a
　　telephone."
　　The man said, "Lotsa those in the hotel, boss."
　　"Never mind that. Take me to a pay phone." He felt disinclined to explain
　　that the call he was about to make was far too secret to risk the use of
　　any hotel line.
　　The driver shrugged. After two blocks he turned south on Canal Street,
　　once more inspecting his fare through the mirror. "'S a nice day. There's
　　phones down by the harbor."
　　Warren Trent nodded, glad of a moment or two's respite.
　　The traffic thinned as they crossed Tchoupitoulas Street. A minute later
　　the cab stopped at the parking area in front of the Port Commissioner's
　　building. A telephone booth was a few paces away.
　　He gave the driver a dollar, dismissing the change. Then, about to head
　　for the booth, he changed his mind and crossed Eads Plaza to stand beside
　　the river. The midday heat bore down upon him from above and seeped up
　　comfortingly through his feet from the concrete walkway. The sun, the
　　friend of old men's bones, he thought.
　　Across the half-mile width of Mississippi, Algiers on the far bank
　　shimmered in the heat. The river was smelly today, though that was not
　　unusual. Odor, sluggishness, and mud were part of the Father of Waters'
　　moods. Like life, he thought; the silt and sludge unchangingly about you.
　　A freighter slipped by, heading seaward, its siren wailing at an inbound
　　barge train. The barge train changed course; the freighter moved on
　　without slackening speed. Soon the ship would exchange the river's
　　loneliness for the 190
　　                        Wednesday
　　greater loneliness of the ocean. He wondered if those aboard were aware,
　　or cared. Perhaps not. Or perhaps, like himself, they had come to learn
　　there is no place in the world where a man is not alone.
　　He retraced his steps to the telephone and closed the booth door
　　carefully. "A credit card call," he informed the operator. "To
　　Washington, D.C."
　　It took several minutes, which included questioning about the nature of
　　his business, before he was connected with the individual he sought. At
　　length the bluff, blunt voice of the nation's most powerful labor
　　leader-and, some said, among the most corrupt-came on the line.
　　"Go ahead. Talk."
　　"Good morning," Warren Trent said. "I was hoping you wouldn't be at
　　lunch."
　　"You get three minutes," the voice said shortly. "You've already wasted
　　fifteen seconds."
　　Warren Trent said hurriedly, "Some time ago, when we met, you made a
　　tentative proposal. Possibly you don't remember. . ."
　　"I always remember. Some people wish I didn't."
　　"On that occasion I regret that I was somewhat curt."
　　"I've a stop watch going here. That was half a minute."
　　"I'm willing to make a deal."
　　"I make deals. Others accept them."
　　"If time's so all-fired important," Warren Trent shot back, "let's not
　　waste it hair-splitting. For years you've been trying to get a foot in
　　the hotel business. You also want to strengthen your union's position in
　　New Orleans. I'm offering you a chance for both."
　　"How high's the price?"
　　"Two million dollars-in a secured first mortgage. In return you get a
　　union shop and write your own contract. I presume it would be reasonable
　　since your own money would be involved."
　　"Well," the voice mused. "Well, well, well."
　　"Now," Warren Trent demanded, "will you turn off that damned stop watch?"
　　A chuckle down the line. "Never was one. Be surprised, though, how the
　　idea gets people moving. When do you need the money?"
　　191
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　　"The money by Friday. A decision before tomorrow midday."
　　"Came to me last, eh? When everybody'd turned you down?"
　　There was no point in lying. He answered shortly, "Yes."
　　"You been losing money?"
　　"Not so much that the trend can't be changed. The O'Keefe people believe
　　it can. They've made an offer to buy.,,
　　"Might be smart to take it."
　　"If I do, you'll never get this chance from them."
　　There was a silence which Warren Trent did not disturb. He could sense
　　the other man thinking, calculating. He had not the least doubt that his
　　proposal was being considered seriously. For a decade the International
　　Brotherhood of Journeymen had attempted to infiltrate the hotel industry.
　　So far, however, unlike most of the Journeymen's intensive membership
　　campaigns, they had failed dismally. The reason had been a unity-on this
　　one issue-between hotel operators, who feared the Journeymen, and more
　　honest unions who despised them. For the Journeymen, a contract with the
　　St. Gregory-until now a nonunion hotelcould be a crack in this massive
　　dam of organized resistance.
　　As to the money, a two-million-dollar investment-if the Journeymen chose
　　to make it-would be a small bite from the union's massive treasury. Over
　　the years they had spent a good deal more on the abortive hotel
　　membership campaign.
　　Within the hotel industry, Warren Trent realized, he would be reviled and
　　branded a traitor if the arrangement he was suggesting went through. And
　　among his own employees he would be heatedly condemned, at least by those
　　informed enough to know they had been betrayed.
　　It was the employees who stood to lose most. If a union contract was
　　signed there would have to be a small wage increase, he supposed, as was
　　usual in such circumstances, as a token gesture. But the increase was due
　　anyway-in fact, overdue-and he had intended to award it himself if the
　　hotel refinancing had been arranged some other way. The existing
　　employees' pension plan would be abandoned
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　　in favor of the union's, but the only advantage would be to the Journeymen's
　　treasury. Most significant, union dues -probably six to ten dollars
　　monthly-would become compulsory. Thus, not only would any immediate wage in-
　　crease be wiped out, but employees' take-home pay would be decreased.
　　Well, Warren Trent reflected, the opprobrium of his colleagues in the hotel
　　industry would have to be endured. As to the rest, he stifled his
　　conscience by reminding himself of Tom Earlshore and the others like him.
　　The blunt voice on the telephone broke in on his thoughts.
　　"I'll send two of my financial people. They'll fly down this afternoon.
　　Overnight they'll take your books apart. I really mean apart, so don't
　　figure on holding back anything we should know." The unmistakable threat
　　was a reminder that only the brave or foolhardy ever attempted to trifle
　　with the Journeymen's Union.
　　The hotel proprietor said huffily, "I've nothing to conceal. You'll have
　　access to all the information there is."
　　"If tomorrow morning my people report okay to me, you'll sign a three-year
　　union shop contract." It was a statement, not a question.
　　"Naturally, I'll be glad to sign. Of course, there'll have to be an
　　employees' vote, though I'm certain I can guarantee the outcome." Warren
　　Trent had a moment's uneasiness, wondering if he really could. There would
　　be opposition to an alliance with the Journeymen; that much was certain. A
　　good many employees, though, would go along with his personal
　　recommendation if he made it strong enough. The question was: Would they
　　provide the needed majority?
　　The Journeymen's president said, "There won't be a vote."
　　"But surely the law .
　　The telephone rasped angrily. "Don't try teaching me labor law! I know more
　　of it, and better'n you ever will." There was a pause, then the growled
　　explanation, "This will be a Voluntary Recognition Agreement. Nothing in
　　law says it has to be voted on. There will be no vote."
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　　It could, Warren Trent conceded, be done in just that way.
　　The procedure would be unethical, immoral, but unquestionably legal. His
　　own signature on a union contract would, in the circumstances, be binding
　　on every hotel employee, whether they liked it or not. Well, he thought
　　grimly, so be it. It would make everything a great deal simpler, with the
　　end result the same.
　　He asked, "How will you handle the mortgage?" It was a ticklish area, he
　　knew. In the past, Senate investigating committees had scathingly
　　censured the Journeymen for investing heavily in companies with whom the
　　union had labor contracts.
　　"You will give a note, payable to the Journeymen's Pension Fund, for two
　　million dollars at eight per cent. The note to be secured by a first
　　mortgage on the hotel. The mortgage will be held by the Southern
　　Conference of Journeymen, in trust for the pension fund."
　　The arrangement, Warren Trent realized, was diabolically clever. It
　　contravened the spirit of every law affecting use of union funds, while
　　remaining technically inside them.
　　"The note will be due in three years, forfeited if you fail to meet two
　　successive interest payments."
　　Warren Trent demurred, "I'll agree to the rest, but I want five years."
　　"You're getting three."
　　It was a hard bargain, but three years would at least give him time to
　　restore the hotel's competitive position.
　　He said reluctantly, "Very well."
　　There was a click as, at the other end, the line went dead.
　　Emerging from the telephone booth, despite a renewed onset of sciatic
　　pain, Warren Trent was smiling.
　　8
　　After the angry scene in the lobby, culminating in the departure of Dr.
　　Nicholas, Peter McDermott wondered disconsolately what came next. On
　　reflection he decided there
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　　was nothing to be gained by hasty intervention with officials of the
　　Congress of American Dentistry. If the dentists' president, Dr. Ingram,
　　persisted in his threat to pull the entire convention out of the hotel,
　　it was not likely to be accomplished before tomorrow morning at the
　　earliest. That meant it would be both safe and prudent to wait an hour or
　　two, until this afternoon, for tempers to cool. Then he would approach Dr.
　　Ingram, and others in the congress if necessary.
　　As for the presence of the newspaperman during the unhappy scene,
　　obviously it was too late to change whatever damage had been done. For
　　the hotel's sake, Peter hoped that whoever made decisions about the
　　importance of news stories would see the incident as a minor item only.
　　Returning to his office on the main mezzanine, he occupied himself with
　　routine business for the remainder of the morning. He resisted a
　　temptation to seek out Christine, instinct telling him that here, too,
　　a cooling-off period might help. Sometime soon, though, he realized, he
　　would have to make amends for his monumental gaffe of earlier today.
　　He decided to drop in on Christine shortly before noon, but the intention
　　was eclipsed by a telephone call from the duty assistant manager who
　　informed Peter that a guest room, occupied by Mr. Stanley Kilbrick of
　　Marshalltown, Iowa, had been robbed. Though reported only a short time
　　earlier, the robbery apparently occurred during the night. A long list
　　of valuables and cash was alleged to be missing, and the guest, according
　　to the assistant manager, seemed extremely upset. A house detective was
　　already on the scene.
　　Peter placed a call for the chief house officer. He had no idea whether
　　Ogilvie was in the hotel or not, the fat man's hours of duty being a
　　mystery known only to himself. Shortly afterward, however, a message
　　advised that Ogilvie had taken over the inquiry and would report as soon
　　as possible. Some twenty minutes later he arrived in Peter McDermott's
　　office.
　　The chief house officer lowered his bulk carefully into the deep leather
　　chair facing the desk.
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　　Trying to subdue his instinctive dislike, Peter asked, "How does it all
　　look?"
　　"The guy who was robbed's a sucker. He got hooked. Here's what's missin'."
　　Ogilvie laid a handwritten list on Peter's desk. "I kept one o' these
　　myself."
　　"Thanks. I'll get it to our insurers. How about the room -is there any sign
　　of forced entry?"
　　The detective shook his head. "Key job sure. It all figures. Kilbrick
　　admits he was on the loose in the Quarter last night. I guess he shoulda
　　had his mother with him. Claims he lost his key. Won't change his story.
　　More'n likely, though, he fell for a B-girl routine."
　　"Doesn't he realize that if he levels with us we stand a better chance of
　　recovering what was stolen?"
　　"I told him that. Didn't do no good. For one thing, right now he feels
　　plenty stupid. For another, he's already figured the hotel's insurance is
　　good for what he lost. Maybe a bit more; he says there was four hundred
　　dollars cash in his wallet."
　　"Do you believe him?"
　　"No."
　　Well, Peter thought, the guest was due for an awakening. Hotel insurance
　　covered the loss of goods up to a hundred dollars' value, but not cash in
　　any amount. "What's your feeling about the rest? Do you think it was a
　　once-only job?"
　　"No, I don't," Ogilvie said. "I reckon we got ourselves a professional
　　hotel thief, an' he's workin' inside the house."
　　"What makes you think so?"
　　"Somethin' that happened this mornin'-complaint from room 641. Guess it
　　ain't come up to you yet."
　　"If it has," Peter said, "I don't recall it."
　　"Early on-near dawn's far's I can make out-some character let himself in
　　641 with a key. The man in the room woke up. The other guy made like he was
　　drunk and said he'd mistook it for 614. The man in the room went back to
　　sleep, but when he woke up started wondering how the key of 614 would fit
　　641. That's when I heard about it."
　　"The desk could have given out a wrong key."
　　"Could have, but didn't. I checked. Night-room clerk
　　196
　　                        Wednesday
　　swears neither of them keys went out. And 614's a married couple; they went
　　to bed early last night an' stayed put.,,
　　"Do you have a description of the man who entered 641?"
　　"Not enough so's it's any good. Just to be sure, I got the two men-641 and
　　614-together. It wasn't 614 who went in 641's room. Tried the keys too;
　　neither one'll fit the other room."
　　Peter said thoughtfully, "It looks as if you're right about a professional
　　thief. In which case we should start planning a campaign."
　　"I done some things," Ogilvie said. "I already told the desk clerks for the
　　next few days to ask names when they hand out keys. If they smell anything
　　funny, they're to let the key go, but get a good look at whoever takes it,
　　then tell one of my people fast. The word's bein' passed around to maids
　　and bellhops to watch for prowlers, an' anything else that don't sit right.
　　My men'll be doin' extra time, with patrols round every floor all night."
　　Peter nodded approvingly. "That sounds good. Have you considered moving
　　into the hotel yourself for a day or two? I'll arrange a room if you wish."
　　Fleetingly, Peter thought, a worried expression crossed the fat man's face.
　　Then he shook his head. "Won't need it."
　　,,But you'll be around-available?"
　　"Sure I'll be around." The words were emphatic but, peculiarly, lacked
　　conviction. As if aware of the deficiency, Ogilvie added, "Even if I ain't
　　right here all the time, my men know what to do."
　　Still doubtfully, Peter asked, "What's our arrangement with the police?"
　　"There'll be a couple of plain-clothes men over. I'll tell lem about the
　　other thing, an' I guess they'll do some checkin' to see who might be in
　　town. If it's some joe with a record, we could get lucky'n pick him up."
　　"In the meantime, of coigrse, our friend-whoever he is -won't sit still."
　　"That's for sure. An' if he's smart as I think, he'll figure
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　　by now we're on to him. So likely he'll try to work f ast, then get
　　clear."
　　"Which is one more reason," Peter pointed out, "why we need you close at
　　hand."
　　Ogilvie protested, "I reckon I thought of everythin'."
　　"I believe you did, too. In fact I can't think of anything you've left
　　out. What I'm concerned about is that when you're not here someone else
　　may not be as thorough or as quick."
　　Whatever else might be said of the chief house officer, Peter reasoned,
　　he knew his business when he chose to do it. But it was infuriating that
　　their relationship made it necessary to plead about something as obvious
　　as this.
　　"You don't hafta worry," Ogilvie said. But Peter's instinct told him that
　　for some reason the fat man was worried himself as he heaved his great
　　body upward and lumbered out.
　　After a moment or two Peter followed, stopping only to give instructions
　　about notifying the hotel's insurers of the robbery, along with the
　　inventory of stolen items which Ogilvie had supplied.
　　Peter walked the short distance to Christine's office. He was
　　disappointed to discover that she was not there. He would come back, he
　　decided, immediately after lunch.
　　He descended to the lobby and strolled to the main dining room. As he
　　entered he observed that today's luncheon business was brisk, reflecting
　　the hotel's present high occupancy.
　　Peter nodded agreeably to Max, the head waiter, who hurried forward.
　　"Good day, Mr. McDermott. A table by yourself?"
　　"No, I'll join the penal colony." Peter seldom exercised his privilege,
　　as assistant general manager, of occupying a table of his own in the
　　dining room. Most days he preferred to join other executive staff members
　　at the large circular table reserved for their use near the kitchen door.
　　The                              St. Gregory's comptroller, Royall
　　Edwards, and
　　Sam Jakubiec, the stocky, balding credit manager, were
　　already at lunch as Peter joined them. Doc Vickery, the
　　chief engineer, who had arrived a few minutes earlier, was
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　　studying a menu. Slipping into the chair which Max held out, Peter
　　inquired, "What looks good?"
　　"Try the watercress soup," Jakubiec advised between sips of his own.
　　"It's not like any mother made; it's a damn sight better."
　　Royall Edwards added in his precise accountant's voice, "The special
　　today is fried chicken. We have that coming."
　　As the head waiter left, a young table waiter appeared swiftly beside
　　them. Despite standing instructions to the contrary, the executives'
　　self-styled penal colony invariably received the best service in the
　　dining room. It was hardas Peter and others had discovered in the past-to
　　persuade employees that the hotel's paying customers were more important
　　than the executives who ran the hotel.
　　The chief engineer closed his menu, peering over his thick-rimmed
　　spectacles which had slipped, as usual, to the tip of his nose. "The
　　same'll do for me, sonny."
　　"I'll make it unanimous."' Peter handed back the menu which he had not
　　opened.
　　The waiter hesitated. "I'm not sure about the fried chicken, sir. You
　　might prefer something else."
　　"Well," Jakubiec said, "now's a fine time to tell us that."
　　"I can change your order easily, Mr. Jakubiec. Yours too, Mr. Edwards."
　　Peter asked, "What's wrong with the fried chicken?"
　　"Maybe I shouldn't have said." The waiter shifted uncomfortably. "Fact
　　is, we've been getting complaints. People don't seem to like it."
　　Momentarily he turned his head, eyes ranging the busy dining room.
　　"In that case," Peter told him, "I'm curious to know why. So leave my
　　order the way it is." A shade reluctantly, the others nodded agreement.
　　When the waiter had gone, Jakubiec asked, "What's this rumor I hear-that
　　our dentists' convention may walk out?"
　　"Your hearing's good, Sam. This afternoon I'll know whether it remains
　　a rumor." Peter began his soup, which had appeared like magic, then
　　described the lobby fracas of an hour earlier. The faces of the others
　　grew serious as they listened.
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　　Royall Edwards remarked, "It has been my observation on disasters that
　　they seldom occur singly. Judging by our financial results lately-which
　　you gentlemen are aware of -this could merely be one more."
　　"If it turns out that way," the chief engineer observed, "nae doubt the
　　first thing ye'll do is lop some muir from engineering's budget."
　　"Either that," the comptroller rejoined, "or eliminate it entirely."
　　The chief grunted, unamused.
　　"Maybe we'll all be eliminated," Sam Jakubiec said. "If the O'Keefe crowd
　　takes over." He looked inquiringly at Peter, but Royall Edwards gave a
　　cautioning nod as their waiter returned. The group remained silent as the
　　young man deftly served the comptroller and credit manager while, around
　　them, the hum of the dining room, a subdued clatter of plates and the
　　passage of waiters through the kitchen door, continued.
　　When the waiter had gone, Jakubiec asked pointedly, "Well, what is the
　　news?"
　　Peter shook his head. "Don't know a thing, Sam. Except that was dam good
　　soup."
　　"If you remember," Royall Edwards said, "we recommended it, and I will
　　now offer you some more wellfounded advice-quit while you're ahead." He
　　had been sampling the fried chicken served to himself and Jakubiec a
　　moment earlier. Now he put down his knife and fork. "Another time I
　　suggest we listen more respectfully to our waiter."
　　Peter asked, "Is it really that bad?"
　　"I suppose not," the comptroller said. "If you happen to be partial to
　　rancid food."
　　Dubiously, Jakubiec sampled his own serving as the others watched. At
　　length he informed them: "Put it this way. If I were paying for this
　　meal-I wouldn't."
　　Half-rising in his chair, Peter caught sight of the head waiter across
　　the dining room and beckoned him over. "Max, is Chef H6brand on duty?"
　　"No, Mr. McDermott, I understand he's Ul. Sous-chef Lemieux is in
　　charge." The head waiter said anxiously, "If it's about the fried
　　chicken, I assure you everything is
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　　taken care of. We've stopped serving that dish and where there have been
　　complaints the entire meal has been replaced." His glance went to the
　　table. "We'll do the same thing here at once."
　　"At the moment," Peter said, "I'm more concerned about finding out what
　　happened. Would you ask Chef Lemieux if he'd care to join us?"
　　With the kitchen door so close, Peter thought, it was a temptation to
　　stride through and inquire directly what had gone so amiss with the
　　luncheon special. But to do so would be unwise.
　　In dealing with their senior chefs, hotel executives followed a protocol
　　as proscribed and traditional as that of any royal household. Within the
　　kitchen the chef de cuisine --or, in the chef's absence, the
　　sous-chef-was undisputed king. For a hotel manager to enter the kitchen
　　without invitation was unthinkable.
　　Chefs might be fired, and sometimes were. But unless and until that
　　happened, their kingdoms were inviolate.
　　To invite a chef outside the kitchen-in this case to a table in the
　　dining room-was in order. In fact, it was close to a command since, in
　　Warren Trent's absence, Peter McDermott was the hotel's senior officer.
　　It would also have been permissible for Peter to stand in the kitchen
　　doorway and wait to be asked in. But in the circumstance-with an obvious
　　crisis in the kitchen-Peter knew that the first course was the more
　　correct.
　　"If you ask me," Sam Jakubiec observed as they waited, "it's long past
　　bedtime for old Chef 1-16brand."
　　Royall Edwards asked, "If he did retire, would anyone notice the
　　difference?" It was a reference, as they all knew, to the chef de
　　cuisine's frequent absences from duty, another of which had apparently
　　occurred today.
　　"The end comes soon enough for all of us," the chief engineer growled.
　　"It's natural nae one wants to hurry it himsel'." It was no great secret
　　that the comptroller's cool astringency grated at times on the normally
　　good-natured chief.
　　"I haven't met our new sous-chef," Jakubiec: said. "I guess he's been
　　keeping his nose in the kitchen."
　　Royall Edwards' eyes went down to his barely touched 201
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　　plate. "If he has, it must be a remarkably insensitive organ.99
　　As the comptroller spoke, the kitchen door swung open once more. A busboy,
　　about to pass through, stood back deferentially as Max the head waiter
　　emerged. He preceded, by several measured paces, a tall slim figure in
　　starched whites, with high chef's hat and, beneath it, a facial expression
　　of abject misery.
　　"Gentlemen," Peter announced to the executives' table, "in case you haven't
　　met, this is Chef Andr6 Lemieux."
　　"Messieurs!" The young Frenchman halted, spreading his hands in a gesture
　　of helplessness. "To 'ave this happen ... I am desolate." His voice was
　　choked.
　　Peter McDermott had encountered the new sous-chef several times since the
　　latter's arrival at the St. Gregory six weeks earlier. At each meeting
　　Peter found himself liking the newcomer more.
　　Andr6 Lemieux's appointment had followed the abrupt departure of his
　　predecessor. The former sous-chef, after months of frustrations and inward
　　seething, had erupted in an angry outburst against his superior, the aging
　　M. H&brand. In the ordinary way nothing might have happened after the
　　scene, since emotional outbursts among chefs and cooks occurred-as in any
　　large kitchen-arked the occasion as
　　different was the late sous-chef's action in hurling a tureen of soup at
　　the chef de cuisine. Fortunately the soup was Vichyssoise, or consequences
　　might have been even more serious. In a memorable scene the chef de
　　cuisine, shrouded in liquid white and dripping messily, escorted his late
　　assistant to the street staff door and there-with surprising energy for an
　　old man-had thrown him through it. A week later Andr6 Lemieux was hired.
　　His                              qualifications were excellent. He had
　　trained in
　　Paris, worked in London-at Prunier's and the Savoy
　　then briefly at New York's Le Pavillon before attaining the
　　more senior post in New Orleans. But already in his short
　　time at the St. Gregory, Peter suspected, the young sous
　　chef had encountered the same frustration which demented
　　his predecessor. This was the adamant refusal of M. H6
　　brand to allow procedural changes in the kitchen, despite
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　　the chef de cuisine's o duty, leaving his sous-chef
　　in charge. In many ways, Peter thought sympathetically, the situation
　　paralleled his own relationship with Warren Trent.
　　Peter indicated a vacant seat at the executives' table. "Won't you join
　　us?"
　　"Thank you, monsieur." The young Frenchman seated himself gravely as the
　　head waiter held out a chair.
　　His arrival was followed by the table waiter who, without bothering with
　　instructions, had amended all four luncheon orders to Veal Scallopini. He
　　removed the two offending portions of chicken, which a hovering busboy
　　banished hastily to the kitchen. All four executives received the
　　substitute meal, the sous-chef ordering merely a black coffee.
　　"That's more like it," Sam Jakubiec said approvingly.
　　"Have you discovered," Peter asked, "what caused the trouble?"
　　The sous-chef glanced unhappily toward the kitchen. "The troubles they have
　　many causes. In this, the fault was frying fat badly tasting. But it is I
　　who must blame myself -that the fat was not changed, as I believed. And 1,
　　Andr6 Lemieux, I allowed such food to leave the kitchen." He shook his head
　　unbelievingly.
　　"It's hard for one person to be everywhere," the chief engineer said. "All
　　of us who ha' departments know that."
　　Royall Edwards voiced the thought which had occurred first to Peter.
　　"Unfortunately we'll never know how many didn't complain about what they
　　had, but won't come back again.92
　　Andr6 Lemieux nodded glumly. He put down his coffee cup. "Messieurs, you
　　will excuse me. Monsieur McDermott, when you 'ave finished, perhaps we
　　could talk together, yes?"
　　Fifteen minutes later Peter entered the kitchen through the dining-room
　　door. Andr6 Lemieux hurried forward to meet him.
　　"It is good of you to come, monsieur."
　　Peter shook his head. "I enjoy kitchens." Looking around, he observed that
　　the activity of lunchtime was tapering off. A few meals were still going
　　out, past the two 203
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　　middle-aged women checkers seated primly, like suspicious schoolmistresses,
　　at elevated billing registers. But more dishes were coming in from the
　　dining room as busboys and waiters cleared tables while the assemblage of
　　guests thinned out. At the big dishwashing station at the rear of the
　　kitchen, where chrome countertops and waste containers resembled a cafeteria
　　in reverse, six rubber-aproned kitchen helpers worked concertedly, barely
　　keeping pace with the flow of dishes arriving from the hotel's several
　　restaurants and the convention floor above. As usual, Peter noticed, an
　　extra helper was intercepting unused butter, scraping it into a large chrome
　　container. Later, as happened in most commercial kitchens-though few
　　admitted to it-the retrieved butter would be used for cooking.
　　"I wished to speak with you alone, monsieur. With others present, you
　　understand, there are things that are hard to say."
　　Peter said thoughtfully, "There's one point I'm not clear about. Did I
　　understand that you gave instructions for the deep fryer fat to be changed,
　　but that it was not?"
　　"That is true."
　　"Just what happened?"
　　The young chef's face was troubled. "This morning I give the order. My nose
　　it informed me the fat is not good. But M. 116brand-without telling-he
　　countermanded. Then M. 116brand he has gone 'ome and I am left, without
　　knowing, 'olding the bad fat."
　　Involuntarily Peter smiled. "What was the reason for changing the order?"
　　"Fat is high cost-very 'igh; that I agree with M. H6brand. Lately we have
　　changed it many times. Too many."
　　"Have you tried to find the reason for that?"
　　Andr6 Lemieux raised his hands in a despairing gesture. "I have proposed,
　　each day, a chemical test-for free fatty acid. It could be done in a
　　laboratory, even here. Then, intelligently, we would look for the cause the
　　fat has failed. M. H6brand does not agree-with that or other things."
　　"You believe there's a good deal wrong here?"
　　"Many things." It was a short, almost sullen answer, and for a moment it
　　appeared as if the discussion would end. Then abruptly, as if a dam had
　　burst, words tumbled 204
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　　out. "Monsieur McDermott, I tell you there is much wrong. This is not a
　　kitchen to work with pride. It is a how-yousay . . . 'odge-podge-poor food,
　　some old ways that are bad, some new ways that are bad, and all around much
　　waste. I am a good chef; others would tell you. But it must be that a good
　　chef is happy at what he does or he is no longer good. Yes, monsieur, I
　　would make changes, many changes, better for the hotel, for A H6brand, for
　　others. But I am told-as if an infant-to change nothing."
　　"It's possible," Peter said, "there may be large changes around here
　　generally. Quite soon."
　　Andr6 Lemieux drew himself up haughtily. "If you refer to Monsieur O'Keefe,
　　whatever changes he may make, I shall not be 'ere to see. I have no intent
　　to be an instant cook for a chain 'otel."
　　Peter asked curiously, "If the St. Gregory stayed independent, what kind of
　　changes would you have in mind?"
　　They had strolled almost the length of the kitchen-an elongated rectangle
　　extending the entire width of the hotel. At each side of the rectangle,
　　like outlets from a control center, doorways gave access to the several
　　hotel restaurants, service elevators and food preparation rooms on the same
　　floor and below. Skirting a double line of soup cauldrons, bubbling like
　　monstrous crucibles, they approached the glass paneled office where, in
　　theory, the two principal chefs-the chef de cuisine and the
　　sous-chef--divided their responsibilities. Nearby, Peter observed, was the
　　big quadruple-unit deep fryer, cause of today's dissatisfaction. A kitchen
　　helper was draining the entire assembly of fat; considering the quantity,
　　it was easy to see ent would be costly. They
　　stopped as Andr6 Lemieux considered Peter's question.
　　"What changes, you say, monsieur? Most important it is the food. For some
　　who prepare food, the fagade, how a dish looks, it is more important than
　　how it tastes. In this hotel we waste much money on the d6cor. The parsley,
　　it is all around. But not enough in the sauce. The watercress it is on the
　　plate, when more is needed in the soup. And those arrangements of color in
　　gelatine!" Young Lemieux threw both arms upward in despair. Peter smiled
　　sympathetically.
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　　"As for the wines, monsieur! Dieu merci, the wines they are not my
　　province."
　　"Yes," Peter said. He had been critical himself of the St. Gregory's
　　inadequately stocked wine bins.
　　"In a word, monsieur, all the horrors of a low-grade table d'h6te. Such
　　disrespect colossal for food, such abandon of money for the appearance,
　　it is to make one weep. Weep, monsieur!" He paused, shrugged, and
　　continued. "With less throw-away we could have a cuisine that invites the
　　taste and honors the palate. Now it is dull, extravagantly ordinary."
　　Peter wondered if Andr6 Lemieux was being sufficiently realistic where
　　the St. Gregory was concerned. As if sensing this doubt, the sous-chef
　　insisted, "It is true that a hotel it has special problems. Here it is
　　not a gourmet house. It cannot be. We must cook fast many meals, serve
　　many people who are too much in an American hurry. But in these
　　limitations there can be excellence of a kind. Of a kind one can live
　　with. Yet, Monsieur H6brand, he tells me that my ideas they are too 'igh
　　cost. It is not so, as I 'ave proved."
　　"How have you proved?"
　　"Come, please."
　　The young Frenchman led the way into the glass-paneled office. It was a
　　small, crowded cubicle with two desks, file cabinets, and cupboards
　　tightly packed around three walls. Andr6 Lemieux went to the smaller
　　desk. Opening a drawer he took out a large Manila envelope and, from
　　this, a folder. He handed it to Peter. "You ask what changes. It is all
　　here."
　　Peter McDermott opened the folder curiously. There were many pages, each
　　filled with a fine, precise handwriting. Several larger, folded sheets
　　proved to be charts, hand-drawn and lettered in the same careful style.
　　It was, he realized, a master catering plan for the entire hotel. On
　　successive pages were estimated costs, menus, a plan of quality control
　　and an outlined staff reorganization. Merely leafing through quickly, the
　　entire concept and its author's grasp of detail were impressive.
　　Peter looked up, catching his companion's eyes upon him. "If I may, I'd
　　like to study this."
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　　"Take it. There is no haste." The young sous-chef smiled dourly. "I am
　　told it is unlikely any of my 'orses will come ome.
　　"The thing that surprises me is how you could develop something like this
　　so quickly."
　　Andr6 Lemieux shrugged. "To perceive what is wrong, it does not take
　　long."
　　"Maybe we could apply the same idea in finding what went wrong with the
　　deep fryer."
　　There was a responsive gleam of humor, then chagrin. "TouchO It is true-I
　　had eyes for this, but not the 'ot fat under my nose."
　　"No," Peter objected. "From what you've told me, you did detect the bad
　　fat but it wasn't changed as you instructed."
　　"I should have found the cause the fat went bad. There is always a cause.
　　Greater trouble there may be if we do not find it soon."
　　:'What kind of trouble?"
　　'Today-through much good fortune-we have used the frying fat a little
　　only. Tomorrow, monsieur, there are six hundred fryings for convention
　　luncheons."
　　Peter whistled soffly.
　　Sjust so." They had walked together from the office to stand beside the
　　deep fryer from which the last vestiges of the recently offending fat
　　were being cleaned.
　　"The fat will be fresh tomorrow, of, course. When was it changed
　　previously?"
　　'Yesterday."
　　'That recently!"
　　Andr6 Lemieux nodded. "M. H6brand he was making no joke when he
　　complained of the 'igh cost. But what is wrong it is a mystery."
　　Peter said slowly, "I'm trying to remember some bits of food chemistry.
　　The smoke-point of new, good fat is 11
　　"Four 'undred and twenty-five degrees. It should never be heated more,
　　or it will break down."
　　"And as fat deteriorates its smoke-point drops slowly.",
　　:'Very slowly-if all is well."
　　'Here you fry at .
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　　"Three 'undred and sixty degrees; the best temperature -for kitchens and
　　the 'ousewives too."
　　"So while the smoke-point remains about three hundred and sixty, the fat
　　will do its job. Below that, it ceases to."
　　"That is true, monsieur. And the fat it will give food a bad flavor,
　　tasting rancid, as today."
　　Facts, once memorized but rusty with disuse, stirred in Peter's brain. At
　　Cornell there had been a course in food chemistry for Hotel Administration
　　students. He remembered a lecture dimly . . . in Statler Hall on a
　　darkening afternoon, the whiteness of frost on window panes. He had come in
　　from the biting, wintry air outside. Inside was warmth and the drone of
　　information fats and catalyzing agents.
　　"There are certain substances," Peter said reminiscently, "which, in
　　contact with fat, will act as catalysts and break it down quite quickly."
　　"Yes, monsieur." Andr6 Lemieux checked them off on his fingers. "They are
　　the moisture, the salt, the brass or the copper couplings in a fryer, too
　　much 'eat, the oil of the olive. All these things I have checked. This is
　　not the cause."
　　A word had clicked in Peter's brain. It connected with what he had
　　observed, subconsciously, in watching the deep fryer being cleaned a moment
　　earlier.
　　"What metal are your fry baskets?"
　　"They are chrome." The tone was puzzled. Chromium, as both men knew, was
　　harmless to fat.
　　"I wonder," Peter said, "how good the plating job is. If it isn't good,
　　what's under the chrome and is it-in any places-worn?"
　　Lemieux hesitated, his eyes widening slightly. Silently he lifted one of
　　the baskets down and wiped it carefully with a cloth. Moving under a light,
　　they inspected the metal surface.
　　The chrome was scratched from long and constant use. In small spots it had
　　worn away entirely. Beneath scratches and worn spots was a gleam of yellow.
　　"It is brass!" The young Frenchman clapped a hand to his forehead. "Without
　　doubt it 'as caused the bad fat. I have been a great fool."
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　　"I don't see how you can blame yourself," Peter pointed out. "Obviously,
　　long before you came, someone economized and bought cheap fry baskets.
　　Unfortunately it's cost more in the end."
　　"But I should have discovered this-as you have done, monsieur." Andr6
　　Lemieux seemed close to tears. "Instead, you, monsieur, you come to the
　　kitchen-from your paperasserie-to tell me what is 'aywire here. It will be
　　a laughing joke."
　　"If it is," Peter said, "it will be because you talked about it yourself.
　　No one will hear from me."
　　Andr6 Lemieux said slowly, "Others they have said to me you are a good man,
　　and intelligent. Now, myself, I know this is true."
　　Peter touched the folder in his hand. "I'll read your report and tell you
　　what I think."
　　"Thank you, monsieur. And I shall demand new fry baskets. Of stainless
　　steel. Tonight they will be here if I have to 'ammer someone's 'ead."
　　Peter smiled.
　　"Monsieur, there is something else that I am thinking."
　　"Yes?"
　　The young sous-chef hesitated. "You will think it, how you say,
　　presumptuous. But you and 1, Monsieur McDermott-with the hands free-we
　　could make this a 'ot-shot hotel."
　　Though he laughed impulsively, it was a statement which Peter McDermott
　　thought about all the way to his office on the main mezzanine.
　　9
　　A second after knocking at the door of room 1410, Christine Francis
　　wondered why she had come. Yesterday, of course, it had been perfectly
　　natural for her to visit Albert Wells, after his brush with death the night
　　before and her own involvement. But now Mr. Wells was being adequately
　　cared for and, with recovery, had reverted to his role as an ordinary guest
　　among more than a thousand and a half others in the hotel. Therefore,
　　Christine told
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　　herself, there was no real reason to make another personal call.
　　Yet there was something about the little elderly man which drew her to
　　him. Was it, she wondered, because of his fatherliness and her
　　perception, perhaps, of some of the traits of her own father to whose
　　loss she had never quite adjusted, even after five long years. But no!
　　The relationship with her father had been one of her reliance on him.
　　With Albert Wells she found herself protective, just as yesterday she had
　　wanted to shield him from the consequences of his own action in choosing
　　the private nursing arrangement.
　　Or maybe, Christine reflected, she was, at this moment, just plain
　　lonely, wanting to offset her disappointment in learning she would not
　　meet Peter this evening, as they had both planned. And as to that-had it
　　been disappointment, or some stronger emotion on discovering that he
　　would be dining, instead, with Marsha Preyscott?
　　If she was honest with herself, Christine admitted, she had been angry
　　this morning, though she hoped she had concealed it, covering up with
　　mild annoyance and the slight acidity of comment she had been unable to
　　resist. It would have been a big mistake, either to have shown a
　　possessiveness about Peter or to have given little Miss Marshmallow the
　　satisfaction of believing she had won a feminine victory even though, in
　　fact, she had.
　　There was still no response to her knock. Remembering that the nurse
　　should be on duty, Christine knocked again, more sharply. This time there
　　was the sound of a chair moving and footsteps approaching from inside.
　　The door opened to reveal Albert Wells. He was fully dressed. He looked
　　well and there was color in his face, which brightened as he saw
　　Christine. "I was hoping you'd come, miss. If you hadn't, I was going to
　　look for you."
　　She said, surprised, "I thought . . ."
　　The little birdlike man chuckled. "You thought they'd keep me pinned
　　down; well, they didn't. I felt good, so I made your hotel doctor send
　　for that specialist-the one from Illinois, Dr. Uxbridge. He's got a lot
　　of sense; said if people feel well, they mostly are. So we bundled the
　　nurse 210
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　　home, and here I am." He beamed. "Well, miss, come on in."
　　Christine's reaction was of relief that the considerable expense of the
　　private nursing had ended. She suspected that a realization of its cost had
　　had a good deal to do with Albert Wells' decision.
　　As she followed him into the room, he asked, "Did you knock before?"
　　She admitted that she had.
　　"Had an idea I'd heard something. I guess my mind was on this." He pointed
　　to a table near the window. On it was a large and intricate jigsaw puzzle,
　　of which about two thirds was completed. "Or maybe," he added, "I thought
　　it was Bailey."
　　Christine asked curiously, "Who's Bailey?"
　　The old man's eyes twinkled. "If you stay a minute, you'll meet him.
　　Leastways, either him or Barnum."
　　She shook her head, not understanding. Walking toward the window, she
　　leaned over the jigsaw puzzle, inspecting it. There were sufficient pieces
　　in place to recognize the scene depicted as New Orleans-the city at dusk,
　　viewed from high above, with the shining river winding through. She said,
　　"I used to do these once, a long time ago. My father helped me."
　　Beside her, Albert Wells observed, "There are some who'd say it isn't much
　　of a pastime for a grown man. Mostly, though, I set out one of these when
　　I want to think. Sometimes I discover the key piece, and the answer to what
　　I'm thinking about, around the same time."
　　"A key piece? I've never heard of that."
　　641t9s just an idea of mine, miss. I reckon there's always one-to this, and
　　most other problems you can name. Sometimes you think you've found it, and
　　you haven't. When you do, though, all of a sudden you can see a whole lot
　　clearer, including how other things fit in around."
　　Abruptly there was a sharp, authoritative knock at the outer door. Albert
　　Wells' lips formed the word, "Bailey!"
　　She was surprised, when the door opened, to see a uniformed hotel valet. He
　　had a collection of suits on hangers over one shoulder; in front he held a
　　pressed blue serge suit which, from its old-fashioned cut, undoubtedly be-
　　211
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　　longed to Albert Wells. With practiced speed the valet hung the suit in
　　a closet and returned to the door where the little man was waiting. The
　　valet's left hand held the suits on his shoulder; his right came up
　　automatically, palm outstretched.
　　"I already took care of you," Albert Wells said. His eyes betrayed
　　amusement. "When the suit was picked up this morning."
　　"Not me, you didn't, sir." The valet shook his head decisively.
　　"No, but your friend. It's the same thing."
　　The man said stoically, "I wouldn't know anything about th at. "
　　"You mean he holds out on you?"
　　The outstretched hand went down. "I don't know what you're talking
　　about."
　　"Come on now!" Albert Wells was grinning broadly. "You're Bailey. I
　　tipped Barnum."
　　The valet's eyes flickered to Christine. As he recognized her, a trace
　　of doubt crossed his face. Then he grinned sheepishly. "Yes, sir." He
　　went out, closing the door behind him.
　　"Now what in the world was all that about?"
　　The little man chuckled. "You work in a hotel, and don't know the Barnum
　　and Bailey dodge?"
　　Christine shook her head,
　　"It's a simple thing, miss. Hotel valets work in pairs, but the one who
　　picks up a suit is never the one who delivers it back. They figure it
　　that way, so mostly they get tipped twice. Afterward they pool the tips
　　and divvy up."
　　"I can see how it works," Christine said. "But I've never thought about
　　it."
　　"Nor do most others. Which is why it costs them a double tip for the same
　　service." Albert Wells rubbed his sparrow-beak nose ruminatively. "With
　　me it's a kind of game-to see bow many hotels there are where the same
　　thing happens."
　　She laughed. "How did you find out?"
　　"A valet told me once-after I let him know I'd rumbled. He told me
　　another thing. You know in hotels with dial telephones, from some phones
　　you can dial rooms 212
　　                        Wednesday
　　directly. So Barnum or Bailey-whichever one's which for that day-will dial
　　the rooms he has deliveries for. If there's no answer, he waits and calls
　　again later. If there is an answer-which means someone's in-he'll hang up
　　without saying anything. Then a few minutes later he'll deliver your suit
　　and pick up the second tip."
　　"You don't like tipping, Mr. Wells?"
　　"It isn't so much that, miss. Tipping's like dying; it's here to stay, so
　　what good's worrying? Anyway I tipped Barnum well this morning-sort of
　　paying in advance for the bit of fun I had with Bailey just now. What I
　　don't like, though, is to be taken for a fool."
　　"I shouldn't imagine that happens often." Christine was beginning to
　　suspect that Albert Wells needed a good deal less protection than she had
　　at first supposed. She found him, though, as likeable as ever.
　　He acknowledged: "That's as may be. There's one thing, though, I'll tell
　　you. There's more of that kind of malarkey goes on in this hotel than
　　most."
　　"Why do you think so?"
　　"Because mostly I keep my eyes open, miss, and I talk to people. They tell
　　me things they maybe wouldn't you."
　　"What kind of things?"
　　"Well, for one, a good many figure they can get away with anything. It's
　　because you don't have good management, I reckon. It could be good, but it
　　isn't, and maybe that's why your Mr. Trent is in trouble right now."
　　"It's almost uncanny," Christine said. "Peter McDermott told me exactly the
　　same thing-almost in those words." Her eyes searched the little man's face.
　　For all his lack of worldliness, he seemed to have a homespun instinct for
　　getting at the truth.
　　Albert Wells nodded approvingly. "Now there's a smart young man. We had a
　　talk yesterday."
　　This disclosure surprised her. "Peter came here?"
　　"That's right."
　　"I didn't know." But it was the kind of thing, she reasoned, that Peter
　　McDermott would do-an efficient follow-up to whatever it was he was
　　concerned with personally. She had observed before, his capacity for
　　thinking largely, yet seldom omitting detail.
　　213
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　　"Are you going to marry him, miss?"
　　The abrupt question startled her. She protested, "Whatever gave you that
　　idea?" But to her embarrassment she felt her face was flushing.
　　Albert Wells chuckled. There were moments, Christine thought, when he had
　　the mien of a mischieveous elf.
　　"I sort of guessed-by the way you said his name just now. Besides, I'd
　　figured the two of you must see a lot of each other, both working where you
　　do; and if that young man has the kind of sense I think, he'll find out he
　　doesn't have to look much further."
　　"Mr. Wells, you're outrageous! You you read people's minds, then you make
　　them feel terrible." But the warmth of her smile belied the reproof. "And
　　please stop calling me 'miss.' My name is Christine."
　　He said quietly, "That's a special name for me. It was my wife's, too."
　　"Was?"
　　He nodded. "She died, Christine. So long ago, sometimes I get to thinking
　　the times we had together never really happened. Not the good ones or the
　　hard, and there were plenty of both. But then, once in a while, it seems as
　　if all that happened was only yesterday. It's then I get weary, mostly of
　　being so much alone. We didn't have children." He stopped, his eyes
　　reflective. "You never know how much you share with someone until the
　　sharing ends. So you and your young man-grab on to every minute there is.
　　Don't waste a lot of time; you never get it back."
　　She laughed. "I keep telling you he isn't my young man. At least, not yet."
　　"If you handle things right, he can be."
　　"Perhaps." Her eyes went to the partially completed jigsaw puzzle. She said
　　slowly, "I wonder if there is a key piece to everything-the way you say.
　　And when you've found it, if you really know, or only guess, and hope."
　　Then, almost before she knew it, she found herself confiding in the little
　　man, relating the happenings of the past -the tragedy in Wisconsin, her
　　aloneness, the move to New Orleans, the adjusting years, and now for the
　　first time the possibility of a full and fruitful life. She revealed,
　　214
　　                        Wednesday
　　too, the breakdown of this evening's arrangements and her disappointment
　　at the cause.
　　At the end Albert Wells nodded sagely. "Things work themselves out a lot
　　of times. Other times, though, you need to push a bit so's to start
　　people moving."
　　She asked lightly, "Any ideas?"
　　He shook his head. "Being a woman, you'll know plenty more'n me. There's
　　one thing, though. Because of what happened, I shouldn't wonder if that
　　young man'll ask you out tomorrow."
　　Christine smiled. "He might."
　　"Then get yourself another date before he does. He'll appreciate you
　　more, having to wait an extra day."
　　"I'd have to invent something."
　　"No need for that, unless you want. I was going to ask anyway, miss ...
　　excuse me, Christine. I'd like us to have dinner, you and me-a kind of
　　thank you for what you did the other night. If you can bear an old man's
　　company, I'd be glad to be a stand-in."
　　She answered, "I'd love to have dinner, but I promise you won't be any
　　stand-in."
　　"Good!" The little man beamed. "We'd best make it here in the hotel, I
　　reckon. I told that doctor I'd not go outdoors for a couple of days."
　　Briefly, Christine hesitated. She wondered if Albert Wells knew just how
　　high were the evening prices in the St. Gregory's main dining room.
　　Though the nursing expense had ended, she had no wish to deplete still
　　further whatever funds he had remaining. Suddenly she thought of a way
　　to prevent that happening.
　　Putting the idea aside to be dealt with later, she assured him, "The
　　hotel will be fine. It's a special occasion, though. You'll have to give
　　me time to go home and change into something really glamorous. Let's make
　　it eight o'clocktomorrow night."
　　On the fourteenth floor, after leaving Albert Wells, Christine noticed
　　that number four elevator was out of service. Maintenance work, she
　　observed, was being done both on the landing doors and the elevator cage.
　　She took another elevator to the main mezzanine. 215
　　    HOTEL
　　10
　　The dentists' president, Dr. Ingram, glared at the visitor to his suite on
　　the seventh floor. "McDermott, if you've come here with some idea of
　　smoothing things over, I'll tell you right now you're wasting time. Is that
　　why you came?"
　　"Yes," Peter admitted. "I'm afraid it is."
　　The older man said grudgingly, "At least you don't lie."
　　"There's no reason I should. I'm an employee of the hotel, Dr. Ingram.
　　While I work here I've an obligation to do the best I can for it."
　　"And what happened to Dr. Nicholas was the best you could do?"
　　"No, sir. I happen to believe it's the worst thing we could have done. The
　　fact that I had no authority to change a hotel standing order doesn't make
　　it any better."
　　The dentists' president snorted. "If you really felt that way, you'd have
　　the guts to quit and get a job some other place. Maybe where the pay is
　　poorer but the ethics higher."
　　Peter flushed, refraining from a quick retort. He reminded himself that
　　this morning in the lobby he had admired the elderly dentist for his
　　forthright stand. Nothing had changed since then.
　　~ "Well?" The alert, unyielding eyes were focused on his own.
　　"Suppose I did quit," Peter said. "Whoever took my job might be perfectly
　　satisfied with the way things are. At least I'm not. I intend to do what I
　　can to change the ground rules here."
　　"Rules! Rationalization! Damned excuses!" The doctor's rubicund face grew
　　redder. "In my time I've heard them all! They make me sick! Disgusted,
　　ashamed, and sick of the human race!"
　　Between them there was a silence.
　　"All right." Dr. Ingram's voice dropped, his immediate anger spent. "I'll
　　concede you're not as bigoted as some, McDermott. You've a problem
　　yourself, and I guess my
　　216
　　                        Wednesday
　　bawling you out doesn't solve anything. But don't you see, son?-half the
　　time it's the damned reasonableness of people like you and me which adds up
　　to the sort of treatment Jim Nicholas got today."
　　"I do see, Doctor. Though I think the ple
　　as you'd make it."
　　"Plenty of things aren't simple," the older man growled. "You heard what I
　　told Nicholas. I said if he didn't get an apology and a room, I'd pull the
　　entire convention out of this hotel."
　　Peter said guardedly, "In the ordinary way aren't there events at your
　　convention-medical discussions, demonstrations, that kind of thing-that
　　benefit a lot of people?"
