4

Since his impetuous departure from Christine’s apartment last night, she had been out of Peter McDermott’s mind only briefly. Even sleeping, he had dreamed about her. Some time this evening they were to meet again.

Hoping Christine would come soon, he turned his attention to Flora and the morning mail. There was a light tap on the door from the outer office.

“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?”

The resounding crash was followed by a second’s startled silence.

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.

As they came around the desk to help him up, 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. It went over backwards.”

Christine glanced toward Marsha. Peter introduced them.

“How do you do, Miss Preyscott,” Christine said, “I’ve heard of you.”

She answered coolly, “I expect, working in a hotel, you hear all kinds of gossip, Miss Francis.”

Peter sensed an instant antagonism between Marsha and Christine.

“Please don’t go on my account, Miss Francis. I just came in for a minute to remind Peter about dinner tonight.” Marsha turned toward him. “You hadn’t forgotten, had you?”

Peter had a hollow feeling in his stomach. “No,” he lied, “I hadn’t forgotten.”

“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.

Christine inquired, “Would you like me to write that down? So you won’t forget.”

“I’d forgotten about the other arrangement because last night… with you… drove everything else out of my mind.”

There were limits, Christine decided, even to patient understanding. “I hope you have a delightful evening.”

He shook his head impatiently. “She is just a child. And two nights ago…”

“She went through a lot 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. There’ll be other people.”

“Are you sure?”

Before he could reply, the telephone rang.

“Mr. McDermott,” a voice said urgently, “there’s trouble in the lobby and the assistant manager says will you please come quickly.”

5

There were moments of decision, Peter McDermott thought grimly, which you hoped you would never have to face.

It had taken him less than a minute to grasp the situation in the lobby, even though explanations were still continuing. 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. The first was 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.

The dentists’ president drew himself to his full five feet height, “McDermott. When you refuse to accommodate Dr. Nicholas, let me inform you it’s a personal insult to me and to every member of our congress.”

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.”

Heads were turning now. Several people had paused in their progress through the lobby.

It was ironic that only yesterday Peter had argued against the policies of Warren Trent, which had created this very incident. Peter admired Dr. Ingram and wanted to do as he demanded, but to admit a Negro as a guest was not what he was entitled to do.

“I’m as sorry as you, Dr. Ingram. Unfortunately, there is a house rule and it prevents me from offering Dr. Nicholas accommodation. I wish I could change it, but I don’t have authority.”

“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.”

The Negro shook his head. “I won’t pretend it doesn’t hurt. Anyway, 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 accepts accommodation at another hotel, I’ll arrange for his attendance at the meetings here.”

It would be hard to ensure and would involve an explanation to Warren Trent.

“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 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.

Peter McDermott inquired sharply, “Who are 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.

“New York Herald Trib.”

“Good!” The dentists’ president nodded approvingly. “I hope you saw what happened.”

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. And I’ll see to it that our convention moves to another place immediately.”

There was nothing to do, Peter thought glumly. Nothing at all.

6

There had been a change since yesterday in the relationship between the Croydons and Ogilvie. Before, they had been antagonists. Now they were conspirators, though still uncertainly.

“Why are we wasting time?” the Duchess said.

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?”

At length the Duchess of Croydon said, “When do you propose to leave? When will you drive the car north?”

“Tonight,” Ogilvie answered. “I reckon the best time to pull out is around one in the morning.”

“How far will you go?”

“There will be light by six. I’ll be in Mississippi. As soon as it’s dark, I will go up through Alabama, Tennessee, Kentucky, Indiana.”

“When will it be safe? Really safe.”

“Indiana, I reckon.”

“And you’ll stop in Indiana Friday?”

“And reach Chicago Saturday morning.”

“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 Duchess said.

“Is there anything you need?”

“I would like to have a note to the garage, in case I need it, saying I can take your car.”

“I’ll write it now.” The Duchess wrote quickly and a moment later returned with a sheet of hotel stationery, folded. “This should do.”

The Duke of Croydon rose and walked stiffly away, “And he wants money.”

“Ten thousand now, like we said. Fifteen more in Chicago, Saturday.”

“I don’t know how I have forgotten. It will have to be this afternoon. Our bank must arrange…”

“In cash,” the fat man said. “Nothing bigger than twenties, and not new bills. It won’t be traceable that way.”

“You don’t trust us?”

