10

Keycase Milne was on the point of leaving the Maison Blanche store when he saw a well-dressed woman drop a ring of keys. Upon recovering them, he saw a miniature auto license tag. The tag showed a Louisiana license number. Keycase hurried to a telephone. Holding the keys in front of him, Keycase read out the license number from the miniature tag. A bored clerk informed him that the car was registered to one, F. R. Drummond, with an address in the Lakeview district of New Orleans. He made one more telephone call, dialing the listed number for F. R. Drummond. There was no answer.

The front door opened easily to the first key he tried.

“Anybody home?” There was no answer.

He found furs and put them into one of suitcases, and emptied a jewelry box, adding a movie camera, binoculars and a portable radio. He closed the case and carried it downstairs. A tape recorder, which he noticed at the last moment, he carried out to the car in one hand, the larger case in the other.

Keycase had been inside the house barely ten minutes. On the way, with a gleam of humor, he put the keys into a mail box.

The duplicate key to the Presidential Suite was ready and he paid cheerfully.

In the Presidential Suite the Duke of Croydon was unsteadily pouring a Scotch and soda. It was now nineteen hours since the Croydons’ last contact with the chief house officer and there had been no word of a development of any kind.

“Couldn’t the fellow telephone?”

“We agreed there should be no communication,” the Duchess reminded him.

Beside the Duchess was a copy of the afternoon paper, and they had listened to hourly radio news broadcasts throughout the morning.

Her husband returned morosely to his drink. “That woman… the child. There were pictures… suppose you saw. Funeral today… this afternoon… at least could go.”

“You can’t, and you know you won’t.”

The silence was broken by the jangle of the telephone. They heard the voice of the secretary answering.

A moment later the secretary knocked and came in. “Your Grace, it’s one of the local newspapers. They say that they have had a flash bulletin, which appears to concern you.”

The Duchess said. “I will take the call.” Her hands were trembling.

After the greetings a crispy voice said, “Sorry, madam. I’ll read this to you. “Parliamentary sources here today name the Duke of Croydon as Britain’s next ambassador to Washington. An official announcement is expected soon.”

11

“Why we called was to see if your husband has a statement, then with your permission we’d like to send a photographer to the hotel.”

“At the moment,” the Duchess injected, “my husband has no statement, nor will he have unless and until the appointment is officially confirmed. The same applies to photography.”

After replacing the telephone, at length, a slight smile hovering around her lips, she said, “It’s happened. Geoffrey has succeeded.”

Her husband stared incredulously. “Washington?”

“Later today you will be obliged to meet the press.”

He nodded slowly. He lifted his glass to sip.

“No!” The Duchess rose. She removed the bottle and he heard the contents of the glass being poured into the sink. Returning, she announced, “There will be no more.”

He seemed about to protest, then acknowledged, “Suppose… only way.”

His wife was already reasoning aloud. “It will be necessary to revise our plans about Chicago. From now on, your movements will be the subject of close attention. If we go there together, it could arouse curiosity. I shall go alone.”

12

“Did you discover anything about Ogilvie?”

Peter McDermott’s secretary shook her head. “There’s just one thing. The car Mr. Ogilvie used – you said it was a Jaguar? It belongs to the Duke and Duchess of Croydon.”

“Are you sure someone hasn’t made a mistake?”

“I wondered about that,” Flora said, “But I talked to Kulgmer, who’s the garage night checker. He was on duty last night. He says Mr. Ogilvie had written authority from the Duchess of Croydon to take the car.”

He inquired, “Has the car come back?”

Flora shook her head negatively. “I wondered if I should check with the Duchess of Croydon. Then I thought I’d ask you first.”

“I’m glad you did.” He supposed it would be simple enough to ask the Croydons if they knew Ogilvie’s destination, but after his own talk with the Duchess on Monday night, Peter was reluctant to risk another misunderstanding.

There was another piece of unfinished business, Peter remembered – Herbie Chandler. “Find out if Herbie Chandler’s on duty this evening,” he instructed Flora. “Tell him I’d like to see him here at six o’clock or tomorrow morning.”

A few minutes later, Peter stepped out into the brilliant, early afternoon sunlight of St. Charles Street.

“Peter! I’m here.” Marsha was waving from the driver’s seat of a white convertible.

“Hi!” Marsha said when he joined her in a car. Impulsively, he took her hand and squeezed it.

“I like that,” she assured him, “even though I promised my father I’d use both hands to drive.” She eased the convertible out into traffic.

It seemed that he was constantly being driven about New Orleans by attractive women.

There was an excitement in being close together, especially remembering their parting kiss of the night before.

“What were you thinking about just then?” Marsha asked.

“History,” he lied. “Where do we start?”