　　"Naturally."
　　"Then would it help? I mean, if you wiped out everything, what could anyone
　　gain? Not Dr. Nicholas . . ." He stopped, aware of renewed hostility as his
　　words progressed.
　　Dr. Ingram snapped, "Don't give me a snow job, McDermott. And credit me
　　with intelligence to have thought of that already."
　　4411m sorry."
　　"There are always reasons for not doing something; plenty of times they're
　　good reasons. That's why so few people ever take a stand for what they
　　believe in, or say they do. In a couple of hours, when some of my well-
　　meaning colleagues hear what I'm planning, I predict they'll offer the same
　　kind of argument." Breathing heavily, the older man paused. He faced Peter
　　squarely, "Let me ask you something. This morning you admitted you were
　　ashamed of turning Jim Nicholas away. If you were me, here and now, what
　　would you do?"
　　"Doctor, that's a hypothetical . . ."
　　"Never mind the horse-shit! I'm asking you a simple, direct question."
　　Peter considered. As far as the hotel was concerned, he supposed whatever
　　he said now would make little difference to the outcome. Why not answer
　　honestly?
　　He said, "I think I'd do exactly as you intended-cancel out."
　　217
　　    HOTEL
　　"Well!" Stepping back a pace, the dentists' president regarded him
　　appraisingly. "Beneath all that hotel crap lies an honest man."
　　"Who may shortly be unemployed."
　　"Hang onto that black suit, son! You can get a job helping out at
　　funerals." For the first time Dr. Ingram chuckled. "Despite everything,
　　McDermott, I like you. Got any teeth need fixing?"
　　Peter shook his head. "If you don't mind, I'd sooner know what your plans
　　are. As soon as possible." There would be immediate things to do, once the
　　cancellation was confirmed. The loss to the hotel was going to be dis-
　　astrous, as Royall Edwards had pointed out at lunch. But at least some of
　　the preparations for tomorrow and the next day could be halted at once.
　　Dr. Ingram said crisply, "You've leveled with me; I'll do the same for you.
　　I've called an emergency executive session for five this afternoon." He
　　glanced at his watch. "That's in two and a half hours. Most of our senior
　　officers will have arrived by then."
　　"No doubt we'll be in touch."
　　Dr. Ingram nodded. His grimness had returned. "Because we've relaxed a
　　minute, McDermott, don't let it fool you. Nothing has changed since this
　　morning, and I intend to kick you people where it hurts."
　　Surprisingly, Warren Trent reacted almost with indifference to the news
　　that the Congress of American Dentistry might abandon its convention and
　　stage a protest withdrawal from the hotel.
　　Peter McDermott had gone immediately to the main mezzanine executive suite
　　after leaving Dr. Ingram. Christine-a trifle coolly, he thought-had told
　　him the hotel proprietor was in.
　　Warren Trent, Peter sensed, was noticeably less tense than on other
　　occasions recently. At ease behind the black marble-topped desk in the
　　sumptuous managing director's office, he betrayed none of the irascibility
　　so apparent the previous day. There were moments, while listening to
　　Peter's report, that a slight smile played around his lips, though
　　218
　　                        Wednesday
　　it seemed to have little to do with events on hand. It was rather, Peter
　　thought, as if his employer were savoring some private pleasure known only
　　to himself.
　　At the end, the hotel proprietor shook his head decisively. "They won't
　　go. They'll talk, but that will be the end of it."
　　"Dr. Ingram seems quite serious."
　　"He may be, but others won't. You say there's a meeting this afternoon;
　　I can tell you what will happen. They'll debate around for a while, then
　　there'll be a committee formed to draft a resolution. Later-tomorrow
　　probably -the committee will report back to the executive. They may
　　accept the report, they may amend it; either way they'll talk some more.
　　Later still-perhaps the next day -the resolution will be debated on the
　　convention floor. I've seen it all before-the great democratic process.
　　They'll still be talking when the convention's over."
　　"I suppose you could be right," Peter said. "Though I'd say it's a pretty
　　sick point of view."
　　He had spoken recklessly and braced himself for an explosive response.
　　It failed to occur. Instead Warren Trent growled, "I'm practical, that's
　　all. People will cluck about so-called principles till their tongues dry
　　out. But they won't inconvenience themselves if they can avoid it."
　　Peter said doggedly, "It might still be simpler if we changed our policy.
　　I can't believe that Dr. Nicholas, if we'd admitted him, would have
　　undermined the hotel."
　　"He might not. But the riff-raff who'd follow would. Then we'd be in
　　trouble."
　　"It's been my understanding we're that way already." Perversely, Peter
　　was conscious of indulging in verbal brinksmanship. He speculated on just
　　how far he could go. And why-today-he wondered, was his employer in such
　　comparative good humor?
　　Warren Trent's patrician features creased sardonically. "We may have been
　　in trouble for a while. In a day or two, however, that will not be true."
　　Abruptly he asked: "Is Curtis O'Keefe still in the hotel?"
　　"So far as I know. I'd have heard if he'd checked out."
　　"Goodl" The hovering smile remained. "I've some in219
　　    HOTEL
　　formation that may interest you. Tomorrow I shall tell O'Keefe and his
　　entire hotel chain to go jump in Lake Pontchartrain."
　　From his vantage point at the bell captain's upright desk, Herbie
　　Chandler watched covertly as the four young men entered the St. Gregory
　　from the street outside. It was a few minutes before four P.m.
　　Two of the group Herbie recognized as Lyle Dumaire and Stanley Dixon, the
　　latter scowling as he led the way toward the elevators. A few seconds
　　later they were out of sight.
　　On the telephone yesterday, Dixon had assured Herbie that the bell
　　captain's part in the previous night's embroilment would not be divulged.
　　But Dixon, Herbie realized uneasily, was merely one of four. How the
　　others-and perhaps Dixon too-would react under questioning, possibly
　　threats, was something else again.
　　As he had for the past twenty-four hours, the bell captain continued to
　　brood with growing apprehension.
　　On the main mezzanine, Stanley Dixon again led the way as the four youths
　　left the elevator. They stopped outside a paneled doorway with a softly
　　illumined sign, EXECUTIVE OFFICES, while Dixon morosely repeated an
　　earlier warning. "Remembefl-leave the talking to me."
　　Flora Yates showed them into Peter McDermott's office. Looking up coldly,
　　he motioned them to chairs and inquired, "Which of you is Dixon?"
　　"I am."
　　"Dumaire?"
　　Less confidently, Lyle Dumaire nodded.
　　"I don't have the other two names."
　　"That's too bad," Dixon said. "If we'd known, we could have all brought
　　calling cards."
　　The third youth interjected, "I'm Gladwin. This is Joe Waloski." Dixon
　　shot him an irritated glance.
　　"All of you," Peter stated, "are undoubtedly aware that I've listened to
　　Miss Marsha Preyscott's report of what 220
　　                        Wednesday
　　occurred Monday night. If you wish, I'm willing to hear your version."
　　Dixon spoke quickly, before anyone else could intervene. "Listen!--coming
　　here was your idea, not ours. There's nothing we want to say to you. So
　　if you've got any talking, get on with it."
　　Peter's face muscles tightened. With an effort he controlled his temper.
　　"Very well. I suggest we deal with the least important matter first." He
　　shuffled papers, then addressed Dixon. "Suite 1126-7 was registered in
　　your name. When you ran away"--he emphasized the last two words-"I
　　assumed you had overlooked checking out, so I did it for you. There is
　　an unpaid bill of seventy-five dollars and some cents. There is a further
　　bill, for damage to the suite, of one hundred and ten dollars."
　　The one who had introduced himself as Gladwin whistled softly.
　　"We'll pay the seventy-five," Dixon said. "That's all."
　　"If you dispute the other account, that's your privilege," Peter informed
　　him. "But I'll tell you we don't intend to drop the matter. If necessary,
　　we'll sue."
　　"Listen, Stan . . ." It was the fourth youth, Joe Waloski. Dixon waved
　　him to silence.
　　Beside him, Lyle Dumaire shifted uneasily. He said softly, "Stan,
　　whatever happens they can make a lot of fuss. If we have to, we can split
　　it four ways." He addressed Peter: "If we do pay-the hundred and ten-we
　　might have trouble getting it all at once. Could we pay a little at a
　　time?"
　　"Certainly." There was no reason, Peter decided, not to extend the normal
　　amenities of the hotel. "One or all of you can see our credit manager and
　　he'll make the arrangements." He glanced around the group. "Are we to
　　regard that part as settled?"
　　One by one the quartet nodded.
　　"That leaves the matter of the attempted rape-four so-called men against
　　one girl." Peter made no effort to keep the contempt from his voice.
　　Waloski and Gladwin flushed. Lyle Dumaire uncomfortably avoided Peter's
　　eyes.
　　221
　　    HOTEL
　　Only Dixon maintained his self-assurance. "That's her story. Could be, we'd
　　tell a different one."
　　"I already said I'm willing to listen to your version."
　　"Nuts!"
　　"Then I've no alternative but to accept Miss Preyscott's."
　　Dixon sniggered. "Don't you wish you'd been there, buster? Or maybe you had
　　your piece after."
　　Waloski muttered, "Take it easy, Stan."
　　Peter gripped the arms of his chair tightly. He fought back an impulse to
　　rush out from behind the desk and strike the smugly leering face in front
　　of him. But he knew that if he did he would give Dixon an advantage which
　　the youth was probably, and astutely, trying to gain. He would not, he told
　　himself, be goaded into losing control.
　　"I assume," he said icily, "you are all aware that criminal charges can be
　　laid."
　　"If they were going to be," Dixon countered, "somebody'd have done it by
　　now. So don7t feed us that old line."
　　"Would you be willing to repeat that statement to Mr. Mark Preyscott? If
　　he's brought back from Rome after being told what happened to his
　　daughter?"
　　Lyle Dumaire looked up sharply, his expression alarmed. For the first time
　　there was a flicker of disquiet in Dixon's eyes.
　　Gladwin inquired anxiously, "Is he being told?"
　　"Shut up!" Dixon enjoined. "Its a trick. Don't fall for itl" But there was
　　a shade less confidence than a moment earlier.
　　"You can judge for yourself whether it's a trick or not." Peter opened a
　　drawer of his desk and took out a folder which he opened. "I have here a
　　signed statement, made by me, of exactly what I was informed by Miss
　　Preyscott, and what I observed myself on arrival at suite 1126-7, Monday
　　night. It has not been attested to by Miss Preyscott, but it can be, along
　　with any other details she may see fit to add. There is a further statement
　　made and signed by Aloysius Royce, the hotel employee you assaulted, con-
　　firming my report and describing what happened immediately after his
　　arrival."
　　The idea of obtaining a statement from Royce had
　　222
　　                        Wednesday
　　occurred to Peter late yesterday. In response to a telephoned request the
　　young Negro had delivered it early this morning. The neatly typed document
　　was clear and carefully phrased, reflecting Royce's legal training. At the
　　same time Aloysius Royce had cautioned Peter, "I still say no Louisiana
　　court will take a nigger boy's word in a white rape case." Though
　　irritated by Royce's continued abrasiveness, Peter assured him, "I'm sure
　　it win never come to court, but I need the ammunition."
　　Stan Jakubiec had been helpful also. At Peter's request the credit
　　manager had made discreet inquiries about the two youths, Stanley Dixon
　　and Lyle Dumaire. He reported: "Dumaire's father, as you know, is the
　　bank president; Dixon's father is a car dealer-good business, big home.
　　Both kids seemingly get a lot of freedom-parental indulgence, I guess-and
　　a fair amount of money, though not unlimited. From all I hear, both
　　fathers wouldn't exactly disapprove of their kids laying a girl or two;
　　more likely to say 'I did the same when I was young.' But attempted rape
　　is something else again, particularly involving the Preyscott girl. Mark
　　Preyscott has as much influence as anyone in this town. He and the other
　　two men move in the same circle, though Preyscott probably rates higher
　　socially. Certainly if Mark Preyscott got after the older Dixon and
　　Dumaire, accusing their sons of raping his daughter, or trying to, the
　　roof would fall in and the Dixon and Dumaire kids know it." Peter had
　　thanked Jakubiec, storing the information for use if necessary.
　　"All that statement stuff," Dixon said, "ain't worth as much as you make
　　it out. You weren't there until after, so yours is hearsay."
　　"That may be true," Peter said. "I'm not a lawyer, so I wouldn't know.
　　But I wouldn't discount it entirely. Also, whether you won or lost you
　　would not come out of court smelling sweetly, and I imagine your families
　　might give some of you a hard time." From a glance between Dixon and
　　Dumaire he knew the last thrust had gone home.
　　"Christ!" Gladwin urged the others, "we don't want to go in any court."
　　Lyle Dumaire asked sullenly, "What are you going to do?"
　　223
　　    HOTEL
　　"Providing you cooperate, I intend to do nothing more, at least so far
　　as you are concerned. On the other hand, if you continue making things
　　difficult I intend, later today, to cable Mr. Preyscott in Rome and
　　deliver these papers to his lawyers here."
　　It was Dixon who asked disagreeably, "What's 'cooperate' supposed to
　　mean?"
　　"It means that here and now you will each write a fun account of what
　　took place Monday night, including whatever occurred in the early part
　　of the evening and who, if anyone, was involved from the hotel."
　　"Like hell!" Dixon said. "You can stuff that
　　Gladwin cut in impatiently. "Can it, Stan!" He inquired of Peter,
　　"Suppose we do make statements. What will you do then?"
　　"Much as I'd like to see them used otherwise, you have my word they will
　　be seen by no one, other than internally within the hotel."
　　"How do we know we can trust you?"
　　"You don't. You'll have to take that chance."
　　There was a silence in the room, the only sounds the creaking of a chair
　　and the muffled clatter of a typewriter outside.
　　Abruptly Waloski said, "I'll take a chance. Give me something to write
　　on."
　　"I guess I will too." It was Gladwin.
　　Lyle Dumaire, unhappily, nodded his assent.
　　Dixon scowled, then shrugged. "So everybody's on a writing kick. What's
　　the difference?" He told Peter, "I like a pen with a broad nib. It suits
　　my style."
　　A half hour later Peter McDermott reread, more carefully, the several
　　pages he had skimmed over quickly before the youths filed out.
　　The four versions of Monday's evening events, though differing in a few
　　details, corroborated each other in essential facts. All of them filled
　　in earlier gaps in information, and Peter's instructions that hotel staff
　　be identified had been specifically followed.
　　The bell captain, Herbie Chandler, was firmly and unerringly impaled.
　　224
　　                        Wednesday
　　12
　　The original, half-formed idea in the mind of Keyease Milne had taken
　　shape.
　　Unquestionably, his instinct told him, the appearance of the Duchcss of
　　Croydon at the same time he himself was passing through the lobby, had been
　　more than coincidence. It was an omen among omens, pointing a path for him
　　to tread, at the end of which lay the Duchess's glistering jewels.
　　Admittedly, the fabled Croydon gem collection was not likely to be-in its
　　entirety-in New Orleans. On her travels, as was known, the Duchess carried
　　only portions of her Aladdin's treasure trove. Even so, the potential loot
　　was likely to be large and, though some jewels might be safeguarded in the
　　hotel's vault, it was a certainty there would be others immediately at
　　hand.
　　The key to the situation, as always, lay in a key to the Croydons' suite.
　　Systematically, Keycase Milne set out to obtain it.
　　He rode elevators several times, choosing different cars so as not to make
　　himself conspicuous. Eventually, finding himself alone with an elevator
　　operator, he asked the seemingly casual question, "Is it true the Duke and
　　Duchess of Croydon are staying in the hotel?"
　　"That's right, sir."
　　"I suppose the hotel keeps special rooms for visitors like that." Keyease
　　smiled genially. "Not like us ordinary people."
　　"Well, sir, the Duke and Duchess have the Presidential Suite."
　　"Oh, really! What floor's that?"
　　"Ninth."
　　Mentally, Keycase ticked off "point one" and left the elevator at his own
　　floor, the eighth.
　　Point two was to establish the precise room number. It proved simple. Up
　　one flight by the service stairs, then a short walk! Double padded-leather
　　doors with gold fleurde-lis proclaimed the Presidential Suite. Keycase
　　noted the number: 973-7.
　　225
　　    HOTEL
　　Down to the lobby once more, this time for a strollapparently casual-past
　　the reception desk. A quick, keeneyed inspection showed that 973-7, like
　　more plebian rooms, had a conventional mail slot. A room key was in the
　　slot.
　　It would be a mistake to ask for the key at once. Keycase sat down to
　　watch and wait. The precaution proved wise.
　　After a few minutes' observation it became obvious that the hotel had
　　been alerted. Compared with the normal easygoing method of handing out
　　room keys, today the desk clerks were being cautious. As guests requested
　　keys, the clerks asked names, then checked the answer against a
　　registration list. Undoubtedly, Keycase reasoned, his coup of early this
　　morning had been reported, with security tightened as a result.
　　A cold stab of fear was a reminder of an equally predictable effect: the
　　New Orleans police would by now be alerted and, within hours, might be
　　seeking Keycase Milne by name. True, if the morning paper was to be
　　believed, the hit-and-run fatalities of two nights earlier still com-
　　manded the bulk of police attention. But it was a certainty that someone
　　at police headquarters would still find time to teletype the FBI. Once
　　again, remembering the awful price of one more conviction, Keyease was
　　tempted to play safe, check out and run. Irresolution held him. Then,
　　forcing doubts aside, he comforted himself with the memory of this
　　morning's omen in his favor.
　　After a time the waiting proved worth while. One desk clerk, a young man
　　with light wavy hair, appeared unsure of himself and at moments nervous.
　　Keycase judged him to be new to his job.
　　The presence of the young man provided a possible opportunity, though to
　　utilize it would be a gamble, Keycase reasoned, and a long shot at that.
　　But perhaps the opportunity-like other events today-was an omen in
　　itself. He resolved to take it, employing a technique he had used before.
　　Preparations would occupy at least an hour. Since it was now
　　mid-afternoon, they must be completed before the young man went off duty.
　　Hurriedly, Keycase left the
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　　hotel. His destination was the Maison Blanche department store on Canal
　　Street.
　　Using his money frugally, Keycase shopped for inexpensive but bulky
　　items-mainly children's toy&-waiting while each was enclosed in a
　　distinctive Maison Blanche box or wrapping paper. At the end, carrying
　　an armful of packages he could scarcely hold, he left the store. He made
　　one additional stop-at a florist's, topping off his purchases with a
　　large azalea plant in bloom, after which he returned to the hotel.
　　At the Carondelet Street entrance a uniformed doorman hurried to hold the
　　doorway wide. The man smiled at Keycase, largely hidden behind his burden
　　of parcels and the flowering azalea.
　　Inside the hotel, Keycase loitered, ostensibly inspecting a series of
　　showcases, but actually waiting for two things to happen. One was a
　　convergence of several people on the reception and mail desk; the second,
　　the reappearance of the young man he had observed earlier. Both events
　　occurred almost at once.
　　Tensely, his heart pounding, Keycase approached the Reception area.
　　He was third in line in front of the young man with light wavy hair. A
　　moment later there was only a middle-aged woman immediately ahead, who
　　secured a room key after identifying herself. Then, about to leave, the
　　woman remembered a query concerning readdressed mail. Her questions
　　seemed interminable, the young desk clerk's answers hesitant.
　　Impatiently, Keyease was aware that around him the knot of people at the
　　desk was thinning. Already one of the other room clerks was free, and he
　　glanced across. Keycase avoided his eye, praying silently for the
　　colloquy ahead to finish.
　　At length the woman moved away. The young clerk turned to Keycase,
　　then-as the doorman had donesmiled involuntarily at the awkward profusion
　　of packages topped by the blooms.
　　Speaking acidly, Keycase used a line already rehearsed. "I'm sure it's
　　very funny. But if it isn't too much trouble I'd like the key of 973."
　　The young man reddened, his smile dissolving instantly. 227
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　　"Certainly, sir." Flustered, as Keycase intended, he wheeled and selected
　　the key from its place in the rack.
　　At the mention of the room number, Keycase had seen one of the other
　　clerks glance sideways. It was a crucial moment. Obviously the number of
　　the Presidential Suite would be well known, and intervention by a more
　　experienced clerk could mean exposure. Keycase sweated.
　　"Your name, sir?"
　　Keycase snapped, "What is this-an interrogation?" Simultaneously he
　　allowed two parcels to drop. One stayed on the counter, the other
　　rebounded to the floor behind the desk. Increasingly flustered, the young
　　clerk retrieved both. His more senior colleague, with an indulgent smile,
　　looked away.
　　"I beg your pardon, sir."
　　"Never mind." Accepting the parcels and rearranging the others, Keycase
　　held out his hand for the key.
　　For a hairsbreadth of time the young man hesitated. Then the image
　　Keycase had hoped to create won out: a tired, frustrated shopper;
　　absurdly burdened; the epitome of respectability as attested by the
　　familiar Maison Blanche wrappings; an already irritated guest, not to be
　　trifled with further ...
　　Deferentially the desk clerk handed over the key of 973.
　　As Keycase walked unhurriedly toward the elevators, activity at the
　　reception desk resumed. A fleeting backward glance showed him the desk
　　clerks were once more busy. Good! It lessened the likelihood of
　　discussion and possible second thoughts about what had just occurred. All
　　the same, he must return the key as quickly as possible. Its absence
　　might be noticed, leading to questions and suspicion--especially
　　dangerous since the hotel was already partially alert.
　　He instructed the elevator operator, "Nine"-a precaution in case anyone
　　had heard him demand a ninth-floor key. Stepping out as the elevator
　　stopped, he loitered, adjusting parcels until the doors closed behind
　　him, then hurried to the service stairs. It was a single Right down to
　　his own floor. On a landing, halfway, was a garbage can. Opening it, he
　　stuffed in the plant which had served
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　　its purpose. A few seconds later he was in his own room, 830.
　　He shoved the parcels hurriedly into a closet. Tomorrow he would return
　　them to the store and claim refunds. The cost was not important compared
　　with the prize he hoped to win, but they would be awkward to take along,
　　and to abandon them would leave a conspicuous trail.
　　Still moving swiftly, he unzippered a suitcase, taking out a small
　　leather-covered box. It contained a number of white cards, some finely
　　sharpened pencils, calipers, and a micrometer. Selecting one of the
　　cards, Keycase laid the Presidential Suite key upon it. Then, holding the
　　key still, he painstakingly drew an outline around the edge. Next, with
　　micrometer and calipers, he measured the thickness of the key and the
　　exact dimensions of each horizontal groove and vertical cut, jotting the
　　results beside the outline on the card. A manufacturer's letter-number
　　code was stamped on the metal. He copied it; the code might help in
　　selecting a suitable blank. Finally, holding the key to the light, he
　　drew a careful free-hand sketch of its end view.
　　He now had an expertly detailed specification which a skilled locksmith
　　could follow unerringly. The procedure, Keycase often reflected amusedly,
　　was a long way from the wax impression gambit beloved by detective
　　fiction writers, but a good deal more effective.
　　He put the leather-covered box away, the card in his pocket. Moments
　　later he was back in the main lobby.
　　Precisely as before, he waited until the desk clerks were busy. Then,
　　walking casually across, he laid the 973 key unnoticed upon the counter.
　　Again he watched. At the next lull a room clerk observed the key.
　　Disinterestedly, he lifted it, glanced at the number and returned it to
　　its slot.
　　Keycase felt a warming glow of professional achievement. Through a
　　combination of inventiveness and skill, and overcoming the hotel's
　　precautions, his first objective had been won.
　　229
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　　13
　　Selecting a dark blue Schiaparelli tie from several in his clothes
　　closet, Peter McDermott knotted it pensively. He was in his small
　　downtown apartment, not far from the hotel, which he had left an hour
　　earlier. In another twenty minutes he was due at Marsha Preyscott's
　　dinner party. He wondered who the other guests would be. Presumably, as
　　well as Marsha's friends-who, he hoped, would be of a different caliber
　　from the Dixon-Dumaire quartet-there would be one or two older people,
　　accounting for his own inclusion.
　　Now that the time had come, he found himself resenting the commitment,
　　wishing instead that he had remained free to meet Christine. He was
　　tempted to telephone Christine before leaving, then decided it would be
　　more discreet to wait until tomorrow.
　　He had an unsettled sense tonight, of being suspended in time between the
　　past and future. So much he was concerned with seemed indefinite, with
　　decisions delayed until outcomes should be known. There was the question
　　of the St. Gregory itself. Would Curtis O'Keefe take over? If so, other
　　affairs seemed minor by comparison--even the dentists' convention, whose
　　officers were still debating whether or not to march protestingly from
　　the St. Gregory or not. An hour ago the executive session called by the
　　fiery dentists' president, Dr. Ingram, was still in progress and looked
　　like continuing, according to the head waiter of room service, whose
　　staff had made several trips into the meeting to replenish ice and mixes.
　　Although Peter had confined his behind-scenes inquiry as to whether the
　　meeting showed signs of breaking up, the head waiter informed him there
　　appeared to be a good deal of heated discussion. Before leaving the hotel
　　Peter left word with the duty assistant manager that if any decision from
　　the dentists became known, he was to be telephoned immediately. So far
　　there had been no word. He wondered now whether Dr. Ingram's forthright
　　viewpoint would prevail or if Warren Trent's more cynical prediction
　　about nothing happening would prove true.
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　　The same uncertainty had caused Peter to defer-at least until tomorrow-any
　　action concerning Herbie Chandler. What ought to be done, he knew, was
　　immediate dismissal of the sleazy bell captain, which would be like purging
　　the hotel of an unclean spirit. Specifically, of course, Chandler would not
　　be dismissed for running a call girl system-which someone else would
　　organize if Chandler didn't-but for allowing greed to overcome good sense.
　　With Chandler gone, a good many other abuses could be curbed, though
　　whether Warren Trent would agree to such summary action was an open
　　question. However, remembering the accumulated evidence and Warren Trent's
　　concern with the hotel's good name, Peter had an idea he might.
　　Either way, Peter reminded himself, he must ensure that the Dixon-Dumaire
　　group statements were safeguarded and used within the hotel only. He would
　　keep his promise on that point. Also he had been bluffing this afternoon in
　　threatening to inform Mark Preyscott about the attempted rape of his
　　daughter. Then, as now, Peter remembered Marsha's entreaty: My father's in
　　Rome. Don't tell him, please-ever!
　　The thought of Marsha was a reminder to hurry. A few minutes later he left
　　the apartment and hailed a cruising cab.
　　Peter asked, "This is the house?"
　　"Sure is." The cab driver looked speculatively at his passenger.
　　"Leastways, if you got the address right."
　　"It was right." Peter's eyes followed the driver's to the immense,
　　white-fronted mansion. The fagade alone was breathtaking. Behind a yew
　　hedge and towering magnolia trees, graceful fluted columns rose from a
　　terrace to a high railed gallery. Above the gallery the columns soared on
　　to a crowning, classically proportioned pediment. At either end of the main
　　building two wings repeated the details in miniature. The entire fagade was
　　in superb repair, its wood surfaces preserved and paintwork fresh. Around
　　the house the scent of sweet olive blossoms hung in the early evening air.
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　　Paying off the cab, Peter approached an iron grilled gate which opened
　　smoothly. A curving pathway of old red brick led between trees and lawns.
　　Though barely dusk, two elevated flare pots had been lighted at either
　　side of the pathway as it neared the house. He had reached the terrace
　　steps when a latch clicked solidly and the double doors to the house
　　swung open. The wide doorway framed Marsha, She waited until he reached
　　the head of the steps, then walked toward him.
　　She was in white-a slim, sheath gown, her raven black hair startling by
　　contrast. He was aware, more than ever, of the provoking woman-child
　　quality.
　　Marsha said gaily, "Welcome!"
　　"Thank you." He gestured about him. "At the moment rm a little
　　overwhelmed."
　　"So's everybody." She entwined her arm in his. "I'll give you the
　　Preyscott official tour before it's dark."
　　Returning down the terrace steps, they crossed the lawn, soft underfoot.
　　Marsha remained close. Through his coat sleeve he could feel the warm
　　firmness of her flesh. Her finger tips touched his wrist lightly. There
　　was an added gentle fragrance to the scent of olive blossoms.
　　"There!" Abruptly Marsha wheeled. "This is where you see it all best.
　　It's from here they always take the pictures."
　　From this side of the lawn the view was even more impressive.
　　"A fun-lovin' French nobleman built the house," Marsha said. "In the
　　1840s. He liked Greek Revival architecture, happy laughing slaves, and
　　also having his mistress handy, which was the reason for an extra wing.
　　My father added the other wing. He prefers things balanced-like accounts
　　and houses."
　　"This is the new guide style-philosophy with fact?"
　　"Oh, I'm brimming with both. You want facts?-look at the roof." Their
　　eyes went up together. "You'll see it overhangs the upper gallery. The
　　Louisiana-Greek stylemost old big houses here were built that way-makes
　　sense because in this climate it gave shade and air. Lots of times the
　　gallery was the most lived-in place. It became a family center, a place
　　of talk and sharing."
　　He quoted, "Households and families, a sharing of the
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　　good life, in a form at once complete and self-sufficient."
　　"Who said that?"
　　"Aristotle."
　　Marsha nodded. "He'd dig galleries." She stopped, considering. "My father
　　did a lot of restoration. The house is better now, but not our use of
　　it."
　　"You must love all this very much."
　　"I hate it," Marsha said. "I've hated this place as long as I remember."
　　He looked at her inquiringly.
　　"Oh, I wouldn't if I came to see it-as a visitor, lined up with others
　　who'd paid fifty cents to be shown around, the way we open the house for
　　Spring Fiesta. I'd admire it because I love old things. But not to live
　　with always, especially alone and after dark."
　　He reminded her, "It's getting dark now."
　　"I know," she said. "But you're here. That makes it different."
　　They had begun to return across the lawn. For the first time he was
　　conscious of the quiet.
　　"Won't your other guests be missing you?"
　　She glanced sideways, mischievously. "What other guests?"
　　"You told me .
　　"I said I was giving a dinner party; so I am. For you. If it's
　　chaperonage you're worried about, Anna's here." They had passed into the
　　house. It was shadowy and cool, with ceilings high above. In the
　　background a small elderly woman in black silk nodded, smiling. "I told
　　Anna about you," Marsha said, "and she approves. My father trusts her
　　absolutely, so everything's all right. Then there's Ben."
　　A Negro manservant followed them, soft footed, to a small booklined
　　study. From a sideboard he brought a tray with decanter and sherry
　　glasses. Marsha shook her head. Peter accepted a sherry and sipped it
　　thoughtfully. From a settee Marsha motioned him to sit beside her.
　　He isked, "You spend a lot of time alone here?"
　　"My father comes home between trips. It's just that the trips get longer
　　and the time between shorter. What I'd prefer to live in is an ugly modem
　　bungalow. Just so long as it was alive."
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　　    HOTEL
　　"I wonder if you really would."
　　"I know I would," Marsha said firmly. "If I shared it with someone I really
　　cared about. Or maybe a hotel would be as good. Don't hotel managers get an
　　apartment to live in-at the top of their hotel?"
　　Startled, he looked up to find her smiling.
　　A moment later the manservant announced quietly that dinner was served.
　　In an adjoining room a small circular table was set for two. Candlelight
　　gleamed on the dinner setting and paneled walls. Above a black marble
　　mantel the portrait of a sternfaced patriarch gazed down, giving Peter an
　　impression of being studied critically.
　　"Don't let great-grandfather bother you," Marsha said when they were
　　seated. "It's me he's frowning at. You see, he once wrote in his diary that
　　he wanted to found a dynasty and I'm his last forlorn hope."
　　They chatted through dinner-with lessening restraintas the manservant
　　served them unobtrusively. The fare ain course a
　　superbly seasoned Jambalaya, followed by a delicately flavored Cr6me
　　Brfil6e. In a situation he had approached with misgiving, Peter discovered
　　he was enjoying himself genuinely. Marsha seemed more vivacious and
　　charming as the minutes passed, and he himself more relaxed in her company.
　　Which was less than surprising, he reminded himself, since the gap in their
　　ages was by no means great. And in the glow of candlelight, the old room
　　shadowed around them, he was reminded how exceedingly beautiful she was.
　　He wondered if long ago the French nobleman who built the great house, and
　　his mistress, had dined as intimately here. Or was the thought the product
　　of a spell which the surroundings and the occasion had cast on him?
　　At the end of dinner Marsha said, "We'll have coffee on the gallery."
　　He held out her chair and she got up quickly, impulsively taking his arm as
　　she had earlier. Amused, he allowed himself to be guided to a hallway and
　　up a broad curving staircase. At the top, a wide corridor, its frescoed
　　walls dimly lighted, led to the open gallery they had viewed from the now
　　darkened garden below
　　234
　　                        Wednesday
　　Demitasse cups and a silver coffee service were on a wicker table. A
　　flickering gas lantern burned above. They took their coffee to a cushioned
　　porch glider which swung lazily as they sat down. The nighttime air was
　　comfortably cool, with the faintest stirring of a breeze. From the garden,
　　the hum of insects sounded sonorously; the muted sounds of traffic came
　　over from St. Charles Avenue, two blocks distant. He was conscious of
　　Marsha, quite still beside him.
　　Peter chided, "You've suddenly become quiet."
　　"I know. I was wondering how to say something."
　　"You might try directly. It often works."
　　"All right." There was a breathlessness to her voice. "I've decided I want
　　to marry you."
　　For what seemed like long minutes but were, he suspected, seconds only,
　　Peter remained unmoving, with even the gentle motion of the glider stopped.
　　At last, with careful precision, he put down his coffee cup.
　　Marsha coughed, then changed the cough to a nervous laugh. "If you want to
　　run, the stairs are thataway."
　　"No," he said. "If I did that I'd never know why you said what you did just
　　now."
　　"I'm not sure myself." She was looking directly ahead, out into the night,
　　her face turned half away. He sensed that she was trembling. "Except I
　　suddenly wanted to say it. And quite sure I should."
　　It was important, he knew, that whatever he next said to this impulsive
　　girl should be with gentleness and consideration. He was also uncomfortably
　　aware of a nervous constriction in his throat. Irrationally, he remembered
　　something Christine had said this morning: Little Miss Preyscott bears as
　　much resemblance to a child as a kitten to a tiger. But it would be fun I
　　should think-for a man -to be eaten up. The comment was unfair of course,
　　even harsh. But it was true that Marsha was not a child, nor should she be
　　treated like one.
　　"Marsha, you scarcely know me, or I you."
　　"Do you believe in instinct?"
　　"To a point, yes."
　　"I had an instinct about you. From the very first moment." Initially her
　　voice had faltered; now she steadied it. "Most times my instincts have been
　　right."
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　　    HOTEL
　　He reminded her gently, "About Stanley Dixon, Lyle Dumaire?"
　　"I had the right instincts. I didn't follow them, thafs all. This time I
　　have."
　　"But instinct may still be wrong."
　　"You can always be wrong, even when you wait a long time." Marsha turned,
　　facing him directly. As her eyes searched his own, he was aware of a
　　strength of character he had not observed before. "My father and mother
　　knew each other fifteen years before they married. My mother once told me
　　that everyone they knew said it would be the perfect match. As it turned
　　out, it was the worst. I know; I was in the middle."
　　He was silent, not knowing what to say.
　　"It taught me some things. So did something else. You saw Anna tonight?"
　　"Yes.
　　"When she was seventeen she was forced to marry a man she'd met just once
　　before. It was a kind of family contract; in those days they did that kind
　　of thing."
　　Watching Marsha's face, he said, "Go on."
　　"The day before the wedding, Anna wept all night. But she was married just
　　the same, and stayed married for forty-six years. Her husband died last
　　year; they lived with us here. He was the kindest, sweetest man I've ever
　　known. If ever there was a perfect marriage it belonged to them."
　　He hesitated, not wishing to score a debater's point, but objected, "Anna
　　didn't follow her instinct. If she had, she'd not have married."
　　"I know. I'm simply saying there isn't any guaranteed way, and instinct can
　　be as good a guide as any." There was a pause, then Marsha said, "I know I
　　could make you love me, in time."
　　Absurdly, unexpectedly, he felt a sense of excitement. The idea was
　　preposterous, of course; a romantic product of a girlish imagery. He, who
　　had suffered from his own romantic notions in the past, was qualified to
　　know. Yet was he? Was every situation an aftermath of what had gone before?
　　Was Marsha's proposal so fantastic really? He had a sudden, irrational
　　conviction that what she said might well be true.
　　236
　　                        Wednesday
　　He wondered what the reaction of the absent Mark Preyscott would be.
　　"If you're thinking about my father
　　Startled, he said, "How did you know?"
　　"Because I'm beginning to know you."
　　He breathed deeply, with a sense of inhaling rarefied air. "What about
　　your father?"
　　"I expect he'd be worried to begin with, and he'd probably fly home in
　　a hurry. I wouldn't mind that." Marsha smiled. "But he always listens to
　　reason and I know I could convince him. Besides, he'd like you. I know
　　the kind of people he admires most, and you're one."
　　"Well," he said, not knowing whether to be amused or serious, "at least
　　that's a relief."
　　"There's something else. It isn't important to me, but it would be to
　　him. You see, I know-and my father would too-that someday you'll be a big
　　success with hotels, and maybe own your own. Not that I care about that.
　　It's you I want." She finished breathlessly.
　　"Marsha," Peter said gently, "I don't ... I simply don't know what to
　　say."
　　There was a pause in which he could sense Marsha's confidence leave her.
　　It was as if, earlier, she had bolstered her self-assurance with a
　　reserve of will, but now the reserve was gone and boldness with it. In
　　a small, uncertain voice she said, "You think I've been silly. You'd
　　better say so and get it over."
　　He assured her, "I don't believe you've been silly. If more people,
　　including me, were honest like you .
　　"You mean you don't mind?"
　　"Far from minding, I'm moved and overwhelmed."
　　"Then don't say any more!" Marsha leaped to her feet, her hands held out
　　toward him. He took them and stood facing her, their fingers interlaced.
　　She had a way, he realized, of bounding back after uncertainty, even if
　　her doubts were only partially resolved. She urged him, "Just go away and
　　think! Think, think, think! Especially about
　　is
　　me.
　　He said-and meant it-"It will be difficult not to."
　　She put up her face to be kissed and he leaned toward her. He intended
　　to brush her cheek, but she put up her
　　237
　　    HOTEL
　　lips to his and, as they touched, her arms wound tightl, around him. Dimly
　　in his mind an alarm bell jangled. Hei body pressed against him; the sense
　　of contact was electric. Her slim fragrance was immediate and breathtaking
　　Her perfume filled his nostrils. It was impossible, at thh, moment, to
　　think of Marsha as anything but a woman. He felt his body awaken
　　excitedly, his senses swim. The alarm bell was silenced. He could remember
　　only: Little Miss Preyscott ... would be fun ... for a man-to be eaten.up.
　　Resolutely, he forced himself away. Taking Marsha's hands gently, he told
　　her, "I must go."
　　She came with him to the terrace. His hand caressed her hair. She
　　whispered, "Peter, darling."
　　He went down the terrace steps, scarcely knowing they were there.
　　14
　　At 10:30 P.m., Ogilvie, the chief house officer, used a staff
　　sub-basement tunnel to walk lumberingly from the main portion of the St.
　　Gregory to the adjoining hotel garage.
　　He chose the tunnel instead of the more convenient main floor walkway for
　　the same reason he had carefully picked the time-to be as inconspicuous
　　as possible. At 10:30, guests taking their cars out for the evening had
　　already done so, but it was too early yet for many to be returning. Nor,
　　at that hour, were there likely to be new arrivals at the hotel, at least
　　by road.
　　Ogilvie's original plan to drive the Duke and Duchess of Croydon's Jaguar
　　north at one A.M.-now less than three hours away-had not changed. Before
　　departure, however, the fat man had work to do and it was important that
　　he be unobserved.
　　The materials for the work were in a paper bag he carried in his hand.
　　They represented an omission in the Duchess of Croydon's elaborate
　　scheming. Ogilvie had been aware of the omission from the beginning, but
　　preferred to keep his own counsel.
　　Inthe double fatality of Monday night, one of the 238
　　                        Wednesday
　　Jaguar's headlights had been shattered. Additionally, because of the loss
　　of the trim ring, now in possession of the police, the headlight mounting
　　had been loosened. To drive the car in darkness as planned, the headlight
　　would have to be replaced and its mounting repaired temporarily. Yet
　　obviously it was too dangerous to take the car to a service garage in the
　　city and equally out of the question to have the work done by the hotel's
　　own mechanic.
　　Yesterday, also choosing a time when the garage was quiet, Ogilvie had
　　inspected the car in its out-of-the-way stall behind a pillar. He had
　　decided that if he could obtain the right type of headlight, he could
　　effect a temporary repair himself.
　　He weighed the risk of buying a replacement headlight from New Orleans'
　　solitary Jaguar dealer, and rejected the idea. Even though the police
　　were not yet aware-so far as Ogilvie knew--of the make of the car they
　　were seeking, they would know in a day or two when the shattered glass
　　fragments were identified. If he bought a Jaguar headlight now, it might
　　easily be remembered ade, and the purchase traced,
　　He had compromised by buying a standard, double-filament North American
　　sealed-beam lamp at a self-serve auto parts store. His visual inspection
　　had shown this might be usable. Now he was ready to try it.
　　Getting the lamp had been one more item in a tightlycrammed day, which
　　had left the chief house officer feeling both satisfaction and an edgy
　　unease. He was also physically tired, a poor beginning to the long drive
　　north which faced him. He consoled himself with remembering the
　　twenty-five thousand dollars, ten thousand of which, as arranged, he had
　　received this afternoon from the Duchess of Croydon. It had been a tense,
　　cold scene, the Duchess tight-lipped and formal, Ogilvie, not caring,
　　greedily stuffed the piled bills into a brief case. Beside them the Duke
　　swayed drunkenly, blear-eyed, and scarcely aware of what was happening.
　　The thought of the money gave the fat man a pleasant glow. It was safely
　　hidden now, with only two hundred dollars on his person-a precaution in
　　case anything went wrong during the journey to come.
　　239
　　    HOTEL
　　His contrasting unease had two causes. One was awareness of the
　　consequences to himself if he failed to get the Jaguar clear of New
　　Orleans and later Louisiana, Mississippi, Tennessee, and Kentucky. The
　　second was Peter McDermott's emphasis on the need for Ogilvie to remain
　　close to the hotel.
　　The robbery last night, and the likelihood that a professional thief was
　　at work in the St. Gregory, could not have occurred at a worse time.
　　Ogilvie had done as much as he could. He had advised the city police, and
　　detectives had interviewed the robbed guest. Hotel staff, including the
　　other house officers, had been alerted and Ogilvie's second-in-command
　　had received instructions about what to do in various contingencies.
　　Nonetheless, Ogilvie was well aware that he should be on hand to direct
　　operations personally. When his absence came to McDermott's attention,
　　as it would tomorrow, there was bound to be a firstclass row. In the long
　　run the row would not matter because McDermott and others like him would
　　come and go while Ogilvie, for reasons known only to himself and Warren
　　Trent, would still retain his job. But it would have the effect-which the
　　chief house officer wanted to avoid above all else--of drawing attention
　　to his movements in the next few days.
　　Only in one way had the robbery and its aftermath been useful. It
　　provided a valid reason for a further visit to police headquarters where
　　he inquired casually about progress of the hit-and-run investigation.
　　Police attention, he learned, was still concentrated on the case, with
　　the entire force alert for any break. In this afternoon's StatesItem the
　　police had issued a new appeal for the public to report any car with
　　fender or headlight damage. It had been as well to have the information,
　　but it also made the chances less of getting the Jaguar out of town
　　without detection. Ogilvie sweated a little when he thought of it.
　　He had reached the end of the tunnel and was in the garage sub-basement.
　　The austerely lighted garage was quiet. Ogilvie hesitated, torn between
　　going directly to the Croydons' car several floors above or to the garage
　　office where the night
　　240
　　                        Wednesday
　　checker was on duty. He decided it would be prudent to visit the office
　　first.
　　Laboriously, breathing heavily, he climbed two flights of metal stairs. The
　　checker, an elderly officious man named Kulgmer, was alone in his brightly
　　lighted cubicle near the street entry-exit ramp. He put down an evening
　　paper as the chief house officer came in.
　　"Wanted to let you know," Ogilvie said. "I'll be taking the Duke of
　　Croydon's car out soon. It's stall 371. I'm doin' a favor for him."
　　Kulgmer frowned. "Don't know as I can let you do that, Mr. 0. Not without
　　proper authority."
　　Ogilvie produced the Duchess of Croydon's note, written this morning at his
　　request. "I guess this is all the authority you'll need."
　　The night checker read the wording carefully, then turned the paper over.
　　"It seems all right."
　　The chief house officer put out a pudgy hand to take the note back.
　　Kulgmer shook his head. "I'll have to keep this. To cover me."
　　The fat man shrugged. He would have preferred to have the note, but to
　　insist would raise an issue, emphasizing the incident, which otherwise
　　might be forgotten. He motioned to the paper bag. "Just goin' up to leave
　　this. I'll be takin' the car out, couple of hours from now."
　　"Suit yourself, Mr. 0." The checker nodded, returning to his paper.
　　A few minutes later, approaching stall 371, Ogilvie glanced with apparent
　　casualness around him. The lowceilinged, concrete parking area, about fifty
　　per cent occupied by cars, was otherwise silent and deserted. The
　　night-duty car jockeys were undoubtedly in their locker room on the main
　　floor, taking advantage of the lull to nap or play cards. But it was
　　necessary to work fast.
　　In the far comer, sheltered by the Jaguar and its partially screening
　　pillar, Ogilvie emptied the paper bag of the headlight, a screwdriver,
　　pliers, insulated wire, and black electrician's tape.
　　His fingers, for all their seeming awkwardness, moved with surprising
　　dexterity. Using gloves to protect his hands, 241
　　    HOTEL
　　he removed the remnants of the shattered headlight. It took only a moment
　　to discover that the replacement headlight would fit the Jaguar, but the
　　electrical connections would not. He had anticipated this. Working
　　swiftly, using the pliers, wire, and tape, he fashioned a rough but effec-
　　tive connection. With additional wire he secured the light in place,
　　stuffing cardboard from his pockets into the gap left by the missing trim
　　ring. He covered this with black tape, passing the tape through and
　　securing it behind. It was a patch job which would be easily detectable
　　in light, but adequate in darkness. It had taken almost fifteen minutes.
　　Opening the car door on the driver's side, he turned the headlight switch
　　to "on." Both headlights worked.
　　He gave a grunt of relief. At the same instant, from below, came the
　　sharp staccato of a horn and the roar of an accelerating car. Ogilvie
　　froze. The motor roared nearer, its sound magnified by concrete walls and
　　low ceilings. Then, abruptly, headlights flashed by, sweeping up the ramp
　　to the floor above. There otor stopped, a car
　　door slammed. Ogilvie relaxed. The car jockey, he knew, would use the
　　manlift to return below.
　　When he heard footsteps receding, he put the tools and supplies back into
　　the paper bag, along with a few larger fragments of the original
　　headlight. He put the bag aside to take with him later.
　　On the way up he had observed a cleaners' closet on the floor below.
　　Using the downward ramp, he walked to it now.
　　As he had hoped, there ent inside and he selected a
　　broom, dustpan, and a bucket. He partly filled the bucket with warm water
　　and added a washcloth. Listening cautiously for sounds from below, he
　　waited until two cars had passed, then hurried back to the Jaguar on the
　　floor above.
　　With the broom and dustpan, Ogilvie swept carefully around the car. There
　　must be no identifiable glass frag ments left for police to compare with
　　those from the accident scene.
　　There was little time left. The cars coming in to be parked were
　　increasing in number. Twice during the sweep242
　　                        Wednesday
　　ing he had stopped for fear of being seen, holding his breath as one car
　　swung into a stall on the same floor, a few yards only from the Jaguar.
　　Luckily, the car jockey had not bothered to look around, but it was a
　　warning to hurry. If a jock observed him and came across, it would mean
　　curiosity and questions, which would be repeated downstairs. The
　　explanation for his presence which Ogilvie had given the night checker
　　would seem unconvincing. Not only that, the chances of an undetected run
　　north depended on leaving as scant a trail as possible behind.
　　One more thing remained. Taking the warm water and cloth, he carefully
　　wiped the damaged portion of the Jaguar's fender and the area around it.
　　As he wrung out the cloth, the water, which had been clear, became brown.
　　He inspected his handiwork carefully, then grunted approval. Now,
　　whatever else might happen, there was no dried blood on the car.
　　Ten minutes later, sweating from his exertions, he was back in the main
　　building of the hotel. He went directly to his office where he intended
　　to snatch an hour's sleep before setting out on the long drive to
　　Chicago. He checked the time. It was 11: 15 P.m.
　　15
　　"I might be able to help more," Royall Edwards observed pointedly, "if
　　someone told me what this is all about."
　　The St. Gregory's comptroller addressed himself to the two men facing him
　　across the long, accounting office table. Between them, ledgers and files
　　were spread open and the entire office, normally shrouded in darkness at
　　this time of night, was brightly lit. Edwards himself had switched on the
　　lights an hour ago on bringing the two visitors here, directly from
　　Warren Trent's fifteenth-floor suite.
　　The hotel proprietor's instructions had been explicit. "These gentlemen
　　will examine our books. They win probably work through until tomorrow
　　morning. I'd like you
　　243
　　    HOTEL
　　to stay with them. Give them everything they ask for. Hold no information
　　back."
　　In issuing the instructions, Royall Edwards reflected, his employer had
　　seemed more cheerful than for a long time. The cheerfulness, however, did
　　not appease the comptroller, already piqued at being summoned from his
　　home where he had been working on his stamp collection, and further
　　irritated by not being taken into confidence concerning whatever was
　　afoot. He also resented-as one of the hotel's most consistent
　　nine-to-fivers-the idea of working all night.
