12

The appearance of the Duchess of Croydon at the same time Keycase himself was passing through the lobby was an omen among omens, Keycase thought. He now knew exactly what he was supposed to do.

First, he rode elevators several times, and when he was alone with an elevator operator, he asked the seemingly casual question, “Is it true the Duke and Duchess of Croydon are staying in the hotel?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“I suppose the hotel keeps special rooms for visitors like that.”

“Well, sir, the Duke and Duchess have the Presidential Suite.”

“Oh! What floor’s that?”

“Ninth.”

Point two was to establish the precise room number. Up one flight by the service stairs, then a short walk, and Keycase noted the number: 973-7.

Then a quick inspection of Reception showed that the room key to 973-7 was in the slot.

After a few minutes’ observation it became obvious that the hotel had been alerted. Today as guests requested keys, the clerks asked names, then checked the answer against a registration list. He felt a cold stab of fear. Once again, remembering the awful price of one more conviction, Keycase was tempted to play safe, check out and run. Then, forcing doubts aside, he comforted himself with the memory of this morning’s omen.

After a time the waiting proved worth while. One desk clerk, a young man with light wavy hair, appeared unsure of himself, Keycase judged him to be new to his job.

Hurriedly, Keycase left the hotel. His destination was the Maison Blanche department store.

Keycase bought inexpensive but bulky items, mainly children’s toy, and waited while each was enclosed in a box or wrapping paper. He also stopped at a florist’s, and returned to the hotel with presents and a large azalea plant in bloom.

His heart pounding, Keycase approached the Reception area. The young clerk turned to Keycase and smiled involuntarily at the amount of packages topped by the blooms.

“I’m sure it’s very funny. But if it isn’t too much trouble, I’d like the key of 973.”

“Your name, sir?”

“What is this – an interrogation?” Simultaneously he allowed two parcels to drop. Flustered, the young clerk retrieved both.

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

“Never mind.” Accepting the parcels and rearranging the others, Keycase held out his hand for the key.

The young man hesitated. Then the image Keycase had hoped to create won out: a tired, frustrated shopper; absurdly burdened; an already irritated guest, not to be trifled with further…

The desk clerk handed over the key of 973.

He instructed the elevator operator, “Nine”– a precaution in case anyone had heard him demand a ninth-floor key. Stepping out as the elevator stopped, he adjusted parcels until the doors closed behind him, then hurried to the service stairs. On a landing, halfway, was a garbage can. Opening it, he stuffed in the plant, which had served its purpose. A few seconds later he was in his own room, 830.

He shoved the parcels hurriedly into a closet. Tomorrow he would return them to the store and claim refunds.

He unzipped a suitcase and took out a number of white cards. Selecting one of the cards, Keycase laid the Presidential Suite key upon it. Then, holding the key still, he drew an outline around the edge. Next, with micrometer and calipers, he measured the thickness of the key and the exact dimensions of each horizontal groove and vertical cut, jotting the results beside the outline on the card. He now had an expertly detailed specification, which a skilled locksmith could follow unerringly.

Moments later he was back in the main lobby. He waited until the desk clerks were busy and laid the 973 key unnoticed upon the counter.

13

Peter approached an iron gate, which opened smoothly. He had reached the terrace steps when Marsha went out of the house. She was in white, her raven black hair startling by contrast. He was aware, more than ever, of the provoking woman-child quality.

“Welcome!”

“Thank you. Your place is amazing.”

She entwined her arm in his. “I’ll give you the Preyscott official tour before it’s dark.”

Through his coat sleeve he could feel the warm firmness of her flesh. Her fingertips touched his wrist lightly.

“This is where you see it all best.”

From this side of the lawn the view was even more impressive. The immense, white-fronted mansion was breathtaking

“A French nobleman built the house in the 1840s. He liked Greek Revival architecture, and also having his mistress handy, which was the reason for an extra wing. My father added the other wing. He prefers things balanced. My father did a lot of restoration.”

“You must love all this very much.”

“I hate it,” Marsha said.

He looked at her inquiringly.

“Oh, I wouldn’t if I came to see it as a visitor for fifty cents. I’d admire it because I love old things. But not to live with always, especially alone and after dark.”

He reminded her, “It’s getting dark now.”

“But you’re here. That makes it different.”

“Won’t your other guests be missing you?”

She glanced sideways, mischievously. “What other guests? I said I was giving a dinner party; so I am. For you. Besides, Anna is here.” They had passed into the house. In the background a small elderly woman in black silk nodded, smiling. “I told Anna about you. And this is Ben,” Marsha said, pointing at a Negro manservant.

“You spend a lot of time alone here?”

