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 handkerchief 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 well 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 suite known familiarly as the brasshouse - had, in its time, housed a succession of distinguished guests, including presidents and royalty. Most had liked 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-of-pearl 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 other reports, though, which said the shadow over the Duke was minor and temporary, and that the Duchess had 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 had 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.
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, "Tell 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 Peter's 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?"
"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."
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-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 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 Waldorf." It required an effort to mention 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 fault? 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 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."