　　The comptroller knew, of course, about the mortgage deadline of Friday
　　and the presence of Curtis O'Keefe in the hotel, with its obvious
　　implications. Presumably this latest visitation was related to both,
　　though in what way was hard to guess. A possible clue was luggage tags
　　on both visitors' bags, indicating they had flown to New Orleans from
　　Washington, D.C. Yet instinct told him that the two accountants-which
　　obviously they were-had no connection with government. Well, he would
　　probably know an the answers eventually. Meanwhile it was annoying to be
　　treated like some minor clerk.
　　There had been no response to his remark that he might be able to help
　　more if better informed, and he repeated it.
　　The older of the two visitors, a heavy-set middle-aged man with an
　　immobile face, lifted the coffee cup beside him and drained it. "One
　　thing I always say, Mr. Edwards, there's nothing quite like a good cup
　　of coffee. Now you take most hotels, they just don't brew coffee the
　　right way. This one does. So I reckon there can't be much wrong with a
　　hotel that serves coffee like that. What do you say, Frank?"
　　"I'd say if we're to get through this job by morning, we'd better have
　　less chit-chat." The second man answered dourly, without looking up from
　　a trial balance sheet he was studying intently.
　　The first made a placating gesture with his hands. "You see how it is,
　　Mr. Edwards? I guess Frank's right; he often is. So, much as I'd like to
　　explain the whole thing, maybe we'd better keep right on."
　　244
　　                        Wednesday
　　Aware of being rebuffed, Royall Edwards said stiffly, "Very well."
　　"Thank you, Mr. Edwards. Now I'd like to go over your inventory
　　system-purchasing, card control, present stocks, your last supply check,
　　all the rest. Say, that was good coffee. Could we have some more?"
　　The comptroller said, "I'll telephone down." He observed dispiritedly
　　that it was already close to midnight. Obviously they were going to be
　　here for hours more.
　　245
　　 THURSDAY
　　If he expected to be alert for a new day's work, Peter McDermott supposed
　　he had better head home and get some sleep.
　　It was a half hour past midnight. He had walked, he thought, for a couple
　　of hours, perhaps longer. He felt refreshed and agreeably tired.
　　Walking at length was an old habit, especially when he had something on
　　his mind or a problem which defied solution.
　　Earlier tonight, after leaving Marsha, he had returned to his downtown
　　apartment. But he had been restless in the cramped quarters and
　　disinclined for sleep, so he had gone out walking, toward the river. He
　　had strolled the length of the Poydras and Julia Street Wharves, past
　　moored ships, some dimly lighted and silent, others active and preparing
　　for departure. Then he had taken the Canal Street ferry across the
　　Mississippi and on the far side walked the lonely levees, watching the
　　city lights against the darkness of the river. Returning, he made his way
　　to the Vieux Carr6 and now sat, sipping caf,6 au lait, in the old French
　　market.
　　A few minutes earlier, remembering hotel affairs for the first time in
　　several hours, he had telephoned the St. Gregory. He inquired if there
　　was any more news concerning the threatened walkout of the Congress of
　　American Dentistry convention. Yes, the night assistant manager informed
　　him, a message had been left shortly before mid-
　　246
　　                         Thursday
　　night by the convention floor head waiter. So far as the head waiter could
　　learn, the dentists' executive board, after a six-hour session, had reached
　　no firm conclusion. However, an emergency general meeting of all convention
　　delegates was to be held at 9:30 A.M. in the Dauphine Salon. About three
　　hundred were expected to attend. The meeting would he in camera, with
　　elaborate security precautions, and the hotel had been asked to assist in
　　assuring privacy.
　　Peter left instructions that whatever was asked should be done, and put the
　　matter from his mind until the morning.
　　Apart from this brief diversion, most of his thoughts had been of Marsha
　　and the night's events. Questions buzzed in his head like pertinacious
　　bees. How to handle the situation with fairness, yet not clumsily or
　　hurting Marsha in doing so? One thing, of course, was clear: her proposal
　　was impossible. And yet it would be the worst kind of churlishness to
　　dismiss offhandedly an honest declaration. He had told her: "If more people
　　were honest like you ...
　　There was something else-and why be afraid of it if honesty was to be
　　served both ways? He had been drawn to Marsha tonight, not as a young girl
　　but as a woman. If he closed his eyes he could see her as she had been. The
　　effect was still like heady wine.
　　But he had tasted heady wine before, and the taste had turned to bitterness
　　he had vowed would never come his way again. Did that kind of experience
　　temper judgment, make a man wiser in his choice of women? He doubted it.
　　And yet he was a man, breathing, feeling. No selfimposed seclusion could,
　　or should, last forever. The question: When and how to end it?
　　In any case, what next? Would he see Marsha again? He supposed-unless he
　　severed their connection decisively, at once-it was inevitable he should.
　　Then on what terms? And what, too, of their differences in age?
　　Marsha was nineteen. He was thirty-two. The gap between seemed wide, yet
　　was it? Certainly if they were both ten years older, an affair-or
　　marriage-would not be thought of as extraordinary. Also, he doubted very
　　much 247
　　    HOTEL
　　if Marsha would find close rapport with a boy her own age. The questions were
　　endless. But a decision as to whether, and in what circumstances, he would
　　see Marsha again had yet to be made.
　　In all his reasoning, too, there remained the thought of Christine.
　　Within the space of a few days he and Christine seemed to have drawn
　　closer together than at any time before. He remembered that his last
　　thought before leaving for the Preyscott house last evening had been of
　　Christine. Even now, he found himself anticipating keenly the sight and
　　sound of her again.
　　Strange, he reflected, that he, who a week ago had been resolutely
　　unattached, should feel torn at this moment between two womenl
　　Peter grinned ruefully as he paid for the coffee and rose to go home.
　　The St. Gregory was more or less on the way and instinctively his
　　footsteps took him past it. When he reached the hotel it was a few
　　minutes after one A.M.
　　There was still activity, he could see, within the lobby. Outside, St.
　　Charles Avenue was quiet, with only a cruising cab and a pedestrian or
　　two in sight. He crossed the street to take a short cut around the rear
　　of the hotel. Here it was quieter still. He was about to pass the entry
　　to the hotel garage when he halted, warned by the sound of a motor and
　　the reflection of headlight beam approaching down the inside ramp. A
　　moment later a low-slung black car swung into sight. It was moving fast
　　and braked sharply, tires squealing, at the street. As the car stopped
　　it was directly in a pool of light. It was a Jaguar, Peter noticed, and
　　it looked as if a fender had been dented; on the same side there was
　　something odd about the headlight too. He hoped the damage had not
　　occurred through negligence in the hotel garage. If it had, he would hear
　　about it soon enough.
　　Automatically he glanced toward the driver. He was startled to see it was
　　Ogilvie. The chief house officer, meeting Peter's eyes, seemed equally
　　surprised. Then abruptly the car pulled out of the garage and continued
　　on.
　　Peter wondered why and where Ogilvie was driving; and why a Jaguar
　　instead of the house officer's usual battered 248
　　                         Thursday
　　Chevrolet? Then, deciding that what employees did away from the hotel was
　　their own business, Peter continued on to his apartment.
　　Later, he slept soundly.
　　2
　　Unlike Peter McDermott, Keycase Milne did not sleep well.
　　The speed and efficiency with which he obtained precise details of the
　　Presidential Suite key had not been followed by equal success in having
　　a duplicate made for his own use. The connections which Keycase
　　established on arriving in New Orleans had proved less helpful than he
　　expected. Eventually a locksmith on a slum street near the Irish
　　Channel--whom Keycase was assured could be trusted-agreed to do the job,
　　though grumbling at having to follow specifications instead of copying
　　an existing key. But the new key would not be ready until midday Thurs-
　　day, and the price demanded was exorbitant.
　　Keyease had agreed to the price, as he had agreed to wait, realizing
　　there was no alternative. But the waiting was especially trying since he
　　was aware that the passage of every hour increased his chances of being
　　traced and apprehended.
　　Tonight before going to bed he had debated whether to make a new foray
　　through the hotel in the early morning. There were still two room keys
　　in his collection which he had not utilized--449, the second key obtained
　　at the airport Tuesday morning, and 803 which he had asked for and
　　received at the desk instead of his own key 830. But he decided against
　　the idea, arguing with himself that it was wiser to wait and concentrate
　　on the larger project involving the Duchess of Croydon. Yet Keycase knew,
　　even while reaching the decision, that its major motivation was fear.
　　In the night, as sleep eluded him, the fear grew stronger, so that he no
　　longer attempted to conceal it from himself with even the thinnest veil
　　of self-deception. But tomorrow,
　　249
　　    HOTEL
　　he determined, he would somehow beat fear down and become his own
　　lion-hearted self once more.
　　He fell at length into an uneasy slumber in which he dreamed that a great
　　iron door, shutting out air and daylight, was inching closed upon him.
　　He tried to run while a gap remained, but was powerless to move. When the
　　door had closed, he wept, knowing it would never open again.
　　He awoke shivering, in darkness. His face was wet with tears.
　　3
　　Some seventy miles north of New Orleans, Ogilvie was still speculating
　　on his encounter with Peter McDermott. Tlie initial shock had had an
　　almost physical impact. For more than an hour afterward, Ogilvie had
　　driven tensely, yet at times scarcely conscious of the Jaguar's progress,
　　first through the city, then across the Pontchartrain Causeway, and
　　eventually northward on Interstate 59.
　　His eyes moved constantly to the rear-view mirror. He watched each set
　　of headlights which appeared behind, expecting them to overtake swiftly,
　　with the sound of a pursuing siren. Ahead, around each turn of the road,
　　he prepared to brake at imagined police roadblocks.
　　His immediate assumption had been that the only possible reason for Peter
　　McDermott's presence was to witness his own incriminating departure. How
　　McDermott might have learned of the plan, Ogilvie had no idea. But ap-
　　parently he had, and the house detective, like the greenest amateur, had
　　ambled into a trap.
　　It was only later, as the countryside sped by in the lonely darkness of
　　early morning, that he began to wonder: Could it have been coincidence
　　after all?
　　Surely, if McDermott had been there with some intent, the Jaguar would
　　have been pursued or halted at a roadblock long before now. The absence
　　of any such attempt made coincidence more likely, in fact almost certain.
　　At the thought, Ogilvie's spirits rose. He began to think gloatingly of
　　the twenty-five thousand dollars which would be his at the journey's end.
　　250
　　                         Thursday
　　He debated: Since everything had turned out so well thus far, would it
　　be wiser to keep going? In just over an hour it would be daylight. His
　　original plan had been to pull off the road and wait for darkness again
　　before continuing. But there could be danger in a day of inaction. He was
　　only halfway across Mississippi, still relatively close to New Orleans.
　　Going on, of course, would involve the risk of being spotted, but he
　　wondered just how great the risk was. Against the idea was his own
　　physical strain from the previous day. Already he was tiring, the urge
　　to sleep strong.
　　It was then it happened. Behind him, appearing as if magically, was a
　　flashing red light. A siren shrieked imperiously.
　　It was the very thing which for the past several hours he had expected
　　to happen. When it failed to, he had relaxed. Now, the reality was a
　　double shock.
　　Instinctively, his accelerator foot slammed to the floor. Like a superbly
　　powered arrow, the Jaguar surged forward. The speedometer needle swung
　　sharply . . . to 70, 80, 85. At ninety, Ogilvie slowed for a bend. As he
　　did, the flashing red light drew close behind. The siren, which had
　　stopped briefly, wailed again. Then the red light moved sideways as the
　　driver behind pulled out to pass.
　　It was useless, Ogilvie knew. Even if he outdistanced pursuit now, he
　　could not avoid others forewarned ahead. Resignedly, he let his speed
　　fall off.
　　He had a momentary impression of the other vehicle flashing by: a long
　　limousine body, light colored, a dim interior light and a figure bending
　　over another. Then the ambulance was gone, its flashing red beacon
　　diminishing down the road ahead.
　　The incident left him shaken and convinced of his own tiredness. He
　　decided that no matter how the alternate risks compared, he must pull off
　　and remain there for the day. He was now past Macon, a small Mississippi
　　community which had been his objective for the first night's driving. A
　　glimmer of dawn was beginning to light the sky. He stopped to consult a
　　map and shortly afterward turned off the highway onto a complex of minor
　　roads.
　　Soon the road surface had deteriorated to a rutted,
　　251
　　    HOTEL
　　grassy track. It was rapidly becoming light. Getting out of the ear,
　　Ogilvie surveyed the surrounding countryside.
　　It was sparsely wooded and desolate, with no habitation in sight. The
　　nearest main road was more than a mile away. Not far ahead was a cluster
　　of trees. Reconnoitering on foot, he discovered that the track went into
　　the trees and ended.
　　The fat man gave one of his approving grunts. Returning to the Jaguar,
　　he drove it forward carefully until foliage concealed it. He then made
　　several checks, satisfying himself that the car could not be seen except
　　at close quarters. When he had finished, he climbed into the back seat
　　and slept.
　　4
　　For several minutes after coming awake, shortly before eight A.M., Warren
　　Trent was puzzled to know why his spirits were instinctively buoyant.
　　Then he remembered: this morning he would consummate the deal made
　　yesterday with the Journeymen's Union. Defying pressures, glum
　　predictions and sundry assorted obstacles, he had saved the St.
　　Gregory-with only hours to spare-from engorgement by the O'Keefe hotel
　　chain. It was a personal triumph. He pushed to the back of his mind a
　　thought that the bizarre alliance between himself and the union might
　　lead to even greater problems later on. If that happened, he would worry
　　at the proper time; most important was removal of the immediate threat.
　　Getting out of bed, he looked down on the city from a window of his
　　fifteenth-floor suite atop the hotel. Outside, it was another beautiful
　　day, the sun-already highshining from a near-cloudless sky.
　　He hummed softly to himself as he showered and afterward was shaved by
　　Aloysius Royce. His employer's obvious cheerfulness was sufficiently
　　unusual for Royce to raise his eyebrows in surprise, though Warren
　　Trent-not yet far enough into the day for conversation--offered no en-
　　lightenment.
　　When he was dressed, on entering the living room he 252
　　                         Thursday
　　immediately telephoned Royall Edwards. The comptroller, whom a switchboard
　　operator located at his home, managed to convey both that he had worked
　　all night and that his employer's telephone call had brought him from a
　　wellearned breakfast. Ignoring the undertone of grievance, Warren Trent
　　sought to discover what reaction had come from the two visiting
　　accountants during the night. According to the comptroller's report, the
　　visitors, though briefed on the hotel's current financial crisis, had
　　uncovered nothing else extraordinary and seemed satisfied by Edwards'
　　responses to their queries.
　　Reassured, Warren Trent left the comptroller to his breakfast. Perhaps
　　even at this moment, he reflected, a report confirming his own
　　representation of the St. Gregory's position was being telephoned north
　　to Washington. He supposed he would receive direct word soon.
　　Almost at once the telephone rang.
　　Royce was about to serve breakfast from the roomservice trolley which had
　　arrived a few minutes earlier. Warren Trent motioned him to wait.
　　An operator's voice announced that the call was long distance. When he
　　had identified himself, a second operator asked him to wait. At length
　　the Journeymen's Union president came brusquely on the line.
　　"Trent?"
　　"Yes. Good morning!"
　　"I goddam well warned you yesterday not to hold back on information. You
　　were stupid enough to try. Now I'm telling you: people who work trickery
　　on me finish up wishing they hadn't been born. You're lucky this time
　　that the whistle blew before a deal was closed. But this is a warning:
　　don't ever try that game again!"
　　The unexpectedness, the harsh chilling voice, momentarily robbed Warren
　　Trent of speech. Recovering, he protested, "In God's name, I've not the
　　least idea what this is about."
　　"No idea, when there'd been a race riot in your goddamned hotel! When the
　　story's spewed over every New York and Washington newspaper!"
　　It took several seconds to connect the angry harangue with Peter
　　McDermott's report of the previous day. 253
　　    HOTEL
　　"There was an incident yesterday morning, a small one. It was certainly not
　　a race riot or anything near. At the time we talked I was unaware that it
　　had happened. Even if I had known, it would not have occurred to me as im-
　　portant enough to mention. As to the New York newspapers, I haven't seen
　　them."
　　"My members'll see them. If not those papers, then others across the
　　country that'll carry the story by tonight. What's more, if I put money
　　into a hotel that turns away nigs, they'd scream bloody murder along with
　　every two-bit congressman who wants the colored vote."
　　"It's not the principle you care about, then. You don1 mind what we do as
　　long as it isn't noticed."
　　"What I care about is my business. So is where I invest union funds."
　　"Our transaction could be kept confidential."
　　"If you believe that, you're an even bigger fool than I thought."
　　It was true, Warren Trent conceded glumly: sooner or later news of an
　　alliance would leak out. He tried another approach. "What occurred here
　　yesterday is not unique It's happened to Southern hotels before; it will
　　happen again. A day or two afterward, attention moves on to something
　　else."
　　"Maybe it does. But if your hotel got Journeymen's financing-after
　　today-attention would damn soon switch back. And it's the kind I can do
　　without."
　　"I'dlike to be clear about this. Am I to understand that despite your
　　accountants' inspection of our affairs last night, our arrangement of
　　yesterday no longer stands?"
　　The voice from Washington said, "The trouble isn't with your books. The
　　report my people made was affirmative. It's for the other reason all bets
　　are off."
　　So after all, Warren Trent thought bitterly, through an incident which
　　yesterday he had dismissed as trifling, the nectar of victory had been
　　snatched away. Aware that whatever was said would make no difference now,
　　he commented acidly, "You haven't always been so particular about using
　　union funds."
　　There was a silence. Then the Journeymen's president said softly, "Someday
　　you may be sorry for that
　　254
　　                         Thursday
　　Slowly, Warren Trent replaced the telephone. On a table nearby Aloysius
　　Royce had spread open the airmailed New York newspapers. He indicated the
　　Herald Tribune. "It's mostly in here. I don't see anything in the Times."
　　"T'hey've later editions in Washington." Warren Trent skimmed the Herald
　　Tribune headline and glanced briefly at the accompanying picture. It showed
　　yesterday's scene in the St. Gregory lobby with Dr. Nicholas and Dr. Ingram
　　as central figures. He supposed that later he would have to read the report
　　in full. At the moment he had no stomach for it.
　　"Would you like me to serve breakfast now?"
　　Warren Trent shook his head. "I'm not hungry." His eyes flickered upward,
　　meeting the young Negro's steady gaze. "I suppose you think I got what I
　　deserved."
　　Royce considered. "Something like that, I guess. Mostly, I'd say, you don't
　　accept the times we live in."
　　"If it's true, that needn't trouble you any more. From tomorrow I doubt if
　　my opinion will count for much around here."
　　"I'm sorry for that part."
　　"What this means is that O'Keefe will take over." The older man walked to
　　a window and stood looking out. He was silent, then said abruptly, "I
　　imagine you heard the terms I was offered-among them that I'd continue to
　　live here. V9
　　"Yes."
　　"Since its to be that way, I suppose that when you graduate from law school
　　next month, I'll still have to put up with you around the place. Instead of
　　booting you out the way I should."
　　Aloysius Royce hesitated. Ordinarily, he would have tossed back a quick,
　　barbed rejoinder. But he knew that what he was hearing was the plea of a
　　defeated, lonely man for him to stay.
　　The decision troubled Royce; all the same, it would have to be made soon.
　　For almost twelve years Warren Trent had treated him in many ways like a
　　son. If he remained, he knew, his duties could become negligible outside of
　　being a companion and confidant in the hours free from his own legal work.
　　The life would be far from
　　255
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　　unpleasant. And yet there were other, conflicting pressures affecting the
　　choice to go or stay.
　　"I haveift thought about it much," he lied. "Maybe I'd better."
　　Warren Trent reflected: all things, large and small, were changing, most
　　of them abruptly. In his mind he had not the least doubt that Royce would
　　leave him soon, just as control of the St. Gregory had finally eluded
　　him. His sense of aloneness, and now of exclusion from the mainstream of
　　events, was probably typical of people who had lived too long.
　　He informed Royce, "You can go, Aloysius. I'd like to be alone for a
　　while."
　　In a few minutes, he decided, he would call Curtis O'Keefe and officially
　　surrender.
　　5
　　Time magazine, whose editors recognized a newsy story when they read it
　　in their morning papers, had hopped nimbly onto the St. Gregory civil
　　rights incident. Their local stringer-a staffer on the New Orleans
　　States-Itemwas alerted and told to file everything he could get on local
　　background. Time's Houston bureau chief had been telephoned the previous
　　night, soon after an early edition of the Herald Tribune broke the story
　　in New York, and had flown in on an early flight.
　　Now both men were closeted with Herbie Chandler, the bell captain, in a
　　cramped, main floor cubbyhole. Loosely known as a press room, it was
　　sparsely furnished with a desk, telephone, and hat stand. The Houston
　　man, as became his status, had the solitary chair.
　　Chandler, respectfully aware of Time's liberality to those who smoothed
　　its way, was reporting on a reconnaissance from which he had just
　　returned.
　　"I checked about the dentists' meeting. They're closing it up tighter'n
　　a drum. They've told the head floor waiter no one's to get in except
　　members, not even wives, and they'll. have their own people at the door
　　checking names. 256
　　                         Thursday
　　Before the meeting starts all the hotel help has to leave and doors'll be
　　locked."
　　The bureau chief nodded. An eager, crewcut young man named Quaratone, he
　　had already interviewed the dentists' president, Dr. Ingram. The bell
　　captain's report confirmed what he had been told.
　　6' Sure we're having an emergency general meeting," Dr. Ingram had said.
　　"It was decided by our executive board last night, but it's to be a
　　closed-door deal. If it was my say-so, son, you and anybody else could come
　　in, and welcome. But some of my colleagues see it the other way. They think
　　peoplell speak more freely if they know the press isn't there. So I guess
　　you'll have to sit that one out."
　　Quaratone, with no intention of sitting anything out, had thanked Dr.
　　Ingram politely. With Herbie Chandler already purchased as an ally,
　　Quaratone's immediate idea had been to employ an old ruse and attend the
　　meeting in a borrowed bellboy's uniform. Chandler's latest report showed
　　the need for a change of scheme.
　　"The room where the meeting will be held," Quaratone queried; "is at a good
　　size convention hall?"
　　Chandler nodded. "'Me Dauphine Salon, sir. Seats three hundred. That's
　　about how many they're expecting."
　　The Time man considered. Any meeting involving three hundred people would
　　obviously cease to be secret the instant it finished. Afterward he could
　　easily mingle with the emerging delegates and, by posing as one of them,
　　learn what happened. That way, though, he would miss most of the minutiae
　　of human interest which Time and its readers thrived on.
　　"Does the wotsit saloon have a balcony?"
　　"Mere's a small one, but they've already thought of it. I checked. There'll
　　be a couple of convention people up there. Also, the p.a. microphones are
　　being disconnected."
　　"Hell!" the local newspaperman objected. "What's this outfit afraid
　　of--saboteurs?"
　　Quaratone said, thinking aloud, "Some of them want to speak their piece but
　　avoid getting it on the record. Professional people-on racial issues
　　anyway-don't usually take strong stands. Here they've already got
　　themselves in
　　257
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　　a box by admitting to a choice between the drastic action of walking out
　　or making a token gesture, just for appearance sake. To that extent I'd
　　say the situation's unique." It was also, he thought, why there might be
　　a better story here than he had supposed at first. More than ever he was
　　determined to find a way of getting into the meeting.
　　Abruptly, he told Herbie Chandler, "I want a plan of the convention floor
　　and the floor above. Not just a room layout, you understand, but a
　　technical plan showing walls, ducts, ceiling spaces, all the rest. I want
　　it fast because if we're to do any good we've less than an hour."
　　"I really don't know if there is such a thing, sir. In any case . . ."
　　The bell captain stopped, watching Quaratone who was peeling off a
　　succession of twenty-dollar bills.
　　The Time man handed five of the bills to Chandler. "Get to somebody in
　　maintenance, engineering or whatever. Use that for now. I'll take care
　　of you later. Meet me back here in half an hour, earlier if possible."
　　"Yessir!" Chandler's weasel face screile.
　　Quaratone instructed the New Orleans reporter, "Carry on with the local
　　angles, will you? Statements from city hall, leading citizens; better
　　talk to the N.A.A.C.P. You know the kind of thing."
　　"I could write it in my sleep."
　　"Don't. And watch for human interest. Might be an idea if you could catch
　　the mayor in the washroom. Washing his hands while he gave you a
　　statement. Symbolic. Make a good lead."
　　"I'll try hiding in a toilet." The reporter went off cheerfully, aware
　　that he too would be generously paid for his spare-time work.
　　Quaratone himself waited in the St. Gregory coffee shop. He ordered iced
　　tea and sipped it absently, his mind on the developing story. It would
　　not be a major one, but providing he could find some refreshing angles,
　　it might rate a column and a half in next week's issue. Which would
　　please him because in recent weeks a dozen or more of his carefully
　　nurtured stories had either been rejected by New York or squeezed out
　　during makeup of the magazine. This was not unusual and writing in a
　　vacuum was a frus258
　　                         Thursday
　　tration which Time-Life staffers learned to live with. But Quaratone liked
　　to get into print and be noticed where it counted.
　　He returned to the undersized press room. Within a few minutes Herbie
　　Chandler arrived, shepherding a youngish, sharp-featured man in
　　coveralls. The bell captain introduced him as Ches Ellis, a hotel
　　maintenance worker. The newcomer shook hands diffidently with Quaratone,
　　then, touching a roll of whiteprints under his arm, said uneasily, "I
　　have to get these back."
　　"What I want won't take long." Quaratone helped Ellis roll out the plans,
　　weighting the edges down. "Now, where's the Dauphine Salon?"
　　"Right here."
　　Chandler interjected, "I told him about the meeting, sir. How you want
　　to hear what's happening without being in."
　　The Time man asked Ellis, "What's in the walls and ceilings?"
　　"Walls are solid. Tliere's a gap between the ceiling and the next floor
　　above, but if you're thinking of getting in there, it wouldn't work.
　　You'd fall through the plaster."
　　"Check," said Quaratone, who had been considering just that. His finger
　　stubbed the plan. "What are these fines?"
　　"Hot air outlet from the kitchen. Anywhere near that you'd roast."
　　"And this?"
　　Ellis stooped, studying the whiteprint. He consulted a second sheet.
　　"Cold-air duct. Runs through the Dauphine Salon ceiling."
　　"Are there outlets to the room?"
　　"Three. Center and each end. You can see them marked."
　　"How big is the duct?"
　　The maintenance man considered. "I reckon about three feet square."
　　Quaratone said decisively, "I'd like you to get me in that duct. 1 want
　　to get in it, and crawl out so I can hear and see what's going on below."
　　It took surprisingly little time. Ellis, at first reluctant, was prodded
　　by Chandler into obtaining a second set of
　　259
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　　coveralls and a tool kit. The Time man changed quickly into coveralls and
　　hoisted the tools. Then nervously, but without incident, Ellis shepherded
　　him to an annex off the convention floor kitchen. The bell captain hovered
　　discreetly out of sight. Quaratone had no idea how much of the hundred
　　dollars Chandler had passed over to Ellishe suspected not all-but it was
　　evidently enough.
　　The progress through the kitchen-ostensibly of two hotel maintenance
　　workers-went unnoticed. In the annex a metal grille, high on the wall,
　　had been removed by Ellis in advance. A tall stepladder stood in front
　　of an opening which the grille had covered. Without conversation, Quara-
　　tone ascended the stepladder and eased himself upward and in. There was,
　　he discovered, room to crawl forward, using his elbows-but only just.
　　Darkness, except for stray glimmers from the kitchen, was complete. He
　　felt a breath of cool air on his face; the air pressure increased as his
　　body filled more of the metal duct.
　　Ellis whispered after him, "Count four outlets! The fourth, fifth, and
　　sixth are the Dauphine Salon. Keep the noise down, sir, or you'll be
　　heard. I'll come back in half an hour; if you're not ready, half an hour
　　after that."
　　Quaratone tried to turn his head and failed. It was a reminder that
　　getting out would be harder than getting in. Calling back a low-voiced
　　"Roger!" he began to move.
　　The metallic surface was hard on knees and elbows. It also had
　　agonizingly sharp projections. Quaratone winced as the business end of
　　a screw ripped the coveralls and cut painfully into his leg. Reaching
　　back, he disengaged himself and moved forward cagily.
　　The air duct outlets were easy to spot because of light filtering upward.
　　He eased over three, hoping grilles and duct were securely anchored.
　　Nearing the fourth he could hear voices. The meeting, it seemed, had
　　begun. To Quaratone's delight the voices came up clearly and, by craning,
　　he could see a portion of the room below. The view, he thought, might be
　　even better from the next outlet. It was. Now he could see more than half
　　the crowded assemblage below, including a raised platform where the
　　dentists' president, Dr. Ingram, was speaking. Reaching 260
　　                         Thursday
　　around, the Time man brought out a notebook and a ballpoint pen, the
　　latter with a tiny light in its tip.
　　". . . urge you," Dr. Ingram was asserting, "to take the strongest
　　possible stand."
　　He paused, then continued, "Professional people like us who are by nature
　　middle-of-the-roaders, have dffly-dallied too long on issues of human
　　rights. Among ourselves we do not discriminate-at least most of the
　　time-and in the past we have considered that to be enough. Generally,
　　we've ignored events and pressures outside our own ranks. Our reasoning
　　has been that we are professional, medical men with time for little else.
　　Well, maybe that's true, even if convenient. But here and now-like it or
　　not-we are involved up to our wisdom teeth."
　　The little doctor paused, his eyes searching the faces of his audience.
　　"You have already heard of the unpardonable insult by this hotel to our
　　distinguished colleague, Dr. Nicholas-an insult in direct defiance of
　　civil rights law. In retaliation, as your president, I have recommended
　　drastic action. It is that we should cancel our convention and walk from
　　this hotel en masse."
　　There was a gasp of surprise from several sections of the room. Dr.
　　Ingram continued, "Most of you have already learned of this proposal. To
　　others, who arrived this morning, it is new. Let me say to both groups
　　that the step I have proposed involves inconvenience, disappointmentto
　　me, no less than to you-and a professional as well as a public loss. But
　　there are occasions, involving matters of great conscience, when nothing
　　less than the most forceful action will suffice. I believe this to be
　　one. It is also the only way in which the strength of our feelings will
　　be demonstrated and by which we shall prove, unmistakably, that in
　　matters of human rights this profession is not to be trifled with again."
　　From the floor came several cries of "hear, hearl" but, as well, a rumble
　　of dissent.
　　Near the center of the room a burly figure lumbered to his feet.
　　Quaratone, leaning forward from his vantage point, had an impression of
　　jowls, a thick-lipped smile and heavy-rimmed glasses. The burly man
　　announced, "I'm from Kansas City." There was a good-natured cheer which
　　261
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　　was acknowledged with the wave of a pudgy hand. "I've just one question
　　for the doctor. Will he be the one who'll explain to my little woman-who's
　　been counting on this trip like a lot of other wives, I reckon-why it is
　　that having just got here we're to turn tail and go home?"
　　An outraged voice protested, "That isn't the point!" It was drowned out
　　by ironic cheers and laughter from others in the hall.
　　"Yessir," the burly man said, "I'd like him to be the one to tell my
　　wife." Looking pleased with himself, he sat down.
　　Dr. Ingram was on his feet, red faced, indignant. "Gentlemen, this is an
　　urgent, serious matter. We have already delayed action for twenty-four
　　hours which in my opinion is at least half a day too long."
　　There was applause, but brief and scattered. A number of other voices
　　spoke at once. Beside Dr. Ingram, the meeting's chairman pounded with a
　　gavel.
　　Several speakers followed, deploring the expulsion of Dr. Nicholas, but
　　leaving unanswered the question of reprisal. Then, as if by assent,
　　attention focused on a slim, dapper figure standing with a suggestion of
　　authority near the front of the hall. Quaratone missed the name which the
　　chairman announced, but caught ". . . second vicepresident and member of
　　our executive board."
　　The new speaker began in a dry crisp voice, "It was at my urging,
　　supported by several fellow executive members, that this meeting is being
　　held in camera. As a result, we may speak freely, knowing that whatever
　　we say will not be recorded, and perhaps misrepresented, outside this
　　room. This arrangement, I may add, was strongly opposed by our esteemed
　　president, Dr. Ingram."
　　From the platform, Dr. Ingram growled, "What are you afraid
　　of-involvement?"
　　Ignoring the question, the dapper man continued, "I yield to no one in
　　my personal distaste for discrimination. Some of my best . . ."-he
　　hesitated-". . . my best-liked associates are those of other creeds and
　　races. Furthermore, I deplore with Dr. Ingram the incident of yesterday.
　　It is merely on the question of procedure at this moment that we
　　disagree. Dr. Ingram-if I may emulate his choice of metaphor-favors
　　extraction. My own view is to treat 26Z
　　                         Thursday
　　more mildly for an unpleasant but localized infection." There was a ripple
　　of laughter at which the speaker smiled.
　　"I cannot believe that our unfortunately absent colleague, Dr. Nicholas,
　　would gain in the least from cancellation of our convention. Certainly,
　　as a profession, we would lose. Furthermore-and since we are in private
　　session I say this frankly-I do not believe that as an organization the
　　broad issue of race relations is any of our concern."
　　A single voice near the rear protested, "Of course it's our concern!
　　Isn't it everybody's?" But through most of the room there was merely
　　attentive silence.
　　The speaker shook his head. "Whatever stands we take or fail to, should
　　be as individuals. Naturally we must support our own people where
　　necessary, and in a moment I shall suggest certain steps in the case of
　　Dr. Nicholas. But otherwise I agree with Dr. Ingram that we are
　　professional medical men with time for little else."
　　Dr. Ingram sprang to his feet. "I did not say that! I pointed out that
　　it's a view which has been held in the past. I happen to disagree
　　strongly."
　　The dapper man shrugged. "Nevertheless the statement was made."
　　"But not with that kind of implication. I will not have my words
　　twisted!" The little doctor's eyes flashed angrily. "Mr. Chairman, we're
　　talking here glibly, using words like & unfortunate,' 'regrettable.'
　　Can't all of you see that this is more than just that; that we are
　　considering a question of human rights and decency? If you had been here
　　yesterday and witnessed, as I witnessed, the indignity to a colleague,
　　a friend, a good man . . ."
　　There were cries of "Order! order!" As the chairman pounded with his
　　gavel, reluctantly, his face flushed, Dr. Ingram subsided.
　　The dapper man inquired politely, "May I continue?" The chairman nodded.
　　"Thank you. Gentlemen, I will make my suggestions briefly. First, I
　　propose that our future conventions shall be held in locales where Dr.
　　Nicholas and others of his race will be accepted without question or
　　embarrassment. There are plenty of places which the remainder of us, I
　　263
　　    HOTEL
　　am sure, will find acceptable. Secondly, I propose that we pass a resolution
　　disapproving the action of this hotel in rejecting Dr. Nicholas, after which
　　we should continue with our convention as planned."
　　On the platform, Dr. Ingram shook his head in disbelief.
　　The speaker consulted a single sheet of paper in his hand. "In conjunction
　　with several other members of your executive board, I have drafted a
　　resolution . . ."
　　In his eyrie Quaratone had ceased to listen. The resolution itself was
　　unimportant. Its substance was predictable; if necessary he could obtain a
　　text later. He was watching, instead, the faces of the listeners below.
　　They were average faces, he decided, of reasonably educated men. They
　　mirrored relief. Relief, Quaratone thought, from the need for the kind of
　　action-uncomfortable, unaccustomedwhich Dr. Ingram had proposed. The salve
　　of words,paraded primly in democratic style, offered a way out. Conscience
　　would be relieved, convenience intact. There had been some mild protest-a
　　single speaker supporting Dr. Ingram-but it was short-lived. Already the
　　meeting had settled down to what looked like becoming a prolix discussion
　　of the resolution's wording.
　　The Time man shivered-a reminder that as well as other discomforts, he had
　　been close to an hour in a cold air duct. But the effort had been worth
　　while. He had a live story which the stylists in New York could rewrite
　　searingly. He also had a notion that this week his work would not be
　　squeezed out.
　　6
　　Peter McDermott heard of the Dentistry Congress decision to continue with
　　its convention almost as soon as the in-camera meeting ended. Because of
　　the obvious importance of the meeting to the hotel, he had stationed a con-
　　vention department clerk outside the Dauphine Salon with instructions to
　　report promptly whatever could be learned. A moment or two ago the clerk
　　telephoned to say that from the conversation of emerging delegates it was
　　obvious that the proposal to cancel the convention had been overruled. 264
　　                         Thursday
　　Peter supposed that for the hotel's sake he should Ix pleased. Instead, he
　　had a feeling of depression. He wondered about the effect on Dr. Ingram
　　whose strong motivation and forthrightness had clearly been repudiated.
　　Peter reflected wryly that Warren Trent's cynical assessment of the
　　situation yesterday had proven accurate after all. He supposed he should
　　let the hotel proprietor know.
　　As Peter entered the managing director's section of the executive suite,
　　Christine looked up from her desk. She smiled warmly, reminding him how
　　much he had wanted to talk with her last evening.
　　She inquired, "Was it a nice party?" When he hesitated, Christine seemed
　　amused. "You haven't forgotten already?"
　　He shook his head. "Everything was fine. I missed you, though-and still
　　feel badly about getting the arrangements mixed."
　　"We're twenty-four hours older. You can stop now."
　　"If you're free, perhaps I could make up for it tonight."
　　"It's snowing invitations!" Christine said. "Tonight I'm having dinner with
　　Mr. Wells."
　　Peter's eyebrows went up. "He has recovered."
　　"Not enough to leave the hotel, which is why we're dining here. If you work
　　late, why not join us afterward?"
　　"If I can, I will." He indicated the closed double doors of the hotel
　　proprietor's office. "Is W.T. available?"
　　"You can go in. I hope it isn't problems, though. He seems depressed this
　　morning."
　　"I've some news may cheer him. The dentists just voted against canceling
　　out." He said more soberly, "I suppose you saw the New York papers."
　　"Yes, I did. I'd say we got what we deserved."
　　He nodded agreement.
　　"I also saw the local papers," Christine said. "There's nothing new on that
　　awful hit-and-run. I keep thinking about it."
　　I Peter said sympathetically, "I have too." Once more the scene of three
　　nights earlier-the roped-off, floodlighted road, with police searching
　　grimly for clues--came sharply back into focus. He wondered if the police
　　investigation would uncover the offending car and driver. Perhaps by now
　　both were safely clear and past detection, though he
　　265
　　    HOTEL
　　hoped not. The thought of one crime was a reminder of another. He must
　　remember to ask Ogilvie if there had been any developments overnight in
　　the hotel robbery investigation. He was surprised, come to think of it,
　　that he had not heard from the chief house officer before now.
　　With a final smile for Christine, he knocked at the door of Warren
　　Trent's office and went in.
　　The news which Peter brought seemed to make little impression. The hotel
　　proprietor nodded absently, as if reluctant to switch his thoughts from
　　whatever private reverie he had been immersed in. He seemed about to
　　speak--on another subject, Peter sensed-then, as abruptly, changed his
　　mind. After only the briefest of conversation, Peter left.
　　Albert Wells had been right, Christine thought, in predicting Peter
　　McDermott's invitation for tonight. She had a momentary regret at having
　　arranged--deliberately-to be unavailable.
　　The exchange reminded her of the stratagem she had thought of yesterday
　　to make the evening inexpensive for Albert Wells. She telephoned Max,
　　head waiter of the main dining room.
　　"Max," Christine said, "your evening dinner prices are outrageous."
　　"I don't set them, Miss Francis. Sometimes I wish I did."
　　"You haven't been crowded lately?"
　　"Some nights," the head waiter replied, "I feel like I'm Livingstone
　　waiting for Stanley. I'll tell you, Miss Francis, people are getting
　　smarter. They know that hotels like this have one central kitchen, and
　　whichever of our restaurants they eat in, they'll get the same kind of
　　food, cooked the same way by the same chefs. So why not sit where prices
　　are lower, even if the service isn't as fancy?"
　　"I've a friend," Christine said, "who likes dining-room !ervice-an
　　elderly gentleman named Mr. Wells. We'll be In for dinner tonight. I want
　　you to make sure that his bin is light, though not so small that he'll
　　notice. The difference you can put on my account."
　　266
　　                         Thursday
　　The head waiter chuckled. "Sayl Youre the kind of girl I'd like to know
　　myself."
　　She retorted, "With you I wouldnt do it, Max. Everybody knows you're one
　　of the two wealthiest people in the hotel."
　　"Who's supposed to be the other?"
　　"Isn't it Herbie Chandler?"
　　"You do me no favor in linking my name with that one." "But you'll take
　　care of Mr. Wells?"
　　"Miss Francis, when we present his bill he'll think he ate in the
　　automat."
　　She hung up, laughing, aware that Max would handle the situation with
　　tact and good sense.
　　With incredulous, seething anger, Peter McDermott read Ogilvie's memo,
　　slowly, for the second time.
　　The memo had been waiting on his desk when he retamed from the brief
　　meeting with Warren Trent.
　　Dated and time-stamped last night, it had presumably been left in
　　Ogilvie's office for collection with this moming's interoffice mail.
　　Equally clear was that both the timing and method of delivery were
　　planned so that when he received the memo it would be impossible to take
　　any action-at least for the time being-concerning its contents.
　　It read:
　　Mr. P. McDermott
　　Subject. Vacation
　　The undersigned begs to report I am taking four days
　　leave commencing immediately. From the seven that
　　is due, for personal urgent reasons.
　　W. Finegan, dep. chief house officer, is advised re
　　robbery, steps taken, etc. etc. Also can act with all
　　other matters.
　　Undersigned will return to duty Monday next.
　　Yours truly,
　　T. 1. Ogilvie
　　Chief House Officer.
　　267
　　    HOTEL
　　Peter remembered indignantly that it was less than twenty-four hours
　　since Ogilvie conceded that a professional hotel thief was most likely
　　operating within the St. Gregory. At the time, Peter had urged the house
　　officer to move into the hotel for a few days, a suggestion the fat man
　　had rejected. Even then, Ogilvie must have known of his intention to
　　leave within a few hours, but had kept silent. Why? Obviously, because
　　he realized Peter would object strongly, and he had no stomach for
　　argument and perhaps delay.
　　The memo said "personal urgent reasons." Well, Peter theorized, that much
　　was probably true. Even Ogilvie, despite his vaunted intimacy with Warren
　　Trent, would realize that his absence at this time, without warning,
　　would precipitate a major showdown on return.
　　But what kind of personal reason was involved? Clearly nothing
　　straightforward, to be brought out in the open and discussed. Or it would
　　not have been handled this way. Hotel business notwithstanding, a genuine
　　personal crisis of an employee would be dealt with sympathetically. It
　　always was.
　　So it had to be something else which Ogilvie could not disclose.
　　Even that, Peter thought, was no concern of his except to the extent that
　　it obstructed efficient running of the hotel. Since it did, however, he
　　was entitled to be curious. He decided he would make an effort to learn
　　where the chief house officer had gone and why.
　　He buzzed for Flora, holding up the memo as she came in.
　　She made a doleful face. "I read it. I thought you'd be annoyed."
　　"If you can," Peter said, "I want you to find out where he is. Try his
　　home telephone, then any other places we happen to know about. Find out
　　if anyone's seen him today or if hes expected. Leave messages. If you
　　locate Ogilvie, I'll talk to him myself."
　　Flora wrote on her note pad.
　　"Another thing--call the garage. I happened to be walking by the hotel
　　last night. Our Mend drove out around
　　268
　　                         Thursday
　　one o'clock-in a Jaguar. It's possible he told someone where he was going."
　　When Flora left, he sent for the deputy chief house officer, Finegan, a
　　gaunt, slow-speaking New Englander who deliberated before answering Peter's
　　impatient questions.
　　No, he had no idea where Mr. Ogilvie had gone. It was only late yesterday
　　that Finegan was informed by his superior that he would be in charge for
　　the next few days. Yes, last night there had been continuous patrols
　　through the hotel, but no suspicious activity was observed. Nor was there
　　any report this morning of illicit entry into rooms. No, there had been no
　　further word from the New Orleans police department. Yes, Finegan would
　　personally follow up with the police as Mr. McDermott suggested. Certainly,
　　if Finegan heard from Mr. Ogilvie, Mr. McDermott would be informed at once.
　　Peter dismissed Finegan. At the moment there was nothing more to be done,
　　though Peter's anger with Ogilvie was still intense.
　　It had not moderated a few minutes later when Flora announced on the office
　　intercom, "Miss Marsha Preyscott on line two."
　　"Tell her I'm busy, I'll call later." Peter checked himself. "Never mind,
　　I'll talk."
　　He picked up the telephone. Marsha's voice said brightly, "I heard that."
　　Irritably he resolved to remind Flora that the telephone "hold" button
　　should be down when the intercom was open. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's a
　　low-grade morning in contrast to a great night before."
　　"I'll bet the first thing hotel managers learn is to make fast recoveries
　　like that."
　　"Some may. But this is me."
　　He sensed her hesitate. Then she said, "Was it all great -the evening?"
　　"'All Of it.31
　　"Good! Then I'm ready to keep my promise."
　　"My impression was you had."
　　"No," Marsha said, "I promised some New Orleans history. We could start
　　this afternoon."
　　269
　　    HOTEL
　　He was about to say no; that it was impossible to leave the hotel, then
　　realized he wanted to go. Why not? He seldom took the two full days off
　　duty he was entitled to each week and lately had worked plenty of extra
　　hours as well. A brief absence could easily be managed.
　　"All right," he said. "Let's see how many centuries we can cover between
　　two o'clock and four."
　　7
　　Twice during the twenty-minute prayer session before breakfast in his
　　suite, Curtis O'Keefe found his thoughts wandering. It was a familiar sign
　　of restlessness for which he apologized briefly to God, though not
　　belaboring the point since an instinct to be ever moving on was a part of
　　the hotel magnate's nature, and presumably divinely shaped.
　　It was a relief, however, to remember that this was his final day in New
　　Orleans. He would leave for New York tonight and Italy tomorrow. The
　　destination there, for himself and Dodo, was the Naples-O'Keefe Hotel.
　　Besides the change of scene, it would be satisfying to be in one of his own
　　houses once more. Curtis O'Keefe had never understood the point, which his
　　critics made, that it was possible to travel around the world, staying at
　　O'Keefe Hotels without ever leaving the U.S.A. Despite his attachment to
　　foreign travel, he liked familiar things about him-American d6cor, with
　　only minor concessions to local color; American plumbing; American food
　　and-most of the timeAmerican people. O'Keefe establishments provided them
　　all.
　　Nor was it important that a week from now he would be as impatient to leave
　　Italy as he was, at this moment, to depart from New Orleans. There were
　　plenty of places within his own empire-the Taj Mahal O'Keefe, O'Keefe
　　Lisbon, Adelaide O'Keefe, O'Keefe Copenhagen, and others-where a visit from
　　the panjandrum, although nowadays not essential to the chain's efficient
　　running, would stimulate business as a cathedral's might quicken from the
　　sojourn of a pope.
　　270
　　                         Thursday
　　Later, of course, he would return to New Orleans, probably in a month or
　　two when the St. Gregory-by then the O'Keefe-St. Gregory-was overhauled and
　　molded to the conformity of an O'Keefe hotel. His arrival for the inaugural
　　ceremonies would be triumphal, with fanfare, a civic welcome and coverage
　　by press, radio, and television. As usual on such occasions, he would bring
　　a retinue of celebrities, including Hollywood stars, not difficult to re-
　　cruit for a lavish free-loading junket.
　　Thinking about it, Curtis O'Keefe was impatient for these things to happen
　　soon. He was also mildly frustrated at not having received, so far, Warren
　　Trent's official acceptance of the proffered terms of two nights earlier.
　　It was now mid-morning of Thursday. The noon deadline agreed to was less
　　than ninety minutes away. Obviously, for reasons of his own, the St.
　　Gregory's proprietor intended to wait until the last possible moment before
　　acceptance.
　　O'Keefe prowled restlessly around the suite. Half an hour earlier Dodo had
　　left on a shopping expedition for which he had given her several hundred
　　dollars in large bills. Her purchases, he suggested, should include some
　　lightweight clothes since Naples was likely to be even hotter than New
　　Orleans, and there would be no time for shopping in New York. Dodo thanked
　　him appreciatively, as she always did, though strangely without the glowing
　　enthusiasm she had shown yesterday during their boat trip around the harbor
　　which cost a mere six dollars. Women, he thought, were perplexing
　　creatures.
　　He stopped at a window, looking out, when across the living room the
　　telephone rang. He reached it in half a dozen strides.
　　"Yes?"
　　He expected to hear the voice of Warren Trent. Instead, an operator
　　announced that the call was long distance. A moment later the nasal
　　Californian drawl of Hank Lemnitzer came on the line.
　　"That you, Mr. O'Keefe?"
　　"Yes, it is." Irrationally, Curtis O'Keefe wished that his West Coast
　　representative had not found it necessary to telephone twice within
　　twenty-four hours.
　　271
　　    HOTEL
　　"Got some great news for you."
　　"What kind of news?"
　　"I inked a deal for Dodo."
　　"I thought I made it clear yesterday that I insist on something special
　　for Miss Lash."
　　"How special can you get, Mr. O'Keefe? This is the greatest; a real
　　break. Dodo's a lucky kid."
　　"Tell me."
　　"Walt Curzon's shooting a remake of You Can't Take It With You.
　　Remember?-we put money in his pot."
　　"I remember."
　　"Yesterday I found out Walt needed a girl to play the old Ann Miller
　　role. It's a good supporting part. Fits Dodo like a tight brassiere."
　　Curtis O'Keefe wished peevishly once again that Lemnitzer would be
　　subtler in his choice of words.
　　"I assume there'll be a screen test."
　　"Sure will."
　　"Then how do we know Curzon will agree to the casting?"
　　"Are you kidding? Don't underrate your influence, Mr. O'Keefe. Dodo's in.
　　Besides, I've lined up Sandra Straughan to work with her. You know
　　Sandra?"
