"One was a friend. At least, I thought so.
"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 questions 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."
"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."
"All 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.
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 born 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 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 Times-Picayune. 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.
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 same. My office is on the main mezzanine. Remember four 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.