15

“I might be able to help more,” Royall Edwards observed pointedly, “if someone told me what this is all about.”

The St. Gregory’s comptroller had been instructed personally by the hotel proprietor, “These gentlemen will examine our books. They will probably work through until tomorrow morning. I’d like you to stay with them. Give them everything they ask for. Hold no information back.”

“I’d say if we’re to get through this job by morning, we’d better have less chit-chat,” the first man answered, without looking up from a balance sheet.

The second man added, “You see how it is, Mr. Edwards? I guess Frank’s right. So, maybe we’d provide explanations later. Now, Mr. Edwards, I’d like to go over your inventory system – purchasing, card control, present stocks, your last supply check, all the rest. And could we have more coffee?”

Thursday

1

It was a half hour past midnight. Peter McDermott had walked, he thought, for a couple of hours, perhaps longer. He felt refreshed and tired. He had returned to his downtown apartment after visiting Marsha, but he had been restless, so he had gone out walking.

A few minutes earlier he had telephoned the St. Gregory. The dentists’ executive board, after a six-hour session, had reached no firm conclusion. However, an emergency general meeting of all convention delegates was to be held at 9:30 a.m.

Apart from this brief diversion, most of his thoughts had been of Marsha. One thing was clear: her proposal was impossible. But he knew, he had been drawn to Marsha tonight, not as a young girl but as a woman. Would he see Marsha again? He supposed it was inevitable he should. But when and how to end it all?

There remained the thought of Christine, too.

The St. Gregory was more or less on the way and instinctively his footsteps took him past it. When he reached the hotel, it was a few minutes after one a.m.

He was about to pass the entry to the hotel garage when he halted, warned by the sound of a motor. It was a black Jaguar and it looked as if a fender had been dented; there was something odd about the headlight too. He hoped the damage had not occurred in the hotel garage.

Automatically he glanced toward the driver. He was startled to see it was Ogilvie. The chief house officer, meeting Peter’s eyes, seemed equally surprised. Then the car pulled out of the garage and continued on.

2

Keycase Milne had troubles with having a duplicate of the key. It would not be ready until midday Thursday, and the price demanded was high.

He had to wait and, even though there were still two room keys in his collection, he decided to wait and concentrate on the larger project involving the Duchess of Croydon.

That night he dreamed that a great iron door, shutting out air and daylight, was closing upon him. He tried to run while a gap remained, but was powerless to move. When the door had closed, he wept, knowing it would never open again.

He awoke shivering, in darkness. His face was wet with tears.

3

About seventy miles north of New Orleans, Ogilvie was still speculating on his encounter with Peter McDermott. He thought that the only possible reason for Peter McDermott’s presence was to witness his own departure. How McDermott might have learned of the plan, Ogilvie had no idea.

It was only later that he began to wonder: Could it have been coincidence after all? If McDermott had been there with some intent, the Jaguar would have been pursued or halted at a roadblock long before now.

It was then it happened. Behind him, appearing as if magically, was a flashing red light. A siren shrieked imperiously. It was the very thing, which for the past several hours he had expected to happen. When it failed to, he had relaxed. Now, the reality was a double shock.

Instinctively, his accelerator foot slammed to the floor, but soon realized it was useless. Even if he outdistanced pursuit now, he could not avoid others forewarned ahead.

As he slowed down, the ambulance passed by.

The incident left him shaken and convinced of his own tiredness. He stopped to consult a map and shortly afterward turned off the highway onto a complex of minor roads. Soon the road surface had deteriorated to a grassy track. The surrounding countryside was sparsely wooded and desolate, with no habitation in sight.

Ogilvie drove forward carefully until foliage concealed the car. Then he climbed into the back seat and slept.

4

Warren Trent hummed cheerfully to himself, thinking about the deal made yesterday with the Journeymen’s Union, as he showered and afterward was shaved by Aloysius Royce. After he immediately telephoned Royall Edwards. According to the comptroller’s report, the visitors, though briefed on the hotel’s current financial crisis, had uncovered nothing else extraordinary and seemed satisfied by Edwards’ responses to their queries.

Almost at once the telephone rang. An operator’s voice announced that the call was long distance. When he had identified himself, a second operator asked him to wait. At length the Journeymen’s Union president came brusquely on the line, “I warned you yesterday not to hold back on information. You were stupid enough to try. You’re lucky this time that the whistle blew before a deal was closed.”

The unexpectedness momentarily robbed Warren Trent of speech. Recovering, he protested, “I’ve not the least idea what this is about.”

“No idea, when there’d been a race riot in your goddamned hotel!”

“There was an incident yesterday morning, a small one. At the time we talked I was unaware that it had happened.”

“If I put money into a hotel that turns away nigs, my members’ll scream bloody murder along with every congressman who wants the colored vote.”

Aware that whatever was said would make no difference now, Warren Trent commented acidly, “You haven’t always been so particular about using union funds.”

“Someday you may be sorry for that.”

Slowly, Warren Trent replaced the telephone. On a table nearby Aloysius Royce had spread open the New York newspapers. It showed yesterday’s scene in the St. Gregory lobby with Dr. Nicholas and Dr. Ingram as central figures. “It’s mostly in here. I don’t see anything in the Times.”

