13

A mosquito, which had somehow found its way into the Jaguar’s interior, woke Ogilvie during the afternoon. A glance at his watch showed that he had slept, uninterrupted, for almost eight hours. The car was stifling. His body was aching. He was thirsty and hungry.

Ogilvie opened a package with a Thermos of coffee, several cans of beer, sandwiches, a salad sausage, a jar of pickles, and an apple pie. While eating, he listened to the car radio, waiting for a newscast from New Orleans. When it came, there was only a brief reference to the hit-and-run investigation as there had been no new developments.

Now he had only to wait for darkness.

14

Shortly after five p.m., Keycase Milne cautiously approached the Presidential Suite.

He listened, but here was no sound. He glanced both ways down the corridor then, with a single movement, produced the key and tried it in the lock. It turned. Keycase opened one of the double doors an inch.

There was still no sound from inside. He closed the door carefully and removed the key, which was ready for use whenever he chose.

He would enter the suite tonight.

15

Captain Yolles of the Detective Bureau, New Orleans Police, looked less like a policeman than anyone Peter had ever seen. He continued to listen politely, as a bank manager might consider an application for a loan, to Peter’s recital of fact. Only once during the lengthy discourse had the detective interrupted, to inquire if he could make a telephone call, but he spoke in a voice so low that Peter heard nothing of what was said.

As there was no response, Peter concluded, “I’m not sure all this makes sense. In fact, I’m already beginning to feel a little foolish.”

“If there were more people like you, Mr. McDermott, it would make police work a lot easier. Meanwhile, there are a couple of details I’d like to have. One is the license number of the car. And the other thing is a physical description of your man Ogilvie. I know him, but I’d like to have it from you.”

As Peter concluded the description, the telephone rang. Peter pushed the phone across. “For you.”

Now Peter could hear the conversation. “I’d say he’s very dependable. Worried too.” The detective repeated the information concerning the car number and Ogilvie’s description, then hung up.

Peter said, “You’re right about being worried. Do you intend to contact the Duke and Duchess of Croydon?”

“We’d like a little more to go on.” The detective regarded Peter thoughtfully. “Have you seen tonight’s paper? The “States-Item” published it that the Duke of Croydon is to be British ambassador to Washington.”

Peter whistled softly. “Doesn’t that mean there would be some kind of diplomatic immunity?”

The detective shook his head. “Not for something that’s already happened. But a false accusation…”

“Would be serious in any case, especially so in this one.”

“I’ll let you in on a couple of things,” Captain Yolles said. “Chances are, your man drove last night – after you saw him and holed up somewhere for the day. Tonight, if he shows, we’re ready.”

Captain Yolles rose to go, and Peter walked with him to the outer office.

Peter was surprised to find Herbie Chandler waiting, then remembered his own instructions for the bell captain to report here this evening or tomorrow. He invited the bell captain in, where he took out a folder containing the statements made yesterday by Dixon, Dumaire, and the other two youths and handed them to Chandler.

As Chandler turned the pages, his lips tightened. A moment later he muttered, “Bastards!”

“You mean because they’ve identified you as a pimp?”

“What are you going to do?”

“What I’d like to do is go to Mr. Trent and fire you on the spot.”

“Mr. Mac, couldn’t you just keep this between you and me?”

“No.”

Chandler hesitated, then unfastened the button of a tunic pocket. Reaching inside he removed a folded envelope, which he placed on the desk. The envelope was unsealed and contained five one-hundred-dollar bills.

“I was curious to know how high you thought my price came.” Peter tossed the money back. “Take it and get out.”

“Mr. Mac, if it’s a question of a little more…”

“Get out!” Peter’s voice was low.

As he retrieved the money and left, Herbie Chandler’s face was a mask of hatred.

On his desk was a printed form, which Flora had left, with a late-afternoon house count. Peter studied the figures. Tonight, it seemed, there was a certainty of another full house.

Peter skimmed through his mail, deciding that there was nothing, which could not be left until tomorrow. Beneath it was a folder with the proposed master catering plan, which the sous-chef, Andre Lemieux, had given him yesterday. Peter had begun studying the plan this morning. He decided he would continue now. A fresh and clearly competent brain had thought over present troubles in food management and come up with solutions.

Peter left a message that he was coming down to the kitchen now. Andre Lemieux was waiting at the doorway from the main dining room.

“Come in, monsieur! You are welcome.”