　　"Yes." O'Keefe was well aware of Sandra Strauehan. She had a reputation
　　as one of filmdom's most accomplished dramatic coaches. Among other
　　achievements, she possessed a remarkable record of accepting unknown
　　girls with influential sponsors and shaping them into box office
　　princesses.
　　"I'm real glad for Dodo," Lemnitzer said. "She's a kid I've always liked.
　　Only thing is, we have to move fast."
　　"How fast?"
　　"They need her yesterday, Mr. O'Keefe. It all fits, though, with the rest
　　I've arranged."
　　"The rest of what?"
　　"Jenny LaMarsh." Hank Lemnit er sounded puzzled. "You hadn't forgotten?"
　　"No." O'Keefe had certainly not forgotten the witty and beautiful Vassar
　　brunette who had so impressed him a month or two ago. But after
　　yesterday's talk with Lem-
　　272
　　                         Thursday
　　nitzer he had shelved thoughts of Jenny LaMarsh for the time being.
　　"Everything's fixed, Mr. O'Keefe. Jenny flies to New York tonight; she'll
　　join you there tomorrow. We'll switch Dodo's Naples reservations to
　　Jenny, then Dodo can fly here direct from New Orleans. Simple, eh?"
　　It was indeed simple. So simple, in fact, that O'Keefe could find no flaw
　　in the plan. He wondered why he wanted to.
　　"You assure me positively that Miss Lash will get the
　　part?"
　　"Mr. O'Keefe, I swear it on my mother's grave."
　　"Your mother isn't dead."
　　"Then my grandmother's." There was a pause, then, as if with sudden
　　perception, Lemnitzer said, "If you're worried about telling Dodo, why
　　don't I do it? You just go out for a couple of hours. I'll call her, fix
　　everything. That way-no fuss, no farewells."
　　"Thank you. I'm quite capable of handling the matter personally."
　　"Suit yourself, Mr. O'Keefe. Just trying to help."
　　"Miss Lash will telegraph you the time of her arrival in Los Angeles.
　　You'll meet the flight?"
　　"Sure thing. It'll be great to see Dodo. Well, Mr. O'Keefe, have a swell
　　time in Naples. I envy you having Jenny.t$
　　Without acknowledgment, O'Keefe hung up.
　　Dodo returned breathlessly, loaded with packages and followed by a
　　grinning bellboy, similarly burdened.
　　"I have to go back, Curtie. There's more."
　　O'Keefe said gruffly, "You could have had all this delivered."
　　"Oh, this is more exciting! Like Christmas." She told the bellboy, "We're
　　going to Naples. That's in Italy."
　　O'Keefe gave the bellboy a dollar and waited until he had gone.
　　Disentangling herself from packages, Dodo flung her arms impulsively
　　around O'Keefe's neck. She kissed him on both cheeks. "Did you miss me?
　　Gee, Curtie, I'm happyl"
　　273
　　    HOTEL
　　O'Keefe disengaged her arms gently. "Let's sit down. I want to tell you
　　about some changes in plan. I also have some good news."
　　"We're going soonerl"
　　He shook his head. "It concerns you more than me. The fact is, my dear,
　　you're being given a movie role. It's something I've been working on. I
　　heard this morningit's all arranged."
　　He was aware of Dodo's innocent blue eyes regarding him.
　　"I'm assured it's a very good part; in fact, I insisted that it should be.
　　If things go well, as I expect them to, it could be the beginning of
　　something very big for you." Curtis O'Keefe stopped, conscious of a
　　hollowness to his own words.
　　Dodo said slowly, "I guess it means . . . I have to go away.tv
　　"Unfortunately, my dear, it does."
　　"Soon?"
　　"I'm afraid-tomorrow morning. You'll fly directly to Los Angeles. Hank
　　Lemnitzer will meet you."
　　Dodo moved her head slowly in assent. The slim fingers of one hand went
　　absently to her face, brushing back a strand of ash-blond hair. It was a
　　simple movement yet, like so many of Dodo's, profoundly sensuous. Unreason-
　　ably, O'Keefe experienced a jealous twinge at the thought of Hank Lemnitzer
　　with Dodo. Lemnitzer, who had managed the ground work for most of his
　　employer's liaisons in the past, would never dare to trifle with a chosen
　　favorite in advance. But afterward . . . Afterward was something else
　　again. He thrust the thought away.
　　"I want you to know, my dear, that losing you is a great blow to me. But we
　　have to think of your future."
　　"Curtie, it's all right." Dodo's eyes were still upon him. Despite their
　　innocence, he had an absurd notion they had penetrated to the truth. "It's
　　all right. You don't have to
　　woffy:9
　　"I'd hoped-about the movie role-you might be more pleased."
　　"I am, Curtie! Gee, I really am! I think it's swell the way you always do
　　the sweetest things."
　　274
　　                         Thursday
　　The reaction bolstered his own confidence. "It's really a tremendous
　　opportunity. I'm sure you'll do well, and of course I shall follow your
　　career closely." He resolved to concentrate his thoughts on Jenny
　　LaMarsh.
　　"I guess . . ." There was the slightest catch in Dodo's voice. "I guess
　　you'll go tonight. Before me."
　　Making an instantaneous decision, he answered, "No, I'll cancel my flight
　　and leave tomorrow morning. Tonight will be a special evening for us
　　both."
　　As Dodo looked up gratefully, the telephone rang. With a sense of relief
　　for something else to do, he answered it.
　　"Mr. O'Keefe?" a pleasant woman's voice inquired.
　　19
　　"Yes.
　　"This is Christine Francis-Mr. Warren Trent's assistant. Mr. Trent
　　wondered if it would be convenient for him to come to see you now."
　　O'Keefe glanced at his watch. It showed a few minutes before noon.
　　"Yes," he acknowledged. "I'll see Mr Trent Tell him to come."
　　Replacing the telephone, he smiled at Dodo "It seems, my dear, we each
　　have something to celebrate-you a glittering future, and me. a new
　　hotel."
　　8
　　An hour or so earlier Warren Trent sat brooding behind the closed double
　　doors of his office in the executive suite Several times already this
　　morning he had reached out for the telephone with the intention of
　　calling Curtis O'Keefe, accepting the latter's terms for take-over of the
　　hotel There no longer seemed any cause for delay. The Journeymen's Union
　　had been the' final hope of alternate financing. The brusque rejection
　　from that source had crumbled Warren Trent's last resistance against
　　absorption by the O'Keefe behemoth.
　　Yet on each occasion, after the initial motion of his hand, Warren Trent
　　held back. He was like a prisoner, he mused, condemned to death at a
　　specific hour but with the choice of suicide beforehand. He accepted the
　　inev-
　　275
　　    HOTEL
　　itable. He realized that he would end his own tenure because there was no
　　alternative. Yet human nature urged him to cling to each remaining moment
　　until all were gone and the need for decision ended.
　　He had been closest to capitulation when the arrival of Peter McDermott
　　forestalled him. McDermott reported the decision of the Congress of
　　American Dentistry to continue its convention, a fact which did not
　　surprise Warren Trent since he had predicted it the day before. But now
　　the entire affair seemed remote and unimportant. He was glad when
　　McDermott left.
　　Afterward, for a while, he fell into a reverie, remembering past triumphs
　　and the satisfactions they had brought. That had been the time-not so
　　long ago, really-when his house was sought by the great and
　　near-great-presidents, crowned heads, nobility, resplendent women and
　　distinguished men, the nabobs of power and wealth, famous and
　　infamous-all with one distinction: they commanded attention and received
　　it. And where these 61ite led, others followed, until the St. Gregory was
　　both a mecca and a machine for making gold.
　　When memories were all one had--or seemed likely to have-it was wise to
　　savor them. Warren Trent hoped that for the hour or so which remained of
　　his proprietorship he would be undisturbed.
　　The hope proved vain.
　　Christine Francis came in quietly, as usual sensing his mood. "Mr. Emile
　　Dumaire would like to speak with you. I wouldn't have disturbed you, but
　　he insisted it's urgent."
　　Trent grunted. The vultures were gathering, he thought. Though on second
　　thoughts, perhaps the simile was hardly fair. A good deal of money from
　　the Industrial Merchants Bank, of which Emile Dumaire was president, was
　　tied up in the St. Gregory Hotel. It was also Industrial Merchants which,
　　months earlier, had refused an extension of credit as well as a larger
　　loan for refinancing. Well, Dumaire and his fellow directors had nothing
　　to worry about now. With the impending deal their money would be
　　forthcoming. Warren Trent supposed he should give that reassurance.
　　He reached for the telephone.
　　276
　　                         Thursday
　　"No," Christine said. "Mr. Dumaire is here, waiting outside."
　　Warren Trent stopped, surprised. It was highly unusual for Emile Dumaire
　　to leave the fastness of his bank to make a personal call on anyone.
　　A moment later Christine ushered the visitor in, closing the door as she
　　left.
　　Emile Dumaire, short, portly and with a fringe of curly white hair, had
　　an unbroken line of Creole ancestry. Yet he looked-perversely-as if he
　　had stepped from the pages of Pickwick Papers. His manner had a pompous
　　fussiness to match.
　　"I apologize, Warren, for the abrupt intrusion without an appointment.
　　However, the nature of my business left little time for niceties."
　　They shook hands perfunctorily. The hotel proprietor waved his visitor
　　to a chair.
　　"What business?"
　　"If you don't object, I'd prefer to take things in order. First, permit
　　me to say how sorry I was that it was not feasible to accede to your loan
　　request. Unfortunately, the sum and terms were far beyond our resources
　　or established policy."
　　Warren Trent nodded noncommittally. He had little liking for the banker,
　　though he had never made the mistake of underrating him. Beneath the
　　bumbling affectations -which lulled and deceived many-was a capable,
　　shrewd mind.
　　"However, I am here today with a purpose which I hope may offset some of
　　the unfortunate aspects of that earlier occasion."
　　91
　　"That," Warren Trent asserted, "is extremely unlikely.
　　"We'll see." From a slim briefcase the banker extracted several sheets
　　of ruled paper covered with penciled notes "It is my understanding
　　that you have received an offer for this hotel from the O'Keefe
　　Corporation."
　　"You don't need the FBI to tell you that."
　　The banker smiled. "You wouldn't care to inform me of the terms?"
　　"Why should ITI
　　277
　　    HOTEL
　　"Because," Emile Durnaire said carefully, "I am here to make a
　　counter-offer."
　　"If that's the case, I'd have even less reason to speak out. What I will
　　tell you is that I've agreed to give the O'Keefe people an answer by noon
　　today."
　　"Quite so. My information was to that effect, which is the reason for my
　　abrupt appearance here. Incidentally, I apologize for not being earlier,
　　but my information and instructions have taken some time to assemble."
　　The news of an eleventh-hour offer-at least, from the present source-did
　　not excite Warren Trent. He supposed that a local group of investors, for
　　whom Dumaire was spokesman, had combined in an attempt to buy in cheaply
　　now and sell out later with a capital gain. Whatever the suggested terms,
　　they could hardly match the offer of O'Keefe. Nor was Warren Trent's own
　　position likely to be improved.
　　The banker consulted his penciled notes. "It is my understanding that the
　　terms offered by O'Keefe Corporation are a purchase price of four
　　millions. Of this, two millions would be applied to renewal of the
　　present mortgage, the balance to be a million cash and a million dollars
　　in a new issue of O'Keefe stock. There's an additional rumor that you
　　personally would be given some kind of life tenancy of your quarters in
　　the hotel."
　　Warren Trent's face reddened with anger. He slammed a clenched fist hard
　　upon the surface of his desk. "Goddam, Ernilel Don't play cat and mouse
　　with mel"
　　"If I appeared to, I'm sorry."
　　"For God's sake! If you know the details already, why ask?"
　　"Frankly," Dumaire said, "I was hoping for the confirmation that you just
　　gave me. Also, the offer I am authorized to make is somewhat better."
　　He had fallen, Warren Trent realized, for an ancient, elementary gambit.
　　But he was indignant that Dumaire should have seen fit to play it on him.
　　It was also obvious that Curtis O'Keefe had a defector in his own
　　organization, possibly someone at O'Keefe headquarters who was privy to
　　high-level policy. In a way, there was ironic justice in the fact that
　　Curtis O'Keefe
　　278
　　                         Thursday
　　who used espionage as a business tool, should be spied upon himself.
　　"Just how are the terms better? And by whom are they offered?"
　　"To reply to the second question first-at present I am not at liberty to
　　say."
　　Warren Trent snorted, "I do business with people I can see, not ghosts."
　　"I am no gbost," Dumaire reminded him. "Moreover you have the bank's
　　assurance that the offer I am empowered to make is bona fide, and that
　　the parties whom the bank represents have unimpeachable credentials."
　　Still irked by the stratagem of a few moments earlier, the hotel
　　proprietor said, "Lefs get to the point."
　　"I was about to do so." The banker shuffled his notes. "Basically, the
　　valuation which my principals place upon this hotel is identical with
　　that of the O'Keefe Corpora-
　　19 tion.
　　"That's hardly surprising, since you had O'Keefe's figures.P9
　　"In other respects, however, there are several significant differences."
　　For the first time since the beginning of the interview, Warren Trent was
　　conscious of a mounting interest in what the banker had to say.
　　"First, my principals have no wish that you should sever your personal
　　connection with the St. Gregory Hotel or divorce yourself from its
　　financial structure. Second, it would be their intention-insofar as is
　　commercially feasible-to maintain the hotel's independence and existing
　　charactee,
　　Warren Trent gripped the arms of his chair tightly. He glanced at a wall
　　clock to his right. It showed a quarter to twelve.
　　"They would, hoajority of the outstanding
　　common shares-a reasonable requirement in the circumstances-to provide
　　effective management control. You yourself would thus revert to the
　　status of largest minority stock holder. A further requirement would be
　　your immediate resignation as president and 279
　　    HOTEL
　　managing director. Could I trouble you for a glass of water?"
　　Warren Trent filled a single glass from the Thermos jug on his desk.
　　"What do you have in mind-that I become a busboy? Or perhaps assistant
　　doorman?"
　　"Scarcely that." Emile Dumaire sipped from the glass, then regarded it.
　　"It has alarkable how our muddy Mississippi
　　can become such pleasant tasting water."
　　"Get on with it!"
　　The banker smiled. "My principals propose that ixmnediately following
　　your resignation you be appointed chairman of the board, initially for
　　a two-year term."
　　"A mere figurehead, I suppose!"
　　"Perhaps. But it would seem to me that there are worse things. Or perhaps
　　you'd prefer the figurehead to be Mr. Curtis O'Keefe."
　　The hotel proprietor was silent,
　　"I am further instructed to inform you that my principals will match any
　　offer of a personal nature concerning accommodation here which you may
　　have received from the O'Keefe Corporation. Now, as to the question of
　　stock transference and refinancing. I'd like to go into that in some
　　detail."
　　As the banker talked on, closely consulting his notes, Warren Trent had
　　a sense of weariness and unreality. Out of memory an incident came to him
　　from long ago. Once, as a small boy, he had attended a country fair,
　　clutching a few hoarded pennies to spend on the mechanical rides. There
　　had been one that he had ventured on-a cake walk. It was a form of
　　amusement, he supposed, which had long since passed into limbo. He
　　remembered it as a platform with a multiple-hinged floor which moved
　　continuallynow up, now down, now tilting forward, backward, forward ...
　　so that perspective was never level, and for the cost of a penny one had
　　an imminent chance of falling before attaining the far end. Beforehand
　　it had seemed exciting, but he remembered that nearing the finish of the
　　cake walk he had wanted, more than anything else, merely to get off.
　　The past weeks had been like a cake walk too. At the 280
　　                         Thursday
　　beginning he had been confident, then abruptly the floo) had canted away
　　beneath him. It had risen, as hope re, vived, then slanted away again.
　　Near the end the Journeymen's Union held a promise of stability, then
　　abruptly that too had collapsed on lunatic hinges.
　　Now, unexpectedly, the cake walk had stabilized once more and all he
　　wanted to do was get off.
　　Later on, Warren Trent knew, his feelings would change, his personal
　　interest in the hotel reviving, as it always had. But for the moment he
　　was conscious only of relief that, one way or another, the burden of
　　responsibility was shifting on. Along with relief was curiosity.
　　Who, among the city's business leaders, was behind Emile Dumaire? Who
　　might care enough to run the financial risk of maintaining the St.
　　Gregory as a traditionally independent house? Mark Preyscott, perhaps?
　　Could the department-store chieftain be seeking to augment his already
　　widespread interests? Warren Trent recalled having heard from someone,
　　during the past few days, that Mark Preyscott was in Rome. That might
　　account for the indirect approach. Well, whoever it was, he supposed he
　　would learn soon enough.
　　The stock transaction which the banker was spelling out was fair.
　　Compared with the offer from O'Keefe, Warren Trent's personal cash
　　settlement would be smaller, but offset by a retained equity in the
　　hotel. In contrast, the O'Keefe terms would cast him adrift from the St.
　　Gregory's affairs entirely.
　　As to an appointment as chairman of the board, while it might be a token
　　post only, devoid of power, he would at least be an inside, privileged
　　spectator to whatever might ensue. Nor was the prestige to be dismissed
　　lightly.
　　"That," Emile Dumaire concluded, "is the sum and substance. As to the
　　offer's integrity, I have already stated that it is guaranteed by the
　　bank. Furthermore, I am prepared to give you a notarized letter of
　　intention, this afternoon, to that effect."
　　"And completion, if I agree?"
　　The banker pursed his lips, considering. "There is no reason why papers
　　could not be drawn quickly, besides which the matter of the impending
　　mortgage expiry lends 281
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　　some urgency. I would say completion tomorrow at this time.99
　　"And also at that time, no doubt, I would be told the purchaser's
　　identity."
　　"That," Emile Dumaire conceded, "would be essential to the transaction."
　　"If tomorrow, why not now?"
　　The banker shook his head. "I am bound by my instructions."
　　Briefly, in Warren Trent's mind, his old ill temper flared. He was
　　tempted to insist on revelation as a condition of assent. Then reason
　　argued: Did it matter, providing the stipulations pledged were met?
　　Disputation, too, would involve effort to which he felt unequal. Once
　　more, the weariness of a few minutes earlier engulfed him.
　　He sighed, then said simply, "I accept."
　　9
　　Incredulously, wrathfully, Curtis O'Keefe faced Warren Trent.
　　"You have the effrontery to stand there telling me you7ve sold
　　elsewherel"
　　They were in the living room of O'Keefe's suite. Immediately following
　　the departure of Emile Dumaire, Christine Francis had telephoned to make
　　the appointment which Warren Trent was keeping now. Dodo, her expression
　　uncertain, hovered behind O'Keefe.
　　"You may call it effrontery," Warren Trent replied. "As far as I'm
　　concerned it's information. You may also be interested to know that I
　　have not sold entirely, but have retained a substantial interest in the
　　hotel."
　　"Then you'll lose id" O'Keefe's face flushed with rage. It had been many
　　years since anything he wished to buy had been denied him. Even now,
　　obsessed with bitterness and disappointment, he could not believe the
　　rejection to be true. "By God! I swear I'll break you."
　　Dodo reached out. Her hand touched OKeefe's sleeve, "Curtiel"
　　282
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　　He wrenched the arm free. "Shut up!" A vein pulsed visibly across his
　　temples. His hands were clenched.
　　91
　　"You're excited, Curtie. You shouldn't ...
　　"Damn you! Keep out of this!"
　　Dodo's eyes went appealingly to Warren Trent. They had the effect of
　　curbing Trent's own temper which had been about to erupt.
　　He told O'Keefe, "You may do what you please. But I'd remind you you have
　　no divine right of purchase. Also, you came here of your own accord with
　　no invitation from me.~
　　"You'll rue this day! You and the others, whoever they are. I'll build!
　　I'll drive this hotel down, and out of business. Every vestige of my
　　planning will be directed at smashing this place and you with it."
　　"If either of us lives so long." Having contained himself already, Warren
　　Trent felt his own self-control increase as O'Keefe's diminished. "We may
　　not see it happen, of course, because what you intend will take time.
　　Also, the new people here may give you a run for your money." It was an
　　uninformed prediction, but he hoped it would prove true.
　　O'Keefe raged, "Get out!"
　　Warren Trent said, "This is my house still. While you are my guest you
　　have certain privileges in your own rooms. I'd suggest, though, you don't
　　abuse them." With a slight, courteous bow to Dodo, he went out.
　　"Curtie," Dodo said.
　　O'Keefe did not appear to hear. He was breathing heavily.
　　"Curtie, are you all right?"
　　"Must you ask stupid questions? Of course I'm all right!" He stormed the
　　length of the room and back.
　　"It's only a hotel, Curtie. You got so many others."
　　"I want this one!"
　　"That old man-it's the only one he's got . .
　　"Oh yes! Of course you'd see it that way. Disloyally! Stupidly!" His
　　voice was high, hysterical. Dodo, frightened, had never known him in a
　　mood so uncontrolled before.
　　"Please, Curtie!"
　　"I'm surrounded by fools! Fools, fools, fools! You're a
　　283
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　　fool! It's why I'm getting rid of you. Replacing you with someone else."
　　He regretted the words the instant they were out. Their impact, even upon
　　himself, was of shock, snuffing out his anger like a suddenly doused
　　flame. There was a second of silence before he mumbled, "I'm sorry. I
　　shouldn't have said that."
　　Dodo's eyes were misty. She touched her hair abstractedly in the gesture
　　he had noticed earlier.
　　"I guess I knew, Curtie. You didn't have to tell me."
　　She went into the adjoining suite, closing the door behind her.
　　10
　　An unexpected bonus had revived the spirits of Keycase Milne.
　　During the morning, Keycase had returned his strategic purchases of
　　yesterday to the Maison Blanche department store. There was no difficulty
　　and he received prompt, courteous refunds. This, at the same time,
　　relieved him of an encumbrance and filled an otherwise empty hour. There
　　were still several more hours to wait, however, until the specially made
　　key, ordered yesterday from the Irish Channel locksmith, would be ready
　　for collection.
　　He was on the point of leaving the Maison Blanche store when his good
　　fortune occurred.
　　At a main floor counter, a well-dressed woman shopper, fumbling for a
　　credit card, dropped a ring of keys. Neither she nor anyone else but
　　Keycase, it seemed, observed the loss. Keycase loitered, inspecting
　　neckties at a neighboring counter, until the woman moved on.
　　He walked the length of the other counter, then, as if seeing the keys
　　for the first time, stopped to pick them up. He observed at once that as
　　well as car keys there were several others which looked as if they fitted
　　house locks. Even more significant was something else which his expe-
　　rienced eyes had spotted initially-a miniature auto license tag. It was
　　the kind mailed to car owners by disabled veterans, providing a return
　　service for lost keys. The tag showed a Louisiana license number.
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　　Holding the keys plainly in sight, Keycase hurried after the woman, who
　　was leaving the store. If his action of a moment earlier had been
　　observed, it was now obvious that he was hastening to restore the keys
　　to their owner.
　　But on joining the press of pedestrians on Canal Street, he palmed the
　　keys and transferred them to a pocket.
　　The woman was still in sight. Keycase followed her at a cautious
　　distance. After two blocks she crossed Canal Street and entered a beauty
　　parlor. From outside, Keycase saw her approach a receptionist who
　　consulted an appointment book, after which the woman sat down to wait.
　　With a sense of elation, Keycase hurried to a telephone.
　　A local telephone call established that the information he sought was
　　obtainable from the state capital at Baton Rouge. Keycase made the long
　　distance call, asking for the Motor Vehicle Division. The operator
　　answering knew at once the extension he required.
　　Holding the keys in front of him, Keycase read out the license number
　　from the miniature tag. A bored clerk informed him that the car was
　　registered to one, F. R. Drummond, with an address in the Lakeview
　　district of New Orleans.
　　In Louisiana, as in other states and provinces of North America, motor
　　vehicle ownership was a matter of public record, obtainable in most
　　instances by no greater effort than a telephone call. It was a nugget of
　　knowledge which Keycase had used advantageously before.
　　He made one more telephone call, dialing the listed number for F. R.
　　Drummond. As he had hoped, after prolonged ringing there was no answer.
　　It was necessary to move speedily. Keycase calculated that he had an
　　hour, perhaps a little more. He hailed a taxi which took him quickly to
　　where his car was parked. From there, with the aid of a street map, he
　　drove to Lakeview, locating without difficulty the address he had jotted
　　down.
　　He surveyed the house from half a block away. It was a well-cared-for
　　two-story residence with a double garage and spacious garden. The
　　driveway was sheltered by a large cypress tree, fortuitously blocking the
　　view from neighboring houses on either side.
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　　Keycase drove his car boldly under the tree and walked to the front door.
　　It opened easily to the first key he tried.
　　Inside, the house was silent. He called out loudly, "Anybody home?" If
　　there had been an answer, he was ready with a prepared excuse about the
　　door being ajar and having come to the wrong address. There was none.
　　He scouted the main floor rooms quickly, then went upstairs. There were
　　four bedrooms, all unoccupied. In a closet of the largest were two fur
　　coats. He pulled them out, piling them on the bed. Another closet
　　revealed suitcases. Keycase selected a large one and bundled the furs in.
　　A dressing-table drawer yielded a jewelry box which he emptied into the
　　suitcase, adding a movie camera, binoculars and a portable radio. He
　　closed the case and carried it downstairs, then reopened it to add a
　　silver bowl and salver. A tape recorder, which he noticed at the last
　　moment, he carried out to the car in one hand, the larger case in the
　　other.
　　In all, Keycase had been inside the house barely ten minutes. He stowed
　　the case and recorder in the trunk of his car and drove away. Just over
　　an hour later he had cached the haul in his motel room on Chef Menteur
　　Highway, parked his car once more in its downtown location, and was
　　walking jauntily back to the St. Gregory Hotel.
　　On the way, with a gleam of humor, he put the keys into a mail box, as
　　the miniature license tag requested. No doubt the tag organization would
　　fulfill its promise and return them to their owner.
　　The unexpected booty, Keycase calculated, would net him close to a
　　thousand dollars.
　　He had a coffee and sandwich in the St. Gregory coffee shop, then walked
　　to the Irish Channel locksmith's. The duplicate key to the Presidential
　　Suite was ready and, despite the extortionate price demanded, he paid
　　cheerfully.
　　Returning, he was conscious of the sun shining benevolently from a
　　cloudless sky. That, and the morning's unexpected bounty, were plainly
　　omens, portents of success for the major mission soon to come. His old
　　assurance, Keycase found, plus a conviction of invincibility, had seeped
　　quietly back.
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　　Across the city, in leisurely disorder, the chimes of New
　　Orleans were ringing the noon hour. Their melodies in
　　counterpoint came dimly through the ninth-floor window
　　--- closed and sealed for effective air conditioning-of the
　　Presidential Suite. The Duke of Croydon, unsteadily pour
　　ing a Scotch and soda, his fourth since mid-morning, heard
　　the bells and glanced at his watch for confirmati n of their
　　message. He shook his head unbelievingly and muttered,
　　"That's all? . . . Longest day ... ever remember living."
　　"Eventually it will end." From a sofa where she had been attempting
　　unsuccessfully to concentrate on W. H. Auden's Poems, his wife's rejoinder
　　was less severe than most of her responses of the past several days. The
　　waiting period since the previous night, with the awareness that Ogilvie
　　and the incriminating car were somewhere to the north-but where?-had been
　　a strain on the Duchess too. It was now nineteen hours since the Croydons'
　　last contact with the chief house officer and there had been no word of a
　　development of any kind.
　　"For God's sake!---couldn't the fellow telephone?" The Duke paced the
　　living room agitatedly as he had, off and on, since early morning.
　　"We agreed there should be no communication," the Duchess reminded him,
　　still mildly. "It's a good deal safer that way. Besides, if the car is
　　hidden for the daytime, as we hoped, he's probably remaining out of sight."
　　The Duke of Croydon pored over an opened Esso road map, examining it as he
　　bad countless times already. His finger traced a circle around the area
　　surrounding Macon, Mississippi. He said, half to himself, "It's close,
　　still so infernally close. And all of today . . . just waiting . . .
　　waiting!" Moving away from the map, he muttered, "Fellow could be
　　discovered."
　　"Obviously he hasn't been, or we would have heard one way or another."
　　Beside the Duchess was a copy of the afternoon States-Item; she had sent
　　their secretary down to the lobby for an early edition. As well, they had
　　listened to hourly radio news broadcasts throughout the
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　　morning. A radio was turned on softly now, but the announcer was
　　describing damage from a summer storm in Massachusetts and the preceding
　　item had been a White House statement on Vietnam. Both the newspaper and
　　earlier broadcasts had referred to the hit-and-run investigation, but
　　merely to note that it was continuing and nothing new had come to light.
　　"There were only a few hours for driving last night," the Duchess
　　continued, as if to reassure herself. "Tonight it will be different. He
　　can start immediately it's dark and by tomorrow morning everything should
　　be safe."
　　"Safe!" Her husband returned morosely to his drink. "I suppose it's the
　　sensible thing to care about. Not what happened. That woman . . . the
　　child. There were pictures . . . suppose you saw."
　　"We've been over that. It won't do any good again."
　　He appeared not to have heard. "Funeral today . . . this afternoon ...
　　at least could go."
　　"You can't, and you know you won't."
　　There was a heavy silence in the elegant, spacious room.
　　It was broken abruptly by the jangle of the telephone. They faced each
　　other, neither attempting to answer. The muscles of the Duke's face
　　jerked spasmodically.
　　The bell sounded again, then stopped. Through intervening doors they
　　heard the voice of the secretary indistinctly, answering on an extension.
　　A moment later the secretary knocked and came in diffidently. He glanced
　　toward the Duke. "Your Grace, it's one of the local newspapers. They say
　　that they have had" -he hesitated at an unfamiliar term-"a flash bulletin
　　which appears to concern you."
　　With an effort the Duchess recovered her poise. "I will take the call.
　　Hang up the extension." She picked up the telephone near her. Only a
　　close observer would have noticed that her hands were trembling.
　　She waited for the click as the extension was replaced, then announced,
　　"The Duchess of Croydon speaking."
　　A man's crisp voice responded, "Ma'am, this is the States-Item city desk.
　　We've a flash from Associated Press and there's just been a follow-up .
　　. ." The voice stopped. 288
　　                         Thursday
　　"Pardon me." She heard the speaker say irritably, "Where in hell is that ...
　　Hey, toss over that flimsy, Andy."
　　There was a rustle of paper, then the voice resuming. "Sorry, ma'am. I'll
　　read this to you.
　　"LONDON (AP)-Parliamentary sources here today
　　name the Duke of Croydon, noted British govern-
　　ment trouble shooter, as Britain's next ambassador to
　　Washington. Initial reaction is favorable. An official
　　announcement is expected soon.
　　There's more, ma'am. I won't bother you with it. Why we called was to see if
　　your husband has a statement, then with your permission we'd like to send a
　　photographer to the hotel."
　　Momentarily the Duchess closed her eyes, letting waves of relief, like
　　soothing anodynes, wash over her.
　　The voice on the telephone cut in, "Ma'am, are you still there?"
　　"Yes." She forced her mind to function.
　　"About a statement, what we'd like . . ."
　　"At the moment," the Duchess injected, "my husband has no statement, nor
　　will he have unless and until the appointment is officially confirmed."
　　"In that case . . ."
　　"The same applies to photography."
　　The voice sounded disappointed. "We'll run what we have, of course, in the
　　next edition."
　　"That is your privilege."
　　"Meanwhile, if there's an official announcement we'd like to be in touch."
　　"Should that occur, I'm sure my husband will be glad to meet the press."
　　"Then we may telephone again?"
　　"Please do."
　　After replacing the telephone, the Duchess of Croydon sat upright and
　　unmoving. At length, a slight smile hovering around her lips, she said,
　　"It's happened. Geoffrey has succeeded."
　　Her husband stared incredulously. He moistened his lips. "Washington?"
　　289
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　　She repeated the gist of the AP bulletin. "The leak was probably
　　deliberate, to test reaction. It's favorable."
　　"I wouldn't have believed that even your brother .
　　"His influence helped. Undoubtedly there were other reasons. Timing.
　　Someone with your kind of background was needed. Politics fitted. Don't
　　forget either that we knew the possibility existed. Fortunately, everything
　　chanced to fall together."
　　"Now that it's happened . He stopped, unwilling to complete the thought.
　　"Now that it's happened-what?"
　　"I wonder ... can I carry it through?"
　　"You can and you will. We will."
　　He moved his head doubtfully. "There was a time
　　"There is still a time." The Duchess's voice sharpened with authority.
　　"Later today you will be obliged to meet the press. There will be other
　　things. It will be necessary for you to be coherent and remain so."
　　He nodded slowly.                Do best I can." He lifted his
　　glass to sip.
　　"No!" The Duchess rose. She removed the tumbler from her husband's fingers
　　and walked to the bathroom. He heard the contents of the glass being poured
　　into the sink. Returning, she announced, "There will be no more. You
　　understand? No more whatever."
　　He seemed about to protest, then acknowledged, "Suppose . . . only way."
　　"If you'd Re me to take away the bottles, pour out this one . . ."
　　He shook his head. "I'll manage." Perceptibly, with an effort of will, he
　　brought his thoughts to focus. With the same chameleon quality he had
　　exhibited the day before, there seemed more strength in his features than
　　a moment earlier. His voice was steady as he observed, "It's very good
　　news."
　　"Yes," the Duchess said. "It can mean a new beginning.)~
　　He took a half step toward her, then changed his mind. Whatever the new
　　beginning, he was well aware it would not include that.
　　His wife was already reasoning aloud. "It will be neces-
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　　sary to revise our plans about Chicago. From now on your movements will
　　be the subject of close attention. If we go there together it will be
　　reported prominently in the Chicago press. It could arouse curiosity when
　　the car is taken for repair."
　　"One of us must go."
　　The Duchess said decisively, "I shall go alone. I can change my
　　appearance a little, wear glasses. If I'm careful I can escape
　　attention." Her eyes went to a small attach6 case beside the secr9taire.
　　"I will take the remainder of the money and do whatever else is needed."
　　"You're assuming . . . that man will get to Chicago safely. He hasn't
　　yet."
　　Her eyes widened as if remembering a forgotten nightmare. She whispered,
　　"Oh God! Now . above all else . . . he must! He must!"
　　12
　　Shortly after lunch, Peter McDermott managed to slip away to his
　　apartment where he changed, from the formal business suit he wore most
　　of the time in the hotel, to linen slacks and a lightweight jacket. He
　　returned briefly to his office to sign letters which, on the way out, he
　　deposited on Flora's desk.
　　"I'll be back late this afternoon," he told her. Then, as an
　　afterthought: "Did you discover anything about Ogilvie?"
　　His secretary shook her head. "Not really. You asked me to find out if
　　Mr. Ogilvie told anyone where he was going. Well, he didn't."
　　Peter grunted. "I didn't really expect he would."
　　"There's just one thing." Flora hesitated. "It's probably not important,
　　but it seemed a little strange."
　　"'What?"
　　"The car Mr. Ogilvie used-you said it was a Jaguar?"
　　91
　　"Yes.
　　"It belongs to the Duke and Duchess of Croydon."
　　"Are you sure someone hasn't made a mistake?"
　　"I wondered about that," Flora said, "so I asked the
　　291
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　　garage to double check. They told me to talk to a man named Kulgmer who's
　　the garage night checker."
　　"Yes, I know him."
　　"He was on duty last night and I phoned him at home. He says Mr. Ogilvie
　　had written authority from the Duchess of Croydon to take the car."
　　Peter shrugged. "Then I guess there's nothing wrong." It was strange,
　　though, to think of Ogilvie using the Croydons' car; even stranger that
　　there should be any kind of rapport between the Duke and Duchess and the
　　uncouth house officer. Obviously, Flora had been considering the same
　　thing.
　　He inquired, "Has the car come back?"
　　Flora shook her head negatively. "I wondered if I should check with the
　　Duchess of Croydon. Then I thought I'd ask you first."
　　"I'm glad you did." He supposed it would be simple enough to ask the
　　Croydons if they knew Ogilvie's destination. Since Ogilvie had their car,
　　it seemed probable they would. All the same, he hesitated. After his own
　　skirmish with the Duchess on Monday night, Peter was reluctant to risk
　　another misunderstanding, especially since any kind of inquiry might be
　　resented as a personal intrusion. There was also the embarrassing
　　admission to be made that the hotel had no knowledge of the whereabouts
　　of its chief house officer.
　　He told Flora, "Let's leave it for the time being."
　　There was another piece of unfinished business, Peter remembered-Herbie
　　Chandler. This morning he had intended to inform Warren Trent of the
　　statements made yesterday by Dixon, Dumaire, and the others, implicating
　　the bell captain in events leading up to Monday night's attempted rape.
　　However, the hotel owner's obvious preoccupation made him decide against
　　it. Now Peter supposed he had better see Chandler himself.
　　"Find out if Herbie Chandler's on duty this evening," he instructed
　　Flora. "If he is, tell him I'd like to see him here at six o'clock. If
　　not, tomorrow morning."
　　Leaving the executive suite, Peter descended to the lobby. A few minutes
　　later, from the comparative gloom 292
　　                         Thursday
　　of the hotel, he stepped out into the brilliant, early afternoon sunlight of
　　St. Charles Street.
　　"Peter! I'm here."
　　Turning his head, he saw Marsha waving from the driver's seat of a white
　　convertible, the car wedged into a line of waiting cabs. An alert hotel
　　doorman briskly preceded Peter and opened the car door. As Peter slid into
　　the seat beside Marsha, he saw a trio of cab drivers grin, and one gave a
　　long wolf whistle.
　　"Hi!" Marsha said. "If you hadn't come I was going to have to pick up a
　　fare." In a light summer dress, she appeared as delectable as ever, but for
　　all the lighthearted greeting he sensed a shyness, perhaps because of what
　　had passed between them the night before. Impulsively, he took her hand and
　　squeezed it.
　　"I like that," she assured him, "even though I promised my father I'd use
　　both hands to drive." With help from the taxi drivers, who moved forward
　　and back to create a space, she eased the convertible out into traffic.
　　It seemed, Peter reflected as they waited for a green light at Canal
　　Street, that he was constantly being driven about New Orleans by attractive
　　women. Was it only three days ago that he had ridden with Christine in the
　　Volkswagen to her apartment? That was the same night he had met Marsha for
　　the first time. It seemed longer than three days, perhaps because a
　　proposal of marriage by Marsha had occurred in the meantime. In the reality
　　of daylight he wondered if she had had more rational second thoughts,
　　though either way, he decided, he would say nothing unless she revived the
　　subject herself.
　　There was an excitement, just the same, in being close together, especially
　　remembering their parting moments of the night before-the kiss, tender,
　　then with mounting passion as restraint dissolved; the breathless moment
　　when he had thought of Marsha not as a girl, but as a woman; had held her,
　　tightly, sensing the urgent promise of her body. He watched her covertly
　　now; her eager youthfulness, the lissome movements of her limbs; the
　　slightness of her figure beneath the thin dress. If he reached out ...
　　He checked the impulse, though reluctantly. In the same self-chastening
　　vein, he reminded himself that all his adult 293
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　　life, so far, the immediacy of women had clouded his own judgment,
　　precipitating indiscretions.
　　Marsha glanced sideways, diverting her attention from the traffic ahead.
　　"What were you thinking about just then?"
　　"History," he lied. "Where do we start?"
　　"The old St. Louis Cemetery. You haven't been there?"
　　Peter shook his head. "I've never put cemeteries high on my list of
　　things to do."
　　"In New Orleans you should."
　　It was a short drive to Basin Street. Marsha parked neatly on the south
　　side and they crossed the boulevard to the walled cemetery-St. Louis
　　number one-with its ancient pillared entrance.
　　"A lot of history begins here," Marsha said, taking Peter's arm. "In the
　　early 1700s, when New Orleans was founded by the French, the land was
　　mostly swamp. It would still be swamp, even now, if it weren't for the
　　levees which keep the river out."
　　"I know it's a wet city underneath," he agreed. "In the hotel basement,
　　twenty-four hours a day, we pump our waste water up, not down, to meet
　　the city sewers."
　　"It used to be a whole lot wetter. Even in dry places water was just
　　three feet down, so when a grave was dug it flooded before anyone could
　　put a coffin in. There are stories that gravediggers used to stand on
　　coffins to force them down. Sometimes they punched holes in the wood to
　　make the coffin sink. People used to say, if you weren't really dead,
　　you'd drown."
　　"Sounds like a horror movie."
　　"Some books say the smell of dead bodies used to seep into the drinking
　　water." She made a grimace of distaste. "Anyway, later on there was a law
　　that all burials had to be above the ground."
　　They began to walk betbs. The
　　cemetery was unlike any other Peter had ever seen. Marsha gestured around
　　them. "This is what happened after the law was passed. In New Orleans we
　　call these places cities of the dead."
　　"I can understand why."
　　It was like a city, he thought. The streets irregular, with 294
　　                         Thursday
　　tombs in the style of miniature houses, brick and stuccoed, some with
　　ironwork balconies and narrow sidewalks. The houses had several floors or
　　levels. An absence of windows was the only consistent feature, but in
　　their place were countless tiny doorways. He pointed. "They're like apart-
　　ment entrances."
　　"They are apartments, really. And most on short leases."
　　He looked at her curiously.
　　"The tombs are divided into sections," Marsha explained. "The ordinary
　　family tombs have two to six sections, the bigger ones more. Each section
　　has its own little door, When there's to he a funeral, ahead of time one
　　of the doorways is opened up. The coffin already inside is emptied, and
　　the remains from it pushed to the back where they fall through a slot
　　into the ground. The old coffin is burned and the new one put in. It's
　　left for a year, then the same thing happens."
　　"Just a year?"
　　A voice behind said, "'S all it needs. 'Times, though, it's longer-if the
　　next to go ain't in a hurry. Cockroaches help some."
　　They turned. An elderly, barrel-shaped man in stained denim coveralls
　　regarded them cheerfully. Removing an ancient straw hat, he mopped his
　　bald head with a red silk handkerchief. "Hot, ain't it? Lot cooler in
　　there." He slapped his hand familiarly against a tomb.
　　"If it's all one to you," Peter said, "I'll settle for the heat."
　　The other chuckled. "Git y' anyhow in th' end. Howdy, Miss Preyscott."
　　"Hullo, Mr. Collodi," Marsha said. "This is Mr. McDermott."
　　The sexton nodded agreeably. "Takin' a look at the family snuggery?"
　　"We were going to," Marsha said.
　　"Tbis way, then." Over his shoulder he called out. "We cleaned 'er up,
　　week or two back. Lookin' mighty good now."
　　As they threaded their way through the narrow, makebelieve streets, Peter
　　had an impression of ancient dates 295
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　　and names. Their guide pointed to a smoldering pile of rubble in an open
　　space. "Havin' a bit of a burn-up." Peter could see portions of coffin amid
　　the smoke.
　　They stopped before a six-sectioned tomb, built like a traditional Creole
　　house. It was painted white and in better repair than most around it. On
　　weathered marble tablets were many names, mostly of Preyscotts. "We're an
　　old family," Marsha said. "It must be getting crowded down among the dust."
　　Sunshine slanted brightly on the tomb.
　　"Purty, ain't it?" The sexton stood back admiringly, then pointed to a
　　doorway near the top. "That's the next one for opening, Miss Preyscott.
　　Your daddy'll go in there." He touched another in a second tier. "That'n T
　　be fer you. Doubt, though, I'll be the one to put you in." He stopped, then
　　added contemplatively, "Comes sooner than we want for all of us. Don't do,
　　neither, to waste no time; no sir!" Mopping his head once more, he ambled
　　off.
　　Despite the heat of the day, Peter shivered. The thought of earmarking a
　　place of death for someone so young as Marsha troubled him.
　　"It's not as morbid as it seems." Marsha's eyes were on his face and he was
　　aware once more of her ability to understand his thoughts. "It's simply
　　that here we're brought up to see all this as part of us."
　　He nodded. Just the same, he had had enough of this place of death.
　　They were on the way out, near the Basin Street gate, when Marsha put a
　　hand on his arm restrainingly.
　　A line of cars had stopped immediately outside. As their doors opened,
　　people emerged and were gathering on the sidewalk. From their appearance it
　　was obvious that a funeral procession was about to come in.
　　Marsha whispered, "Peter, we'll have to wait." They moved away, still
　　within sight of the gates, but less conspicuously.
　　Now the group on the sidewalk parted, making way for a small cortege. A
　　sallow man with the unctuous bearing of an undertaker came first. He was
　　followed by a priest.
　　Behind the priest was a group of six pallbearers, moving slowly, a heavy
　　coffin on their shoulders. Behind them, 296
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　　four others carried a tiny white coffin. On it was a single spray of
　　oleanders.
　　"Oh no!" Marsha said.
　　Peter gripped her hand tightly.
　　The priest intoned, "May the angels take you into paradise: may the martyrs
　　come to welcome you on your way, and lead you into the holy city,
　　Jerusalem."
　　A group of mourners followed the second coffin. In front, walking alone,
　　was a youngish man. He wore an ill-fitting black suit and carried a hat
　　awkwardly. His eyes seemed riveted on the tiny coffin. Tears coursed his
　　cheeks. In the group behind, an older woman sobbed, supported by another.
　　". . . May the choir of angels welcome you, and with Lazarus who was once
　　poor, may you have everlasting rest . . ."
　　Marsha whispered, "It's the people who were killed in that hit-and-run.
　　There was a mother, a little girl. It was in the newspapers." He saw that
　　she was crying.
　　"I know." Peter had a sense of being part of this scene, of sharing its
　　grief. The earlier chance encounter of Monday night had been grim and
　　stark. Now the sense of tragedy seemed closer, more intimately real. He
　　felt his own eyes moisten as the cortege moved on.
　　Behind the family mourners were others. To his surprise, Peter recognized
　　a face. At first he was unable to identify its owner, then realized it was
　　Sol Natchez, the elderly room-service waiter suspended from duty after the
　　dispute with the Duke and Duchess of Croydon on Monday night. Peter had
　　sent for Natchez on Tuesday morning and conveyed Warren Trent's edict to
　　spend the rest of the week away from the hotel, with pay. Natchez looked
　　across now to where Peter and Marsha were standing but gave no sign of
　　recognition.
　　The funeral procession moved farther into the cemetery and out of sight.
　　They waited until all the mourners and spectators had followed it.
　　"We can go now," Marsha said.
　　Unexpectedly a hand touched Peter's arm. Turning, he saw it was Sol
　　Natchez. So he had observed them, after all. 297
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　　"I saw you watching, Mr. McDermott. Did you know the family?"
　　"No," Peter said. "We were here by chance." He introduced Marsha.
　　She asked, "You didn't wait for the end of the service?"
　　The old man shook his head. "Sometimes there's just so much you can bear
　　to watch."
　　"You knew the family, then?"
　　"Very well. It's a sad, sad thing."
　　Peter nodded. There seemed nothing else to say.
　　Natchez said, "I didn't get to say it Tuesday, Mr. McDermott, but I
　　appreciate what you did. In speaking up for me, I mean."
　　"It's all right, Sol. I didn't think you were to blame."
　　"It's a funny thing when you think about it." The old man looked at
　　Marsha, then Peter. He seemed reluctant to leave.
　　"What's funny?" Peter asked.
　　"All this. The accident." Natchez gestured in the direction the cortege
　　had gone. "It must have happened just before I had that bit of trouble
　　Monday night. Just think, while you and me were talking . . ."
　　"Yes," Peter said. He felt disinclined to explain his own experience
　　later at the accident scene.
　　"I meant to ask, Mr. McDermott-was anything more said about that business
　　with the Duke and Duchess?"
　　"Nothing at all."
　　Peter supposed that Natchez found it a relief, as he himself did, to
　　consider something other than the funeral.
　　The waiter ruminated, "I thought about it a lot after. Seemed almost as
　　if they went out of their way to make a fuss. Couldn't figure it out.
　　Still can't."
　　Natchez, Peter remembered, had said much the same thing on Monday night.
　　The waiter's exact words came back to him. Natchez had been speaking of
　　the Duchess of Croydon. She jogged my arm. If I didn't know better, I'd
　　say it was deliberate. And later Peter had had the same general
　　impression: that the Duchess wanted the incident remembered. What was it
　　she had said? Something about spending a quiet evening in the suite, then
　　taking a walk around the block. They had just come back, she said. Peter
　　298
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　　recalled wondering at the time why she had made such a point of it.
　　Then the Duke of Croydon had mumbled something about leaving his
　　cigarettes in the car, and the Duchess had snapped back at him.
　　The Duke had left his cigarettes in the car.
　　But if the Croydons had stayed in the suite, then merely walked around
　　the block . . .
　　Of course, the cigarettes might have been left earlier in the day.
　　Somehow Peter didn't think so.
　　Oblivious of the other two, he concentrated.
　　Why did the Croydons wish to conceal the use of their car on Monday
　　night? Why create an appearance-apparently false-of having spent the
　　evening in the hotel? Was the complaint about spilled shrimp Creole a
　　staged device -deliberately involving Natchez, then Peter-intended to
　　uphold this fiction? Except for the Duke's chance remark, which angered
　　the Duchess, Peter would have accepted it as true.
　　Why conceal the use of their car?
　　Natchez had said a moment ago: It's a funny thing ... the accident . .
　　. must have happened just before I had that bit of trouble.
　　The Croydons' car was a Jaguar.
　　Ogilvie.
　　He had a sudden memory of the Jaguar emerging from the garage last night.
　　As it stopped, momentarily under a light, there had been something
　　strange. He recalled noticing. But what? With an awful coldness he remem-
　　bered: it was the fender and headlight, both were damaged. For the first
　　time the significance of police bulletins of the past few days struck
　　home.
　　"Peter," Marsha said, "you've suddenly gone white."
　　He scarcely heard.
　　It was essential to get away, to be somewhere alone where he could think.
　　He must reason carefully, logically, unhurriedly. Above all, there must
　　be no hasty, ready-made conclusions.
　　There were pieces of a puzzle. Superficially, they ap299
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　　peared to relate. But they must be considered, reconsidered, arranged, and
　　rearranged. Perhaps discarded.