He shook his head. “In something like this, it isn’t smart to trust anybody.”

“Do you think,” the Duchess said, “that we won’t pay you in Chicago?”

“I’m glad you brought that up,” Ogilvie said. “What’ll happen in Chicago, Duchess, is this. I stash the car some place, though you don’t know where. I come to the hotel, collect the money. When I do that, you get the keys and I tell you where the car is. Anything goes wrong, I call cops right there in Chicago.”

“You’ll have to explain why you drove the car north.”

“I’d say you paid me a couple hundred to bring the car up. Only when I got to Chicago and took a good look at the car, I figured things out.”

“I’m glad we understand each other. Come back at five. The money will be ready.”

7

As O’Keefe had promised, 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. Not only Tom Earlshore’s, but also other names of trusted employees appeared in the investigators’ findings.

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. Not anymore.

It was twenty-five minutes before noon when Warren Trent entered the Pontalba Lounge from the lobby. Tom Earlshore, Warren Trent observed, was behind the bar with his back to the room. The elderly bartender was studying a Racing Form.

“Is that the way you’ve been using my money?”

Tom Earlshore deftly folded the Racing Form, stuffing it into a rear pants pocket. “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen you in here, Mr. Trent. Too long.”

“Being left alone has given you a lot of opportunities.”

Tom Earlshore said uncomfortably, “Is anything wrong, Mr. Trent? Can I mix you something?”

About to refuse, he changed his mind and named a drink.

Tom Earlshore reached swiftly for the ingredients. It had always been a pleasure to watch him at work.

“This drink is as good as any you’ve ever made.” Warren’s eyes met Earlshore’s. “I’m glad of that because it’s the last drink you’ll ever mix in my hotel.”

Earlshore’s tongue touched his lips nervously. “You don’t mean that, Mr. Trent.”

The hotel proprietor pushed his glass away. “Of all people, Tom, why did it have to be you?”

“I don’t know what…”

Warren Trent produced the O’Keefe investigators’ report, “Read!”

Earlshore put on his glasses. He read a few lines then stopped. He looked up. There was no denial now. “You can’t prove anything.”

“If I choose to, I can. These people smelled out the corruption, because they didn’t make the mistake – my mistake – of trusting you, believing you a friend. Well, you needn’t worry; I don’t intend to prosecute. If I did, I’d feel I was destroying something of myself.”

The barman felt relief and pleaded, “I swear if you gave me another chance it would never happen again.”

Warren Trent said brusquely, “There’s been enough said. Now get out of the hotel and don’t ever come here again. You don’t work here anymore.”

Slowly the ex-head barman’s expression changed. A twisted grin took its place as he declared, “All right, I’ll go. But you won’t be far behind, Mr. High-and-Mighty Trent, because you’re getting thrown out too, and everybody around here knows it. For more years than I remember, you acted as if you owned everybody in this place. You did pay a few more cents in wages than some others, and hand out bits of charity the way you did to me. But 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.” Earlshore stopped, his face revealing a suspicion he had gone too far.

Strangely, the anger of a few moments ago had left Warren Trent. “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.

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.

Warren Trent asked for a taxi and instructed the driver, “Just drive me a few blocks. 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.

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.”

“Good morning,” Warren Trent said. “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.”

“I’m willing to make a deal.”

“I make deals. Others accept them.”

“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.”

“When do you need the money?”

“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. Warren Trent answered shortly, “Yes. The O’Keefe people made an offer to buy…”

“Might be smart to take it.”

“If I do, you’ll never get this chance from them.”

Warren Trent could sense the other man thinking, calculating. For a decade the International Brotherhood of Journeymen had attempted to infiltrate the hotel industry. So far, however, they had failed. 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 hotel could 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.

Within the hotel industry, Warren Trent realized, he would be 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, union dues – probably six to ten dollars monthly – would become compulsory. Thus, not only would any immediate wage increase be wiped out, but employees’ pay would be decreased.

“I’ll send two of my financial people. They’ll fly down this afternoon. If tomorrow morning my people report okay to me, you’ll sign a three-year union shop contract. In three years you’ll have to pay us off the mortgage and interest.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Of course, and 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.

“This will be a Voluntary Recognition Agreement. Nothing in law says it has to be voted on. There will be no vote.”

So, his own signature on a union contract would, in the circumstances, be binding on every hotel employee, whether they liked it or not.