“My father comes home between trips. It’s just that the trips get longer and the time between shorter. I’d prefer a bungalow or a hotel apartment if I shared it with someone I really cared about.”

A moment later the manservant announced quietly that dinner was served.

A small circular table was set for two. They chatted through dinner. Marsha seemed more charming as the minutes passed, and he himself more relaxed in her company. He wondered if long ago the French nobleman who built the great house, and his mistress, had dined as intimately here.

At the end of dinner Marsha said, “We’ll have coffee on the gallery.”

There they took their coffee to a cushioned porch glider, which swung lazily as they sat down.

“You’ve suddenly become quiet.”

“I know. I was wondering how to say something.”

“You might try directly. It often works.”

“All right.” There was a breathlessness to her voice. “I’ve decided I want to marry you.”

For what seemed like long minutes but were, he suspected, seconds only, Peter remained unmoving.

Marsha coughed, then changed the cough to a nervous laugh. “If you want to run, the stairs are that way.”

“If I did that, I’d never know why you said what you did just now.”

“I’m not sure myself.” He sensed that she was trembling. “Except I suddenly wanted to say it.”

It was important, he knew, that whatever he next said to this impulsive girl should be with gentleness and consideration. But it was true that Marsha was not a child, nor should she be treated like one.

“Marsha, you scarcely know me, or I you.”

“I had an instinct about you. From the very first moment.”

“But instinct may be wrong.”

“You can always be wrong, even when you wait a long time.” Marsha turned, facing him directly. “My father and mother knew each other fifteen years before they married. My mother once told me that everyone they knew said it would be a perfect match. As it turned out, it was the worst. I know. I was in the middle.”

He was silent, not knowing what to say.

“You saw Anna tonight? When she was seventeen, she was forced to marry a man she’d met just once before. But they stayed married for forty-six years. Her husband died last year. He was the kindest, sweetest man I’ve ever known. If ever there was a perfect marriage it belonged to them.”

“Anna didn’t follow her instinct. If she had, she’d not have married.”

“I know. I’m simply saying there isn’t any guaranteed way, and instinct can be as good a guide as any.” There was a pause, then Marsha added, “I know I could make you love me, in time.”

He had a sudden, irrational conviction that what she said might well be true.

He wondered what the reaction of the absent Mark Preyscott would be.

“If you’re thinking about my father, he always listens to reason and I know I could convince him. Besides, he’d like you. I know the kind of people he admires most, and you’re one. And I know – and my father would too – that someday you’ll be a big success with hotels, and maybe own your own. Not that I care about that. It’s you I want.”

“Marsha,” Peter said gently, “I don’t… I simply don’t know what to say. I’m moved and overwhelmed.”

“Then don’t say any more!” Marsha leaped to her feet, her hands held out toward him. He took them and stood facing her, their fingers interlaced. “Just go away and think! Especially about me.”

He said – and meant it – “It will be difficult not to.”

She put up her face to be kissed. He intended to brush her cheek, but she put up her lips to his. It was impossible, at the moment, to think of Marsha as anything but a woman. He felt his senses swim, but he forced himself away. “I must go.”

He went down the terrace steps, scarcely knowing they were there.

14

At 10:30 p.m., Ogilvie, the chief house officer, came to the hotel garage. The fat man had some things to do before departure. For that he had bought a standard lamp at a self-serve auto parts store.

The thought of the twenty-five thousand dollars gave the fat man a pleasant glow. He had received ten thousand this afternoon, and it was safely hidden now, with only two hundred dollars on him. But he still felt uneasy. The robbery last night, and the likelihood that a professional thief was at work in the St. Gregory, meant that, in spite of all instructions to his men he was to direct operations personally. McDermott would be furious to learn about his absence, and their row would do what he wanted to avoid most – draw attention to his movements in the next few days.

The garage was quiet. Ogilvie went to the garage office where the night checker was on duty.

“Wanted to let you know,” Ogilvie said. “I’ll be taking the Duke of Croydon’s car out soon. I’m doing a favor for him.” Ogilvie produced the Duchess of Croydon’s note, written this morning at his request.

“I’ll have to keep this.”

The fat man would have preferred to have the note, but to insist would raise an issue.

A few minutes later he replaced the remnants of the shattered Jaguar headlight with a new lamp. All the time he was aware he had to be cautious. If a jockey observed him and came across, it would mean curiosity and questions, which would be repeated downstairs. He headed to a cleaners’ closet on the floor below, where he selected a broom, dustpan, and a bucket, filled the bucket with water, and hurried back to the Jaguar on the floor above.

The last thing he did was wiping dried blood off the car.