　　The idea was impossible. It was simply too fantastic to be true. And yet .
　　. .
　　As if from a distance, he heard Marsha's voice. "Peter! Something's wrong.
　　What is it?"
　　Sol Natchez, too, was looking at him strangely.
　　"Marsha," Peter said, "I can't tell you now. But I have to 90.
　　"Go where?"
　　"Back to the hotel. I'm sorry. I'll try to explain later."
　　Her voice showed disappointment. "I'd planned we'd have tea."
　　"Please believe me! It's important."
　　"If you must go, I'll drive you."
　　"No." Driving with Marsha would involve talking, explanations. "Please.
　　I'll call you later."
　　He left them standing, bewildered, looking after him.
　　Outside, on Basin Street, he hailed a cruising cab. He had told Marsha that
　　he was going to the hotel but, changing his mind, he gave the driver the
　　address of his apartment.
　　It would be quieter there.
　　To think. To decide what he should do.
　　It was approaching late afternoon when Peter McDermott summarized his
　　reasoning.
　　He told himself: When you added something twenty, thirty, forty times; when
　　every time the conclusion you arrived at was the same; when the issue was
　　the kind of issue you were facing now; with all of this, your own re-
　　sponsibility was inescapable.
　　Since leaving Marsha an hour and a half ago, he had remained in his
　　apartment. He had forced himself-subduing agitation and an impulse for
　　haste-to think rationally, carefully, unexcitedly. He had reviewed, point
　　by point, the accumulated incidents since Monday night. He had searched for
　　alternatives of explanation, both for single happenings and the
　　accumulation of them all. He found none that offered either consistency or
　　sense, save the
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　　awful conclusion he had reached so suddenly this afternoon.
　　Now the reasoning had ended. A decision must be made.
　　He contemplated placing all that he knew and conjectured before Warren
　　Trent. Then he dismissed the idea as being cowardly, a shirking of his
　　own responsibility. Whatever was to be done, he must do alone.
　　There was a sense of the fitness of things to be served. He changed
　　quickly from his light suit to a darker one. Leaving, he took a taxi the
　　few blocks to the hotel.
　　From the lobby he walked, acknowledging salutations, to his office on the
　　main mezzanine. Flora had left for the day. There was a pile of messages
　　on his desk which he ignored.
　　He sat quietly for a moment in the silent office, contemplating what he
　　must do. Then he lifted the telephone, waited for a line, and dialed the
　　number of the city police.
　　13
　　The persistent buzzing of a mosquito, which had somehow found its way
　　into the Jaguar's interior, woke Ogilvie during the afternoon. He came
　　awake slowly and at first had difficulty remembering where he was. Then
　　the sequence of events came back: the departure from the hotel, the drive
　　in early morning darkness, the alarm-unfounded, his decision to wait out
　　the day before resuming the journey north; and finally the rutted, grassy
　　track with a cluster of trees at its end where he had concealed the car.
　　The hideaway had apparently been well chosen. A glance at his watch
　　showed that he had slept, uninterrupted, for almost eight hours.
　　With consciousness also came intense discomfort. The car was stiffing,
　　his body stiff and aching from confinement in the cramped rear seat. His
　　mouth was dry and tasted foully. He was thirsty and ravenously hungry.
　　With grunts of anguish Ogilvie eased his bulk to a sitting position and
　　opened the car door. Immediately, he was surrounded by a dozen more
　　mosquitoes. He brushed them away, then glanced around, taking time to
　　reorient
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　　himself, comparing what he saw now with his impressions of the place this
　　morning. Then it had been barely light, and cool; now the sun was high
　　and, even under the shade of the trees, the heat intense.
　　Moving to the edge of the trees he could see the distant main road with
　　heat waves shimmering above it. Early this morning there had been no
　　traffic. Now there were several cars and trucks, moving swiftly in both
　　directions, the sound of their motors faintly audible.
　　Closer at hand, apart from a steady hum of insects, there was no sign of
　　activity. Between himself and the main road were only drowsy meadows, the
　　quiet path and the secluded clump of trees. Beneath the latter the Jaguar
　　remained hidden.
　　Ogilvie relieved himself, then opened a package he had stowed in the
　　trunk of the car before leaving the hotel. It included a Thermos of
　　coffee, several cans of beer, sandwiches, a salan-d sausage, a jar of
　　pickles, and an apple pie. He ate voraciously, washing down the meal with
　　copious draughts of beer and, later, coffee. The coffee had cooled since
　　the night before but was strong and satisfying.
　　While eating, he listened to the car radio, waiting for a newscast from
　　New Orleans. When it came there was only a brief reference to the
　　hit-and-run investigation, to the effect that no new developments had
　　been reported.
　　Afterward, he decided to explore. A few hundred yards away, on the crest
　　of a knoll, was a second clump of trees, somewhat larger than the first.
　　He crossed an open field toward it and, on the other side of the trees,
　　found a mossy bank and a sluggish, muddy stream. Kneeling beside the
　　stream, he made a rough toilet and afterward felt refreshed. The grass
　　was greener and more inviting than where the car was sheltered and he lay
　　down gratefully, using his suit coat for a pillow.
　　When he was comfortably settled, Ogilvie reviewed the events of the night
　　and the prospect ahead. Reflection confirmed his earlier conclusion that
　　the encounter with Peter McDermott outside the hotel had been accidental
　　and could now be dismissed. It was predictable that McDermott's reaction,
　　on learning of the chief house officer's 302
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　　absence, would be explosive. But that in itself would not reveal either
　　Ogilvie's destination or his reason for departure.
　　Of course, it was possible that through some other cause an alarm had
　　been raised since last night, and that even now Ogilvie and the Jaguar
　　were being actively sought. But in light of the radio report it seemed
　　unlikely.
　　On the whole, the outlook appeared bright, especially when he thought of
　　the money already in safe keeping, and the remainder he would collect
　　tomorrow in Chicago.
　　Now he had only to wait for darkness.
　　14
　　The exhilarated mood of Keycase Milne persisted through the afternoon.
　　It bolstered his confidence as, shortly after five P.m., he cautiously
　　approached the Presidential Suite.
　　Once more he had used the service stairs from the eighth floor to the
　　ninth. The duplicate key, manufactured by the Irish Channel locksmith,
　　was in his pocket.
　　The corridor outside the Presidential Suite was empty. He stopped at the
　　double leather-padded doors, listening intently, but could hear no sound.
　　He glanced both ways down the corridor then, with a single movement,
　　produced the key and tried it in the lock. Beforehand he had brushed the
　　key with powdered graphite, as a lubricant. It went in, caught
　　momentarily, then turned. Keycase opened one of the double doors an inch.
　　There was still no sound from inside. He closed the door carefully and
　　removed the key.
　　It was not his purpose now to enter the suite. That would come later.
　　Tonight.
　　His intention had been to reconnoiter and ensure that the key was a good
　　fit, ready for instant use whenever he chose. Later he would begin a
　　vigil, watching for an opportunity his planning had foreseen.
　　For now, he returned to his room on the eighth floor and there, after
　　setting an alarm clock, slept.
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　　15
　　Outside it was growing dusk and, excusing himself, Peter McDermott got up
　　from his desk to switch on the office lights. He returned to face, once
　　more, the quietly spoken man in gray flannel, seated opposite. Captain
　　Yolles of the Detective Bureau, New Orleans Police, looked less like a
　　policeman than anyone Peter had ever seen. He continued to listen politely,
　　as a bank manager might consider an application for a loan, to Peter's
　　recital of fact and surmise. Only once during the lengthy discourse had the
　　detective interrupted, to inquire if he could make a telephone call.
　　Informed that he could, he used an extension on the far side of the office
　　and spoke in a voice so low that Peter heard nothing of what was said.
　　The absence of any measurable response had the effect of reviving Peter's
　　doubts. At the end, he observed, "I'm not sure all this, or even any of it,
　　makes sense. In fact I'm already beginning to feel a little foolish."
　　"If more people took a chance on that, Mr. McDermott, it would make police
　　work a lot easier." For the first time Captain Yolles produced pencil and
　　notebook. "If anything should come of this, naturally we'll need a full
　　statement. Meanwhile, there are a couple of details I'd like to have. One
　　is the license number of the car."
　　The information was in a memo from Flora, confirming her earlier report.
　　Peter read it aloud and the detective copied the number down.
　　"Thank you. The other thing is a physical description of your man Ogilvie.
　　I know him, but I'd like to have it from you."
　　For the first time Peter smiled. "That's easy."
　　As he concluded the description, the telephone rang. Peter answered, then
　　pushed the phone across. "For you."
　　This time he could hear the detective's end of the conversation which
　　consisted largely of repeating "yes, sir" and "I understand."
　　At one point the detective looked up, his eyes appraisingly on Peter. He
　　said into the telephone, "I'd say he's
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　　very dependable." A slight smile creased his face. "Worried too."
　　He repeated the information concerning the car number and Ogilvie's
　　description, then hung up.
　　Peter said, "You're right about being worried. Do you intend to contact the
　　Duke and Duchess of Croydon?"
　　"Not yet. We'd like a little more to go on." The detective regarded Peter
　　thoughtfully. "Have you seen tonight's paper?"
　　"No."
　　"There's been a rumor-the States-Item published itthat the Duke of Croydon
　　is to be British ambassador to Washington."
　　Peter whistled softly.
　　"It's just been on the radio, according to my chief, that the appointment
　　is officially confirmed."
　　"Doesn't that mean there would be some kind of diplomatic immunity?"
　　The detective shook his head. "Not for something that's already happened.
　　If it happened."
　　"But a false accusation . . ."
　　"Would be serious in any case, especially so in this one. It's why we're
　　moving warily, Mr. McDermott."
　　Peter reflected that it would go hard both for-the hotel and himself if
　　word of the investigation leaked out, with the Croydons innocent.
　　"If it'll ease your mind a bit," Captain YoUes said, "I'll let you in on a
　　couple of things. Our people have done some figuring since I phoned them
　　first. They reckon your man Ogilvie may be trying to get the car out of the
　　state, maybe to some place north. How he ties in with the Croydons, of
　　course, we don't know."
　　Peter said, "I couldn't guess that either."
　　"Chances are, he drove last night-after you saw himand holed up somewhere
　　for the day. With the car the way it is, he'd know better than to try and
　　make a run in daylight. Tonight, if he shows, we're ready. A twelve-state
　　alarm is going out right now."
　　"Then you do take this seriously?"
　　"I said there were two things." The detective pointed to the telephone.
　　"One reason for that last call was to tell 305
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　　me we've had a State lab report on broken glass and a trim ring our people
　　found at the accident scene last Monday. There was some difficulty about a
　　manufacturer's specification change, which was why it took time. But we know
　　now that the glass and trim ring are from a Jaguar."
　　"You can really be that certain?"
　　"We can do even better, Mr. McDermott. If we get to the car that killed the
　　woman and child, we'll prove it beyond the shadow of a doubt."
　　Captain Yolles rose to go, and Peter walked with him to the outer office.
　　Peter was surprised to find Herbie Chandler waiting, then remembered his
　　own instructions for the bell captain to report here this evening or tomor-
　　row. After the developments of the afternoon, he was tempted to postpone
　　what would most likely be an unpleasant session, then concluded there was
　　nothing to be gained by putting it off.
　　He saw the detective and Chandler exchange glances.
　　"Good night, Captain," Peter said, and took a malicious satisfaction in
　　observing a flicker of anxiety cross Chandler's weasel face. When the
　　policeman had gone, Peter beckoned the bell captain into the inner office.
　　He unlocked a drawer of his desk and took out a folder containing the
　　statements made yesterday by Dixon, Dumaire, and the other two youths. He
　　handed them to Chandler.
　　"I believe these will interest you. In case you should get any ideas, these
　　are copies and I have the originals."
　　Chandler looked pained, then began reading. As he turned the pages, his
　　lips tightened. Peter heard him suck in breath through his teeth. A moment
　　later he muttered, "Bastards!"
　　, Peter snapped, "You mean because they've identified you as a pimp?"
　　The bell captain flushed, then put down the papers. "What you gonna do?"
　　"What I'd like to do is fire you on the spot. Because you've been here so
　　long, I intend to place the whole thing before Mr. Trent."
　　There was a whine to Chandler's voice as he asked, "Mr. Mac, could we talk
　　around this for a bit?"
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　　When there was no answer, he began, "Mr. Mac, there's a lot of things go
　　on in a place like this . . ."
　　"If you're telling me the facts of life-about call girls and all the
　　other rackets-I doubt if there's much I don't know already. But there's
　　something else I know, and so do you: at certain things managements draw
　　the line. Supplying women to minors is one."
　　"Mr. Mac, couldn't you, maybe this time, not go to Mr. Trent? Couldn't
　　you just keep this between you and me?"
　　"No."
　　The bell captain's gaze moved shiftily around the room, then returned to
　　Peter. His eyes were calculating. "Mr.
　　Mac, if some people was to live and let liveHe
　　stopped.
　　"Yes?"
　　"Well, sometimes it can be worth while."
　　Curiosity kept Peter silent.
　　Chandler hesitated, then deliberately unfastened the button of a tunic
　　pocket. Reaching inside he removed a folded envelope which he placed on
　　the desk.
　　Peter said, "Let me see that."
　　Chandler pushed the envelope nearer. It was unsealed and contained five
　　one-hundred-dollar bills. Peter inspected them curiously.
　　"Are they real?"
　　Chandler smirked. "They're real all right."
　　"I was curious to know how high you thought my price came." Peter tossed
　　the money back. "Take it and get out."
　　"Mr. Mac, if it's a question of a little more . . ."
　　"Get out!" Peter's voice was low. He half-rose in his chair. "Get out
　　before I break your dirty little neck."
　　As he retrieved the money and left, Herbie Chandler's face was a mask of
　　hatred.
　　When he was alone, Peter McDermott sat slumped, silently, behind his
　　desk. The interviews with the policeman and Chandler had exhausted and
　　depressed him. Of the two, he thought, the second had lowered his spirits
　　most, probably because handling the proffered bribe had left him with a
　　feeling of being unclean.
　　Or had it? He thought: be honest with yourself. There had been an
　　instant, with the money in his hands, when
　　307
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　　he was tempted to take it. Five hundred dollars was a useful sum. Peter
　　had no illusion about his own earnings compared with those of the bell
　　captain, who undoubtedly raked in a good deal more. If it had been anyone
　　other than Chandler, he might possibly have succumbed. Or would he? He
　　wished he could be sure. Either way, he would not be the first hotel
　　manager to accept a pay-off from his staff.
　　The irony, of course, was that despite Peter's insistence that the
　　evidence against Herbie Chandler would be placed before Warren Trent,
　　there was no guarantee that it would happen. If the hotel changed
　　ownership abruptly, as seemed likely, Warren Trent would no longer be
　　concerned. Nor might Peter himself be around. With the advent of new
　　management, the records of senior staff would undoubtedly be examined
　　and, in his own case, the old, unsavory Waldorf scandal disinterred. Had
　　he yet, Peter wondered, lived that down? Well, there was every likelihood
　　he would find out soon.
　　He returned his attention to the present.
　　On his desk was a printed form, which Flora had left, with a
　　late-afternoon house count. For the first time since coming in, he
　　studied the figures. They showed that the hotel was filling and tonight,
　　it seemed, there was a certainty of another full house. If the St.
　　Gregory was going down to defeat, at least it was doing so to the sound
　　of trumpets.
　　As well as the house count and telephone messages, there was a fresh pile
　　of mail and memos. Peter skimmed through them all, deciding that there
　　was nothing which could not be left until tomorrow. Beneath the memos was
　　a Manila folder which he opened. It was the proposed master catering plan
　　which the sous-chef, Andr6 Lemieux, had given him yesterday. Peter had
　　begun studying the plan this morning.
　　Glancing at his watch, he decided to continue his reading before making
　　an evening tour of the hotel. He settled down, the precisely handwritten
　　pages and carefully drawn charts spread out before him.
　　As he read on, his admiration for the young sous-chef grew. The
　　presentation appeared masterly, revealing a 308
　　                         Thursday
　　broad grasp both of the hotel's problems and the potentialities of its
　　restaurant business. It angered Peter that the chef de cuisine, M. Mbrand,
　　had-according to Lemieux -dismissed the proposals entirely.
　　True, some conclusions were arguable, and Peter disagreed himself with
　　a few of Lemieux's ideas. At first glance, too, a number of estimated
　　costs seemed optimistic. But these were minor. The important thing was
　　that a fresh and clearly competent brain had brooded over present
　　deficiencies in food management and come up with suggested remedies.
　　Equally obvious was that unless the St. Gregory made better use of Andr6
　　Lemieux's considerable talents, he would soon take them elsewhere.
　　Peter returned the plan and charts to their folder with a sense of
　　pleasure that someone in the hotel should possess the kind of enthusiasm
　　for his work which Lemieux had shown. He decided that he would like to
　　tell Andr6 Lemieux his impressions even though-with the hotel in its
　　present uncertain state-there seemed nothing more that Peter could do.
　　A telephone call elicited the information that, this evening, the chef
　　de cuisine was absent through continued sickness, and that the sous-chef,
　　M. Lemieux, was in charge. Preserving protocol, Peter left a message that
　　he was coming down to the kitchen now.
　　Andr6 Lemieux was waiting at the doorway from the main dining room.
　　"Come in, monsieur! You are welcome." Leading the way into the noisy,
　　steaming kitchen, the young sous-chef shouted close to Peter's ear, "You
　　find us, as the musicians say, near the crescendo."
　　In contrast to the comparative quietness of yesterday afternoon, the
　　atmosphere now, in early evening, was pandemonic. With a full shift on
　　duty, chefs in starched whites, their assistant cooks, and juniors,
　　seemed to have sprouted like daisies in a field. Around them, through
　　gusts of steam and waves of heat, sweating kitchen helpers noisily hefted
　　trays, pans, and cauldrons, while others thrust trolleys recklessly, all
　　dodging each other as well as hurrying waiters and waitresses, the
　　latter's serving trays held high. On steam tables the day's dinner menu
　　dishes were being 309
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　　portioned and served for delivery to dining rooms. Special orders-from h
　　la carte menus and for room service-were being prepared by fast-moving
　　cooks whose arms and hands seemed everywhere at once. Waiters hovered,
　　questioning progress of their orders as cooks barked back. Other waiters,
　　with loaded trays, moved quickly past the two austere women checkers at
　　elevated billing registers. From the soup section, vapor rose swirling as
　　giant cauldrons bubbled. Not far away two specialist cooks arranged, with
　　dextrous fingers, canap6s and hot hors-d'oeuvres. Beyond them, an anxious
　　pastry chef supervised desserts. Occasionally, as oven doors clanged open,
　　a reflection of flames flashed over concentrating faces, with the ovens'
　　interiors like a glimpse of hell. Over all, assailing ears and nostrils,
　　was the clatter of plates, the inviting odor of food and the sweet, fresh
　　fragrance of brewing coffee.
　　"When we are busiest, monsieur, we are the proudest. Or should be, if one
　　did not look beneath the cabbage leaf."
　　"I've read your report." Peter returned the folder to the sous-chef, then
　　followed him into the glass-paneled office where the noise was muted. "I
　　like your ideas. I'd argue a few points, but not many."
　　"It would be good to argue if, at the end, the action was to follow."
　　"It won't yet. At least, not the kind you have in mind." Ahead of any
　　reorganization, Peter pointed out, the larger issue of the hotel's
　　ownership would have to be settled.
　　"Per'aps my plan and I must go elsewhere. No matter." Andr6 Lemieux gave
　　a Gallic shrug, then added, "Monsieur, I am about to visit the convention
　　floor. Would you care to accompany me?"
　　Peter had intended to include the convention dinners, scheduled for
　　tonight, in his evening rounds of the hotel. It would be just as
　　effective to begin his inspection from the convention floor kitchen.
　　"Thank you. I'll come."
　　They rode a service elevator two floors up, stepping out into what, in
　　most respects, was a duplicate of the main kitchen below. From here some
　　two thousand meals could be served at a single sitting to the St.
　　Gregory's three con-
　　310
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　　vention halls and dozen private dining rooms. The tempo at the moment
　　seemed as frenetic as downstairs.
　　"As you know, monsieur, it is two big banquets that we ave tonight. In
　　the Grand Ballroom and the Bienville 'all."
　　Peter nodded. "Yes, the Dentists' Congress and Gold Crown Cola." From the
　　flow of meals toward opposite ends of the long kitchen, he observed that
　　the dentists' main course was roast turkey, the cola salesmen's, flounder
　　saut6. Teams of cooks and helpers were serving both, apportioning
　　vegetables with machine-like rhythm, then, in a single motion, slapping
　　metal covers on the filled plates and loading the whole onto waiters'
　　trays.
　　Nine plates to a tray-the number of conventioneers at a single table. Two
　　tables per waiter. Four courses to the meal, plus extra rolls, butter,
　　coffee, and petits fours. Peter calculated: there would be twelve heavily
　　loaded trips, at least, for every waiter; most likely more if diners were
　　demanding or, as sometimes happened under pressure, extra tables were
　　assigned. No wonder some waiters looked weary at an evening's end.
　　Less weary, perhaps, would be the maitre d'h6tel, poised and immaculate
　　in white tie and tails. At the moment, like a police chief on point duty,
　　he was stationed centrally in the kitchen directing the flow of waiters
　　in both directions. Seeing Andr6 Lemieux and Peter, he moved toward them.
　　"Good evening, Chef; Mr. McDermott." Though in hotel precedence Peter
　　outranked the other two, in the kitchen the meitre d'h6tel deferred,
　　correctly, to the senior chef on duty.
　　Andr6 Lemieux asked, "What are our numbers for dinner, Mr. Dominic?"
　　The maitre d' consulted a slip of paper. "The Gold Crown people estimated
　　two hundred and forty and we've seated that many. It looks as if they're
　　mostly in."
　　"They're salesmen on salary," Peter said. "They have to be there. The
　　dentists please themselves. They'll probably straggle and a lot won't
　　show."
　　The maitre d' nodded agreement. "I heard there was a good deal of
　　drinking in rooms. Ice consumption is heavy,
　　311
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　　and room service had a run on mixes. We thought it might cut the meal
　　figure down."
　　The conundrum was how many convention meals to prepare at any time. It
　　represented a familiar headache to all three men. Convention organizers
　　gave the hotel a minimum guarantee, but in practice the figure was liable
　　to vary a hundred or two either way. A reason was uncertainty about how
　　many delegates would break up into smaller parties and pass up official
　　banquets or, alternatively, might arrive en masse in a last-minute surge.
　　The final minutes before a big convention banquet were inevitably tense
　　in any hotel kitchen. It was a moment of truth, since all involved were
　　aware that reaction to a crisis would show just how good or bad their
　　organization was.
　　Peter asked the maitre d'h6tel, "What was the original estimate?"
　　"For the dentists, five hundred. We're close to that and we've begun
　　serving. But they still seem to be coming in."
　　"Are we getting a fast count of new arrivals?"
　　"I've a man out now. Here he is." Dodging fellow waiters, a red-coated
　　captain was hastening through the service doors from the Grand Ballroom.
　　Peter asked Andr6 Lemieux, "If we have to, can we produce extra food?"
　　"When I have the onsieur, then we will do our
　　best."
　　The ma1tre d' conferred with the captain, then returned to the other two.
　　"It looks like an additional hundred and seventy people. They're flooding
　　in! We're already setting up more tables."
　　As always, when crisis struck, it was with little warning. In this case
　　it had arrived with major impact. One hundred and seventy extra meals,
　　required at once, would tax the resources of any kitchen. Peter turned
　　to Andr6 Lemieux, only to discover that the young Frenchman was no longer
　　there.
　　The sous-chef had sprung to action as if catapulted. He was already among
　　his staff, issuing orders with the crackle of rapid fire. A junior cook
　　to the main kitchen, there to seize seven turkeys roasting for tomorrow's
　　cold collation
　　A shouted order to the preparation room: Use the re312
　　                         Thursday
　　serves! Speed up! Carve everything in siizht! . . . More vegetables! Steal
　　some from the second banquet which looked like using less than allowed!
　　. . . A second junior sent running to the main kitchen to round up all
　　vegetables he could find elsewhere . . . And deliver a message: rush up
　　more help! Two carvers, two more cooks ... Alert the pastry chef! One
　　hundred and seventy more desserts required in minutes . . . Rob Peter for
　　Paul! Jwzgle! Feed the dentists! Young Andrg Lemieux, quick thinking, con-
　　fident, good natured, running the show.
　　Already, waiters were being reassigned: some smoothly withdrawn from the
　　smaller banquet of Gold Crown Cola, where those remaining must do extra
　　work. Diners would never notice; only, perhaps, that their next course
　　would be served by someone with a vaguely different face. Other waiters,
　　already assigned to the Grand Ballroom and the dentists, would handle
　　three tables-twenty-seven place settings-instead of two. A few seasoned
　　hands, known to be fast with feet and fingers, might manage four. There
　　would be some grumbling, though not much. Convention waiters were mostly
　　free-lancers, called in by any hotel as requirements rose. Extra work
　　earned extra money. Four dollars' pay for three hours' work was based on
　　two tables each extra table brought half as much again. Tips, addec to
　　a convention's bill by prior arrangement, would doubb the entire amount.
　　The fast-feet men would go home wit) sixteen dollars; if lucky, they
　　might have earned the sam at lunch or breakfast.
　　A trolley with three fresh-cooked turkeys, Peter sa,% was already
　　highballing from a service elevator. The prep aration-roorn cooks fell
　　upon it. The assistant cook who had brought the three returned for more.
　　Fifteen portions from a turkey. Rapid dissection witl surgeon's skill.
　　To each diner the same portion: whiti meat, dark meat, dressing. Twenty
　　portions to a servinA tray. Rush the tray to a service counter. Fresh
　　trolleys o. vegetables, steaming in like ships converging.
　　The sous-chef's dispatch of messengers had depleted th( serving team.
　　Andr6 Lemieux stepped in, replacing tht absent two. The team picked up
　　speed, moved faster than it had before.
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　　Plate . . . meat first vegetable . . . second . gravy . . . slide the plate
　　. . . cover on! A man for each move; arms, hands, ladies moving together.
　　A meal each second . . - faster still! In front of the serving counter, a
　　line of waiters, becoming long.
　　Across the kitchen, the pastry chef opening refrigerators; inspecting,
　　selecting, slamming the doors closed. Main kitchen pastry cooks running to
　　help. Draw on reserve desserts. More on the way from basement freezers.
　　Amid the urgency, a moment of incongruity.
　　A waiter reported to a captain, the captain to the head waiter, the head
　　waiter to Andr6 Lemieux.
　　"Chef, there's a gentleman says he doesn't like turkey. May he have rare
　　roast beef?"
　　A shout of laughter went up from the sweating cooks.
　　But the request had observed protocol correctly, as Peter knew. Only the
　　senior chef could authorize any deviation from a standard menu.
　　A grinning Andr6 Lemieux said, "He may have it, but serve him last at his
　　table."
　　'Mat, too, was an old kitchen custom. As a matter of public relations, most
　　hotels would change standard fare if asked, even if the substitute meal was
　　costlier. But invariably-as now-the individualist must wait until those
　　seated near him had begun eating, a precaution against others being
　　inspired with the same idea.
　　Now the line of waiters at the serving counter was shortening. To most
　　guests in the Grand Ballroom-latecomers included-the main course had been
　　served. Already bus boys were appearing with discarded dishes. There was a
　　sense of crisis passed. Andr6 Lemieux surrendered his place among the
　　servers, then glanced questioningly at the pastry chef.
　　The latter, a matchstick of a man who looked as if he seldom sampled his
　　own confections, made a circle with thumb and forefinger. "All set to go,
　　Chef."
　　Andr6 Lemieux, smiling, rejoined Peter. "Monsieur, it seems we 'ave, as you
　　say it, fielded the ball."
　　"I'd say you've done a good deal better. I'm impressed."
　　The young Frenchman shrugged. "What you have seen was good. But it is one
　　part only of the work. Elsewhere
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　　we do not look so well. Excuse me, monsieur." He moved away.
　　The dessert was bombe aux marrons, cherries flamb~es. It would be served
　　with ceremony, the ballroom lights dimmed, the flaming trays held high.
　　Now, waiters were lining up before the service doors. The pastry chef and
　　helpers were checking arrangement of the trays. When touched off, a
　　central dish on each would spring to flame. Two cooks stood by with
　　lighted tapers.
　　Andr6 Lemieux inspected the line.
　　At the entry to the Grand Ballroom, the head waiter, an arm raised,
　　watched the sous-chef's face.
　　As Andr6 Lemieux nodded, the head waiter's arm swept down.
　　The cooks with tapers ran down the line of trays, igniting them. The
　　double service doors were flung back and fastened. Outside, on cue, an
　　electrician dimmed the lights. The music of an orchestra diminished, then
　　abruptly stopped. Among guests in the great hall, a hum of conversation
　　died.
　　Suddenly, beyond the diners, a spotlight sprang on, framing the doorway
　　from the kitchen. There was a second's silence, then a fanfare of
　　trumpets. As it ended, orchestra and organ swung together, fortissimo,
　　into the opening bars of The Saints. In time to the music, the procession
　　of waiters, with flaming trays, marched out.
　　Peter McDermott moved into the Grand Ballroom for a better view. He could
　　see the overflow, unexpected crowd of diners, the great room tightly
　　packed.
　　Oh, when the Saints; Oh, when the Saints; Oh, when the Saints go marching
　　in . . . From the kitchen, waiter after waiter, in trim blue uniform,
　　marched out in step. For this moment, every last man had been impressed.
　　Some, in moments only, would return to complete their work in the other
　　banquet hall. Now, in semidarkness, their flames reared up like beacons
　　. . . Oh when the Saints; Oh, when the Saints; Oh, when the Saints go
　　marching in ... From the diners, a spontaneous burst of applause,
　　changing to handclapping in time with the music as waiters encircled the
　　room. For the hotel, a commit315
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　　ment had been met as planned. No one outside the kitchen could know that
　　minutes earlier a crisis had been encountered and overcome ... Lord, I want
　　to be in that number, When the Saints go marching in . . . As waiters
　　reached their tables, the lights went up to renewed applause and cheers.
　　Andr6 Lemieux had come to stand beside Peter. "That is the all for tonight,
　　monsieur. Unless, perhaps you 'ave a wish for the cognac. in the kitchen I
　　have the small supply."
　　"No, thank you." Peter smiled. "It was a good show. Congratulations I"
　　As he turned away, the sous-chef called after him, "Good night, monsieur.
　　And do not forget."
　　Puzzled, Peter stopped. "Forget what?"
　　"What I have already said. The 'ot-shot 'otel, monsieur, that you and I
　　could make."
　　Half amused, half thoughtful, Peter threaded his way through the banquet
　　tables toward the ballroom outer doorway.
　　He had gone most of the distance when he was aware of something out of
　　place. He stopped, glancing around, uncertain what it was. Then abruptly he
　　realized. Dr. Ingram, the fiery little president of the Dentistry Congress,
　　should have been presiding at this, one of the main events of the
　　convention. But the doctor was neither at the president's position nor
　　anywhere else at the long head table.
　　Several delegates were table hopping, greeting friends in other sections of
　　the room. A man with a hearing aid stopped beside Peter. "Swell turnout,
　　eh?"
　　"It certainly is. I hope you enjoyed your dinner."
　　"Not bad."
　　"By the way," Peter said. "I was looking for Dr. Ingram. I don't see him
　　anywhere."
　　"You won't." The tone was curt. Eyes regarded him suspiciously. "You from
　　a newspaper?"
　　"No, the hotel. I met Dr. Ingram a couple of times .
　　"He resigned. This afternoon. If you want my opinion, he behaved like a
　　damn fool."
　　Peter controlled his surprise. "Do you happen to know if the doctor is
　　still in the hotel?"
　　316
　　                         Thursday
　　"No idea." The man with the hearing aid moved on.
　　There was a house phone on the convention mezzanine.
　　Dr. Ingram, the switchboard reported, was still shown as registered, but
　　there was no answer from his room. Peter called the chief cashier. "Has
　　Dr. Ingram of Philadelphia checked out?"
　　"Yes, Mr. McDermott, just a minute ago. I can see him in the lobby now."
　　"Send someone to ask if he'll please wait. I'm on my way down."
　　Dr. Ingram was standing, suitcases beside him, a raincoat over his arm,
　　when Peter arrived.
　　"What's your trouble now, McDermott? If you want a testimonial to this
　　hotel, you're out of luck. Besides which, I've a plane to catch."
　　"I heard about your resignation. I came to say I'm sorry.29
　　"I guess they'll make out." From the Grand Ballroom two floors above, the
　　sound of applause and cheering drifted down to where they stood. "It
　　sounds as if they have already."
　　"Do you mind very much?"
　　"No." The little doctor shifted his feet, looking down, then growled,
　　"I'm a liar. I mind like hell. I shouldn't, but I do."
　　Peter said, "I imagine anyone would."
　　Dr. Ingram's head snapped up. "Understand this, McDermott: I'm no beaten
　　rug. I don't need to feel like one. I've been a teacher all my life, with
　　plenty to show for it: Good people I've brought on-Jiirn Nicholas for
　　one, and others, procedures carrying my name, books I've written that are
　　standard texts. AR that's solid stuff. The other"he nodded in the
　　direction of the Grand Ballroorn----m"that's frosting."
　　"I didn't realize . .
　　"All the same, a little frosting does no harm. A fellow even gets to like
　　it. I wanted to be president. I was glad when they elected me. It's an
　　accolade from people whose opinion you value. If I'm honest,
　　McDermott-and God knows why I'm telling you this-it's eating my heart
　　out,
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　　not being up there tonight." He paused, looking up, as the sounds from the
　　ballroom were audible once more.
　　"Once in a while, though, you have to weigh what you want against what
　　you believe in." The little doctor grunted. "Some of my friends think
　　I've behaved like an idiot."
　　"It isn't idiotic to stand up for a principle."
　　Dr. Ingram eyed Peter squarely. "You didn't do it, McDermott, when you
　　had the chance. You were too worried about this hotel, your job."
　　"I'm afraid that's true."
　　"Well, you've the grace to admit it, so I'll tell you something, son.
　　You're not alone. There've been times I haven't measured up to everything
　　I believe. It goes for all of us. Sometimes, though, you get a second
　　chance. If it happens to you-take it."
　　Peter beckoned a bellboy. "I'll come with you to the door."
　　Dr. Ingram shook his head. "No need for that. Let's not crap around,
　　McDermott. I don't love this hotel or you either."
　　The bellboy looked at him inquiringly. Dr. Ingram said, "Let's go. ~T
　　16
　　In the late afternoon, near the cluster of trees in which the Jaguar was
　　hidden, Ogilvie slept again. He awoke as dusk was settling, the sun an
　　orange hall nudging a ridge of hills toward the west. The heat of the day
　　had changed into a pleasant evening coolness. Ogilvie hurried, realizing
　　it would soon be time to go.
　　He listened to the car radio first. There appeared to be no fresh news,
　　merely a repetition of what he had heard earlier. Satisfied, he snapped
　　the radio off.
　　He returned to the stream beyond the small clump of trees and freshened
　　himself, splashing water on his face and head to banish the last vestiges
　　of drowsiness. He made a hasty meal from what was left of his supply of
　　food, then refilled the Thermos flasks with water, leaving them on the
　　rear seat of the car along with some cheese and bread. The makeshift fare
　　would have to sustain him 318
　　                         Thursday
　　through the night. Until daylight tomorrow he intended to make no
　　unnecessary stops.
　　His route, which he had planned and memorized before leaving New Orleans,
　　lay northwest through the remainder of Mississippi. Then he would traverse
　　the western shoulder of Alabama, afterward heading due north through Ten-
　　nessee and Kentucky. From Louisville he would turn diagonally west across
　　Indiana, by way of Indianapolis. He would cross into Illinois near Hammond,
　　thence to Chicago.
　　The remaining journey spanned seven hundred miles. Its entire distance was
　　too great for a single stint of driving, but Ogilvie estimated he could be
　　close to Indianapolis by daybreak where he believed he would be safe. Once
　　there, only two hundred miles would separate him from Chicago.
　　Darkness was complete as he backed the Jaguar out of the sheltering trees
　　and steered it gently toward the main highway. He gave a satisfied grunt as
　　he turned northward on U.S. 45.
　　At Columbus, Mississippi, where the dead from the Battle of Shiloh were
　　brought for burial, Ogilvie stopped for gas. He was careful to choose a
　　small general store on the outskirts of town, with a pair of old-fashioned
　　gas pumps illumined by a single light. He pulled the car forward as far as
　　possible from the light, so that its front was in shadow.
　　He discouraged conversation by ignoring the storekeeper's "Nice night," and
　　"Going far?" He paid cash for the gas and a half-dozen chocolate bars, then
　　drove on.
　　Nine miles to the north he crossed the Alabama state line.
　　A succession of small towns came and went. Vernon, Sulligent, Hamilton,
　　Russellville, Florence, the last-so a sign recorded-noted for the
　　manufacture of toilet seats. A few miles farther on, he crossed the border
　　into Tennessee.
　　Traffic was averagely light and the Jaguar performed superbly. Driving
　　conditions were ideal, helped by a full moon which rose soon after
　　darkness. There was no sign of police activity of any kind.
　　319
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　　Ogilvie was contentedly relaxed.
　　Fifty miles south of Nashville, at Columbia, Tennessee, he turned onto U.S.
　　31.
　　Traffic was heavier now. Massive tractor-trailers, their headlights
　　stabbing the night like an endless dazzling chain, thundered south toward
　　Birmingham and northward to the industrial Midwest. Passenger cars, a few
　　taking risks the truck drivers would not, threaded the stream. Occasion-
　　ally, Ogilvie himself pulled out to pass a slow-moving vehicle, but he was
　　careful not to exceed posted speed limits. He had no wish, by speeding or
　　any other means, to invite attention. After a while, he observed a
　　following car, which remained behind him, driving at approximately his own
　　speed. Ogilvie adjusted the rear-view mirror to reduce the glare, then
　　slowed to let the other car pass. When it failed to, unconcerned, he
　　resumed his original speed.
　　A few miles farther on, he was aware of the northbound lanes of traffic
　　slowing. Warning taillights of other vehicles were flashing on. Leaning to
　　the left, he could see what appeared to be a group of headlights, with both
　　northbound lanes funneling into one. The scene bore the familiar pattern of
　　a highway accident.
　　Then, abruptly, rounding a curve, he saw the real reason for the delay. Two
　　lines of Tennessee Highway Patrol cruisers, their red roof lights flashing,
　　were positioned on both sides of the road. A flare-draped barrier was
　　across the center lane. At the same instant, the car which had been
　　following, switched on a police beacon of its own.
　　As the Jaguar slowed and stopped, State Troopers with drawn guns ran toward
　　it.
　　Quaking, Ogilvie raised his hands above his head.
　　A husky sergeant opened the car door. "Keep your hands where they are," he
　　ordered, "and come out slowly. You're under arrest."
　　17
　　Christine Francis mused aloud, "There!-you're doing it again. Both times,
　　when the coffee was poured, you've held your hands around the cup. As if it
　　gave you a kind of comfort."
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　　                         Thursday
　　Across the dinner table, Albert Wells gave his perky sparrow's smile.
　　"You notice more things'n most people."
　　He seemed frail again tonight, she thought. Some of the paleness of three
　　days earlier had returned and occasionally, through the evening, a
　　bronchial cough had been troublesome, though not diminishing his
　　cheerfulness. What he needs, Christine reflected, is someone to take care
　　of him.
　　They were in the St. Gregory's main dining room. Since their arrival more
　　than an hour ago, most of the other diners had left, though a few still
　　lingered over coffee and liqueurs. Although the hotel was full,
　　attendance in the dining room had been thin all evening.
　　Max, the head waiter, came discreetly to their table.
　　"Will there be anything else, sir?"
　　Albert Wells glanced at Christine who shook her head.
　　"I reckon not. When you'd like to, you can bring the bill."
　　"Certainly, sir." Max nodded to Christine, his eyes assuring her that he
　　had not forgotten their arrangement of this morning.
　　When the head waiter had gone, the little man said, "About the coffee.
　　Prospecting, in the north, you never waste anything if you want to stay
　　alive, not even the beat from a cup you're holding. It's a habit you get
　　into. I could lose the way of it, I guess, though there's things it's
　　wise to remind yourself of once in a while."
　　"Because they were good times, or because life is better now?"
　　He considered. "Some of both, I reckon."
　　"You told me you were a miner," Christine said. "I didn't know about your
　　being a prospector too."
　　"A lot of the time, one's the other. Especially on the Canadian
　　Shield-that's in the Northwest Territories, Christine, near as far as
　　Canada goes. When you're there alone, just you and the tundra-the arctic
　　desert, they call it-you do everything from driving claim stakes to burn-
　　ing through the permafrost. If you don't, most times there's no one
　　else."
　　"When you were prospecting, what was it for?"
　　"Uranium, cobalt. Mostly gold."
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　　"Did y6_u find any? Gold, I mean."
　　He nodded affirmatively. "Plenty did. Around Yellowknife, Great Slave
　　Lake. There were discoveries there from the 1890s to a stampede in 1945.
　　Mostly, though, the country was too tough to mine and take it out."
　　Christine said, "It must have been a hard life."
　　The little man coughed, then took a sip of water, smiling apologetically.
　　"I was tougher then. Though give the Shield half a chance, it'll kill
　　you." He looked around the pleasantly appointed dining room, lighted by
　　crystal chandeliers. "It seems a long way from here."
　　"You said that mostly it was too difficult to mine the gold. It wasn't
　　always?"
　　"Not always, Some were luckier 'n others, though even for them things 'd
　　go wrong. Maybe it's part because the Shield and the Barren Lands do
　　strange things to people. Some you think 'd be strong-and not just in
　　body either -they turn out to be the weak ones. And some you'd trust with
　　your life, you discover you can't. Then there's the other way around. One
　　time I remember . . ." He stopped as the head waiter placed a salver on
　　the table with their bill.
　　She urged, "Go on."
　　"It's kind of a long story, Christine." He turned over the bill,
　　inspecting it.
　　"I'd like to hear," Christine said, and meant it. As time went on, she
　　thought, she liked this modest little man more and more.
　　He looked up and there seemed to be amusement in his eyes. He glanced
　　across the room at the head waiter, then back toward Christine. Abruptly,
　　he took out a pencil and signed the bill.
　　"It was in '36," the little man began, "around the time that one of the
　　last Yellowknife stampedes was gettin! started. I was prospecting near
　　the shore of Great Slave Lake. Had a partner then. Name of Hymie
　　Eckstein. Hymie'd come from Ohio. He'd been in the garment trade, a
　　used-car salesman, lot of other things, I guess. He was pushy and a fast
　　talker. But he had a way of making people like him. I guess you'd call
　　it charm. When he got to
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　　Yellowknife he had a little money. I was broke. Hymie grubstaked the two
　　of us."
　　Albert Wells took a sip of water, pensively.
　　"Hymie'd never seen a snowshoe, never heard of permafrost, couldn't tell
　　schist from quartz. From the beginning, though, we got along well. And
　　we made out.
　　"We'd been out a month, maybe two. On the Shield you lose all track of
　　time. Then one day, near the mouth of the Yellowknife River, the two of
　　us sat down to roll our cigarettes. Sitting there, the way prospectors
　　do, I chipped away at some gossam-that's oxidized rock, Christineand
　　slipped a piece or two in my pocket. Later, by the lakeshore, I panned
　　the rock. You could have shoved me over when it showed good coarse gold."
　　"When it really happens," Christine said, "it must seem the most exciting
　　thing in the world."
　　"Maybe there are other things excite you more. If there are, they never
　　came my way. Well, we rushed back to the place I'd chipped the rock and
　　we covered it with moss. Two days later, we found the ground had already
　　been staked. I guess it was the darnedest blow either of us ever had.
　　Turned out, a Toronto prospector 'd done the staking. He'd been out the
　　year before, then gone back east, not knowing what he had. Under
　　Territories law, if he didn't work the claim, his rights'd run out a year
　　from recording."
　　"How long away was that?"
　　"We made our find in June. If things stayed the way they were, the land
　　'd come clear the last day in September."
　　"Couldn't you keep quiet, and just wait?"
　　"We aimed at that. Except it wasn't so easy. For one thing, the find we'd
　　made was right in line with a producing mine an' there were other
　　prospectors, like ourselves, working the same country. For another, Hymie
　　and me 'd run clean out of money and food."
　　Albert Wells beckoned a passing waiter. "I reckon I'll have more coffee
　　after all." He asked Christine, "How about you?"
　　She shook her head. "No thank you. Don't stop. I want to hear the rest."
　　How strange, she thought, that the kind
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　　of epic adventure which people dreamed about should have happened to
　　someone as apparently ordinary as the little man from Montreal.
　　"Well, Christine, I reckon the next three months were the longest any two
　　men lived. Maybe the hardest. We existed. On fish, some bits of plants.
　　Near the end I was thinner'n a twig and my legs were black with scurvy.
　　Had this bronchitis and phlebitis too. Hymie wasn't a whole lot better,
　　but he never complained and I got to like him more."
　　The coffee arrived and Christine waited.
　　"Finally it got to the last day of September. We'd heard through
　　Yellowknife that when the first claim ran out, there'd be others try to
　　move in, so we didn't take chances. We had our stakes ready. Right after
　　midnight we rammed 'em home. I remember-it was a pitch-black night, snow-
　　ing hard and blowing a gale."
　　His hands went around the coffee cup as they had before.
　　"That's about all I do remember because, after that, nature took over 'n
　　the next clear thing I know was being in a hospital in Edmonton, near a
　　thousand miles from where we staked. I found out after, Hymie got me out
　　from the Shield, though I never figured how he did it. And a bush pilot
　　flew me south. Plenty of times, including in the hospital, they gave me
　　up for dead. I didn't die. Though when I got things sorted out, I wished
　　I had." He stopped to drink from the coffee cup.
　　Christine asked, "Wasn't the claim legal?"
　　"The claim was fine. The trouble was Hymie." Albert Wells stroked his
　　sparrow-beak nose reflectively. "Maybe I should take the story back a
　　bit. While we were waiting our time out on the Shield, we'd signed two
　　bills of sale. Each of us-on paper-turned over his half of the claim to
　　the other."
　　"Why would you do that?"
　　"It was Hymie's idea, in case one of us didn't come through. If that
　　happened, the survivor 'd keep the paper showing that all of the claim
　　was his, and he'd tear up the other. Hymie said it'd save a lot of legal
　　mess. At the
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　　time, it seemed to make sense. If we both made it through, the arrangement
　　was, we'd scrap both papers."
　　Christine prompted, "So while you were in the hospital . . ."
　　"Hymie 'd taken both papers and registered his. By the time I was in
　　shape to take an interest, Hymie had full title and was already mining
　　with proper machinery and help. I found out there'd been an offer of a
　　quarter million dollars from one of the big smelting companies for him
　　to sell out, and there were other bidders lining up."
　　"Was there nothing at all you could do?"
　　The little man shook his head. "I figured I was licked before I started.
　　All the same, soon's I could get out of that hospital, I borrowed enough
　　money to get back up north."
　　Albert Wells stopped and waved a greeting across the dining room.
　　Christine looked up to see Peter McDermott approaching their table. She
　　had wondered if Peter would remember her suggestion about joining them
　　after dinner. The sight of him brought a delightful quickening of her
　　senses. Then, immediately, she sensed that he was despondent.
　　The little man welcomed Peter warmly and a waiter hurried forward with
　　an extra chair.
　　Peter sank into it gratefully. "I'm afraid I left it a little late.
　　There've been a few things happening." It was, he reflected to himself,
　　a monument of understatement.
　　Hoping there would be an opportunity to talk privately with Peter
　　afterward, Christine said, "Mr. Wells has been telling me a wonderful
　　story. I must hear the end."
　　Peter sipped his coffee which the waiter had brought. "Go ahead, Mr.
　　Wells. It'll be like coming into a movie part way through. I'll catch the
　　beginning later."
　　The little man smiled, looking down at his gnarled and toughened hands.
　　"There isn't a whole lot more, though most of what there is has kind of
　　a twist. I went north and found Hymie in Yellowknife, in what passes for
　　a hotel. I called him every foul name I could lay my tongue to. All the
　　while he had a great wide grin, which made me madder, till I was ready
　　to kill him there 'n then. I wouldn't have, though. He knew me well
　　enough for that."
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　　Christine said, "He must have been a hateful man."
　　"I figured so. Except, e, Hyrnie told me to come
　　with him. We went to a lawyer and there were papers, ready drawn, handing
　　me back my half share, fair 'n square-in fact fairer, 'cos Hymie 'd taken
　　nothing for himself for all the work he'd done those months I'd been
　　away."
　　Bewildered, Christine shook her head. "I don't understand. Why did he .
　　. ."
　　"Hymie explained. Said he knew from the beginning there'd be a lot of
　　legal things, papers to sign, especially if we didn't sell, and hung on
　　to work the claim instead, which he knew I wanted to do. There were bank
　　loansfor the machinery, wages, all the rest. With me in hospital, and
　　most of the time not knowing up from down, he couldn't have done any of
　　it-not with my name on the property. So Hymie used my bill of sale and
　　went ahead. He always intended to hand my share back. Only thing was, he
　　wasn't much of a one for writing and never let me know. Right from the
　　beginning, though, he'd fixed things up legally. If he'd died, I'd have
　　got his share as well as mine."
　　Peter McDermott and Christine were staring across the table.
　　"Later on," Albert Wells said, "I did the same with my half-made a will
　　so it'd go to Hymie. We had the same arrangement-about that one mine-till
　　the day Hymie died, which was five years ago. I reckon he taught me
　　something: When you believe in somebody, don't be in a rush to change
　　your mind."
　　Peter McDermott said, "And the mine?"
　　"Well, we kept right on refusing offers to buy us out, and it turned out
　　we were right in the end. Hyrnie ran it a good many years. It still goes
　　on-one of the best producers in the north. Now 'n then I go back to take
　　a look, for old times' sake."
