The Duchess flushed, the effect heightening her statuesque beauty. “That isn’t necessary.”
“P’raps not.” Rising, the Duke went to a side table 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 ’s’at 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 wasn’t 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 worthwhile. 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. Eh?”
“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. “Didn’t 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 …”
“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 do! I hope you get ten years!”
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 don’t 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. “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 you’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 to his own accompaniment, pianissimo, of the Toreador Song from Carmen. (“Pom, pom, pom, pom-pom; 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 hospitality; 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.”
“I am a woman.”
“I know,” Peter said. “I’ve just begun 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 glanced sideways at the strong, energetic profile 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 eleventh-floor 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. Earlier 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 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. Someone—she 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 I 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 one—when 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 him, she could hear snatches of his words. “… girls say 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, “Marsha! 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 makeup.”
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 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.”