His eyes flickered upward, meeting the young Negro’s gaze. “I suppose you think I got what I deserved.”

Royce considered. “Something like that, I guess.”

“O’Keefe will take over.” The older man walked to a window and stood looking out, “I imagine you heard the terms I was offered – among them that I’d continue to live here. I suppose that when you graduate from law school next month, I’ll still have to put up with you around the place.”

Aloysius Royce knew that what he was hearing was the plea of a defeated, lonely man for him to stay. For almost twelve years Warren Trent had treated him in many ways like a son. And yet there were other, conflicting pressures affecting the choice to go or stay.

“I haven’t thought about it much,” he lied.

Warren Trent reflected: all things, large and small, were changing, most of them abruptly. In his mind he had not the least doubt that Royce would leave him soon, just as control of the St. Gregory had finally eluded him.

In a few minutes, he would call Curtis O’Keefe and officially surrender.

5

Herbie Chandler’s report on the St. Gregory civil rights incident in the Time magazine press room confirmed what Quaratone, an eager young man, who had already interviewed the dentists’ president, Dr. Ingram, had been told.

“The dentists’ meeting is taking place this morning, but they’ve told the head floor waiter no one’s to get in except members, not even wives.” Quaratone’s idea was, however, to attend the meeting in a borrowed bellboy’s uniform.

“The room where the meeting will be held,” Quaratone queried, “is it a good size convention hall?”

Chandler nodded. “The Dauphine Salon, sir, seats three hundred.”

Quaratone said, thinking aloud, “Professional people – on racial issues anyway – don’t usually take strong stands. I’d say the situation’s unique.” More than ever he was determined to find a way of getting into the meeting.

Abruptly, he told Herbie Chandler, “I want a plan of the convention floor and the floor above. I want it fast because if we’re to do any good we’ve less than an hour.” The Time man handed five of twenty-dollar bills to Chandler.

Within a few minutes, Herbie Chandler arrived with Ches Ellis, a hotel maintenance worker. The newcomer shook hands with Quaratone, then, touching a roll of whiteprints under his arm, said uneasily, “I have to get these back.”

Quaratone helped Ellis roll out the plans, “Now, where’s the Dauphine Salon?”

“Right here.”

“What is this?”

“Cold-air duct. Runs through the Dauphine Salon ceiling. There are three outlets to the room. Center and each end.”

“How big is the duct?”

“About three feet square.”

“I’d like you to get me in that duct, so I can hear and see what’s going on below.”

In a few minutes, a metal grille, high on the wall, was removed by Ellis, and a tall stepladder stood in front of an opening, which the grille had covered. Without conversation, Quaratone ascended the stepladder and eased himself upward and in. Darkness, except for stray glimmers from the kitchen, was complete. He felt a breath of cool air on his face. Ellis whispered after him, “Count four outlets! The fourth, fifth, and sixth are the Dauphine Salon. I’ll come back in half an hour; if you’re not ready, half an hour after that.”

Quaratone tried to turn his head and failed. It was a reminder that getting out would be harder than getting in.

The air duct outlets were easy to spot because of light. Nearing the fourth, he could hear voices. The meeting had begun. The view was even better from the next outlet. He could see half of the assemblage. The Time man brought out a notebook and a ballpoint pen with a tiny light in its tip.

Dr. Ingram was speaking, “Professional people like us do not discriminate – at least most of the time – and in the past we have considered that to be enough. But here and now we are involved. I suggest we should cancel our convention. The step I have proposed involves inconvenience, disappointment to me, no less than to you – and a professional as well as a public loss. But it is the only way, by which we shall prove that in matters of human rights this profession is not to be trifled with again.”

Near the center of the room a figure rose to his feet.

“I’ve just one question for the doctor. Will he be the one who’ll explain to my little woman – who’s been counting on this trip like a lot of other wives – why it is that having just got here we’re to go home?”

A number of other voices spoke at once. Then, as if by assent, attention focused on a slim figure. “Some of my best-liked associates are those of other races. But I cannot believe that our unfortunately absent colleague, Dr. Nicholas, would gain in the least from cancellation of our convention. Naturally, we must support our own people where necessary, and in a moment I shall suggest certain steps in the case of Dr. Nicholas. But we are professional medical men with time for little else.”

“Can’t all of you see that we are considering a question of human rights and decency?!” exclaimed Mr. Ingram.

There were cries of “Order! order!”

“Thank you. Gentlemen, I will make my suggestions briefly. First, I propose that our future conventions should be held in locales where Dr. Nicholas and others of his race will be accepted without question or embarrassment. Secondly, I propose that we pass a resolution disapproving the action of this hotel in rejecting Dr. Nicholas, after which we should continue with our convention as planned.”

On the platform, Dr. Ingram shook his head in disbelief.

In his eyrie, Quaratone had ceased to listen. He was watching, instead, the faces of the listeners below. They mirrored relief. Relief from the need for the kind of action. There had been some mild protest but it was short-lived.

But the Time man had his story.