　　Speechless, her mouth agape, Christine stared at the little man. "You ...
　　you . . . own a gold mine."
　　Albert Wells nodded cheerfully. "That's right. There's a few other things
　　now, besides."
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　　                         Thursday
　　"If you'll pardon my curiosity," Peter McDermott said, "other things such
　　as what?"
　　"I'm not sure of all of it." The little man shifted diffidently in his
　　chair. "There's a couple of newspapers, some ships, an insurance company,
　　buildings, other bits 'n pieces. I bought a food chain last year. I like
　　new things. It keeps me interested."
　　"Yes," Peter said, "I should imagine it would."
　　Albert Wells smiled mischievously. "Matter of fact, there's something I was
　　going to tell you tomorrow, but I may as well do it now. I just bought this
　　hotel."
　　18
　　"Those are the gentlemen, Mr. McDermott."
　　Max, the dining-room head waiter, pointed across the lobby where two
　　men-one of them the police detective, Captain Yolles-were waiting quietly
　　beside the hotel newsstand.
　　A moment or two earlier, Max had summoned Peter from the dining-room table
　　where, with Christine, he was sitting in dazed silence after Albert Wells'
　　announcement. Both Christine and himself, Peter knew, had been too
　　~stounded either to grasp the news entirely or assess its implications. It
　　had been a relief to Peter to be informed that he was required urgently
　　outside. Hastily excusing himself, he promised to return later if he could.
　　Captain Yolles walked toward him. He introduced his companion as
　　Detective-Sergeant Bennett. "Mr. McDermott, is there some place handy we
　　can talk?"
　　"This way." Peter led the two men past the concierge's counter into the
　　credit manager's office, unused at night. As they went in, Captain Yolles
　　handed Peter a folded newspaper. It was an early edition of tomorrow's
　　TimesPicayune. A three-column head read:
　　CROYDON CONFUU~W_D U.K. AMBASSADOR NEWS REACHES HIM IN CRESCENT CITY
　　Captain Yolles closed the office door. "Mr. McDermott, Ogilvie has been
　　arrested. He was stopped an hour ago,
　　327
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　　with the car, near Nashville. The Tennessee State Police are holding him
　　and we've sent to bring him back. Tbe car is being returned by truck,
　　under wraps. But from an investigation on the spot, there doesn't seem
　　much doubt it's the one we want."
　　Peter nodded. He was aware of the two policemen watching him curiously.
　　"If I seem a little slow catching on to all that's happening," Peter
　　said, "I should tell you that I've just had something of a shock."
　　"Concerning this?"
　　"No. The hotel."
　　There was a pause, then Yolles said, "You may be interested to hear that
　　Ogilvie has made a statement. He claims he knew nothing about the car
　　being involved in an accident. All that happened, he says, is that the
　　Duke and Duchess of Croydon paid him two hundred dollars to drive it
　　north. He had that amount of money on him."
　　"Do you believe that?"
　　"It might be true. Then again, it might not. We'll know better after
　　orrow."
　　By tomorrow, Peter thought, a good deal might be clearer. Tonight held
　　a quality of unreality. He inquired, "What happens next?"
　　"We intend to pay a call on the Duke and Duchess of Croydon. If you don't
　　mind, we'd like you along."
　　"I suppose . . . if you think it necessary."
　　441na-a YOU29
　　"There is one other thing, Mr. McDermott," the second detective said. "We
　　understand that the Duchess of Croydon gave some sort of written
　　permission for their car to be taken from the hotel garage."
　　"I was told that, yes."
　　"It could be important, sir. Do you suppose anyone kept that note?"
　　Peter considered. "It's possible. If you like, I'll telephone the
　　garage."
　　"Let's go there," Captain Yolles said.
　　Kulgmer, the garage night checker, was apologetic and chagrined. "Do you
　　know, sir, I said to myself I might
　　328
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　　need that piece of paper, just to cover me in case anything got asked. And
　　if you'll believe me, sir, I looked for it tonight before I remembered I
　　must have thrown it out yesterday with the paper from my sandwiches. It
　　isn't really my fault, though, when you look at it fair." He gestured to the
　　glass cubicle from which he had emerged. "There's not much space in there.
　　No wonder things get mixed. I was saying just last week, if that place was
　　only bigger. Now, you take the way I have to do the nightly taffy . . ."
　　Peter McDermott interrupted, "What did the note from the Duchess of Croydon
　　say?"
　　"Just that Mr. 0. had permission to take away the car. I kind of wondered
　　at the time . . ."
　　"Was the note written on hotel stationery?"
　　"Yes, sir."
　　"Do you remember if the paper was embossed and had 'Presidential Suite' at
　　the top?"
　　"Yes, Mr. McDermott, I do remember that. It was just like you said, and
　　sort of a smaU size sheet."
　　Peter told the detectives, "We have special stationery for that particular
　　suite."
　　The second detective queried Kulgmer, "You say you threw the note out with
　　your sandwich wrappings?"
　　"Don't see how it could have happened any other way. You see, I'm always
　　very careful. Now, take what happened last year . . ."
　　"What time would that be?"
　　"Last year?"
　　The detective said patiently, "Last night. When you threw out the sandwich
　　wrapping. What time?"
　　"I'd say around two in the morning. I usually start my lunch around one.
　　Things have quieted down by then
　　99
　　and . . .
　　"Where did you throw them?"
　　"Same place as always. Over here." Kulginer led the way to a cleaners'
　　closet containing a garbage can. He removed the lid.
　　"Is there a chance of last night's stuff still being in there?"
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　　    HOTEL
　　"No, sir. You see, this is emptied every day. The hotel's fussy about
　　that. That's right, Mr. McDermott, isn't it?"
　　Peter nodded.
　　"Besides," Kulgmer said, "I remember the can was almost full last night.
　　You can see there's hardly anything in there now."
　　"Let's make sure." Captain Yolles glanced at Peter for approval, then
　　turned the garbage can upside down, emptying its contents. Though they
　　searched carefully, there was no sign either of Kulgmer's sandwich
　　wrappings or the missing note from the Duchess of Croydon.
　　Kulgrner left them to attend to several cars entering and leaving the
　　garage.
　　YoRes wiped his hands on a paper towel. "What happens to the garbage when
　　it leaves here?"
　　"It goes to our central incinerator," Peter informed him. "By the time
　　it gets there, it's in big trolleys, with everything from the whole hotel
　　mixed up together. It would be impossible to identify any one source. In
　　any case, what was collected from here is probably burned by now.~t
　　"Maybe it doesn't matter," Yolles said. "All the same, I'd like to have
　　had that note."
　　The elevator stopped at the ninth floor. As the detectives followed him
　　out, Peter observed, "I'm not looking forward to this."
　　Yolles reassured him, "We'll ask a few questions, that's all. I'd like
　　you to listen carefully. And to the answers. It's possible we might need
　　you as a witness later."
　　To Peter's surprise, the doors of the Presidential Suite were open. As
　　they approached, a buzz of voices could be heard.
　　The second detective said, "Sounds like a party."
　　They stopped at the doorway and Peter depressed the bell push. Through
　　a second, partially opened door inside, he could see into the spacious
　　living room. There was a group of men and women, the Duke and Duchess of
　　Croydon among them. Most of the visitors were holding drinks in one hand,
　　notebooks or paper in another.
　　The Croydons' male secretary appeared in the interior
　　330
　　                         Thursday
　　hallway. "Good evening," Peter said. "These two gentlemen would like to
　　see the Duke and Duchess."
　　"Are they from the press?"
　　Captain Yolles shook his head.
　　"Then I'm sorry, it's impossible. The Duke is holding a press conference.
　　His appointment as British Ambassador was confirmed this evening."
　　"So I understand," Yolles said. "All the same, our business is
　　important."
　　While speaking, they had moved from the corridor into the suite hallway.
　　Now, the Duchess of Croydon detached herself from the group in the living
　　room and came toward them. She smiled agreeably. "Won't you come in?"
　　`11e secretary injected, "These gentlemen are not from the press."
　　"Oh!" Her eyes went to Peter with a glance of recognition, then to the
　　other two.
　　Captain Yolles said, "We're police officers, madam. I have a badge but
　　perhaps you'd prefer me not to produce it here." He looked toward the
　　living room from where several people were watching curiously.
　　The Duchess gestured to the secretary who closed the living-room door.
　　Was it imagination, Peter wondered, or had a flicker of fear crossed the
　　Duchess's face at the word "police?" Imagined or not, she was in command
　　of herself now.
　　"May I ask why you are here?"
　　"There are some questions, madam, that we'd Eke to ask you and your
　　husband."
　　"This is scarcely a convenient time."
　　"We'll do our best to be as brief as possible." YoRes' voice was quiet,
　　but its authority unmistakable.
　　"I'll inquire if my husband will see you. Please wait in there."
　　The secretary led the way to a room off the hallway, furnished as an
　　office. A moment or two later, as the secretary left, the Duchess
　　re-entered, followed by the Duke. He glanced uncertainly from his wife
　　to the others.
　　"I have informed our guests," the Duchess announced, "that we shall be
　　away no more than a few minutes."
　　Captain Yolles made no comment. He produced a note331
　　    HOTEL
　　book. "I wonder if you'd mind telling me when you last used your car. It's
　　a Jaguar, I believe." He repeated the registration number.
　　"Our car?" The Duchess seemed surprised. "I'm not sure what was the last
　　time we used it. No, just a moment. I do remember. It was Monday morning.
　　It's been in the hotel garage since then. It's there now."
　　"Please think carefully. Did you or your husband, either separately or
　　together, use the car on Monday evening?"
　　It was revealing, Peter thought, how, automatically, Yolles addressed his
　　questions to the Duchess and not to the Duke.
　　Two spots of color appeared on the Duchess of Croydon's cheeks. "I am not
　　accustomed to having my word doubted. I have already said that the last
　　occasion the car was used was on Monday morning. I also think you owe us
　　an explanation as to what this is all about."
　　Yolles wrote in his notebook.
　　"Are either of you acquainted with Theodore Ogilvie?"
　　"The name has a certain familiarity . . ."
　　"He is the chief house officer of this hotel."
　　"I remember now. He came here. I'm not sure when. There was some query
　　about a piece of jewelry which had been found. Someone suggested it might
　　be mine. It was not."
　　"And you, sir?" Yolles addressed the Duke directly. "Do you know, or have
　　you had any dealings with, Theodore Ogilvie?"
　　Perceptibly, the Duke of Croydon hesitated. His wife's eyes were riveted
　　on his face. "Well He stopped. "Only as my wife has described."
　　Yolles closed his notebook. in a quiet, level voice he asked, "Would it,
　　then, surprise you to know that your car is at present in the State of
　　Tennessee, where it was driven by Theodore Ogilvie, who is now under
　　arrest? Furthermore, that Ogilvie has made a statement to the effect that
　　he was paid by you to drive the car from New Orleans to Chicago. And,
　　still further, that preliminary investigation indicates your car to have
　　been involved in a hit-and-run fatality, in this city, last Monday
　　night."
　　"Since you ask," the Duchess of Croydon said, "I would 332
　　                         Thursday
　　be extremely surprised. In fact it's the most ridiculous series of
　　fabrications I ever heard."
　　"There is no fabrication, madam, in the fact that your car is in
　　Tennessee and Ogilvie drove it there."
　　"If he did so, it was without the authority or knowledge either of my
　　husband or myself. Furthermore if, as you say, the car was involved in
　　an accident on Monday night, it seems perfectly obvious that the same man
　　took the car and used it for his own purposes on that occasion."
　　"Then you accuse Theodore Ogilvie . . ."
　　The Duchess snapped, "Accusations are your business. You appear to
　　specialize in them. I will, however, make one to the effect that this
　　hotel has proved disgracefully incompetent in protecting the property of
　　its guests." Ile Duchess swung toward Peter McDermott. "I assure you that
　　you will hear a great deal more of this."
　　Peter protested, "But you wrote an authorization. It specified that
　　Ogilvie could take the car."
　　The effect was as if he had slapped the Duchess across the face. Her lips
　　moved uncertainly. Visibly, she paled. He had reminded her, he realized,
　　of the single incriminating factor she had overlooked.
　　The silence seemed endless. Then her head came up.
　　"Show it to me!"
　　Peter said, "Unfortunately, it's been
　　He caught a gleam of mocking triumph in her eyes.
　　19
　　At last, after more questions and banalities, the Croydons' press
　　conference had ended.
　　As the outside door of the Presidential Suite closed behind the last to
　　leave, pent-up words burst from the Duke of Croydon's lips. "My God, you
　　can't do it! You couldn't possibly get away with . . ."
　　"Be quiet!" The Duchess of Croydon glanced around the now silent living
　　room. "Not here. I've come to mistrust this hotel and everything about
　　it."
　　"Then where? For God's sake, where?"
　　"We'll go outside. Where no one can overhear. But when we do, please
　　behave less excitably than now."
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　　    HOTEL
　　She opened the connecting door to their bedrooms where the Bedlington
　　terriers had been confined. They tumbled out excitedly, barking as the
　　Duchess fastened their leads, aware of what the sign portended. In the
　　hallway, the secretary dutifully opened the suite door as the terriers
　　led the way out.
　　In the elevator, the Duke seemed about to speak but his wife shook her
　　head. Only when they were outside, away from the hotel and beyond the
　　hearing of other pedestrians, did she murmur, "Now!"
　　His voice was strained, intense. "I tell you it's madness! The whole mess
　　is already bad enough. We've compounded and compounded what happened at
　　first. Can you conceive what it will be like now, when the truth finally
　　comes out?"
　　"Yes, I've some idea. If it does."
　　He persisted, "Apart from everything else-the moral issue, all the
　　rest-you'd never get away with it."
　　"Why not?"
　　"Because it's impossible. Inconceivable. We are already worse off than
　　at the beginning. Now, with this . His voice choked.
　　"We are not worse off. For the moment we are better off. May I remind you
　　of the appointment to Washington."
　　"You don't seriously suppose we have the slightest chance of ever getting
　　there?"
　　"There is every chance."
　　Preceded eagerly by the terriers, they had walked along St. Charles
　　Avenue to the busier and brightly lighted expanse of Canal Street, Now,
　　turning southeast toward the river, they affected interest in the
　　colorful store windows as groups of pedestrians passed in both
　　directions.
　　The Duchess's voice was low. "However distasteful, there are certain
　　facts that I must know about Monday night. The woman you were with at
　　Irish Bayou. Did you drive her there?"
　　The Duke flushed. "No. She went in a taxi. We met inside. I intended
　　afterward . . ."
　　"Spare me your intentions. Then, for all she knew, you could have come
　　in a taxi yourself."
　　"I hadn't thought about it. I suppose so."
　　334
　　                         Thursday
　　"After I arrived-also by taxi, which can be confirmed if necessary-I
　　noticed that when we went to our car, you had parked it well away from that
　　awful club. There was no attendant."
　　"I put it out of the way deliberately. I suppose I thought there was less
　　chance of your getting to hear."
　　"So at no point was there any witness to the fact that you were driving the
　　car on Monday night."
　　"There's the hotel garage. When we came in, someone could have seen us."
　　"No! I remember you stopped just inside the garage entrance, and you left
　　the car, as we often do. We saw no one. No one saw us."
　　"What about taking it out?"
　　"You couldn't have taken it out. Not from the hotel garage. On Monday
　　morning we left it on an outside parking lot."
　　"That's right," the Duke said. "I got it from there at night."
　　The Duchess continued, thinking aloud,, "We shall say, of course, that we
　　did take the car to the hotel garage after we used it Monday evening. There
　　will be no record of it coming in, but that proves nothing. As far as we
　　are concerned, we have not seen the car since midday Monday."
　　The Duke was silent as they continued to walk. With a gesture he reached
　　out, relieving his wife of the terriers. Sensing a new hand on their leash,
　　they strained forward more vigorously than before.
　　At length he said, "It's really quite remarkable how everything fits
　　together."
　　"It's more than remarkable. It's meant to be that way. From the beginning,
　　everything has worked out. Now. . ."
　　"Now you propose to send another man to prison instead of me."
　　"No!"
　　He shook his head. "I couldn't do it, even to him."
　　"As far as he is concerned, I promise you that nothing will happen."
　　"How could you be sure?"
　　"Because the police would have to prove he was driving
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　　the car at the time of the accident. They can't possibly do it, any more
　　than they can prove it was you. Don't you understand? They may know that it
　　was one or the other of you. They may believe they know which. But believing
　　is not enough. Not without proof."
　　"You know," he said, with admiration, "there are times when you are
　　absolutely incredible."
　　"I'm practical. And speaking of being practical, there's something else you
　　might remember. That man Ogilvie has had ten thousand dollars of our money.
　　At least we should get something for it."
　　"By the way," the Duke said, "where is the other fifteen thousand?"
　　"Still in the small suitcase which is locked and in my bedroom. We'll take
　　it with us when we go. I already decided it might attract attention to
　　return it to the bank here."
　　"You really do think of everything."
　　"I didn't with that note. When I thought they had it ... I must have been
　　mad to write what I did."
　　"You couldn't have foreseen."
　　They had reached the end of the brightly lighted portion of Canal Street.
　　Now they turned, retracing their steps toward the city center.
　　"It's diabolical," the Duke of Croydon said. His last drink had been at
　　noon. As a result, his voice was a good deal clearer than in recent days.
　　"It's ingenious, devilish, and diabolical. But it might, it just might
　　work."
　　20
　　"That woman is lying," Captain Yolles said. "But it'll be hard to prove, if
　　we ever do." He continued to pace, slowly, the length of Peter McDermott's
　　office. They had come here-the two detectives, with Peter-after an igno-
　　minious departure from the Presidential Suite. So far Yolles had done
　　little more than pace and ponder while the other two waited.
　　"Her husband might break," the second detective suggested. "If we could get
　　him by himself."
　　336
　　                          Thursday
　　Yolles shook his head. "There isn't a chance. For one thing, she's too
　　smart to let it happen. For another, with them being who and what they
　　are, we'd be walking on eggshells." He looked at Peter. "Don't ever kid
　　yourself there isn't one police procedure for the poor and another for
　　the rich and influential."
　　Across the office, Peter nodded, though with a sense of detachment.
　　Having done what duty and conscience required, what followed now, he
　　felt, was the business of the police. Curiosity, however, prompted a
　　question. "The note that the Duchess wrote to the garage . . ."
　　"If we had that," the second detective said, "it'd be a clincher."
　　"Isn't it enough for the night checker-and Ogilvie, I suppose-to swear
　　that the note existed?"
　　Yolles said, "She'd claim it was a forgery, that Ogilvie wrote it
　　himself." He mused, then added, "You said it was on special stationery.
　　Let me see some."
　　Peter went outside and in a stationery cupboard found several sheets.
　　They were a heavy bond paper, light blue, with the hotel name and crest
　　embossed. Below, also embossed, were the words Presidential Suite.
　　Peter returned and the policemen examined the sheets.
　　"Pretty fancy," the second detective said.
　　Yolles asked, "How many people have access to this?"
　　"In the ordinary way, just a few. But I suppose a good many others could
　　get hold of a sheet if they really wanted to.99
　　Yolles grunted. "Rules that out."
　　"There is one possibility," Peter said. For the moment, with a sudden
　　thought, his detachment vanished.
　　"What?"
　　"I know you asked me this, and I said that once garbage had been
　　cleared-as it was from the garage-there was no chance of retrieving
　　anything. I really thought . . . it seemed so impossible, the idea of
　　locating one piece of paper. Besides, the note wasn't so important then."
　　He was aware of the eyes of both detectives intently on his face.
　　"We do have a man," Peter said. "He's in charge of the
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　　incinerator. A lot of the garbage he sorts by hand. It would be a long shot
　　and it's probably too late . . ."
　　"For Christ's sake!" YoRes snapped. "Let's get to him."
　　They ain floor, then used a staff doorway to reach
　　a freight elevator which would take them the rest of the way down. The
　　elevator was busy on a lower level where Peter could hear packages being
　　unloaded. He shouted down for the crew to hurry.
　　While they were waiting, the second detective, Bennett, said, "I hear
　　you've had some other trouble this week."
　　"There was a robbery early yesterday. With all this, I'd almost forgotten."
　　"I was talking with one of our people. He was with your senior house dick
　　... what's his name?"
　　"Finegan. He's acting chief." Despite the seriousness, Peter smiled. "Our
　　regular chief is otherwise engaged."
　　"About the robbery, there wasn't much to go on. Our people checked your
　　guest list, didn't turn up anything. Today, though, a funny thing happened.
　　There was a break-in in Lakeview-private home. A key job. The woman lost
　　her keys downtown this morning. Whoever found them must have gone straight
　　there. It had all the signs of your robbery here, including the kind of
　　stuff taken, and no prints."
　　"Has there been an arrest?"
　　The detective shook his head. "Wasn't discovered till hours after it
　　happened. There is a lead, though. A neighbor saw a car. Couldn't remember
　　anything, except it had license plates that were green and white. Five
　　states use plates with those colors-Michigan, Idaho, Nebraska, Vermont,
　　Washington-and Saskatchewan in Canada."
　　"How does that help?"
　　"For the next day or two, all our boys will be watching for cars from those
　　places. They'll stop them and check. It could turn something up. We've been
　　lucky before, with a whole lot less to go on."
　　Peter nodded, though with lukewarm interest. The robbery had happened two
　　days ago, with no recurrence. At present a good deal else seemed more
　　important.
　　A moment later the elevator arrived. 338
　　                         Thursday
　　The sweat-shining face of Booker T. Graham beamed with pleasure at the
　　sight of Peter McDermott, the only member of the hotel's executive staff
　　who ever bothered visiting the incinerator room, deep within the hotel
　　basement. The visits, though infrequent, were treasured by Booker T.
　　Graham as royal occasions.
　　Captain Yolles wrinkled his nose at the overpowering odor of garbage,
　　magnified by intense heat. The reflection of flames danced on
　　smoke-grimed walls. Shouting to make himself heard above the roar of the
　　furnace set into one side of the enclosure, Peter cautioned, "Better
　　leave this to me. I'll explain what we want."
　　Yolles nodded. Like others who had preceded him here, it occurred to him
　　that the first sight of hell might be remarkably like this moment. He
　　wondered how a human being could exist in these surroundings for any
　　length of time.
　　Yolles watched as Peter McDermott talked with the big Negro who sorted
　　the garbage before incinerating it. McDermott had brought a sheet of the
　　special Presidential Suite stationery and held it up for inspection. The
　　Negro nodded and took the sheet, retaining it, but his expression was
　　doubtful. He gestured to the dozens of overflowing bins crowded around
　　them. There were also others, Yolles observed as they came in, lined up
　　outside on hand trucks. He realized why, earlier on, McDermott had
　　dismissed the possibility of locating a single piece of paper. Now, in
　　response to a question, the Negro shook his head. McDermott returned to
　　the two detectives.
　　"Most of this," he explained, "is yesterday's garbage, collected today.
　　About a third of what came in had already been burned and whether what
　　we want was in there or not, we've no means of knowing. As for the rest,
　　Graham has to go through it, looking for things we salvage, like
　　silverware and bottles. While he's doing that, he'll keep an eye open for
　　a paper of the kind I've given him, but as you can see, it's a pretty
　　formidable job. Before the garbage gets here, it's compressed and a lot
　　of it is wet, which soaks everything else. I've asked Graham if he wants
　　extra help, but he says there's even less chance if
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　　someone else comes in who isn't used to working the way he does."
　　"Either way," the second detective said, "I wouldn't lay any bets."
　　Yolles conceded, "I suppose it's the best we can do. What arrangement
　　did you make if your man finds anything?"
　　"He'll call upstairs right away. I'll leave instructions that I'm to
　　be notified, whatever time it is. Then I'll call
　　you.11
　　Yolles nodded. As the three men left, Booker T. Graham had his hands in
　　a mess of garbage on a large flat tray.
　　21
　　For Keycase Milne, frustration had piled upon frustration.
　　Since early evening he had maintained a watch upon the Presidential
　　Suite. Near dinnertime-when he confidently expected the Duke and Duchess
　　of Croydon to leave the hotel, as almost all visitors did-he had taken
　　post on the ninth floor near the service stairs. From there he had a
　　clear view of the entrance to the suite, with the advantage that he could
　　avoid being observed himself by ducking quickly out of sight through the
　　stairway door. He did this several times as elevators stopped and
　　occupants of other rooms came and went, though on each occasion Keycase
　　managed to catch a glimpse of them before his own departure. He also
　　calculated, correctly, that at this time of day there would be little
　　staff activity on the upper floors. In case of anything unforeseen, it
　　was a simple matter to retreat to the eighth floor and, if necessary, his
　　own room.
　　That part of his plan had worked. What had gone wrong was that through
　　the entire evening the Duke and Duchess of Croydon had failed to leave
　　their suite.
　　However, no room service dinner had been delivered, a fact which made
　　Keycase linger hopefully.
　　Once, wondering if he had somehow missed the Croydons' departure, Keycase
　　walked gingerly down the corri-
　　340
　　                         Thursday
　　dor and listened at the suite door. He could hear voices inside, including
　　a woman's.
　　Later, his disappointment was increased by the arrival of visitors. They
　　appeared to come in ones and twos and, after the first few, the doors to
　　the Presidential Suite were left open. Soon after, room-service waiters
　　appeared with trays of hors d'oeuvres, and a growing hum of conversation,
　　mixed with the clink of ice and glasses, was audible in the corridor.
　　He was puzzled, later still, by the arrival of a broadshouldered youngish
　　man whom Keycase judged to be an official of the hotel. The hotelman's face
　　was set grimly, as were those of two other men with him. Keycase paused
　　long enough for a careful look at all three and, at first glance, guessed
　　the second and third to be policemen. Subsequently he reassured himself
　　that the thought was the product of his own too active imagination.
　　The three more recent arrivals left first, followed a half hour or so later
　　by the remainder of the party. Despite the heavy traffic in the later
　　stages of the evening, Keycase was certain he had been unobserved, except
　　possibly as just another hotel guest.
　　With departure of the last visitor, silence was complete in the ninth floor
　　corridor. It was now close to eleven P.m. and obvious that nothing more
　　would happen tonight. Keycase decided to wait another ten minutes, then
　　leave.
　　His mood of optimism earlier in the day had changed to depression.
　　He was uncertain whether he could risk remaining in the hotel another
　　twenty-four hours. He had already considered the idea of entering the suite
　　during the night or early tomorrow morning, then dismissed it. The hazard
　　was too great. If someone awakened, no conceivable excuse could justify
　　Keycase's presence in the Presidential Suite. He had also been aware since
　　yesterday that he would have to consider the movements of the Croydons'
　　secretary and the Duchess's maid. The maid, he learned, had a room
　　elsewhere in the hotel and had not been in evidence tonight. But the
　　secretary lived in the suite and was one more person who might be awakened
　　by a night
　　341
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　　intrusion. Also, the dogs which Keycase had seen the Duchess exercising
　　were likely to raise an alarm.
　　He was faced, then, with the alternative of waiting another day or
　　abandoning the attempt to reach the Duchess's jewels.
　　Then, as he was on the point of leaving, the Duke and Duchess of Croydon
　　emerged, preceded by the Bedlington terriers.
　　Swiftly, Keycase melted into the service stairway. His heart began to
　　pulse faster. At last, when he had abandoned hope, the opportunity he
　　coveted had come.
　　It was not an uncomplicated opportunity. Obviously the Duke and Duchess
　　would not be away for long. And somewhere in the suite was the male
　　secretary. Where? In a separate room with the door closed? In bed
　　already? He looked a Milquetoast type who might retire early.
　　Whatever the risk of an encounter, it had to be taken. Keycase knew that
　　if he failed to act now, his nerves would not survive another day of
　　waiting.
　　He heard elevator doors open, then close. Cautiously, he returned to the
　　corridor. It was silent and empty. Walking quietly, he approached the
　　Presidential Suite.
　　His specially made key turned easily, as it had this afternoon. He opened
　　one of the double doors slightly, then gently released the spring
　　pressure and removed the key. The lock made no noise. Nor did the door
　　as he opened it slowly.
　　A hallway was immediately ahead, beyond it a larger room. To the right
　　and left were two more doors, both closed. Through the one on the right
　　he could hear what sounded like a radio, There was no one in sight. The
　　lights in the suite were turned on.
　　Keycase went in. He slipped on gloves, then closed and latched the
　　outside door behind him.
　　He moved warily, yet wasting no time. Broadloom in the hallway and living
　　room muffled his footsteps. He crossed the living room to a farther door
　　which was ajar. As Keyease expected, it led to two spacious bedrooms,
　　each with a bathroom, and a dressing room between. In the bedrooms, as
　　elsewhere, lights were on. There was no mistaking which room was the
　　Duchess's.
　　342
　　                         Thursday
　　Its furnishings included a tallboy, two dressing tables and a walk-in
　　closet. Keycase began, systematically, to search all four. A jewelbox,
　　such as he sought, was in neither the tallboy nor the first dressing
　　table. There were a number of items-gold evening purses, cigarette cases
　　and expensive-looking compacts-which, with more time and in other
　　circumstances, he would have garnered gladly. But now he was racing,
　　seeking a major prize and discarding all else.
　　At the second dressing table he opened the first drawer. It contained
　　nothing worth while. The second drawer yielded no better result. In the
　　third, on top, was an array of negligees. Beneath them was a deep, oblong
　　box of hand-tooled leather. It was locked.
　　Leaving the box in the drawer, Keycase worked with a knife and
　　screwdriver to break the lock. The box was stoutly made and resisted
　　opening. Several minutes passed. Conscious of fleeting time, he began to
　　perspire.
　　At length the lock gave, the lid flew back. Beneath, in scintillating,
　　breathtaking array were two tiers of jewelsrings, brooches, necklets,
　　clips, tiaras; all of precious metal, and most were gem-encrusted. At the
　　sight, Keycase drew in breath. So, after all, a portion of the Duchess's
　　fabled collection had not been consigned to the hotel vault. Once more
　　a hunch, an omen, had proved right. With both hands he reached out to
　　seize the spoils. At the same instant a key turned in the lock of the
　　outer door.
　　His reflex was instantaneous. Keycase slammed down the jewelbox lid and
　　slid the drawer closed. On the way in, he had left the bedroom door
　　slightly ajar; now he flew to it. Through an inch-wide gap he could see
　　into the living room. A hotel maid was entering. She had towels on her
　　arm and was headed for the Duchess's bedroom. The maid was elderly, and
　　waddled. Her slowness offered a single slim chance.
　　Swinging around, Keycase lunged for a bedside lamp. He found its cord and
　　yanked. The light went out. Now he needed something in his hand to
　　indicate activity. Something! Anything!
　　Against the wall was a small attach6 case. He seized it and stalked
　　toward the door.
　　343
　　    HOTEL
　　As Keycase Rung the door wide, the maid recoiled. "Oh!" A hand went over
　　her heart.
　　Keycase frowned. "Where have you been? You should have come here earlier."
　　ne shock, followed by the accusation, made her flustered. He had intended
　　that it should.
　　"I'm sorry, sir. I saw there were people in, and . .
　　He cut her short. "It doesn't matter now. Do what you have to, and there's
　　a lamp needs fixing." He gestured into the bedroom. "The Duchess wants it
　　working tonight." He kept his voice low, remembering the secretary.
　　"Oh, I'll see that it is, sir."
　　"Very well." Keyease nodded coolly, and went out.
　　In the corridor he tried not to think. He succeeded until he was in his own
　　room, 830. Then, in bafflement and despair, he flung himself across the bed
　　and buried his face in a pillow.
　　It was more than an hour before he bothered forcing the lock of the attach6
　　case he had brought away.
　　Inside was pile upon pile of United States currency. All used bills, of
　　small denominations.
　　With trembling hands he counted fifteen thousand dollars.
　　22
　　Peter McDermott accompanied the two detectives from the incinerator in the
　　hotel basement to the St. Charles Street door.
　　"For the time being," Captain Yolles cautioned, "I'd like to keep what's
　　happened tonight as quiet as possible. There'll be questions enough when we
　　charge your man Ogilvie, whatever it's with. No sense in bringing the press
　　around our necks until we have to."
　　Peter assured him, "If the hotel had any choice, we'd prefer no publicity
　　at all."
　　Yolles grunted. "Don't count on it."
　　Peter returned to the main dining room to discover, not surprisingly, that
　　Christine and Albert Wells had gone.
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　　                         Thursday
　　In the lobby he was intercepted by the night manager. "Mr. McDermott,
　　here's a note Miss Francis left for you."
　　It was in a sealed envelope and read simply:
　　I've gone home. Come if you can.
　　--Christine.
　　He would go, he decided. He suspected that Christine was eager to talk
　　over the events of the day, including this evening's astounding
　　disclosure by Albert Wells.
　　Nothing else to do tonight at the hotel. Or was there? Abruptly, Peter
　　remembered the promise he had made to Marsha Preyscott on leaving her at
　　the cemetery so unceremoniously this afternoon. He had said he would
　　telephone later, but he had forgotten until now. The crisis of the
　　afternoon was only hours away. It seemed like days, and Marsha somehow
　　remote. But he supposed he should call her, late as it was.
　　Once more he used the credit manager's office on the main floor and
　　dialed the Preyscott number. Marsha answered on the first ring.
　　"Oh, Peter," she said, "I've been sitting by the telephone. I waited and
　　waited, then called twice and left my name."
　　He remembered guiltily the pile of unacknowledged messages on his office
　　desk.
　　"I'm genuinely sorry, and I can't explain, at least not yet. Except that
　　all kinds of things have been happening."
　　"Tell me tomorrow."
　　"Marsha, I'm afraid tomorrow will be a very full day . . .
　　"At breakfast," Marsha said. "If it's going to be that kind of day, you
　　need a New Orleans breakfast. They're famous. Have you ever had one?"
　　"I don't usually eat breakfast."
　　"Tomorrow you will. And Anna's are special. A lot better, I'll bet, than
　　at your old hotel."
　　It was impossible not to be charmed by Marsha's enthusiasms. And he had,
　　after all, deserted her this afternoon.
　　"It will have to be early."
　　"As early as you Re."
　　They agreed on 7:30 A.M.
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　　    HOTEL
　　A few minutes later he was in a taxi on his way to Christine's apartment in
　　Gentilly.
　　He rang from downstairs. Christine was waiting with the apartment door
　　open.
　　"Not a word," she said, "until after the second drink. I just can't take it
　　all in."
　　"You'd better," he told her. "You haven't heard the half of it."
　　She had mixed daiquiris, which were chilling in the refrigerator. There was
　　a heaped plate of chicken and ham sandwiches. The fragrance of freshly
　　brewed coffee wafted through the apartment.
　　Peter remembered suddenly that despite his sojourn in the hotel kitchens,
　　and the talk of breakfast tomorrow, he had eaten nothing since lunch.
　　"That's what I imagined," Christine said when he told her. "Fall to!"
　　Obeying, he watched as she moved efficiently around the tiny kitchen. He
　　had a feeling, sitting here, of being at ease and shielded from whatever
　　might be happening outside. He thought: Christine had cared about him
　　enough to do what she had done. More important, there was an empathy
　　between them in which even their silences, as now, seemed shared and
　　understood.
　　He pushed away the daiquiri glass and reached for a coffee cup which
　　Christine had filled. "All right," he said, "where do we start?"
　　They talked continuously for almost two hours, all the time their closeness
　　growing. At the end, all they could decide on definitely was that tomorrow
　　would be an interesting day.
　　"I won't sleep," Christine said. "I couldn't possibly. I know I won't."
　　"I couldn't either," Peter said. "But not for the reason you mean."
　　He had no doubts; only a conviction that he wanted this moment to go on and
　　on. He took her in his arms and kissed her.
　　Later, it seemed the most natural thing in the world that they should make
　　love.
　　346
　　 FRIDAY
　　It was understandable, Peter McDermott thought, that the Duke and Duchess
　　of Croydon should be rolling the chief house officer, Ogilvie-,trussed
　　securely into a ball-toward the edge of the St. Gregory roof while, far
　　below, a sea of faces stared fixedly upward. But it was strange, and
　　somehow shocking, that a few yards farther on, Curtis O'Keefe and Warren
　　Trent were exchanging savage cuts with bloodstained dueling swords. Why,
　　Peter wondered, had Captain Yolles, standing by a stairway door, failed
　　to intervene? Then Peter realized that the policeman was watching a giant
　　bird's nest in which a single egg was cracking open. A moment later, from
　　the egg's interior, emerged an outsize sparrow with the cheery face of
　　Albert Wells. But now Peter's attention was diverted to the roofedge where
　　a desperately struggling Christine had become entangled with Ogilvie, and
　　Marsha Preyscott was helping the Croydons push the double burden nearer
　　and nearer to the awful gulf below. The crowds continued to gape as
　　Captain Yolles leaned against a doorpost, yawning.
　　If he hoped to save Christine, Peter realized, he must act himself. But
　　when he attempted to move, his feet dragged heavily as if encased in
　　glue, and while his body urged forward, his legs refused to follow. He
　　tried to cry out, but his throat was blocked. His eyes met Christine's
　　in dumb despair.
　　Suddenly, the Croydons, Marsha, O'Keefe, Warren Trent stopped and were
　　listening. The sparrow that was
　　347
　　    HOTEL
　　Albert Wells cocked an ear. Now Ogilvie, Yolles, and Christine were doing
　　the same. Listening to what?
　　Then Peter heard: a cacophony as if all the telephones on earth were
　　ringing together. The sound came closer, swelled, until it seemed that
　　it would engulf them all. Peter put his hands over his ears. The
　　dissonance grew. He closed his eyes, then opened them.
　　He was in his apartment. His bedside alarm showed 6:30 A.M.
　　He lay for a few minutes, shaking his head free from the wild,
　　hodge-podge dream. Then he padded to the bathroom for a shower, steeling
　　himself to remain under the spray with the cold tap "on" for a final
　　minute. He emerged from the shower fully awake. Slipping on a towel robe,
　　he started coffee brewing in the kitchenette, then went to the telephone
　　and dialed the hotel number.
　　He was connected with the night manager who assured Peter that there had
　　been no message during the night concerning anything found in the
　　incinerator. No, the night manager said with a trace of tiredness, he had
　　not checked personally. Yes, if Mr. McDermott wished, he would go down
　　immediately and telephone the result, though Peter sensed a mild
　　resentment at the unlikely errand so near the end of a long, firing
　　shift. The incinerator was somewhere in the lower basement, wasn't it?
　　Peter was shaving when the return call came. The night manager reported
　　that he had spoken with the incinerator employee, Graham, who was sorry,
　　but the paper Mr. McDermott wanted had not turned up. Now, it didn't look
　　as if it would. The manager added the information that Graham's night
　　shift-as well as his own-was almost ended.
　　Later, Peter decided, he would pass the news, or rather the lack of it,
　　to Captain Yolles. He remembered his opinion last night, which still held
　　good, that the hotel had done all it could in the matter of public duty.
　　Anything else must be the business of the police.
　　Between sips of coffee, and while dressing, Peter considered the two
　　subjects uppermost in his mind. One was Christine; the other, his own
　　future, if any, at the St. Gregory Hotel.
　　348
　　                          Friday
　　After last night, he realized that whatever might be ahead, more than
　　anything else he wished Christine to be a part of it. The conviction had
　　been growing on him; now it was clear and definite. He supposed it might be
　　said that he was in love, but he was guarded in attempting to define his
　　deeper feelings, even to himself. Once before, what he had believed was
　　love had turned to ashes. Perhaps it was better to begin with hope, and
　　grope uncertainly toward an unknown end.
　　It might be unromantic, Peter reflected, to say that he was comfortable
　　with Christine. But it was true and, in a sense, reassuring. He had a
　　conviction that the bonds between them would grow stronger, not weaker, as
　　time went by. He believed that Christine's feelings were similar to his
　　own.
　　Instinct told him that what lay immediately ahead was to be savored, not
　　devoured.
　　As to the hotel, it was hard to grasp, even now, that Albert Wells, whom
　　they had assumed to be a pleasant, inconsequential little man, stood
　　revealed as a financial mogul who had assumed control of the St. Gregory,
　　or would today.
　　Superficially, it seemed possible that Petees own position might be
　　strengthened by the unexpected development. He had become friendly with the
　　little man and had the impression that he himself was liked in return. But
　　liking, and a business decision, were separate things. The nicest people
　　could be hard-headed, and ruthless when they chose. Also, it was unlikely
　　that Albert Wells would run the hotel personally, and whoever fronted for
　　him might have definite views on the background records of personnel.
　　As he had before, Peter decided not to worry about events until they
　　happened.
　　Across New Orleans, clocks were chiming seven-thirty as Peter McDermott
　　arrived, by taxi, at the Preyscott mansion on Prytania Street.
　　Behind graceful soaring columns, the great white house stood nobly in early
　　morning sunlight. The air around was fresh and cool, with traces still of
　　a predawn mist. The
　　349
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　　scent of magnolia hung fragrantly, and there was dew upon the grass.
　　The street and house  St. Charles Avenue and beyond
　　could be heard distant sounds of the awakening city.
　　Peter crossed the lawn by the curving pathway of old red brick. He
　　ascended the terrace steps and knocked at the donble carved doorway.
　　Ben, the manservant who had functioned at dinner on Wednesday night,
　　opened the door and greeted Peter cordially. "Good morning, sir. Please
　　come in." Inside, he announced, "Miss Marsha asked me to show you to the
　　gallery. She'll join you in a few minutes."
　　With Ben leading the way, they went up the broad curving staircase and
　　along the wide corridor with frescoed walls where, on Wednesday night in
　　semidarkness, Peter had accompanied Marsha. He asked himself: was it
　　really so short a time ago?
　　In daylight the gallery appeared as well ordered and inviting as it had
　　before. There were deep cushioned chairs, and planters bright with
　　flowers. Near the front, looking down on the garden below, a table had
　　been set for breakfast. There were two places.
　　Peter asked, "Is the house stirring early on my account?"
　　"No, sir," Ben assured him. "We're early people here. Mr. Preyscott, when
　　he's home, doesn't like late starting. He always says there isn't enough
　　of each day that you should waste the front end of it."
　　"You see! I told you my father was a lot like you."
　　At Marsha's voice, Peter turned. She had come in quietly behind them. He
　　had an impression of dew and roses, and that she had risen freshly with
　　the sun.
　　"Good morning!" Marsha smiled. "Ben, please give Mr. McDermott an
　　absinthe Suissesse." She took Peter's arm.
　　"Pour lightly, Ben," Peter said. "I know absinthe Suissesse goes with a
　　New Orleans breakfast, but I've a new boss. I'd like to meet him sober."
　　The manservant grinned. "Yessir!"
　　As they sat at the table, Marsha said, "Was that why you . . .
　　350
　　                          Friday
　　"Why I disappeared Eke a conjurer's rabbit? No. That was something else."
　　Her eyes widened as he related as much as he could of the hit-and-run
　　investigation without mentioning the Croydons' name. He declined to be
　　drawn by Marsha's questioning, but told her, "Whatever happens, there will
　　be some news today."
　　To himself, he reasoned: By now, Ogilvie was probably back in New Orleans
　　and being interrogated. If retained in custody, he would have to be
　　charged, with an appearance in court which would alert the press.
　　Inevitably there would be a reference to the Jaguar which, in turn, would
　　point a finger at the Croydons.
　　Peter sampled the fluffy absinthe Suissesse which had appeared before him.
　　From his own bartending days he remembered the ingredients-herbsaint, white
　　of an egg, cream, orgeat syrup, and a dash of anisette. He had seldom
　　tasted them better mixed. Across the table Marsha was sippm,g orange juice.
　　Peter wondered: Could the Duke and Duchess of Croydon, in face of Ogilvie's
　　accusation, continue to maintain their innocence? It was one more question
　　which today might determine.
　　But certainly the Duchess's note-if it ever existedwas gone. There had been
　　no further word from the hotel -at least, on that point-and Booker T.
　　Graham would have long since gone off duty.
　　In front of both Peter and Marsha, Ben placed a Creole cream cheese
　　Evangeline, garlanded with fruit.
　　Peter began to eat with enjoyment.
　　"Earlier on," Marsha said, "you started to say something. It was about the
　　hotel."
　　"Oh, yes." Between mouthfuls of cheese and fruit, he explained about Albert
　　Wells. "The new ownership is being announced today. I had a telephone call
　　just as I was leaving to come here."
　　The call had been from Warren Trent. It informed Peter that Mr. Dempster of
　　Montreal, financial representative of the St. Gregory's new owner, was en
　　route to New Orleans. Mr. Dempster was already in New York where he would
　　board an Eastern Airlines flight, arriving
　　351
　　    HOTEL
　　at mid-morning. A suite was to be reserved, and a meeting between the old
　　and new management groups was scheduled tentatively for eleven-thirty.
　　Peter was instructed to remain available in case he was required.
　　Surprisingly, Warren Trent had sounded not in the least depressed and,
　　in fact, brighter than in recent days. Was W.T. aware, Peter wondered,
　　that the new owner of the St. Gregory was already in the hotel?
　　Remembering that until an official changeover, his own loyalty lay with
　　the old management, Peter related the conversation of last eve, ning
　　between himself, Christine, and Albert Wells. "Yes," Warren Trent had
　　said, "I know. Emile Dumaire of Industrial Merchants Bank-he did the
　　negotiating for Wellsphoned me late last night. It seems there was some
　　secrecy. There isn't any more."
　　Peter also knew that Curtis O'Keefe, and his companion Miss Lash, were
　　due to leave the St. Gregory later this morning. Apparently they were
　　going separate ways since the hotel-which handled such matters for
　　VIPs-had arranged a flight to Los Angeles for Miss Lash, while Curtis
　　O'Keefe was headed for Naples, via New York and Rome.
　　"You're thinking about a lot of things," Marsha said. "I wish you'd tell
　　me some. My father used to want to talk at breakfast, but my mother was
　　never interested. I am.11
　　Peter smiled. He told her the kind of day that he expected it to be.
　　As they talked, the remains of the cheeses Evangeline were removed, to
　　be replaced by steaming, aromatic eggs Sardou. Twin poached eggs nestled
　　on artichoke bottoms, appetizingly topped with creamed spinach and
　　hollandaise sauce. A ros6 wine appeared at Peter's place.
　　Marsha said, "I understand what you meant about today being very busy."
　　"And I understand what you meant by a traditional breakfast." Peter
　　caught sight of the housekeeper, Anna, hovering in the background. He
　　called out, "Magnificent!" and saw her smile.
　　Later, he gasped at the arrival of sirloin steaks with mushrooms, hot
　　french bread and marmalade.
　　352
　　                          Friday
　　Peter said doubtfully, "I'm not sure . . ."
　　"There's cr~pes Suzette to come," Marsha informed him, "and caf,$ au lait.
　　When there were great plantations here, people used to scoff at the petit
　　dejeuner of the continentals. They made breakfast an occasion."
　　"You've made it an occasion," Peter said. "This, and a good deal more.
　　Meeting you; my history lessons; being with you here. I won't forget
　　it-ever."
　　"You make it sound as if you're saying goodbye."
　　"I am, Marsha." He met her eyes steadily, then smiled. "Right after the
　　cr9pes Suzette."
　　There was a silence before she said, "I thought . .
　　He reached out across the table, his hand covering Marsha's. "Perhaps we
　　were both daydreaming. I think we were. But it's quite the nicest daydream
　　I ever had."
　　"Why does it have to be just that?"
　　He answered gently, "Some things you can't explain. No matter how much you
　　like someone, there's a question of deciding what's best to do; of judgment
　　.
　　"And my judgment doesn't count?"
　　"Marsha, I have to trust mine. For both of us." But he wondered: Could it
　　be trusted? His own instincts had proven less than reliable before.
　　Perhaps, at this moment, he was making a mistake which years from now he
　　would remember with regret. How to be sure of anything, when you often
　　learned the truth too late?
　　He sensed that Marsha was close to tears.
　　"Excuse me," she said in a low voice. She stood up and walked swiftly from
　　the gallery.
　　Sitting there, Peter wished he could have spoken less forthrightly,
　　tempering his words with the gentleness that he felt for this lonely girl.
　　He wondered if she would retam. After a few minutes, when Marsha failed to,
　　Anna appeared. "Looks like you'll be finishing breakfast alone, sir. I
　　don't believe Miss Marsha'll be back."
　　He asked, "How is she?"
　　"She's cryin' in her room." Anna shrugged. "Isn't the first time. Don't
　　suppose it'll be the last. It's a way she has when she doesn't get all she
　　wants." She removed the steak plates. "Ben'll serve you the rest."
　　353
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　　He shook his head. "No, thank you. I must go."
　　"Then I'll just bring coffee." In the background, Ben had busied himself,
　　but it was Anna who took the cafig au lait and put it beside Peter.
　　"Don't go away worrying overmuch, sir. When she's past the most of it, I'll
　　do the best I can. Miss Marsha has maybe too much time to think about
　　herself. If her daddy was here more, maybe things'd be different. But he
　　ain't. Not hardly at all."
　　"You're very understanding."
　　Peter remembered what Marsha had told him about Anna: how, as a young girl,
　　Anna had been forced by her family to marry a man she scarcely knew; but
　　the marriage had lasted happily for more than forty years until Anna's
　　husband died a year ago.
　　Peter said, "I heard about your husband. He must have been a fine man."
　　"My husband!" The housekeeper cackled. "I ain't had no husband. Never been
　　married in my whole life. I'm a maiden lady-more or less."
　　Marsha had said: They lived with us here, Anna and her husband. He was the
　　kindest, sweetest man Fve ever known. If there was ever a perfect marriage,
　　it belonged to them. Marsha had used the portrayal to bolster her own
　　argument when she asked Peter to marry her.
　　Anna was still chuckling. "My goodness! Miss Marsha's been taking you in
　　with all her stories. She makes up a good many. A lot of the time she's
　　play acting, which is why you don't need to worry none now."
　　"I see." Peter was not sure that he did, though he felt relieved.