In contrast to the comparative quietness of yesterday afternoon, the atmosphere now, in early evening, was pandemonic. There were twice as many people, and their rush was accompanied by the clatter of plates, the inviting odor of food and the sweet, fresh fragrance of brewing coffee.

“I’ve read your report.” Peter returned the folder to the sous-chef, then followed him into the glass-paneled office where the noise was muted. “I like your ideas. I’d argue a few points, but not many.”

“It would be good to argue if, at the end, the action was to follow.” Then he added, “Monsieur, I am about to visit the convention floor. Would you care to accompany me?”

“Thank you. I’ll come.”

They rode a service elevator two floors up, stepping out into what was a duplicate of the main kitchen below. From here some two thousand meals could be served at a single sitting to the St. Gregory’s three convention halls and dozen private dining rooms.

“As you know, monsieur, we have two big banquets tonight. In the Grand Ballroom and the Bienville hall.”

“Yes, the Dentists’ Congress and Gold Crown Cola.” He observed that the dentists’ main course was roast turkey. Teams of cooks and helpers were serving it, apportioning vegetables with machine-like rhythm and loading the whole onto waiters’ trays.

Now the conundrum was how many convention meals to prepare at any time. Convention organizers gave the hotel a minimum guarantee, but in practice the figure could vary a hundred or two either way.

“What was the original estimate?”

“For the dentists, five hundred. We’re close to that and we’ve begun serving. But they still seem to be coming in.”

“If we have to, can we produce extra food?”

“When I have the word of requirements, monsieur, then we will do our best.”

A waiter returned with his report, “It looks like an additional hundred and seventy people. They’re flooding in! We’re already setting up more tables.”

Peter turned to Andre Lemieux, only to discover that the young Frenchman was no longer there. He was already among his staff, issuing orders: Use the reserves! Speed up! More vegetables! Steal some from the second banquet! Alert the pastry chef! One hundred and seventy more desserts required in minutes…

Already, waiters were being reassigned, some smoothly withdrawn from the smaller banquet of Gold Crown Cola. A meal each second… – faster still! In front of the serving counter, a line of waiters, becoming long.

Amid the urgency, a moment of incongruity. “Chef, there’s a gentleman says he doesn’t like turkey. May he have rare roast beef?”

A shout of laughter went up from the sweating cooks.

But the request had observed protocol correctly, only the senior chef could authorize any deviation from a standard menu.

A grinning Andre Lemieux said, “He may have it, but serve him last at his table.”

The line of waiters at the serving counter was shortening. To most guests in the Grand Ballroom the main course had been served.

The dessert was bombe aux marrons. Now, waiters were lining up before the service doors. Two cooks stood by with lighted candles.

As Andre Lemieux nodded, the head waiter’s arm swept down.

The cooks ran down the line of trays, igniting them. The double service doors were opened. Outside an electrician dimmed the lights. The music of an orchestra stopped. A hum of conversation among guests died.

There was a second’s silence, then a fanfare of trumpets followed by the orchestra and organ, and the procession of waiters, with flaming trays, marched out.

Peter McDermott moved into the Grand Ballroom for a better view. Andre Lemieux had come to stand beside Peter. “That is all for tonight, monsieur.”

Peter smiled. “It was a good show. Congratulations!”

As he turned away, the sous-chef called after him, “Good night, monsieur. And do not forget.”

Puzzled, Peter stopped. “Forget what?”

“About the hotel, monsieur, that you and I could make.”

Peter was on his way when he remembered he hadn’t seen D. Ingram. Peter called the chief cashier. “Has Dr. Ingram of Philadelphia checked out?”

“Yes, Mr. McDermott, just a minute ago. I can see him in the lobby now.”

“Send someone to ask if he could please wait.”

Dr. Ingram was standing, suitcases beside him, a raincoat over his arm, when Peter arrived.

“I heard about your resignation. I came to say I’m sorry.”

“I guess they’ll do without me.” From the Grand Ballroom two floors above, there was the sound of applause and cheering. “It sounds as if they have already.”

“Do you mind very much?”

The little doctor shifted his feet, looking down, then growled, “If I’m honest, McDermott – and God knows why I’m telling you this – it’s eating my heart out, not being up there tonight.” He paused, looking up, as the sounds from the ballroom were audible once more. “Once in a while, though, you have to weigh what you want against what you believe in, even though some of your friends may think you’re a fool.”

“It isn’t idiotic to stand up for a principle.”

“You didn’t do it, McDermott, when you had the chance.”

“I’m afraid that’s true.”

“I’ll tell you something, son. Sometimes you get a second chance. If it happens to you – take it.”