9

A second after knocking at the door of room 1410, Christine Francis wondered why she had come. Maybe she was, at this moment, just plain lonely, wanting to offset her disappointment in learning she would not meet Peter this evening.

Christine knocked again, more sharply. The door opened to reveal Albert Wells. He was fully dressed. He looked well and there was color in his face, which brightened as he saw Christine. “I was hoping you’d come, miss.”

She said, surprised, “I thought…”

“I sent the hotel doctor for Dr. Uxbridge. He said I was fine, and the nursing service was no longer needed.” He beamed.

As she followed him into the room, he asked, “Did you knock before? I’m sorry. I guess my mind was on this.” He pointed to a table near the window. On it was a large and intricate jigsaw puzzle, of which about two thirds was completed. “Or I thought it was Bailey.”

Christine asked curiously, “Who’s Bailey?”

“If you stay a minute, you’ll meet him.”

She leaned over the jigsaw puzzle, inspecting it, “I used to do these a long time ago with my father.”

“I set out one of these when I want to think. Sometimes I discover the key piece, and the answer to what I’m thinking about, around the same time.”

Abruptly there was a sharp, authoritative knock at the outer door.

She was surprised, when the door opened, to see a uniformed hotel valet. He had a collection of suits, which he put into a closet and returned to the door, where he stopped with his palm outstretched.

“I already took care of you,” Albert Wells said with amusement in his voice. “When the suit was picked up this morning. You’re Bailey. I tipped your friend Barnum.”

Bailey grinned sheepishly and went out, closing the door behind him.

“What was all that about?” asked Christine.

The little man chuckled, “It’s a simple thing, miss. Hotel valets work in pairs, but the one who picks up a suit is never the one who delivers it back. They figure it that way, so mostly they get tipped twice.”

She laughed. “How did you find out?”

“A valet told me once.”

“You don’t like tipping, Mr. Wells?”

“I tipped Barnum well this morning – sort of paying in advance for the bit of fun I had with Bailey just now. What I don’t like is to be taken for a fool. And many here figure they can get away with anything. It’s because you don’t have good management, though it could be good.”

“Peter McDermott told me exactly the same thing – almost in those words.”

“Now there’s a smart young man. We had a talk yesterday.”

“Peter came here? I didn’t know.”

“Are you going to marry him, miss?”

She protested, “Whatever gave you that idea?”

Albert Wells chuckled, reminding her of a mischievous elf.

“I sort of guessed – by the way you said his name just now. If that young man has the kind of sense, he’ll find out he doesn’t have to look much further, miss.”

“You read people’s minds, then you make them feel terrible. And my name is Christine.”

He said quietly, “That’s a special name for me. It was my wife’s, too. She died. So long ago, sometimes I think the times we had together never really happened.” He stopped. “You never know how much you share with someone until the sharing ends. Don’t waste a lot of time; you never get it back.”

“He isn’t my young man. At least, not yet.”

“He can be.”

Then, almost before she knew it, she found herself telling the little man about the tragedy in Wisconsin, her aloneness, the move to New Orleans, the adjusting years, and now for the first time the possibility of a full and fruitful life. She revealed, too, the breakdown of this evening’s arrangements and her disappointment at the cause.

“I bet that young man asks you out tomorrow.”

Christine smiled. “He might.”

“Then get yourself another date before he does. He’ll appreciate you more, having to wait an extra day. I was going to ask anyway, Christine. I’d like us to have dinner, you and me – a kind of thank you for what you did the other night, if you can bear an old man. We’d best make it here in the hotel.”

“I’d love to have dinner with you.”

10

“McDermott, if you’ve come here with some idea of smoothing things over, I’ll tell you right now you’re wasting time. Is that why you came?”

“Yes, Dr. Ingram,” Peter admitted. “I’m afraid it is. I’m sorry I have no authority to change anything.”

“If you really felt sorry, you’d quit and get a job some other place.”

Peter reminded himself that this morning in the lobby he had admired the elderly dentist for his stand. Nothing had changed since then.

“Suppose I did quit,” Peter said. “Whoever took my job might be perfectly satisfied with the way things are. At least I’m not. I intend to do what I can to change the rules here.”

“These excuses make me ashamed, and sick of the human race!” Dr. Ingram’s voice dropped, “Well, son. I see that you have many problems that are not simple to solve. But you heard what I told Nicholas. I said if he didn’t get an apology and a room, I’d pull the entire convention out of this hotel.”

“Aren’t there events at your convention that benefit a lot of people?”

“Naturally.”

“Then would cancelling everything help? Not Dr. Nicholas…”

“There are always reasons for not doing something; plenty of times they’re good reasons. Let me ask you something. If you were me, here and now, what would you do?”

Peter considered. As far as the hotel was concerned, he supposed whatever he said now would make little difference to the outcome. Why not answer honestly?

“I think I’d do exactly as you intended – cancel out.”

“Beneath all that hotel crap lies an honest man.”

“Who may shortly be unemployed.”