　　Ben showed him out. It was after nine o'clock and the day was already
　　becoming hot. Peter walked briskly toward St. Charles Avenue where he
　　headed for the hotel. He hoped that the walk would overcome any somnolence
　　he might feel from the trencherman's meal. He felt a genuine regret that he
　　would not see Marsha again, and a sorrow concerning her for a reason he
　　could not fully comprehend. He wondered if he would ever be wise about
　　women. He rather doubted it.
　　354
　　                           Friday
　　2
　　Number four elevator was acting up again. Cy Lewin, its elderly daytime
　　operator, was getting thoroughly sick of number four and its
　　capriciousness, which had started a week or more ago and seemed to be
　　getting worse.
　　Last Sunday the elevator had several times refused to respond to its
　　controls, even though both cage and landing doors were fully closed. The
　　relief man had told Cy that the same thing happened Monday night when Mr.
　　McDermott, the assistant general manager, was in the car.
　　Then, on Wednesday, there had been trouble which put number four out of
　　service for several hours. Malfunctioning of the clutch arrangement,
　　Engineering said, whatever that meant; but the repair job had not prevented
　　another hiatus the following day when on three separate occasions number
　　four refused to start away from the fifteenth floor.
　　Now, today, number four was starting and stopping jerkily at every floor.
　　It was not Cy Lewin's business to know what was wrong. Nor did he
　　especially care, even though he had heard the chief engineer, Doc Vickery,
　　grumbling about 46 patching and patching" and complaining that he needed "a
　　hundred thousand dollars to rip the elevators' guts out and begin again."
　　Well, who wouldn't like that kind of money? Cy Lewin himself sure would,
　　which was why every year he scraped together the price of a sweepstake
　　ticket, though a fat lot of good it had ever done him.
　　But a St. Gregory veteran like himself was entitled to consideration, and
　　tomorrow he would ask to be moved over to one of the other cars. Why not?
　　He had worked twenty-seven years in the hotel and was running elevators
　　before some of the young whippersnappers now around the place were born.
　　After today, let someone else put up with number four and its contrariness.
　　It was a little before ten A.M., and the hotel was becoming busy. Cy Lewin
　　took a load up from the lobbymostly conventioneers with names on their
　　lapels-stopping at intermediate floors until the fifteenth, which was the
　　top of the hotel. Going down, the car was filled to capacity by the time he
　　reached the ninth, and he high-
　　355
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　　balled the rest of the way to the main lobby. On this latest trip he noticed
　　that the jerkiness had stopped. Well, whatever that trouble was, he guessed
　　it had fixed itself.
　　He could not have been more wrong.
　　High above Cy Lewin, perched like an eyrie on the hotel roof, was the
　　elevator control room. There, in the mechanical heart of number four
　　elevator, a small electrical relay had reached the limit of its useful
　　life. The cause, unknown and unsuspected, was a tiny push rod the size of
　　a household nail.
　　The push rod was screwed into a miniature piston head which, in turn,
　　actuated a trio of switches. One switch applied and released the elevator
　　brake, a second supplied power to an operating motor; the third controlled
　　a generator circuit. With all three functioning, the elevator car moved
　　smoothly up and down in response to its controls. But with only two
　　switches working-and if the nonworking switch should be that which
　　controlled the elevator motor-the car would be free to fall under its own
　　weight. Only one thing could cause such a failure-the over-all lengthening
　　of the push rod and piston.
　　For several weeks the push rod had been working loose. With movements so
　　infinitesimal that a hundred might equal the thickness of a human hair, the
　　piston head had turned, slowly but inexorably unscrewing itself from the
　　push rod thread. The effect was twofold. The push rod and piston had
　　increased their total length. And the motor switch was barely functio i g.
　　Just as a final grain of sand will tip a scale, so, at this moment, the
　　slightest further twisting of the piston would isolate the motor switch
　　entirely.
　　The defect had been the cause of number four's erratic functioning which Cy
　　Lewin and others had observed. A maintenance crew had tried to trace the
　　trouble, but had not succeeded. They could hardly be blamed. There were
　　more than sixty relays to a single elevator, and twenty elevators in the
　　entire hotel.
　　Nor had anyone observed that two safety devices on the elevator car were
　　partially defective.
　　At ten past ten on Friday morning, number four elevator was-in fact, and
　　figuratively-hanging by a thread.
　　356
　　                          Friday
　　3
　　Mr. Dempster of Montreal checked in at half-past ten. Peter McDermott,
　　notified of his arrival, went down to the lobby to extend official
　　greetings. So far this morning, neither Warren Trent nor Albert Wells had
　　appeared on the lower floors of the hotel, nor had the latter been heard
　　from.
　　The financial representative of Albert Wells was a brisk, impressive
　　person who looked like the seasoned manager of a large branch bank. He
　　responded to a comment of Peter's about the speed of events being
　　breathtaking with the remark, "Mr. Wells frequently has that effect." A
　　bellboy escorted the newcomer to a suite on the eleventh floor.
　　Twenty minutes later Mr. Dempster reappeared in Peter's office.
　　He had visited Mr. Wells, he said, and spoken on the telephone with Mr.
　　Trent. The meeting arranged tentatively for eleven-thirty was definitely
　　to proceed. Meanwhile, there were a few people whom Mr. Dempster wished
　　to confer with-the hotel's comptroller for one-and Mr. Trent had invited
　　him to make use of the executive suite.
　　Mr. Dempster appeared to be a man accustomed to exercise authority.
　　Peter escorted him to Warren Trent's office and introduced Christine. For
　　Peter and Christine it was their second meeting of the morning. On
　　arrival at the hotel he had sought her out and, though the best they
　　could do in the beleaguered surroundings of the executive suite was to
　　touch hands briefly, in the stolen moment there was an excitement and an
　　eager awareness of each other.
　　For the first time since his arrival, the man from Montreal smiled. "Oh
　　yes, Miss Francis. Mr. Wells mentioned you. In fact, he spoke of you
　　quite warmly."
　　"I think Mr. Wells is a wonderful man. I thought so before . . ." She
　　stopped.
　　"Yes?"
　　"I'm a little embarrassed," Christine said, "about something which
　　happened last night."
　　Mr. Dempster produced heavy-rimmed glasses which he polished and put on.
　　"If you're referring to the incident
　　357
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　　of the restaurant bill, Miss Francis, ifs unnecessary that you should be.
　　Mr. Wells told me-and I quote his own words-that it was one of the sweetest,
　　kindest things that was ever done for him. He knew what was happening, of
　　course. There's very little he misses."
　　"Yes," Christine said, "I'm beginning to realize that."
　　There was a knock at the outer office door, which opened to reveal the
　　credit manager, Sam Jakubiec. "Excuse me," he said when he saw the group
　　inside, and turned to go. Peter called him back.
　　"I came to check a rumor," Jakubiec said. "It's going round the hotel like
　　a prairie fire that the old gentleman, Mr. Wells . . ."
　　"It isn't rumor," Peter said. "It's fact." He introduced the credit man to
　　Mr. Dempster.
　　Jakubiec clapped a hand to his head. "My God!-I checked his credit. I
　　doubted his check. I even phoned Montreall"
　　"I heard about your call." For the second time Mr. Dempster smiled. "At the
　　bank they were vastly amused. But they've strict instructions that no
　　information about Mr. Wells is ever to be given out. It's the way he likes
　　things done."
　　Jakubiec gave what sounded like a moan.
　　"I think you'd have more to worry about," the man from Montreal assured
　　him, "if you hadn't checked Mr. Wells' credit. He'd respect you for doing
　　it. He does have a habit of writing checks on odd bits of paper, which peo-
　　ple find disconcerting. The checks are all good, of course. You probably
　　know by now that Mr. Wells is one of the richest men in North America."
　　A dazed Jakubiec could only shake his head.
　　"It might be simpler for you all," Mr. Dempster remarked, "if I explained
　　a few things about my employer." He glanced at his watch. "Mr. Dumaire, the
　　banker, and some lawyers will be here soon, but I believe we've time."
　　He was interrupted by the arrival of Royall Edwards. The comptroller was
　　armed with papers and a bulging brief case. Once more the ritual of
　　introductions was performed.
　　Shaking hands, Mr. Dempster informed the comptroller, "We'll have a brief
　　talk in a moment, and I'd like you to 358
　　                          Friday
　　remain for our eleven-thirty meeting. By the way-you too, Miss Francis.
　　Mr. Trent isked that you be there, and I know Mr. Wells will be
　　deliRhted."
　　For the first time, Peter McDermott had a disconcerting sense of
　　exclusion from the center of affairs.
　　"I was about to explain some matters concerning Mr. Wells." Mr. Dempster
　　removed his glasses, breathed on the lenses and polished them once more.
　　"Despite Mr. Wells' consid,--rable wealth, he has remained a man of very
　　simple tastes. This is in no sense due to meanness. He is, in fact,
　　extremely generous. It is simply that for himself he prefers modest
　　things, even in such matters as clothing, travel, and accommodation."
　　"About accommodation," Peter said. "I was considering moving Mr. Wells
　　to a suite. Mr. Curtis O'Keefe is vacating one of our better ones this
　　afternoon."
　　"I suggest you don't. I happen to know that Mr. Wells likes the room he
　　has, though not the one before it."
　　Mentally, Peter shuddered at the reference to the ha-ha room which Albert
　　Wells had occupied before his transfer to 1410 on Monday night.
　　"He has no objection to others having a suite-me, for example," Mr.
　　Dempster explained. "It is simply that he feels no need for such things
　　himself. Am I boring you?"
　　His listeners, as one, protested that he was not.
　　Royall Edwards seemed amused. "It's like something from the Brothers
　　Grimm!"
　　"Perhaps. But don't ever believe that Mr. Wells lives in a fairy tale
　　world. He doesn't, any more than I do."
　　Peter McDermott thought: Whether the others realized it or not, there was
　　a hint of steel beneath the urbane words.
　　Mr. Dempster continued, "I've known Mr. Wells a good many years. In that
　　time I've come to respect his instincts both about business and people.
　　He has a kind of native shrewdness that isn't taught at the Harvard
　　School of Business."
　　Royall Edwards, who was a Harvard Business School graduate, flushed.
　　Peter wondered if the riposte was accidental or if the representative of
　　Albert Wells had done some swift investigating of the hotel's senior
　　staff. It was 359
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　　entirely possible that he had, in which case Peter McDermott's record,
　　including his Waldorf dismissal and subsequent black listing, would be
　　known. Was this the reason, Peter wondered, behind his own apparent omission
　　from the inner councils?
　　"I suppose," Royall Edwards said, "we can expect a good many changes around
　　here."
　　"I'd consider it likely." Again Mr. Dempster polished his glasses; it
　　seemed a compulsive habit. "The first change will be that I shall become
　　president of the hotel company, an office I hold in most of Mr. Wells'
　　corporations. He has never cared to assume titles himself."
　　Christine said, "So we'll be seeing a good deal of you."
　　"Actually very little, Miss Francis. I will be a figurehead, no more. The
　　executive vice-president will have complete authority. That is Mr. Wells'
　　policy, and also mine."
　　So after all, Peter thought, the situation had resolved itself as he
　　expected. Albert Wells would not be closely involved with the hotel's
　　management; therefore the fact of knowing him would carry no advantage. The
　　little man was, in fact, twice removed from active management, and Peter's
　　future would depend on the executive vice-president, whoever that might be.
　　Peter wondered if it was anyone he knew. If so, it could make a great deal
　　of difference.
　　Until this moment, Peter reasoned, he had told himself that he would accept
　　events as they came, including-if necessary-his own departure. Now, he
　　discovered, he wanted to remain at the St. Gregory very much indeed.
　　Christine, of course, was one reason. Another was that the St. Gregory,
　　with continued independence under new management, promised to be exciting.
　　"Mr. Dempster," Peter said, "if it isn't a great secret, who will the
　　executive vice-president be?"
　　The man from Montreal appeared puzzled. He looked at Peter strangely, then
　　his expression cleared. "Excuse me," he said, "I thought you knew. That's
　　you."
　　4
　　Throughout last night, in the slow-paced hours when hotel guests were
　　serenely sleeping, Booker T. Graham
　　360
　　                          Friday
　　had labored alone in the incinerator's glare. That, in itself, was not
　　unusual. Booker T. was a simple soul whose days and nights were like
　　carbon copies of each other, and it never perturbed him that this should
　　be so. His ambitions were simple too, being limited to food, shelter, and
　　a measure of human dignity, though the last was instinctive and not a need
　　he could have explained himself.
　　What had been unusual about the night was the slowness with which his
　　work had gone. Usually, well before time to clock out and go home, Booker
　　T. had disposed of the previous day's accumulated garbage, had sorted his
　　retrievals, and left himself with half an hour when he would sit quietly,
　　smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, until closing the incinerator down. But
　　this morning, though his time on duty had been complete, the work was
　　not. At the hour when he should have been leaving the hotel, a dozen or
　　more tightly packed cans of garbage remained unsorted and undisposed.
　　The reason was Booker T.'s attempt to find the paper which Mr. McDermott
　　wanted. He had been careful and thorough. He had taken his time. And so
　　far he had failed.
　　Booker T. had reported the fact regretfully to the night manager who had
　　come in, the latter looking unfamiliarly at the grim surroundings and
　　wrinkling his nose at the allpervading smell. The night manager had left
　　as speedily as possible, but the fact that he had come and the message
　　he had brought showed that-to Mr. McDermott-the missing paper was still
　　important.
　　Regretful or not, it was time for Booker T. to quit and go home. The
　　hotel objected to paying overtime. More to the point: Booker T. was hired
　　to concern himself with garbage, not management problems, however remote.
　　He knew that during the day, if the remaining garbage was noticed,
　　someone would be sent in to run the incinerator for an extra few hours
　　and burn it off. Failing that, Booker T. himself would catch up with the
　　residue when he returned to duty late tonight. The trouble was, with the
　　first way, any hope of retrieving the paper would be gone forever, and
　　with the second, even if found, it might be too late for whatever was
　　required.
　　And yet, more than anything else, Booker T. wanted 361
　　    HOTEL
　　to do this thing for Mr. McDermott. If he had been pressed, he could not
　　have said why, since he was not an articulate man, either in thought or
　　speech. But somehow, when the young assistant general manager was around,
　　Booker T. felt more of a man-an individual-than at any other time.
　　He decided he would go on searching.
　　To avoid trouble, he left the incinerator and went to the time clock where
　　he punched out. Then he returned. It was unlikely that he would be noticed.
　　The incinerator was not a place which attracted visitors.
　　He worked for another three and a half hours. He worked slowly,
　　painstakingly, with the knowledge that what he sought might not be in the
　　garbage at all, or could have been burned before he was warned to look.
　　By mid-morning he was very tired and down to the last container but one.
　　He saw it almost at once when he emptied the bin-a ball of waxed paper
　　which looked like sandwich wrappings. When he opened them, inside was a
　　crumpled sheet of stationery, matching the sample Mr. McDermott had left.
　　Ho comparcd tho two undc-r a light to W sure. Therc was no mistake.
　　The recovered paper was grease-stained and partially wet. In one place the
　　writing on it had smeared. But only a little. The rest was clear.
　　Booker T. put on his grimed and greasy coat. Without waiting to dispose of
　　the remaining garbage, he headed for the upper precincts of the hotel.
　　5
　　In Warren Trent's commodious office, Mr. Dempster had concluded his private
　　talk with the comptroller. Spread around them were balance sheets and
　　statements, which Royall Edwards was gathering up as others, arriving for
　　the eleven-thirty meeting, came in to join them. The Pickwickian banker,
　　Emile Dumaire, was first, a trifle flushed with self-importance. He was
　　followed by a sallow, spindly lawyer who handled most of the St. Gregory's
　　legal busi362
　　                          Friday
　　ness, and a younger New Orleans lawyer, representing Albert Wells.
　　Peter McDermott came next, accompanying Warren Trent who had arrived from
　　the fifteenth floor a moment earlier. Paradoxically, despite having lost
　　his long struggle to maintain control of the hotel, the St. Gregory's pro-
　　prietor appeared more amiable and relaxed than at any time in recent weeks.
　　He wore a carnation in his buttonhole and greeted the visitors cordially,
　　including Mr. Dempster whom Peter introduced.
　　For Peter, the proceedings had a chimeric quality. His actions were
　　mechanical, his speech a conditioned reflex, like responding to a litany.
　　It was as if a robot inside him had taken charge until such time as he
　　could recover from the shock administered by the man from Montreal.
　　Executive vice-president. It was less the title which concerned him than
　　its implications.
　　To run the St. Gregory with absolute control was like fulfillment of a
　　vision. Peter knew, with passionate conviction, that the St. Gregory could
　　become a fine hotel. It could be esteemed, efficient, profitable.
　　Obviously, Curtis O'Keefe-whose opinion counted-thought so too.
　　There were means to achieve this end. They included an infusion of capital,
　　reorganization with clearly defined areas of authority, and staff
　　changes-retirements, promotions, and transplantings from outside.
　　When he had learned of the purchase of the hotel by Albert Wells, and its
　　continued independence, Peter hoped that someone else would have the
　　insight and impetus to make progressive changes. Now, he was to be given
　　the opportunity himself. The prospect was exhilarating. And a little
　　frightening.
　　There was a personal significance. The appointment, and what followed,
　　would mean a restoration of Peter McDermott's status within the hotel
　　industry. If he made a success of the St. Gregory, what had gone before
　　would be forgotten, his account wiped clean. Hoteliers, as a group, were
　　neither vicious nor shortsighted. In the end, achievement was what mattered
　　most.
　　Peter's thoughts raced on. Still stunned, but beginning
　　363
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　　to recover, he joined the others now taking their places at a long board
　　table near the center of the room.
　　Albert Wells was last to arrive. He came in shyly, escorted by Christine.
　　As he did, those already in the room rose to their feet.
　　Clearly embarrassed, the little man waved them down. "No, no! Please!"
　　Warren Trent stepped forward, smiling. "Mr. Wells, I welcome you to my
　　house." They shook hands. "When it becomes your house, it will be my
　　heartfelt wish that these old walls will bring to you as great a
　　happiness and satisfaction as, at times, they have to me."
　　It was said with courtliness and grace. From anyone else, Peter McDermott
　　thought, the words might have seemed hollow or exaggerated. Spoken by
　　Warren Trent, they held a conviction which was strangely moving.
　　Albert Wells blinked. With the same courtesy, Warren Trent took his arm
　　and personally performed the introductions.
　　Christine closed the outer door and joined the others at the table.
　　"I believe you know my assistant, Miss Francis; and Mr. McDermott."
　　Albert Wells gave his sly, birdlike smile. "We've had a bit to do with
　　each other." He winked at Peter. "Will do some more, I reckon."
　　It was Emile Dumaire who "harrumphed" and opened the proceedings.
　　The terms of sale, the banker pointed out, had already been substantially
　　agreed. The purpose of the meeting, over which both Mr. Trent and Mr.
　　Dempster had asked him to preside, was to decide upon procedures,
　　including a date for takeover. There appeared to be no difficulties. The
　　mortgage on the hotel, due to be foreclosed today, had been assumed pro
　　tem by the Industrial Merchants Bank, under guarantees by Mr. Dempster,
　　acting on behalf of Mr. Wells.
　　Peter caught an ironic glance from Warren Trent who, for months, had
　　tried unsuccessfully himself to obtain renewal of the mortgage.
　　The banker produced a proposed agenda which he dis364
　　                          Friday
　　tributed. There was a brief discussion of its contents, the lawyers and
　　Mr. Dempster participating. They then moved on to deal with the agenda
　　point by point. Through most of what followed, both Warren Trent and
　　Albert Wells remained spectators only, the former meditative, the little
　　man sunk into his chair as if wishing to meld into the background. At no
　　point did Mr. Dempster refer to Albert Wells, or even glance his way.
　　Obviously, the man from Montreal understood his employer's preference for
　　avoiding attention and was used to making decisions on his own.
　　Peter McDermott and Royall Edwards answered questions, as they arose,
　　affecting administration and finance. On two occasions Christine left the
　　meeting and returned, bringing documents from the hotel files.
　　For all his pompousness, the banker ran a meeting well. Within less than
　　half an hour, the principal business bad been disposed of. The official
　　transfer date was set for Tuesday. Other minor details were left for the
　　lawyers to arrange between them.
　　Emile Dumaire glanced quickly around the table. "Unless there is anything
　　else . . ."
　　"Perhaps one thing." Warren Trent sat forward, his movement commanding
　　the attention of the others. "Between gentlemen, the signing of documents
　　is merely a delayed formality confirming honorable commitments already
　　entered into." He glanced at Albert Wells. "I assume that you agree."
　　Mr. Dempster said, "Certainly."
　　"Then please feel free to commence at once any actions you may
　　contemplate within the hotel."
　　"Thank you." Mr. Dempster nodded appreciatively. "There are some matters
　　we would like to set in motion. Immediately after completion on Tuesday,
　　Mr. Wells wishes a directors' meeting to be held, at which the first
　　business will be to propose your own election, Mr. Trent, as chairman of
　　the board."
　　Warren Trent inclined his head graciously. "I shall be honored to accept.
　　I will do my best to be suitably ornamental."
　　Mr. Dempster permitted himself the ghost of a smile
　　365
　　    HOTEL
　　"It is Mr. Wells' further wish that I should assume the presidency,"
　　"A wish that I can understand."
　　"With Mr. Peter McDermott as executive vice-president."
　　A chorus of congratulations was directed at Peter from around the table.
　　Christine was smiling. With the others, Warren Trent shook Peter's hand.
　　Mr. Dempster waited until the conversation died. "There remains one
　　further point. This week I was in New York when the unfortunate publicity
　　occurred concerning this hotel. I would like an assurance that we are not
　　to have a repetition, at least before the change in management."
　　There was a sudden silence.
　　The older lawyer looked puzzled. In an audible whisper, the younger one
　　explained, "It was because a colored man was turned away."
　　"Ah!" The older lawyer nodded understandingly.
　　"Let me make one thing clear." Mr. Dempster removed his glasses and began
　　polishing them carefully. "I am not suggesting that there be any basic
　　change in hotel policy. My opinion, as a businessman, is that local
　　viewpoints and customs must be respected. What I am concerned with is
　　that if such a situation arises, it should not produce a similar result."
　　Again there was a silence.
　　Abruptly, Peter McDermott was aware that the focus of attention had
　　shifted to himself. He had a sudden, chilling instinct that here, without
　　warning, a crisis had occurred-the first and perhaps the most significant
　　of his new regime. How he handled it could affect the hotel's future and
　　his own. He waited until he was absolutely sure of what he intended to
　　say.
　　"What was said a moment ago"-Peter spoke quietly, nodding toward the
　　younger lawyer.-"is unfortunately true. A delegate to a convention in
　　this hotel, with a confirmed reservation, was refused accommodation. He
　　was a dentist-1 understand, a distinguished one-and incidentally a Negro.
　　I regret to say that I was the one who turned him away. I have since made
　　a personal decision that the same thing will never happen again."
　　366
　　                          Friday
　　Emile Dumaire said, "As executive vice-president, I doubt if you'll be put
　　in the position . . ."
　　"Or to permit a similar action by anyone else in a hotel where I am in
　　charge."
　　The banker pursed his lips. "That's a mighty sweeping statement."
　　Warren Trent turned edgily to Peter. "We've been over all this."
　　"Gentlemen." Mr. Dempster replaced his glasses. "I made it clear, I
　　thought, that I was not suggesting any fundamental change."
　　"But I am, Mr. Dempster." If there was to be a showdown, Peter thought,
　　better to have it now, and done with. Either he would run the hotel or not.
　　This seemed as good a time as any to find out.
　　The man from Montreal leaned forward. "Let me be sure I understand your
　　position."
　　An inner cautioning voice warned Peter he was being reckless. He ignored
　　it. "My position is quite simple. I would insist on complete desegregation
　　of the hotel as a condition of my employment."
　　"Aren't you being somewhat hasty in dictating terms?"
　　Peter said quietly, "I assume your question to mean that you are aware of
　　certain personal matters .
　　Mr. Dempster nodded. "Yes, we are."
　　Christine, Peter observed, had her eyes intently on his face. He wondered
　　what she was thinking.
　　"Hasty or not," he said, "I think it's fair to let you know where I stand."
　　Mr. Dempster was once more polishing his glasses. He addressed the room at
　　large. "I imagine we all respect a firmly held conviction. Even so, it
　　seems to me that this is the kind of issue where we might temporize. If Mr.
　　McDermott will agree, we can postpone a firm decision now. Then, in a month
　　or two, the subject can be reconsidered."
　　If Mr. McDermott will agree. Peter thought: With diplomatic skill, the man
　　from Montreal had offered him a way out.
　　It followed an established pattern. Insistence first, conscience appeased,
　　a belief declared. Then mild concession. A reasonable compromise reached by
　　reasonable men. The
　　367
　　    HOTEL
　　subject can be reconsidered. What could be more civilized, more eminently
　　sane? Wasn7t it the moderate, nonviolent kind of attitude which most
　　people favored? The dentists, for example. Their official letter, with the
　　resolution deploring the hotel's action in the case of Dr. Nicholas, had
　　arrived today.
　　It was also true: there were difficulties facing the hotel. It was an
　　unpropitious time. A change of management would produce a crop of
　　problems, never mind inventing new ones. To wait, perhaps, would be the
　　wisest choice.
　　But then, the time for drastic change was never right. There were always
　　reasons for not doing things. Someone, Peter remembered, had said that
　　recently. Who?
　　Dr. Ingram. The fiery dentists' president who resigned because he
　　believed that principle was more important than expediency, who had quit
　　the St. Gregory Hotel last night in righteous anger.
　　Once in a while, Dr. Ingram had said, you have to weigh what you want
　　against what you believe in ... You didn't do it, McDermott, when you had
　　the chance. You were too worried about this hotel, your job ...
　　Sometimes, though, you get a second chance. if it happens to youtake it.
　　"Mr. Dempster," Peter said, "the law on civil rights is perfectly clear.
　　Whether we delay or circumvent it for a while, in the end the result will
　　be the same."
　　"The way I hear it," the man from Montreal remarked, "there's a good deal
　　of argument about States' rights."
　　Peter shook his head impatiently. His gaze swung round the table. "I
　　believe that a good hotel must adapt itself to changing times. There are
　　matters of human rights that our times have awakened to. Far better that
　　we should be ahead in realizing and accepting these things than that they
　　be forced upon us, as will happen if we f ail to act ourselves. A moment
　　ago I made the statement that I will never be a party again to turning
　　away a Dr. Nicholas. I am not prepared to change my mind."
　　Warren Trent snorted. "They won't all be Dr. Nicholas."
　　"We preserve certain standards now, Mr. Trent. We shall continue to
　　preserve them, except that they will be more embracive."
　　368
　　                          Friday
　　"I warn you! You will run this hotel into the ground.
　　"There seem to be more ways than one of doing that."
　　At the rejoinder, Warren Trent flushed.
　　Mr. Dempster was regarding his hands. "Regrettably, we seem to have
　　reached an impasse. Mr. McDermott, in view of your attitude, we may have
　　to reconsider . . ." For the first time, the man from Montreal betrayed
　　uncertainty. He glanced at Albert Wells.
　　The little man was hunched down in his chair. He seemed to shrink as
　　attention turned toward him. But his eyes met Mr. Dempster's.
　　"Charlie," Albert Wells said, "I reckon we should let the young fellow
　　do it his way." He nodded toward Peter.
　　Without the slightest change of expression, Mr. Dempster announced, "Mr.
　　McDermott, your conditions are met."
　　The meeting was breaking up. In contrast to the earlier accord, there was
　　a sense of constraint and awkwardness. Warren Trent ignored Peter, his
　　expression sour. The older lawyer looked disapproving, the younger
　　noncommittal. Emile Dumaire was talking earnestly with Mr. Dempster. Only
　　Albert Wells seemed slightly amused at what had taken place.
　　Christine went to the door first. A moment later she returned, beckoning
　　Peter. Through the doorway he saw that his secretary was waiting in the
　　outer office. Knowing Flora, it would be something out of the ordinary
　　that had brought her here. He excused himself and went outside.
　　At the doorway, Christine slipped a folded piece of paper into Peter's
　　hand. She whispered, "Read it later." He nodded and thrust the paper into
　　a pocket.
　　"Mr. McDermott," Flora said, "I wouldn't have disturbed you . . ."
　　"I know. What's happened?"
　　"There's a man in your office. He says he works in the incinerator and
　　has something important that you want. He won't give it to me or 90
　　away.99
　　Peter looked startled. "I'll come as quickly as I can."
　　"Please hurry!" Flora seemed embarrassed. "I hate to say this, Mr.
　　McDermott, but the fact is . . . well, he smells."
　　369
　　    HOTEL
　　6
　　A few minutes before midday, a lanky, slow-moving maintenance worker
　　named Billyboi Noble lowered himself into a shallow pit beneath the shaft
　　of number four elevator. His business there was routine cleaning and in-
　　spection, which he had already performed this morning on elevators
　　numbers one, two, and three. It was a procedure for which it was not
　　considered necessary to stop the elevators and, as Billyboi worked, he
　　could see the car of number four-alternately climbing and descendinghigh
　　above.
　　7
　　Momentous issues, Peter McDermott reflected, could hinge upon the
　　smallest quirk of fate.
　　He was alone in his office. Booker T. Graham, suitably thanked and
　　glowing from his small success, had left a few minutes earlier.
　　The smallest quirk of fate.
　　If Booker T. had been a different kind of man, if he had gone home-as
　　others would have done-at the appointed time, if he had been less
　　diligent in searching, then the single sheet of paper, now staring up at
　　Peter from his desk blotter, would have been destroyed.
　　The "ifs" were endless. Peter himself had been involved.
　　His visits to the incinerator, he gathered from their conversation, had
　　had the effect of inspiring Booker T. Early this morning, it appeared,
　　the man had even clocked out and continued to work without any
　　expectation of overtime. When Peter summoned Flora and issued
　　instructions that the overtime be paid, the look of devotion on Booker
　　TA face had been embarrassing.
　　Whatever the cause, the result was here.
　　The note, face upward on the blotter, was dated two days earlier. Written
　　by the Duchess of Croydon on Presidential Suite stationery, it authorized
　　the hotel garage to release the Croydons' car to Ogilvie "at any time he
　　may think suitable."
　　370
　　                          Friday
　　Peter had already checked the handwriting.
　　He had asked Flora for the Croydons' file. It was open on his desk. There
　　was correspondence about reservations, with several notes in the
　　Duchess's own hand. A handwriting expert would no doubt be precise. But
　　even without such knowledge, the similarity was unmistakable.
　　The Duchess had sworn to police detectives that Ogilvie removed the car
　　without authority. She denied Ogilvie's accusation that the Croydons paid
　　him to drive the Jaguar away from New Orleans. She had suggested that
　　Ogilvie, not the Croydons, had been driving last Monday night at the time
　　of the hit-and-run. Questioned about the note, she challenged, "Show it
　　to me!"
　　It could now be shown.
　　Peter McDermott's specific knowledge of the law was confined to matters
　　affecting a hotel. Even so, it was obvious that the Duchess's note was
　　incriminating in the extreme. Equally obvious was Peter's own duty-to
　　inform Captain Yolles at once that the missing piece of evidence had been
　　recovered.
　　With his hand on the telephone, Peter hesitated.
　　He felt no sympathy for the Croydons. From the accumulated evidence, it
　　seemed clear that they had committed a dastardly crime, and afterward
　　compounded it with cowardice and lies. In his mind, Peter could see the
　　old St. Louis cemetery, the procession of mourners, the larger coffin,
　　the tiny white one behind ...
　　The Croydons had even cheated their accomplice, Ogilvie. Despicable as
　　the fat house detective was, his crime was less than theirs. Yet the Duke
　　and Duchess were prepared to inflict on Ogilvie the larger blame and
　　punishment.
　　None of this made Peter hesitate. The reason was simply a
　　tradition-centuries old, the credo of an innkeeperof politeness to a
　　guest.
　　Whatever else the Duke and Duchess of Croydon might be, they were guests
　　of the hotel.
　　He would call the police. But he would call the Croydons first.
　　Lifting the telephone, Peter asked for the Presidential Suite.
　　371
　　    HOTEL
　　8
　　Curtis O'Keefe had personally ordered a late room service breakfast for
　　himself and Dodo, and it had been delivered to his suite an hour ago,
　　Most of the meal, however, still remained untouched. Both he and Dodo had
　　made a perfunctory attempt to sit down together to eat, but neither, it
　　seemed, could muster an appetite. After a while, Dodo asked to be
　　excused, and returned to the adjoining suite to complete her packing. She
　　was due to leave for the airport in twenty minutes, Curtis O'Keefe, an
　　hour later.
　　The strain between them had persisted since yesterday afternoon.
　　After his angry outburst then, O'Keefe had been immediately and genuinely
　　sorry. He continued to resent bitterly what he considered to be the
　　perfidy of Warren Trent. But his tirade against Dodo had been
　　inexcusable, and he knew it.
　　Worse, it was impossible to repair. Despite his apologies, the truth
　　remained. He was getting rid of Dodo, and her Delta Air Lines flight to
　　Los Angeles was due to leave this afternoon. He was replacing her with
　　someone elseJenny LaMarsh who, at this moment, was waiting for him in New
　　York.
　　Last night, contritely, he had laid on an elaborate evening for Dodo,
　　taking her first to dine superbly at the Commander's Palace, and
　　afterward to dance and be entertained at the Blue Room of the Roosevelt
　　Hotel. But the evening had not gone well, not through any fault of
　　Dodo's, but, perversely, through his own low spirits.
　　She had done her best to be gay good company.
　　After her obvious unhappiness of the afternoon, she had, it seemed,
　　resolved to put hurt feelings behind her and be engaging, as she always
　　was. "Gee, Curtie," Dodo exclaimed at dinner, "a lotta girls would give
　　their Playtex girdles to have a movie part like I got." And later,
　　placing her hand over his, "You're still the sweetest, Curtie. You always
　　will be."
　　The effect had been to deepen his own depression which, in the end,
　　proved contagious to them both.
　　372
　　                          Friday
　　Curtis O'Keefe attributed his feelings to the loss of the hotel, though
　　usually he was more resilient about such matters. In his long career he had
　　experienced his share of business disappointments and had schooled himself
　　to bounce back, getting on with the next thing, rather than waste time in
　　lamenting failures.
　　But on this occasion, even after a night's sleep, the mood persisted.
　　It made him irritable with God. There was a distinct sharpness, plus an
　　undertone of criticism, in his morning prayers. . . . Thou hast seen fit to
　　place thy St. Gregory Hotel in alien hands . . . No doubt thou hast thine
　　own inscrutable purpose, even if experienced mortals like thy servant can
　　perceive no reason . . .
　　He prayed alone, taking less time than usual, and afterward found Dodo
　　packing his bags as well as her own. When he protested, she assured him,
　　"Curtie, I like doing it. And if I didn't this time, who would?"
　　He felt disinclined to explain that none of Dodo's predecessors had ever
　　packed or unpacked for him, or that he usually summoned someone from a
　　hotel housekeeping department to do the job, as from now on, he supposed,
　　he would have to do once more.
　　It was at that point he telephoned room service to order breakfast, but the
　　idea hadn't worked despite the fact that when they sat down, Dodo tried
　　again. "Gee, Curtie, we don't have to be miserable. It isn't like we'll
　　never see each other. We can meet in L.A. lots of times."
　　But O'Keefe, who had traveled this road before, knew that they would not.
　　Besides, he reminded himself, it was not parting with Dodo, but the loss of
　　the hotel which really concerned him.
　　The moments slipped by. It was time for Dodo to leave. The bulk of her
　　luggage, collected by two bellboys, had gone down to the lobby several
　　minutes earlier. Now, the bell captain arrived for the remaining hand
　　baggage, and to escort Dodo to her specially chartered airport limousine.
　　Herbie Chandler, aware of Curtis O'Keefe's importance, and sensitive as
　　always to potential tips, had supervised this call himself. He stood
　　waiting at the corridor entrance to the suite.
　　373
　　    HOTEL
　　O'Keefe checked his watch and walked to the connecting doorway. "You've
　　very little time, my dear."
　　Dodo's voice floated out. "I have to finish my nails, Curtie."
　　Wondering why all women left attending to their finger nails until the
　　very last minute, Curtis O'Keefe handed Herbie Chandler a five-dollar
　　bill. "Share this with the other two."
　　Chandler's weasel face brightened. "Thank you very much, sir." He would
　　share it all right, he reflected, except that the other bellboys would
　　get fifty cents each, with Herbie retaining the four dollars.
　　Dodo walked out from the adjoining room.
　　There should be music, Curtis O'Keefe thought. A blazoning of trumpets
　　and the stirring sweep of strings.
　　She had on a simple yellow dress and the big floppy picture hat she had
　　worn when they arrived on Tuesday. The ash-blond hair was loose about her
　　shoulders. Her wide blue eyes regarded him.
　　"Goodbye, dearest Curtie." She put her arms around his neck and kissed
　　him. Without intending to, he held her tightly.
　　He had an absurd impulse to instruct the bell captain to bring back
　　Dodo's bags from downstairs, to tell her to stay and never to leave. He
　　dismissed it as sentimental foolishness. In any case, there was Jenny
　　LaMarsh. By this time tomorrow
　　"Goodbye, my dear. I shall think of you often, and I shall follow your
　　career closely."
　　At the doorway she turned and waved back. He could not be sure, but he
　　had an impression she was crying. Herbie Chandler closed the door from
　　outside.
　　On the twelfth-floor landing, the bell captain rang for an elevator.
　　While they waited, Dodo repaired her makeup with a handkerchief.
　　The elevators seemed slow this morning, Herbie Chandler thought.
　　Impatiently he depressed the call button a second time, holding it down
　　for several seconds. He was still tense, he realized. He had been on
　　tenterhooks ever since the session yesterday with McDermott, wondering
　　just how and when the call would come-a direct sum-
　　374
　　                          Friday
　　mons from Warren Trent perhaps?-which would mark the end of Rcrbie's career
　　at the St. Gregory Hotel. So far there h~id been no call and now, this
　　morning, the rumor was around that the hotel had been sold to some old guy
　　whom Herbi,- had never heard of.
　　How would that kind of change affect him personally? Regrctfully, Herbie
　　decided there would be no advantage for himself-at least, if McDermott
　　stayed on, which seemed prob*le. The bell captain's dismisstl might be
　　delayed a few days, but that was all. McDermott! The hated name was like a
　　sting inside him. If I had guts enough, Herbic thought, I'd put a knife
　　between the bastard's shoulder blades.
　　An idea struck him. There were other ways, less drastic but still
　　unpleasant, in which someone like McDermott could be given a rough time.
　　Especially in New Orleans Of course, that kind of thing cost money, but
　　there was the five hundred dollars which McDermott had turned down so
　　smugly yesterday. He might be sorry that he had. The money would be worth
　　spending, Herbie reflected. just for the pleasure of knowing that McDermott
　　would writhe in some gutter, a mess of blood and bruises. Herbie had once
　　seen someone after they received that kind of beating. The sight was not
　　pr,:~tty. The bell captain licked his lips. The more he thought about it,
　　the more the idea excited him. As soon as he was back on the main floor, he
　　decided, he would make a telephone call. It could be arranged quickly.
　　Perhaps tonight.
　　An elevator had arrived at last. Its doors opened.
　　There were several people already inside who eased politely to the rear as
　　Dodo entered. Herbie Chandler followed. The doors closed.
　　It was number four elevator. The time was eleven minutes past noon.
　　9
　　It seemed to the Duchess of Croydon as if she was waiting for a slow-buming
　　fuse to reach an unseen bomb Whether the bomb would explode, and where,
　　would onli
　　375
　　    HOTEL
　　be known when the burning reached it. Nor was it certain how long, in
　　time, the fuse would take.
　　Already it had been fourteen hours.
　　Since last night, when the police detectives left, there had been no
　　further ained unanswered. What were the
　　police doing? Where was Ogilvie? The Jaguar? Was there some scrap of
　　evidence which, for all her ingenuity, the Duchess had overlooked? Even
　　now, she did not believe there was.
　　One thing seemed important. Whatever their inner tensions, outwardly the
　　Croydons should maintain an appearance of normalcy. For this reason, they
　　had breakfasted at their usual time. Urged on by the Duchess, the Duke
　　of Croydon exchanged telephone calls with London and Washington. Plans
　　were begun for their departure tomorrow from New Orleans.
　　At mid-morning, as she had most other days, the Duchess left the hotel
　　to exercise the Bedlington terriers. She had returned to the Presidential
　　Suite half an hour ago.
　　It was almost noon. There was still no news concerning the single thing
　　that mattered most.
　　Last night, considered logically, the Croydons' position seemed
　　unassailable. And yet, today, logic seemed more tenuous, less secure.
　　"You7d almost think," the Duke of Croydon ventured, "that they're trying
　　to wear us down by silence." He was standing, looking from the window of
　　the suite living room, as he had so many times in recent days. In
　　contrast to other occasions, today his voice was clear. Since yesterday,
　　though liquor remained available in the suite, he had not wavered in his
　　abstinence.
　　"If that's the case," the Duchess responded, "well see to it that ... 11
　　She was interrupted by the jangling of the telephone It honed their
　　nervousness to an edge, as had every other call this morning.
　　The Duchess was nearest to the phone. She reached out her hand, then
　　abruptly stopped. She had a sudden premonition that this call would be
　　different from the rest.
　　The Duke asked sympathetically, "Would you rather me do it?" 376
　　                          Friday
　　She shook her head, dismissing the momentary weakness. Lifting the
　　telephone, she answered, "Yes?"
　　A pause. The Duchess acknowledged, "This is she." Covering the
　　mouthpiece, she informed her husband, "The man from the
　　hotel-McDermott-who was here last night."
　　She said into the telephone, "Yes, I remember. You were present when
　　those ridiculous charges . . ."
　　The Duchess stopped. As she listened, her face paled. She closed her
　　eyes, then opened them.
　　"Yes," she said slowly. "Yes, I understand."
　　She replaced the receiver. Her hands were trembling.
　　The Duke of Croydon said, "Something has gone wrong." It was a statement,
　　not a question.
　　The Duchess nodded slowly. "The note." Her voice was scarcely audible.
　　"The note I wrote has been found. The hotel manager has it."
　　Her husband had moved from the window to the center of the room. He
　　stood, immobile, his hands loosely by his sides, taking time to let the
　　information sink in. At length he asked, "And now?"
　　"He's calling the police. He said he decided to notif3 us first." She put
　　a hand to her forehead in a gesture o! despair. "The note was the worst
　　mistake. If I hadn'written it . . ."
　　"No," the Duke said. "If it wasn't that, it would havt been something
　　else. None of the mistakes were yours The one that mattered-to begin
　　with-was mine.."
　　He crossed to the sideboard which served as a bar, an~ poured a stiff
　　Scotch and soda. "I'll just have this, no more. Be a while before the
　　next, I imagine."
　　"What are you going to do?"
　　He tossed the drink down. "It's a little late to talk of decency. But if
　　any shreds are left, I'll try to salvagc them." He went into the
　　adjoining bedroom, returning al. most at once with a light raincoat and
　　a Homburg hat.
　　"If I can," the Duke of Croydon said, "I intend to gel to the police
　　before they come to me. It's what's knowrL I believe, as giving yourself
　　up. I imagine there isn't muct time, so I'll say what I have to say
　　quickly."
　　377
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　　The Duchess's eyes were on him. At this moment, to speak required more
　　effort than she could make.
　　In a controlled, quiet voice the Duke affirmed, "I want you to know that
　　I'm grateful for all you did. It was a mistake both of us made, but I'm
　　still grateful. I'll do all I can to see that you're not involved. If, in
　　spite of that, you are, then I'll say that the whole idea-after the acci-
　　dent-was mine and that I persuaded you."
　　The Duchess nodded dully.
　　"There's just one other thing. I suppose I shall need some kind of lawyer
　　chap. I'd like you to arrange that, if you will.39
　　The Duke put on the hat and with a finger tapped it into place. For one
　　whose entire life and future had collapsed around him a few moments
　　earlier, his composure seemed remarkable.
　　"You'll need money for the lawyer," he reminded her. "Quite a lot, I
　　imagine. You could start him off with some of that fifteen thousand dollars
　　you were taking to Chicago. Ile rest should go back into the bank. Drawing
　　attention to it doesn't matter now."
　　The Duchess gave no indication of having heard.
　　A look of pity crossed her husband's face. He said uncertainly, "It may be
　　a long time . . ." His arms went out toward her.
　　Coldly, deliberately, she averted her head.
　　The Duke seemed about to speak again, then changed his mind. With a slight
　　shrug he turned, then went out quietly, closing the outer door behind him.
　　For a moment or two the Duchess sat passively, considering the future and
　　weighing the exposure and disgrace immediately ahead. Then, habit
　　reasserting itself, she rose. She would arrange for the lawyer, which
　　seemed necessary at once. Later, she decided calmly, she would examine the
　　means of suicide.
　　Meanwhile, the money which had been mentioned should be put in a safer
　　place. She went into her bedroom.
　　It took only a few minutes, first of unbelief, then of frantic searching to
　　discover that the attach6 case was gone. The cause could only be theft.
　　When she considered
　　378
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　　the possibility of informing the police, the Duchess of Croydon convulsed in
　　demented, hysterical laughter.
　　If you wanted an elevator in a hurry, the Duke of Croydon reflected, you
　　could count on it being slow in coming.
　　He seemed to have been waiting on the ninth floor landing for several
　　minutes. Now, at last, he could hear a car approaching from above. A moment
　　later its doors opened at the ninth.
　　For an instant the Duke hesitated. A second earlier he thought he had heard
　　his wife cry out. He was tempted to go back, then decided not.
　　He stepped into number four elevator.
　　There were several people already inside, including an attractive blond
　　girl and the hotel bell captain who recognized the Duke.
　　"Good day, your Grace."
　　The Duke of Croydon nodded absently as the doors slid closed.
　　10
　　It had taken Keycase Milne most of last night and this morning to decide
　　that what had occurred was reality and not an hallucination. At first, on
　　discovering the money he had carried away so innocently from the
　　Presidential Suite, he assumed himself to be asleep and dreaming. He had
　　walked around his room attempting to awaken. It made no difference. In his
　　apparent dream, it seemed, he was awake already. The confusion kept Keycase
　　genuinely awake until just before dawn. Then he dropped into a deep,
　　untroubled sleep from which he did not stir until mid-morning.
　　It was typical of Keycase, however, that the night had not been wasted.
　　Even while doubting that his incredible stroke of fortune was true, he
　　shaped plans and precautions in case it was.
　　Fifteen thousand dollars in negotiable cash had never before come Keycase's
　　way during all his years as a pro379
　　    HOTEL
　　fessional thief. Even more remarkable, there appeared only two problems
　　in making a clean departure with the money intact. One was when and how
　　to leave the St. Gregory Hotel. The other was transportation of the cash.
　　Last night he reached decisions affecting both.
　　In quitting the hotel, he must attract a minimum of attention. That meant
　　checking out normally and paying his bill. To do otherwise would be
　　sheerest folly, proclaiming dishonesty and inviting pursuit.
　　It was a temptation to check out at once. Keycase resisted it. A late
　　night checkout, perhaps involving discussion as to whether or not an
　　extra room day should be charged, would be like lighting a beacon. The
　　night cashier would remember and could describe him. So might others if
　　the hotel ost likely it would be.
　　Nol-the best time to check out was mid-morning or later, when plenty of
　　other people would be leaving too. That way, he could be virtually
　　unnoticed,
　　Of course, there was danger in delay. Loss of the cash might be
　　discovered by the Duke and Duchess of Croydon, and the police alerted.
　　That would mean a police stake-out in the lobby and scrutiny of each
　　departing guest. But, on the credit side, there was nothing to connect
　　Keycase with the robbery, or even involve him as a suspect. Furthermore,
　　it seemed unlikely that the baggage of every guest would be opened and
　　searched.
　　Also, there was an intangible. Instinct told Keycase that the presence
　　of so large a sum in cash-precisely where and how he had found it-was
　　peculiar, even suspicious. Would an alarm be raised? There was at least
　　a possibility that it might not.
　　On reflection, to wait seemed the lesser risk.
　　The second problem was removal of the money from the hotel.
　　Keycase considered mailing it, using the hotel mail chute and addressing
　　it to himself at a hotel in some other city where he would appear in a
　　day or two. It was a method he had used successfully before. Then,
　　ruefully, he decided the sum was too large. It any
　　separate packages which, in themselves, might create attention.
　　380
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　　The money would have to be carried from the hotel. How?
　　Obviously, not in the attach6 case which he had brought here from the
　　Duke and Duchess of Croydon's suite. Before anything else was done, that
　　must be destroyed. Keycase set out carefully to do so.
　　The case was of expensive leather and well constructed. Painstakingly,
　　he took it apart, then, with razor blades, cut it into tiny portions. The
　　work was slow and tedious. Periodically, he stopped to flush portions
　　down the toilet, spacing out his use of the toilet, so as not to attract
　　attention from adjoining rooms.
　　It took more than two hours. At the end, all that remained of the attach6
　　case were its metal locks and hinges. Keyease put them in his pocket.
　　Leaving his room, he took a walk along the eighth-floor corridor.
　　Near the elevators were several sand urns. Burrowing into one with his
　　fingers, he pushed the locks and hinges well down. They might be
　　discovered eventually, but not for some time.
　　By then, it was an hour or two before dawn, the hotel silent. Keycase
　　returned to his room where he packed his belongings, except for the few
　　things he would need immediately before departure. He used the two
　　suitcases he had brought with him on Tuesday morning. Into the larger,
　　he stuffed the fifteen thousand dollars, rolled in several soiled shirts.
　　Then, still dazed and unbelieving, Keycase slept.
　　He had set his alarm clock for ten A.m., but either he slept through its
　　warning or it failed to go off. When he awoke, it was almost 11: 30, with
　　the sun streaming brightly into the room.
　　The sleep accomplished one thing. Keycase was convinced at last that the
　　happenings of last night were real, not illusory. A moment of abject
　　defeat had, with Cinderella magic, turned into sbining triumph. The
　　thought sent his spirits soaring.
