Hotel

  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.

  “It’s 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 backwards.”

  “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?”

  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 were!”

  “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.

  5

  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, convictions, integrity, and loyalties were torn 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. Ingram—respected president of the dentists’ congress, and the assistant 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, sir!—we’ll damn well discuss it right here. There’ll be no hiding this in some dark corner.” 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 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 things 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 wouldn’t have got the convention. What’s more, you may lose it yet.”

  The assistant manager interjected, “I did offer to find other accommodation, Mr. McDermott.”

  “We’re not interested!” 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 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 interest 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.”

  “No!” 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 remarked, ‘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 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 outside—you 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?”

  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 something,
after a day or two with nothing happening, people lose interest.”

  “You crazy?” There was astonishment on the fat man’s face.

  “You see 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 there’s politics in it too.”

  “So that getting the car clear of the city will 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 car—he’ll 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 it, 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?”

  “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?”