“Despite everything, McDermott, I like you. Got any teeth need fixing?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d sooner know what your plans are. As soon as possible.” The loss to the hotel was going to be disastrous, as Royall Edwards had pointed out at lunch.

Dr. Ingram said crisply, “You were honest with me; I’ll do the same for you. I’ve called an emergency executive session for five this afternoon. I’ll be in touch. But even if you are a decent man, nothing has changed since this morning, and I intend to kick you people where it hurts.”

11

Surprisingly, Warren Trent reacted almost with indifference to the news that the Congress of American Dentistry might abandon its convention.

“They’ll talk, but they won’t go.”

“Dr. Ingram seems quite serious.”

“People will talk about so-called principles, but they won’t inconvenience themselves if they can avoid it.”

Peter said doggedly, “It might still be simpler if we changed our policy. Otherwise, we’d be in trouble.”

Warren Trent’s patrician features creased sardonically. “We may have been in trouble for a while. In a day or two, however, that will not be true. Tomorrow I shall tell O’Keefe and his entire hotel chain to go jump in Lake Pontchartrain.”

A few minutes later Flora Yates showed four young men into Peter McDermott’s office. He motioned them to chairs and inquired, “Which of you is Dixon?”

“I am.”

“Dumaire?”

Less confidently, Lyle Dumaire nodded.

“I don’t have the other two names.”

The third youth interjected, “I’m Gladwin. This is Joe Waloski.”

“All of you,” Peter stated, “are aware that I’ve listened to Miss Marsha Preyscott’s report of what occurred Monday night. If you wish, I’m willing to hear your version.”

Dixon spoke quickly, before anyone else could intervene. “Coming here was your idea, not ours. So if you’ve got any talking, get on with it.”

“Very well. I suggest we deal with the least important matter first. Suite 1126-7 was registered in your name. When you ran away” – he emphasized the last two words – “you had overlooked checking out, so I did it for you. There is an unpaid bill of seventy-five dollars and there is a further bill, for damage to the suite, of one hundred and ten dollars.”

“We’ll pay the seventy-five,” Dixon said. “That’s all.”

“If necessary, we’ll sue.”

Lyle Dumaire shifted uneasily, “Stan, whatever happens they can make a lot of fuss.” He addressed Peter, “If we do pay – the hundred and ten – we might have trouble getting it all at once. Could we pay a little at a time?”

“Certainly.” He glanced around the group. “Are we to regard that part as settled?”

The quartet nodded.

“That leaves the matter of the attempted rape.”

Waloski and Gladwin flushed. Lyle Dumaire uncomfortably avoided Peter’s eyes. Only Dixon maintained his self-assurance. “Don’t you wish you’d been there? Or maybe you had your piece after.”

Peter gripped the arms of his chair tightly. He fought back an impulse to rush out from behind the desk and strike the smirking face in front of him. But he could not give Dixon the advantage he was trying to get.

“You are all aware that criminal charges can be laid.”

“If they were going to be,” Dixon countered, “somebody’d have done it by now.”

“Would you be willing to repeat that statement to Mr. Mark Preyscott? If he’s brought back from Rome after being told what happened to his daughter?”

Lyle Dumaire looked up sharply, his expression alarmed. For the first time, there was a flicker of panic in Dixon’s eyes.

“I have here a signed statement, made by me, of exactly what I was informed by Miss Preyscott, and what I observed myself on arrival at suite 1126-7, Monday night. There is a further statement made and signed by Aloysius Royce, the hotel employee you assaulted.”

Last night in response to a telephoned request the young Negro had delivered his statement early this morning. The neatly typed document was clear and carefully phrased, reflecting Royce’s legal training.

Stan Jakubiec had been helpful also. At Peter’s request the credit manager had made inquiries about the two youths, Stanley Dixon and Lyle Dumaire. He reported: “Dumaire’s father, as you know, is the bank president; Dixon’s father is a car dealer – good business, big home. But Mark Preyscott has as much influence as anyone in this town. He and the other two men move in the same circle, though Preyscott probably rates higher socially.”

“I imagine if the case goes to the court, your families might give some of you a hard time.” From a glance between Dixon and Dumaire he knew the last thrust had gone home.

Lyle Dumaire asked, “What are you going to do?”

“If you cooperate, I intend to do nothing more. On the other hand, I intend to cable Mr. Preyscott in Rome and deliver these papers to his lawyers here.”

“What does ‘cooperate’ mean?”

“Here and now you will each write an account of what took place Monday night, including whatever occurred in the early part of the evening and who, if anyone, was involved from the hotel.”

“What will you do then?”

“You have my word they will be seen by no one, other than internally within the hotel.”

“How do we know we can trust you?”

“You’ll have to take that chance.”

Waloski said, “I’ll take a chance. Give me something to write on.”

“I guess I will too.” It was Gladwin.

Lyle Dumaire, unhappily, nodded.

Dixon shrugged. “So everybody’s going to write. What’s the difference?”

A half hour later Peter McDermott reread, more carefully, the several pages he had skimmed over quickly before the youths left.

The four versions of Monday’s evening events filled in earlier gaps in information, and all four mentioned the bell captain, Herbie Chandler.