　　He shaved and dressed quickly, then completed his packing and locked both
　　suitcases.
　　He would leave the suitcases in his room, he decided,
　　381
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　　while he went down to pay his bill and reconnoiter the lobby.
　　Before doing so, he disposed of his surplus keys-for rooms 449, 641, 803,
　　1062, and the Presidential Suite. While shaving, he had observed a
　　plumber's inspection plate low on the bathroom wall. Unscrewing the
　　cover, he dropped the keys in. One by one he heard them strike bottom far
　　below.
　　He retained his own key, 830, for handing in when he left his room for
　　the last time. The departure of "Byron Meader" from the St. Gregory Hotel
　　must be normal in every way.
　　The lobby was averagely busy, with no sign of unusual activity. Keyease
　　paid his bill and received a friendly smile from the girl cashier. "Is
　　the room vacant now, sir?"
　　He returned the smile. "It will be in a few minutes. I have to collect
　　my bags, that's all."
　　Satisfied, he went back upstairs.
　　In 830 he took a last careful look around the room. He had left nothing;
　　no scrap of paper, no unconsidered trifle such as a match cover, no clue
　　whatever to his true identity. With a damp towel, Keycase wiped the
　　obvious surfaces which might have retained fingerprints. Then, picking
　　up both suitcases, he left.
　　His watch showed ten past twelve.
　　He held the larger suitcase tightly. At the prospect of walking through
　　the lobby and out of the hotel, Keycase's pulse quickened, his hands grew
　　clammy.
　　On the eighth-floor landing he rang for an elevator. Waiting, he heard
　　one coming down. It stopped at the floor above, started downward once
　　more, then stopped again. In front of Keycase, the door of number four
　　elevator slid open.
　　At the front of the car was the Duke of Croydon.
　　For a horror-filled instant, Keycase had an impulse to turn and run. He
　　mastered it. In the same split second, sanity told him that the encounter
　　was accidental. Swift glances confirmed it. The Duke was alone. He had
　　not even noticed Keycase. From the Duke's expression, his thoughts were
　　far away.
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　　The elevator operator, an elderly man, said, "Going down!"
　　Alongside the operator was the hotel bell captain, whom Keycase recognized
　　from having seen him in the lobby. Nodding to the two bags, the bell
　　captain inquired, "Shall I take those, sir?" Keycase shook his head.
　　As he stepped into the elevator, the Duke of Croydon and a beautiful blond
　　girl eased nearer the rear to make room.
　　The gates closed. The operator, Cy Lewin, pushed the selector handle to
　　"descend." As he did, with a scream of tortured metal, the elevator car
　　plunged downward, out of control.
　　He owed it to Warren Trent, Peter McDermott decided, to explain personally
　　what had occurred concerning the Duke and Duchess of Croydon.
　　Peter found the hotel proprietor in his main mezzanine office. The others
　　who had been at the meeting had left. Aloysius Royce was with his employer,
　　helping assemble personal possessions, which he was packing into cardboard
　　containers.
　　"I thought I might as well get on with this," Warren Trent told Peter. "I
　　won't need this office any more. I suppose it will be yours." There was no
　　rancor in the older man's voice, despite their altercation less than half
　　an hour ago.
　　Aloysius Royce continued to work quietly as the other two talked.
　　Warren Trent listened attentively to the description of events since
　　Peter's hasty departure from St. Louis cemetery yesterday afternoon,
　　concluding with the telephone calls, a few minutes ago, to the Duchess of
　　Croydon and the New Orleans police.
　　"If the Croydons did what you say," Warren Trent pronounced, "I've no
　　sympathy for them. You've handled it well." He growled an afterthought. "At
　　least we'll be rid of those damn dogs."
　　"I'm afraid Ogilvie is involved pretty deeply."
　　383
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　　The older man nodded. "This time he's gone too far. He'll take the
　　consequences, whatever they are, and he's finished here." Warren Trent
　　paused. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind. At length he
　　said, "I suppose you wonder why I've always been lenient with Ogilvie."
　　"Yes," Peter said, "I have."
　　"He was my wife's nephew. I'm not proud of the fact, and I assure you
　　that my wife and Ogilvie had nothing in common. But many years ago she
　　asked me to give him a job here, and I did. Afterward, when she was
　　worried about him once, I promised to keep him employed. I've never,
　　really, wanted to undo that."
　　How did you explain, Warren Trent wondered, that while the link with
　　Hester had been defective and tenuous, it was the only one he had.
　　"I'm sorry," Peter said. "I didn't know . . .
　　"That I was ever married?" The older man smiled. "Not many do. My wife
　　came with me to this hotel. We were both young. She died soon after. It
　　all seems a long time ago.1%
　　It was a reminder, Warren Trent thought, of the loneliness he had endured
　　across the years, and of the greater loneliness soon to come.
　　Peter said, "Is there anything I can . .
　　Without warning, the door from the outer office flew open. Christine
　　stumbled in. She had been running, and had lost a shoe. She was
　　breathless, her hair awry. She barely got the words out.
　　"There's been . . . terrible accident! One of the elevators. I was in the
　　lobby . . . It's horrible! People are trapped ... They're screaming."
　　At the doorway, already on the run, Peter McDermott brushed her aside.
　　Aloysius Royce was close behind.
　　12
　　Three things should have saved number four elevator from disaster.
　　One was an overspeed governor on the elevator car. It
　　384
　　                          Friday
　　was set to trip when the car's speed exceeded a prescribed safety limit.
　　On number four-though the defect had not been noticed-the governor was
　　operating late.
　　A second device comprised four safety clamps. Immediately the governor
　　tripped, these should have seized the elevator guide rails, halting the
　　car. in fact, on one side of the car two clamps held. But on the other
　　side--due to delayed response of the governor, and because the machinery
　　was old and weakened-the clamps failed.
　　Even then, prompt operation of an emergency control inside the elevator
　　car might have averted tragedy. This was a single red button. Its
　　purpose, when depressed, was to cut off all electric power, freezing the
　　car. In modem elevators the emergency button was located high, and
　　plainly in view. In the St. Gregory's cars, and many others, it was
　　positioned low. Cy Lewin reached down, fumbling awkwardly to reach it.
　　He was a second too late.
　　As one set of clamps held and the other failed, the car twisted and
　　buckled. With a thunder of wrenching, tearing metal, impelled by its own
　　weight and speed, plus the heavy load inside, the car split open. Rivets
　　sheared, paneling splintered, metal sheeting separated. On one sidelower
　　than the other because the floor was now tilted at a steep angle-a gap
　　several feet high appeared between floor and wall. Screaming, clutching
　　wildly at each other, the passengers slid toward it.
　　Cy Lewin, the elderly operator, who was nearest, was first to fall
　　through. His single scream as he fell nine floors was cut off when his
　　body hit the sub-basement concrete. An elderly couple from Salt Lake City
　　fell next, clasping each other. Like Cy Lewin, they died as their bodies
　　smashed against the ground. The Duke of Croydon fen awkwardly, striking
　　an iron bar on the side of the shaft, which impaled him. The bar broke
　　off, and he continued to fall. He was dead before his body reached the
　　ground.
　　Somehow, others held on. While they did, the remaining two safety clamps
　　gave way, sending the wrecked car plummeting the remaining distance down
　　the shaft. Part way, a youngish conventioneer dentist slipped through the
　　gap, his arms flailing. He was to survive the accident, but die three
　　days later of internal injuries.
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　　Herbie Chandler was more fortunate. He fell when the car was near the end
　　of its descent. Tumbling into the adjoining shaft, he sustained head
　　injuries from which he would recover, and sheared and fractured vertebrae
　　which would make him a paraplegic, never walking again for the remainder
　　of his life.
　　A middle-aged New Orleans woman lay, with a fractured tibia and a
　　shattered jaw, on the elevator floor.
　　As the car hit bottom, Dodo was last to fall. An arm was broken and her
　　skull cracked hard against a guide rail. She lay unconscious, close to
　　death, as blood gushed from a massive head wound.
　　Three others-a Gold Crown Cola conventioneer, his wife, and Keycase
　　Milne-were miraculously unhurt.
　　Beneath the wrecked elevator car, Billyboi Noble, the maintenance worker
　　who, some ten minutes earlier, had lowered himself into the elevator pit,
　　lay with legs and pelvis crushed, conscious, bleeding, and screaming.
　　13
　　Running with a speed he had never used in the hotel before, Peter
　　McDermott raced down the mezzanine stairs.
　　The lobby, when he reached it, was a scene of pandemonium. Screams
　　resounded through the elevator doors and from several women nearby. There
　　was confused shouting. In front of a milling crowd, a white-faced assist-
　　ant manager and a bellboy were attempting to pry open the metal doors to
　　number four elevator shaft. Cashiers, room clerks, and office workers
　　were pouring out from behind counters and desks. Restaurants and bars
　　were emptying into the lobby, waiters and bartenders following their
　　customers. In the main dining room, lunchtime music had stopped, the
　　musicians joining the exodus. A line of kitchen workers was streaming out
　　through a service doorway. An excited babel of questions greeted Peter.
　　As loudly as he could, he shouted above the uproar, "QuietV9
　　There was a momentary silence in which he called out again, "Please stand
　　back and we will do everything we
　　386
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　　can." He caught a room clerk's eye. "Has someone called the Fire
　　Department?"
　　"I'm not sure, sir. I thought .
　　Peter snapped, "Do it now!" He instructed another, "Get onto the police.
　　Tell them we need ambulances, doctors, someone to control the crowd."
　　Both men disappeared, running.
　　A tall, lean man in a tweed jacket and drill trousers stepped forward. "I'm
　　a Marine officer. Tell me what you want.st
　　Peter said gratefully, "The center of the lobby must be kept clear. Use
　　hotel staff to form a cordon. Keep a passageway open to the main entrance.
　　Fold back the revolving doors."
　　"Right!"
　　The tall man tamed away and began cracking commands. As if appreciative of
　　leadership, others obeyed. Soon, a line of waiters, cooks, clerks,
　　bellboys, musicians, some conscripted guests, extended across the lobby and
　　to the St. Charles Avenue door.
　　Aloysius Royce had joined the assistant manager and bellboy attempting to
　　force the elevator doors. He turned, calling to Peter. "We'll never do this
　　without tools. We have to break in somewhere else."
　　A coveralled maintenance worker ran into the lobby. He appealed to Peter.
　　"We need help at the bottom of the shaft. There's a guy trapped under the
　　car. We can't get him out or get at the others."
　　Peter snapped, "Let's get down there!" He sprinted for the lower service
　　stairs, Aloysius Royce a pace behind.
　　A gray brick tunnel, dimly lighted, led to the elevator shaft. Here, the
　　cries they had heard above were audible again, but now with greater
　　closeness and more eerily. The shattered elevator car was directly in
　　front, but the way to it barred by twisted, distorted metal from the car
　　itself and installations it had hit on impact. Near the front, maintenance
　　workers were struggling with pry bars. Others stood helplessly behind.
　　Screams, confused shouts, the rumble of nearby machinery, combined with a
　　steady moaning from the car's interior.
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　　Peter shouted to the men not occupied, "Get more lights in here!" Several
　　hurried away down the tunnel.
　　He instructed the man in coveralls who had come to the lobby, "Get back
　　upstairs. Guide the firemen down."
　　Aloysius Royce, on his knees beside the debris, shouted, "And send a
　　doctor-now!"
　　"Yes," Peter said, "take someone to show him the way. Have an
　　announcement made. There are several doctors staying in the hotel."
　　The man nodded and ran back the way they had come.
　　More people were arriving in the corridor, beginning to block it. The
　　chief engineer, Doc Vickery, shouldered his way through.
　　"My God!" The chief stood staring at the scene before him. "My God!-I
　　told them. I warned if we didn't spend money, something like this . . ."
　　He seized Peter's arm. "You heard me, laddie. You've heard me enough
　　times. . ."
　　"Later, chief." Peter released his arm. "What can you do to get those
　　people out?"
　　The chief shook his head helplessly. "ent-jacks,
　　cutting tools . . ."
　　It was evident that the chief was in no condition to take charge. Peter
　　instructed him, "Check on the other elevators. Stop all service if you
　　have to. Don't take chances of a repetition." The older man nodded
　　dumbly. Bowed and broken, he moved away.
　　Peter grasped the shoulder of a gray-haired stationery engineer whom he
　　recognized. "Your job is to keep this area clear. Everyone is to move out
　　of here who is not directly concerned."
　　The engineer nodded. As he began to order others back, the tunnel
　　cleared.
　　Peter returned to the elevator shaft. Aloysius Royce, by kneeling and
　　crawling, had eased himself under part of the debris and was holding the
　　shoulders of the injured, screaming maintenance man. In the dim light it
　　was clear that a mass of wreckage rested on his legs and lower abdomen.
　　"Billyboi," Royce was urging, "you'll be all right. I promise you. We'll
　　get you out."
　　The answer was another tortured scream.
　　388
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　　Peter took one of the injured man's hands. "He's right. We're here now.
　　Help is coming."
　　Distantly, high above, he could hear a growing wail of sirens.
　　14
　　The room clerk's telephone summons reached the Fire Alarm Office in City
　　Hall. His message had not concluded when two high-pitched beeps-a major
　　alarm alertsounded in every city fire hall. On radio, a dispatcher's calm
　　voice followed.
　　"Striking box zero zero zero eight for alarm at St. Gregory Hotel,
　　Carondelet and Common."
　　Automatically, four fire halls responded--Central on Decatur, Tulane, South
　　Rampart, and Dumaine. In three of the four, non-duty-watchmen were at
　　lunch. At Central, lunch was almost ready. The fare was meatballs and spa-
　　ghetti. A fireman, taking his turn as cook, sighed as he turned off the gas
　　and ran with the rest. Of all the godforsaken times for a midtown, high
　　property alarm!
　　Clothing and longboots were on the trucks. Men kicked off shoes, climbing
　　aboard while rigs were rolling. Within less than a minute of the double
　　beeps, five engine companies, two hook and ladders, a host tender,
　　emergency, rescue and salvage units, a deputy chief and two district chiefs
　　were on the way to the St. Gregory, their drivers fighting busy midday
　　traffic.
　　A hotel alert rated everything in the book.
　　At other fire halls, sixteen more engine companies and two hook and ladders
　　stood by for a second alarm.
　　The Police Complaint Department in the Criminal Justice Courts received its
　　warning two ways-from the Fire Alarm Office and directly from the hotel.
　　Under a notice, "Be Patient With Your Caller," two women communications
　　clerks wrote the information on message blanks, a moment later handed them
　　to a radio dispatcher. The message went out: All ambulances-Police and
　　Charity Hospital-to the St. Gregory Hotel.
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　　15
　　Three floors below the St. Gregory lobby, in the tunnel to the elevator
　　shaft, the noise, hasty commands, moans and cries continued. Now,
　　penetrating them, were crisp, swift footsteps. A man in a seersucker suit
　　hurried in. A young man. With a medical bag.
　　"Doctor!" Peter called urgently. "Over here!"
　　Crouching, crawling, the newcomer joined Peter and Aloysius Royce. Behind
　　them, extra lights, hastily strung, were coming on. Billyboi Noble
　　screamed again. His face turned to the doctor, eyes pleading, features
　　agony-contorted. "Oh, God! Oh, God! Please give me something.. ."
　　The doctor nodded, scrabbling in his bag. He produced a syrette. Peter
　　pushed back Billyboi's coverall sleeve, holding an arm exposed. The
　　doctor swabbed hastily, jabbed the needle home. Within seconds the
　　morphine had taken hold. Billyboi's head fell back. His eyes closed.
　　The doctor had a stethoscope to Billyboi's chest. "I haven't much with
　　me. I came off the street. How quickly can you get him out?"
　　"As soon as we've help. It's coming."
　　More running footsteps. This time, a heavy pounding of many feet.
　　Helmeted firemen streaming in. With them, bright lanterns, heavy
　　equipment-axes, power jacks, cutting tools, lever bars. Little talk.
　　Short, staccato words. Grunts, sharp orders. "Over here! A jack under
　　there. Get this heavy stuff moving!"
　　From above, a tattoo of ax blows crashing home. The sound of yielding
　　metal. A stream of light as shaft doors opened at the lobby level. A cry,
　　"Ladders! We need ladders here!" Long ladders coming down.
　　The young doctor's command: "I must have this man
　　OUVI
　　Two firemen struggling to position a jack. Extended, it would take the
　　weight from Billyboi. The firemen groping, swearing, maneuvering to find
　　clearance. The jack too large by several inches. "We need a smaller jack!
　　Get a smaller jack to start, to get the big one placed." The demand
　　repeated on a walkie-talkie. "Bring the small jack from the rescue
　　truck!"
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　　The doctor's voice again, insistently. "I must have this man out!"
　　Peter's voice. "That bar therel The one higher. If we move it, it will
　　lift the lower, leave clearance for the jack."
　　A fireman cautioning. "Twenty tons up there. Shift something, it can all
　　come down. When we start, we'll take it slow."
　　"Let's try!" Aloysius Royce.
　　Royce and Peter, shoulders together, backs under the higher bar, arms
　　interlocked. Strain upward! Nothing. Strain harder again.1 Still harderl
　　Lungs bursting, blood surging, senses swimming. The bar moving, but
　　barely. Even harderl Do the finpossiblel Consciousness slipping. Sight
　　diminishing. A red mist only. Straining. Moving. A shout, "The jack is
　　inl" The straining ended. Down. Pulled free. The jack turning, lifting.
　　Debris rising. "We can get him outl"
　　The doctor's voice, quietly. "Take your time. He just died."
　　The dead and injured were brought upward by the ladder one by one. The
　　lobby became a clearing station, with hasty aid for those still living,
　　a place of pronouncement for the dead. Furniture was pushed clear.
　　Stretchers fined the central area. Behind the cordon, the crowd-silent
　　now -pressed tightly. Women were crying. Some men had turned away.
　　Outside, a line of ambulances waited. St. Charles Avenue and Carondelet,
　　between Canal and Gravier Streets, were closed to traffic. Crowds were
　　gathering behind police blockades at both ends. Singly, the ambulances
　　raced away. First, with Herbie Chandler; next, the injured dentist who
　　would die; a moment later, the New Orleans woman with injuries to leg and
　　jaw. Other ambulances drove more slowly to the city morgue. Inside the
　　hotel, a police captain questioned witnesses, seeking names of victims.
　　Of the injured, Dodo was brought up last. A doctor, climbing down, had
　　applied a compression dressing to the gaping head wound. Her arm was in
　　a plastic splint. Keycase Milne, ignoring offers of help himself, had
　　stayed with Dodo, holding her, guiding rescuers to where she lay. Key-
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　　case was last out. The Gold Crown Cola conventioneer and his wife preceded
　　him. A fireman passed up the bags -Dodo's and Keycase's-from the
　　elevator's wreckage to the lobby. A uniformed city policeman received and
　　guarded them.
　　Peter McDermott had returned to the lobby when Dodo was brought out. She
　　was white and still, her body bloodsoaked, the compression dressing
　　already red. As she was laid on a stretcher, two doctors worked over her
　　briefly. One was a young intern, the other an older man. The younger
　　doctor shook his head.
　　Behind the cordon, a commotion. A man in shirtsleeves, agitated,
　　shouting, "Let me pass!"
　　Peter turned his head, then motioned to the Marine officer. The cordon
　　parted. Curtis O'Keefe came rushing through.
　　His face distraught, he walked beside the stretcher. When Peter last saw
　　him, he was on the street outside, pleading to be allowed in the
　　ambulance. The intem nodded. Doors slammed. Its siren screaming, the
　　ambulance raced away.
　　16
　　With shock, barely believing his own deliverance, Keycase climbed the
　　ladder in the elevator shaft. A fireman was behind. Hands reached down
　　to help him. Arms gave support as he stepped into the lobby.
　　Keycase found that he could stand and move unaided. His senses were
　　returning. Once more., his brain was alert. Uniforms were all around.
　　They frightened him.
　　His two suitcasesl If the larger one had burst openI ... But no. They
　　were with several others nearby. He moved toward them.
　　A voice behind said, "Sir, there's an ambulance waiting." Keycase turned,
　　to see a young policeman.
　　"I don't need . . ."
　　"Everyone must go, sir. It's for a check. For your own protection."
　　Keycase protested, "I must have my bags." 392
　　                          Friday
　　"You can collect them later, sir. They'll be looked after."
　　"No, now.
　　Another voice cut in. "Christ! If he wants his bags, let him take them.
　　Anyone who's been through that's entitled . . . 99
　　The young policeman carried the bags and escorted Keycase to the St.
　　Charles Avenue door. "If you'll. wait here, sir, IT see which ambulance."
　　He set the bags down.
　　While the policeman was gone, Keycase picked them up and melted into the
　　crowd. No one observed him as he walked away.
　　He continued to walk, without haste, to the outdoor parking lot where he
　　had left his car yesterday after his successful pillaging of the house in
　　Lakeview. He had a sense of peace and confidence. Nothing could possibly
　　happen to him now.
　　The parking lot was crowded, but Keycase spotted his Ford sedan by its
　　distinctive green-on-white Michigan plates. He was reminded that on Monday
　　he had been concerned that the license plates might attract attention.
　　Obviously, he had worried needlessly.
　　The car was as he had left it. As usual, the motor started at a touch.
　　From downtown, Keyease drove carefully to the motel on Chef Menteur Highway
　　where he had cached his earlier loot. Its value was small, compared with
　　the glorious fifteen thousand dollars cash, but still worth while.
　　At the motel, Keycase backed the Ford close to his rented room and carried
　　in the two suitcases he had brought from the St. Gregory. He drew the motel
　　room drapes before opening the larger case to assure himself that the money
　　was still there. It was.
　　He had stored a good many of his personal effects at the moteL and now he
　　repacked his several suitcases to get these in. At the end, he found that
　　he was left with the two far coats and the silver bowl and salver he had
　　stolen from the house in Lakeview. There was no room to include them,
　　except by repacking once more.
　　Keycase knew that he should. But in the past few minutes, he had become
　　aware of an overwhelming fatigue-
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　　a reaction, he supposed, from the events and tensions of today. Also, time
　　had run on, and it was important that he get clear of New Orleans as
　　quickly as possible. The coats and silver, he decided, would be perfectly
　　safe, unpacked, in the trunk of the Ford.
　　Making sure he was unobserved, he loaded the suitcases into the car,
　　placing the coats and silver beside them.
　　He checked out of the motel and paid a balance owing on his bill. Some
　　of his tiredness seemed to lift as he drove away.
　　His destination was Detroit. He planned to make the drive in easy stages,
　　stopping when he felt like it. On the way he would do some serious
　　thinking about the future. For a number of years Keycase had promised
　　himself that if ever he acquired a reasonably substantial sum of money,
　　he would use it to buy a small garage. There, abandoning his itinerant
　　life of crime, he would settle down to work honestly through the sunset
　　of his days. He possessed the ability. The Ford beneath his hands was
　　proof. And fifteen thousand dollars was ample for a start. The question
　　was: Was this the time?
　　Keycase was already debating the proposition as he drove across north New
　　Orleans, heading for the Pontchartrain Expressway and the road to
　　freedom.
　　There were logical arguments in favor of settling down. He was no longer
　　young. Risks and tension tired him. He had been touched, this time in New
　　Orleans, by the disabling hand of fear.
　　And yet . . . events of the past thirty-six hours had given him fresh
　　confidence, a new Ran. The successful house robbery, the Aladdin's haul
　　of cash, his survival of the elevator disaster barely an hour ago--all
　　these seemed symptoms of invincibility. Surely, combined, they were an
　　omen telling him the way to go?
　　Perhaps after all, Keycase reflected, he should continue the old ways for
　　a while. The garage could come later. There was really plenty of time.
　　He had driven from Chef Menteur Highway onto Gentilly Boulevard, around
　　City Park, past lagoons and ancient, spreading oaks. Now, on City Park
　　Avenue, he was approaching Metarie Road. It was here that the newer 394
　　                          Friday
　　cemeteries of New Orleans-Greenwood, Metarie, St. Patrick, Fireman's,
　　Charity Hospital, Cypress Grove-spread a sea of tombstones as far as vision
　　went. High above them all was the elevated Pontchartrain Expressway. Keycase
　　could see the Expressway now, a citadel in the sky, a haven beckoning. In
　　minutes he would be on it.
　　Approaching the junction of Canal Street and City Park Avenue, last staging
　　point before the Expressway ramp, Keycase observed that the intersection's
　　traffic lights had failed. A policeman was directing traffic from the
　　center of the road on the Canal Street side.
　　A few yards from the intersection, Keycase felt a tire go flat.
　　Motor Pairolman Nicholas Clancy, of the New Orleans Police, had once been
　　accused by his embittered sergeant of being "the dumbest cop on the force,
　　bar none."
　　The charge held truth. Despite long service which had made him a veteran,
　　Clancy had never once advanced in rank or even been considered for
　　promotion. His record was inglorious. He had made almost no arrests, and
　　none that was major. If Clancy chased a fleeing car, its driver was sure to
　　get away. Once, in a melee, Clancy had been told to handcuff a suspect whom
　　another officer had captured. Clancy was still struggling to free his
　　handcuffs from his belt when the suspect was blocks away. On another
　　occasion, a much-sought bank bandit who had got religion, surrendered to
　　Clancy on a city street. The bandit handed over his gun which Clancy
　　dropped. The gun went off, startling the bandit into changing his mind and
　　fleeing. It was another year and six more holdups before he was recaptured.
　　Only one thing, over the years, saved Clancy from dismissal-an extreme good
　　nature which no one could resist, plus a sad clown's humble awareness of
　　his own shortcomings.
　　Sometimes, in his private moments, Clancy wished that he could achieve one
　　thing, attain some single worthwhile moment, if not to balance the record,
　　at least to make it less one-sided. So far he had signally failed.
　　One solitary thing in line of duty gave Clancy not the 395
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　　slightest trouble-directing traffic. He enjoyed it. If, somehow, Clancy
　　could have reached back into history to prevent the invention of the
　　automatic traffic light, he would have done so gladly.
　　Ten minutes ago, when he realized that the lights at Canal and City Park
　　Avenue had failed, he radioed the information in, parked his motorcycle,
　　and took over the intersection. He hoped that the street lighting repair
　　crew would take its time in coming.
　　From the opposite side of the avenue, Clancy saw the gray Ford sedan slow
　　and stop. Taking his time, he strolled across. Keycase was seated,
　　motionless, as when the car stopped.
　　Clancy surveyed the offside rear wheel which was resting on its rim.
　　46171at tire?"
　　Keycase nodded. If Clancy had been more observant, he would have noticed
　　that the knuckle joints of the hands on the steering wheel were white.
　　Keycase, through a veU of bitter self-recrimination, was remembering the
　　single, simple factor his painstaking plans had overlooked. The spare
　　tire and jack were in the trunk. To reach them, he must open the trunk,
　　revealing the far coats, the silver bowl, the salver and the suitcases.
　　He waited, sweating. The policeman showed no sign of moving.
　　"Guess you'll have to change the wheel, eh?"
　　Again Keycase nodded. He calculated. He could do it fast. Three minutes
　　at the most. Jackl Wheel wrenchl Spin the nuts! Wheel off I The spare onl
　　Fasten! Throw wheel, jack and wrench on the back seat! Slam the trunk
　　closedl He could be away. On the Expressway. If only the cop would go.
　　Behind the Ford, other cars were slowing, some having to stop before
　　easing into the center lane. One pulled out too soon. Behind him, rubber
　　squealed. A horn blasted in protest. The cop leaned forward, resting his
　　arms on the door beside Keycase.
　　"Gets busy around here."
　　Keycase swallowed. "Yes." 396
　　                          Friday
　　The cop straightened up, opening the door. "Ought to start things moving."
　　Keycase drew the keys from the ignition. Slowly, he stepped down to the
　　road. He forced a smile. "It's all right, officer. I can handle it."
　　Keycase waited, holding his breath as the cop surveyed the intersection.
　　Clancy said good naturedly, "I'll give you a hand."
　　An impulse seized Keycase to abandon the car and run. He dismissed it as
　　hopeless. With resignation, he inserted the key and opened the trunk.
　　Scarcely a minute later, he had the jack in place, wheel nuts were
　　loosened, and he was raising the rear bumper. The suitcases, fur coats and
　　silver were heaped to one side in the trunk. As he worked, Keycase could
　　see the cop contemplating the collection. Incredibly, so far, he had said
　　nothing.
　　What Keycase could not know was that Clancy's reasoning process took time
　　to function.
　　Clancy leaned down and fingered one of the coats.
　　"Bit hot for these." The city's shade temperature for the past ten days had
　　hovered around ninety-five.
　　"My wife . . . sometimes feels the cold."
　　Wheel nuts were off, the old wheel free. With a single movement, Keycase
　　opened the rear car door and flung the wheel inside.
　　The cop craned around the trunk lid, inspecting the car's interior.
　　"Little lady not with you, eh?"
　　"I . . . I'm picking her up."
　　Keycase's hands strove frantically to release the spare wheel. The locknut
　　was stiff. He broke a finger nail and skinned his fingers freeing it.
　　Ignoring the hurt, he hefted the wheel from the trunk.
　　"Looks kind of funny, all this stuff."
　　Keycase froze. He dare not move. He had come to Golgotha. Intuition told
　　him why.
　　Fate had presented him a chance, and he had thrown it away. It mattered not
　　that the decision had been solely in his mind. Fate had been kind, but
　　Keycase had spurned the kindness. Now, in anger, fate had turned its back.
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　　Terror struck as he remembered what, a few minutes earlier, he had so
　　readily forgotten-the awful price of one more conviction; the long
　　imprisonment lasting, perhaps, for the remainder of his life. Freedom had
　　never seemed more precious. The Expressway, so close, seemed half a world
　　away.
　　At last Keycase knew what the omens of the past day and a half had really
　　meant. They had offered him release, a chance for a new and decent life,
　　an escape to tomorrow. If he had only known.
　　Instead, he had misread the portents. With arrogance and vanity, he had
　　interpreted fate's kindness as his own invincibility. He had made his
　　decision. This was the result. Now it was too late.
　　Was it? Was it ever too late-at least for hope? Keycase closed his eyes.
　　He vowed-with a deep resolve which, given the opportunity, he knew he
　　would keep-that if, through merest chance, he should escape this moment,
　　he would never again, in all his life, do one more dishonest thing.
　　Keycase opened his eyes. The cop was walking to another car whose driver
　　had stopped to ask directions.
　　With movements swifter than he believed possible, Keycase thrust the
　　wheel on, replaced the nuts and released the jack which he threw into the
　　trunk. Even now, instinctively as a good mechanic should, Keycase gave
　　the wheel nuts an extra tightening when the wheel was on the ground. He
　　had the trunk repacked when the cop returned.
　　Clancy nodded approvingly, his earlier thought forgotten. "All finished,
　　eh?"
　　Keycase slammed the trunk lid down. For the first time, Motor Patrolman
　　Clancy saw the Michigan license plate.
　　Michigan. Green on white. In the depths of Clancy's brain, memory
　　stirred.
　　Had it been today, yesterday, the day before? ... His platoon commander,
　　on parade, reading the latest bulletins aloud ... Something about green
　　and white ...
　　Clancy wished he could remember. There were so many bulletins-wanted men,
　　missing persons, cars, robberies. Every day the bright, eager youngsters
　　on the force scribbled swiftly in their notebooks, memorizing, getting
　　the
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　　information down. Clancy tried. He always had. But inevitably, the
　　lieutenant's brisk voice, the slowness of his own handwriting, left him far
　　behind. Green and white. He wished he could remember.
　　Clancy pointed to the plate. "Michigan, eh?"
　　Keycase nodded. He waited numbly. There was just so much that the human
　　spirit could absorb.
　　"Water Wonderland." Clancy read aloud the legend on the plate. "I hear you
　　got some swell fishing."
　　"Yes ... there is."
　　"Like to get there one day. Fisherman myself."
　　From behind, an impatient horn. Clancy held the car door open. He seemed to
　　remember he was a policeman. "Let's get this lane clear." Green and white.
　　The errant thought still bothered him.
　　The motor started. Keycase drove forward. Clancy watched him go. With
　　precision, neither too fast nor too slow, his resolve steadfast, Keycase
　　nosed the car on the Expressway ramp.
　　Green and white. Clancy shook his head and returned to directing traffic.
　　Not for nothing had he been called the dumbest cop on the force, bar none.
　　17
　　From Tulane Avenue, the sky-blue and white police ambulance, its
　　distinctive blue light flashing, swung into the emergency entrance driveway
　　of Charity Hospital. The ambulance stopped. Swiftly its doors were opened.
　　The stretcher bearing Dodo was lifted out, then, with practiced speed,
　　wheeled by attendants through a doorway marked ADmissioN OUTPATIENTS WHITE.
　　Curtis O'Keefe followed close behind, almost ru i g to keep up.
　　An attendant in the lead called, "Emergency! Make way!" A busy press of
　　people in the admitting and discharge lobby fell back to let the small
　　procession pass. Curious eyes followed its progress. Most were on the
　　white, waxen mask of Dodo's face.
　　Swinging doors marked AcCIDENT Room opened to ad399
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　　mit the stretcher. Inside were nurses, doctors, activity, other
　　stretchers. A male attendant barred Curtis O'Keefe's way. "Wait here,
　　please."
　　O'Keefe protested, "I want to know . .
　　A nurse, going in, stopped briefly. "Everything possible will be done.
　　A doctor will talk to you as soon as he can." She continued inside. The
　　swinging doors closed.
　　Curtis O'Keefe remained facing the doors. His eyes were misted, his heart
　　despairing.
　　Less than half an hour ago, after Dodo's leavetaking, he had paced the
　　suite living room, his thoughts confused and troubled. Instinct told him
　　that something had gone from his life that he might never find again.
　　Logic mocked him. Others before Dodo had come and gone. He had survived
　　their departure. The notion that this time might be different was absurd.
　　Even so, he had been tempted to follow Dodo, perhaps to delay their
　　separation for a few hours, and in that time to weigh his feelings once
　　again. Rationality won out. He remained where he was.
　　A few minutes later he had heard the sirens. At first he had been
　　unconcerned. Then, conscious of their growing number and apparent
　　convergence on the hotel, he had gone to the window of his suite. The
　　activity below made him decide to go down. He went as he was-in
　　shirtsleeves, without putting on a coat.
　　On the twelfth-floor landing, as he waited for an elevator, disquieting
　　sounds had drifted up. After almost five minutes, when an elevator failed
　　to come and other guests were milling on the landing, O'Keefe decided to
　　use the emergency stairs. As he went down, he discovered others had had
　　the same idea. Near the lower floors, the sounds becoming clearer, he
　　employed his athlete's training to increase his speed.
　　In the lobby he learned from excited spectators the essential facts of
　　what had occurred. It was then he prayed with intensity that Dodo had
　　left the hotel before the accident. A moment later he saw her carried,
　　unconscious, from the elevator shaft.
　　The yellow dress he had admired, her hair, her limbs, were a mess of
　　blood. The look of death was on her face.
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　　In that instant, with searing, blinding insight, Curtis O'Keefe
　　discovered the truth he had shielded from himself so long. He loved her.
　　Dearly, ardently, with a devotion beyond human reckoning. Too late, he
　　knew that in letting Dodo go, he had made the greatest single error of
　　his life.
　　He reflected on it now, bitterly, surveying the accidentroom doors. They
　　opened briefly as a nurse came out. When he approached her, she shook her
　　head and hurried on.
　　He had a sense of helplessness. There was so little he could do. But what
　　he could, he would.
　　Turning away, he strode through the hospital. In busy lobbies and
　　corridors, he breasted crowds, followed signboards and arrows to his
　　objective. He opened doors marked PRIVATE, ignored protesting
　　secretaries. He stopped before the Director's desk.
　　The Director rose angrily from his chair. When Curtis O'Keefe identified
　　himself, the anger lessened.
　　Fifteen minutes later the Director emerged from the accident room
　　accompanied by a slight, quietly spoken man whom he introduced as Dr.
　　Beauclaire. The doctor and O'Keefe shook hands.
　　"I understand that you are a friend of the young lady -I believe, Nfiss
　　Lash."
　　"How is she, Doctor?"
　　"Her condition is critical. We are doing everything we can. But I must
　　tell you there is a strong possibility she may not live."
　　O'Keefe stood silent, grieving.
　　The doctor continued, "She has a serious head wound which appears
　　superficially to be a depressed skull fracture. There is a likelihood
　　that fragments of bone may have entered the brain. We shall know better
　　after X rays."
　　The Director explained, "The patient is being resuscitated first."
　　The doctor nodded. "We have transfusions going. She lost a good deal of
　　blood. And treatment has begun for shock."
　　"How long . .
　　"Resuscitation will be at least another hour. Then, if
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　　X rays confirm the diagnosis, it will be necessary to operate immediately.
　　Is the next-of-kin in New Orleans?"
　　O'Keefe shook his head.
　　"It makes no dffference, really. In this kind of emergency, the law
　　permits us to proceed without permission."
　　"May I see her?"
　　"Later, perhaps. Not yet."
　　"Doctor, if there's anything you need-a question of money, professional
　　help . . ."
　　The Director interrupted quietly. "This is a free hospital, Mr. O'Keefe.
　　Its for indigents and emergencies. All the same, there are services here
　　that money couldn't buy. Two university medical schools are next door.
　　Their staffs are on call. I should tell you that Dr. Beauclaire is one
　　of the leading neurosurgeons in the country."
　　O'Keefe said humbly, "I'm sorry."
　　"Perhaps there is one thing," the doctor said.
　　O'Keefes head came up.
　　"The patient is unconscious now, and under sedation. Earlier, there were
　　some moments of lucidity. In one of them she asked for her mother. If
　　it's possible to get her mother here ... 11
　　"It's possible." It was a relief that at least there was something he
　　could do.
　　From a corridor pay phone, Curtis O'Keefe placed a collect call to Akron,
　　Ohio. It was to the OKeefe-Cuyahoga, Hotel. The manager, Harrison, was
　　in his office.
　　O'Keefe instructed, "Whatever you are doing, leave it. Do nothing else
　　until you have completed, with the utmost speed, what I am about to tell
　　you."
　　"Yes, sir." Harrison's alert voice came down the line.
　　"You are to contact a Mrs. Irene Lash of Exchange Street, Akron. I do not
　　have the number of a house." O'Keefe remembered the street from the day
　　that he and Dodo had telegraphed the basket of fruit. Was it only last
　　Tuesday?
　　He heard Harrison call to someone in his office, "A city directory-fastl"
　　O'Keefe continued, "See Mrs. Lash yourself. Break the news to her that
　　her daughter, Dorothy, has been injured in an accident and may die. I
　　want Mrs. Lash flown to
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　　New Orleans by the fastest possible means. Charter if necessary. Disregard
　　expense."
　　"Hold it, Mr. O'Keefe." He could hear Harrison's crisp commands. "Get
　　Eastern Airlines-the sales department in Cleveland---on another line.
　　After that, I want a limousine with a fast driver at the Market Street
　　door." The voice returned, more strongly. "Go ahead, Mr. O'Keefe."
　　As soon as the arrangements were known, O'Keefe directed, he was to be
　　contacted at Charity Hospital.
　　He hung up, confident that the instructions would be carried through. A
　　good man, Harrison. Perhaps worthy of a more important hotel.
　　Ninety minutes later, X rays confirmed Dr. Beauclaire's diagnosis. A
　　twelfth-floor operating room was being readied. The neurosurgery, if
　　continued to a conclusion, would take several hours.
　　Before Dodo was wheeled into the operating room, Curtis O'Keefe was
　　permitted to see her briefly. She was pale and unconscious. It seemed to
　　his imagination as if all her sweetness and vitality had flown.
　　Now the O.R. doors were closed.
　　Dodo's mother was on her way. Harrison had notified him. McDermott of the
　　St. Gregory, whom O'Keefe had telephoned a few minutes ago, was arranging
　　for Mrs. Lash to be met and driven directly to the hospital.
　　For the moment there was nothing to do but wait.
　　Earlier, O'Keefe had declined an invitation to rest in the Director's
　　office. He would wait on the twelfth floor, he decided, no matter for how
　　long.
　　Suddenly, he had a desire to pray.
　　A door close by was labeled LADiEs COLORED. Next to it was another marked
　　REcovERY Room STORAGE. A glass panel showed that it was dark inside.
　　He opened the door and went in, groping his way past an oxygen tent and
　　an iron lung. In the semidarkness he found a clear space where he knelt.
　　The floor was a good deal harder on his knees than the broadloom he was
　　used to. It seemed not to matter. He clasped his hands in supplication
　　and lowered his head.
　　Strangely, for the first time in many years, he could find no words for
　　what was in his heart.
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　　18
　　Dusk, like an anodyne to the departing day, was settling over the city.
　　Soon, Peter McDermott thought, the night would come, with sleep and, for
　　a while, forgetfulness. Tomorrow, the immediacy of today's events would
　　begin receding. Already, the dusk marked a beginning to the process of
　　time which, in the end, healed all things,
　　But it would be many dusks and nights and days before those who were
　　closest to today's events would be free from a sense of tragedy and
　　terror. The waters of Lethe were still far distant.
　　Activity-while not a release-helped the mind a little.
　　Since early this afternoon, a good deal had occurred.
　　Alone, in his office on the main mezzanine, Peter took stock of what had
　　been done and what remained.
　　The grim, sad process of identifying the dead and notiPjing families had
　　been completed. Where the hotel was to aid with funerals, arrangements
　　had began.
　　The little that could be done for the injured, beyond hospital care, had
　　been put in hand.
　　Emergency crews--fire, police-had long since left. In their place were
　　elevator inspectors, examining every piece of elevator equipment the
　　hotel possessed. 'Mey would work into tonight and through tomorrow.
　　Meanwhile, elevator service had been partially restored.
　　Insurance investigators-gloomy men, already foreseeing massive
　　claims-were intensively questioning, taldng statements.
　　On Monday, a team of consultants would fly from New York to begin
　　planning for replacement of all passenger elevator machinery with new.
　　It would be the first major expenditure of the Albert
　　WeUs-Dempster-McDermott regime.
　　The resignation of the chief engineer was on Peter's desk. He intended
　　to accept it.
　　The chief, Doc Vickery, must be honorably retired, with the pension
　　befitting his long years of service to the hotel. Peter would see to it
　　that he was treated well.
　　M. H6brand, the chef de cuisine, would receive the
　　404
　　                          Friday
　　same consideration. But the old chefs retirement must be accomplished
　　quickly, with Andr6 Lemieux promoted to his place.
　　On young Andr6 Lemieux-with his ideas for creation of specialty
　　restaurants, intimate bars, an overhaul of the hotel's entire catering
　　system-much of the St. Gregory's future would depend. A hotel did not live
　　by renting rooms alone. It could fill its rooms each day, yet still go
　　bankrupt. Special services-conventions, restaurants, barswere where the
　　mother lode of profit lay.
　　There must be other appointments, a reorganization of departments, a fresh
　　defining of responsibilities. As executive vice-president, Peter would be
　　involved much of the time with policy. He would need an assistant general
　　manager to supervise the day-to-day running of the hotel. Whoever was
　　appointed must be young, efficient, a disciplinarian when necessary, but
　　able to get along with others older than himself. A graduate of the School
　　of Hotel Administration might do well. On Monday, Peter decided, he would
　　telephone Dean Robert Beck at Cornell. The dean kept in touch with many of
　　his bright ex-students. He might know such a man, who was available now.
　　Despite today's tragedy, it was necessary to think ahead.
　　There was his own future with Christine. The thought of it was inspiring
　　and exciting. Nothing between them had been settled yet. But he knew it
　　would be. Earlier, Christine had left for her Gentilly apart3nent. He would
　　go to her soon.
　　Other-less palatable--unfinished business still remained. An hour ago,
　　Captain Yolles of the New Orleans Police had dropped into Peter's office.
　　He had come from an interview with the Duchess of Croydon.
　　'Vhen you're with her," Yolles said, "you sit there wondering what's under
　　all that solid ice. Is it a woman? Does she feel about the way her husband
　　died? I saw his body. My Godl-no one deserved that. For that matter, she
　　saw him too. Not many women could have faced it. Yet, in her, there isn't
　　a crack. No warmth, no tears. Just her head tilted up, that way she has,
　　and the haughty look she gives you. If I tell you the truth-as a man-I'm
　　attracted to her. You get to feeling you'd like to know 405
　　    HOTEL
　　what she's really like." The detective stopped, considering. Later, answering
　　Peter's question, Yolles said, "Yes, we'll charge her as an accessory, and
　　she'll be arrested after the funeral. What happens beyond that-whether a
　　jury will convict if the defense claims that her husband did the conniving,
　　and he's dead . . . Well, well see."
　　Ogilvie had already been charged, the policeman revealed. "He's booked as
　　an accessory. We may throw more at him later. The D.A. will decide. Either
　　way, if you're keeping his job open, don't count on seeing him back in less
　　than five years."
　　"We're not." Reorganization of the hoters detective force was high on
　　Peter's list of things to do.
　　When Captain Yolles had gone, the office was quiet. By now, it was early
　　evening. After a while, Peter heard the outer door open and close. A light
　　tap sounded on his own. He called, "Come in!"
　　It was Aloysius Royce. The young Negro carried a tray with a martini
　　pitcher and a single glass. He set the tray down.
　　"I thought maybe you could do with this."
　　"Thanks," Peter said. "But I never drink alone.0'
　　"Had an idea you'd say that." From his pocket, Royce produced a second
　　glass.
　　They drank in silence. What they had lived through today was still too
　　close for levity or toasts.
　　Peter asked, "Did you deliver Mrs. Lash?"
　　Royce nodded. "Drove her right to the hospital. We had to go in through
　　separate doorways, but we met inside and I took her to Mr. O'Keefe."
　　"Ibank you." After Curtis O'Keefe's call, Peter had wanted someone at the
　　airport on whom he could rely. It was the reason he had asked Royce to go.
　　"They'd finished operating when we got to the hospital. Barring
　　complications, the young lady-Miss Lash-will be all right."
　　"I'm glad."
　　"Mr. O'Keefe told me they're going to be married. As !oon as she's well
　　enough. Her mother seemed to like the idea."
　　Peter smiled fleetingly. "I suppose most mothers would." 406
　　                           Friday
　　There was a silence, then Royce said, "I heard about the meeting this
　　morning. The stand you took. The way things turned out."
　　Peter nodded. "The hotel is desegregated. Entirely. As of now."
　　"I suppose you expect me to thank you. For giving us what's ours by
　　right."
　　"No," Peter said. "And you're being prickly again. I wonder, though, if
　　you might decide now to stay with W.T. I know he'd like it, and you'd be
　　entirely free. There's legal work for the hotel. I could see that some
　　of it came your way.99
　　"I'll thank you for that," Royce said. "But the answer's no. I told Mr.
　　Trent this afternoon-I'm leaving, right after graduation." He refilled
　　the martini glasses and contemplated his own. "We're in a war, you and
　　me--on opposite sides. It won't be finished in our time, either. What I
　　can do, with what I've learned about the law, I intend to do for my
　　people. There's a lot of in-fighting ahead-legal, some of the other kind
　　too. It won't always be fair, on our side as well as yours. But when
　　we're unjust, intolerant, unreasonable, remember-we learned it from you.
　　There'll be trouble for all of us. You'll have your share. here. You've
　　desegregated, but that isn't the end. There'll be problems-with our
　　people who won't like what you've done, with Negroes who won't behave
　　nicely, who'll embarrass you because some are the way they are. What'll
　　you do with the Negro loudmouth, the Negro smart-aleck, the Negro
　　half-drunk Romeo? We've got 'em, too. When it's white people who behave
　　like that, you swallow hard, you try to smile, and most times you excuse
　　it. When they're Negroes--what'll you do then?"
　　"It may not be easy," Peter said. "I'll try to be objective.92
　　"You will. Others won't. All the same, it's the way the war will go.
　　There's just one good thing."
　　"Yes?"
　　"Once in a while there'll be truces." Royce picked up the tray with the
　　pitcher and the empty glasses. "I guess this was one."
　　407
　　    HOTEL
　　Now it was night.
　　Within the hotel, the cycle of another innkeeping day had run its course.
　　This had differed from most, but beneath unprecedented events, routines had
　　continued. Reservations, reception, administration, housekeeping,
　　engineering, garage, treasury, kitchens ... all had combined in a single,
　　simple function. To welcome the traveler, sustain him, provide him with
　　rest, and speed him on.
　　Soon, the cycle would begin again.
　　Wearily, Peter McDermott prepared to leave. He switched off the office
　　lights and, from the executive suite, walked the length of the main
　　mezzanine. Near the stairway to the lobby he saw himself in a mirror. For
　　the first time, he realized that the suit he was wearing was rumpled and
　　soiled. It became that way, he reflected, under the elevator debris where
　　Billyboi died.
　　As best he could, he smoothed the jacket with his hand. A slight rustling
　　made him reach into a pocket where his fingers encountered a folded paper.
　　Taking it out, he remembered. It was the note which Christine had given him
　　as he left the meeting this morning-the meeting where he had staked his
　　career on a principle, and won.
　　He had forgotten the note until now. He opened it curiously. It read: It
　　will be a fine hotel because it will be like the man who is to run it.
　　At the bottom~ in smaller lettering, Christine had written: P.S. I love
　　you.
　　Smiling, the length of his stride increasing, he went downstairs to the
　　lobby of his hotel.
　　408
　　       ABOUT THE AUTHOR
　　ARTHUR HAILEY was born in Luton, England, in 1920. He was a flight
　　lieutenant in World War Il and served in the Royal Air Force in the Middle
　　and Far East. I
　　Mr. Hailey, one of the great storytellers of our time, has millions of
　　devoted readers, and his novels are published in every major language.
　　His sensational bestsellers include HOTEL, Airport, The Final Diagnosis,
　　Runway Zero-Eight (with John Castle) and In High Places. His most recent
　　novel is Wheels.
　　He is a Canadian who lives in the Bahamas with his wife Sheila. Their
　　teen-age children are Jane, Steven, Diane.
　　

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