“The old St. Louis Cemetery. You haven’t been there?”

Peter shook his head.

Marsha parked the car. “In the early 1700s, when New Orleans was founded by the French, the land was mostly swamp. When a grave was dug, it flooded before anyone could put a coffin in. Sometimes gravediggers punched holes in the wood to make the coffin sink. People used to say, if you weren’t really dead, you’d drown. Anyway, later on there was a law that all burials had to be above the ground.”

They began to walk between rows of uniquely constructed tombs. “This is what happened after the law was passed. In New Orleans we call these places cities of the dead.”

He pointed, “They’re like apartment entrances.”

“The tombs are like apartments. They are divided into sections,” Marsha explained. “The ordinary family tombs have two to six sections, the bigger ones more. Each section has its own little door. When there’s to be a funeral, ahead of time one of the doorways is opened up. The coffin already inside is emptied, and the remains from it pushed through a slot into the ground. The old coffin is burned and the new one put in. It’s left for a year, then the same thing happens.”

An elderly man in stained denim coveralls regarded them cheerfully. Removing an ancient straw hat, he mopped his bald head with a red silk handkerchief. “Hot, isn’t it? Lot cooler in there.” He slapped his hand against a tomb.

“I’ll settle for the heat,” Peter said.

“Hullo, Mr. Collodi,” Marsha said. “This is Mr. McDermott.”

“Going to the family tomb?”

Marsha nodded.

“This way, then.”

They stopped before a six-sectioned tomb that was painted white and in better repair than most around it. “We’re an old family,” Marsha said. “It must be getting crowded down among the dust.”

Sunshine slanted brightly on the tomb.

“That’s the next one for opening, Miss Preyscott. Your daddy’ll go in there.” He touched another in a second tier. “That will be yours. Death comes sooner than we want for all of us. Waste no time, sir!”

Despite the heat of the day, Peter shivered.

Marsha’s eyes were on his face. “It’s simply that here we’re brought up to see all this as part of us.”

They were on the way out, when a line of cars had stopped immediately outside. It was obvious that a funeral procession was about to come in.

“Oh no!” Marsha said.

Peter gripped her hand tightly.

Marsha whispered, “It’s the people who were killed in that hit-and-run. There was a mother, a little girl.” He saw that she was crying. He felt his own eyes moisten as the cortege moved on.

Behind the family mourners were others. To his surprise, Peter recognized Sol Natchez, the elderly room-service waiter suspended from duty after the dispute with the Duke and Duchess of Croydon on Monday night.

The funeral procession moved farther into the cemetery and out of sight.

Unexpectedly a hand touched Peter’s arm. Turning, he saw it was Sol Natchez.

“I saw you watching, Mr. McDermott. Did you know the family?”

“No,” Peter said. “We were here by chance.” He introduced Marsha.

“You knew the family, then?”

“Very well, Mr. McDermott.”

Peter nodded. There seemed nothing else to say.

Natchez said, “I didn’t get to say it Tuesday, Mr. McDermott, but I appreciate what you did.”

“I didn’t think you were to blame.”

“It’s a funny thing when you think about it. All this. The accident. It must have happened just before I had that bit of trouble Monday night. Just think, while you and me were talking…”

“Yes,” Peter said.

“I meant to ask, Mr. McDermott – was anything more said about that business with the Duke and Duchess?”

“Nothing at all.”

“I thought about it a lot after. Seemed almost as if they went out of their way to make a fuss.”

And later Peter had had the same general impression: that the Duchess wanted the incident remembered. She spoke about the walk they had had. Then the Duke of Croydon had mumbled something about leaving his cigarettes in the car… But if the Croydons had stayed in the suite, then merely walked around the block…

Why conceal the use of their car? It’s a funny thing… the accident must have happened just before that trouble.

The Croydons’ car was a Jaguar.

Ogilvie. He had a sudden memory of the Jaguar emerging from the garage last night.

There were pieces of a puzzle. And they appeared to relate. The idea was impossible. And yet…

As if from a distance, he heard Marsha’s voice. “Peter, you’ve suddenly gone white.”

“Marsha,” Peter said, “I have to go back to the hotel. I’m sorry. I’ll try to explain later.”

He left Marsha and Natchez standing, bewildered, looking after him.

He gave the driver the address of his apartment. It would be quieter there. To think. To decide what he should do.

He forced himself to think rationally, carefully, unexcitedly. He had reviewed, point by point, the accumulated incidents since Monday night. He had searched for alternatives of explanation. He found none.

Should he tell Mr. Trent? No. Whatever was to be done, he must do it alone.

He returned to his office in the hotel, lifted the telephone, waited for a line, and dialed the number of the city police.