19

As the outside door of the Presidential Suite closed behind the last to leave, the Duke of Croydon cried, “You couldn’t possibly get away with…”

“Be quiet!” The Duchess of Croydon glanced around the now silent living room. “We’ll go outside. Where no one can overhear.”

Only when they were outside, she murmured, “Now!”

“I tell you it’s madness! Can you imagine what it will be like now, when the truth finally comes out?”

“If it does.” The Duchess’s voice was low. “However distasteful, there are certain facts that I must know about Monday night. The woman you were with at Irish Bayou. Did you drive her there?”

The Duke flushed. “No. She went in a taxi.”

“Then you could have come in a taxi yourself. Was there any witness to the fact that you were driving the car on Monday night?”

“There’s the hotel garage. When we came in, someone could have seen us.”

“No! We saw no one. No one saw us. And on Monday morning we left it on an outside parking lot.”

“That’s right,” the Duke said. “I got it from there at night.”

“We shall say we have not seen the car since midday Monday.”

“And another man will go to prison instead of me.”

“No! The police can’t possibly prove he was driving the car at the time of the accident, any more than they can prove it was you.”

He looked at her with admiration, “There are times when you are absolutely incredible. By the way, where is the other fifteen thousand?”

“Still in the small suitcase which is locked and in my bedroom. We’ll take it with us when we go.”

“It is all diabolical. But it might, it just might work.”

20

“That woman is lying,” Captain Yolles said. “But it’ll be hard to prove, if we ever do.”

“Her husband might break,” the second detective suggested.

“She’s too smart to let it happen.”

Peter injected, “Isn’t it enough for the night checker – and Ogilvie, I suppose – to swear that the note existed?”

“She’d claim that Ogilvie wrote it himself.”

“There is one possibility,” Peter said. “We do have a man. He’s in charge of the incinerator. A lot of the garbage he sorts by hand. It would be a long shot and it’s probably too late…”

“For Christ’s sake!” Yolles snapped. “Let’s get to him.”

While they were waiting for the elevator, the second detective, Bennett, said, “I hear you’ve had some other trouble this week.”

“There was a robbery early yesterday. With all this, I’d almost forgotten.”

“Today a funny thing happened. There was a break-in in a private home. A key job. It had all the signs of your robbery here, including the kind of stuff taken, and no prints. He hasn’t been arrested, but a neighbor saw a car. It had license plates that were green and white. Five states use plates with those colors – Michigan, Idaho, Nebraska, Vermont, Washington – and Saskatchewan in Canada. For the next day or two, all our boys will be watching for cars from those places.”

A moment later the elevator arrived.

The sweat-shining face of Booker T. Graham beamed with pleasure at the sight of Peter McDermott. Captain Yolles wrinkled his nose at the overpowering odor of garbage, magnified by intense heat.

Peter McDermott talked with the big Negro himself. McDermott had brought a sheet of the special Presidential Suite stationery and held it up for inspection. The Negro nodded and took the sheet, retaining it, but his expression was doubtful. He gestured to the dozens of overflowing bins crowded around them.

“About a third of what came in had already been burned and whether what we want was in there or not, we’ve no means of knowing. As for the rest, Graham will keep an eye open for a paper of the kind I’ve given him. But before the garbage gets here, it’s compressed and a lot of it is wet,” reported Peter McDermott.

Yolles sighed, “I suppose it’s the best we can do.”

21

Keycase was faced with the choice between waiting another day and abandoning the attempt to reach the Duchess’s jewels when the Duke and Duchess of Croydon emerged, preceded by the Bedlington terriers. Obviously the Duke and Duchess would not be away for long. But whatever the risk of an encounter, it had to be taken. Walking quietly, he approached the Presidential Suite.

The lock made no noise. Nor did the door. There was no one in sight. The lights in the suite were turned on.

Keycase slipped on gloves. He moved warily, yet wasting no time. In the bedrooms, as elsewhere, lights were on. There was no mistaking which room was the Duchess’s.

There were a number of items, which, with more time and in other circumstances, he would have taken with him. But now he was seeking a major prize and discarding all else.

In the third drawer, on top, were negligees. Beneath them was a box of hand-tooled leather. It was locked. Keycase worked with a knife and screwdriver to break the lock. At length the lock gave, the lid flew back. Beneath were two tiers of jewels: rings, brooches, necklets, clips, tiaras. With both hands he reached out to seize the spoils. At the same instant, a key turned in the lock of the outer door.

Keycase slammed down the jewelbox lid and slid the drawer closed. He flew to the door. A hotel maid was entering. She had towels on her arm and was headed for the Duchess’s bedroom.

Keycase yanked a lamp. Now he needed something in his hand to indicate activity. Anything!

Against the wall was a small case. He seized it.

“Oh!” The maid’s hand went over her heart as she saw Keycase.

He frowned. “You should have come here earlier.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I saw there were people in.”

“It doesn’t matter now. There’s a lamp that needs fixing.” He gestured into the bedroom. “The Duchess wants it working tonight.” He kept his voice low, remembering the secretary.

Keycase went out.

In the corridor he tried not to think. In his own room he buried his face in a pillow in despair.

It was more than an hour before he bothered forcing the lock of the case he had brought with him. Inside he found used bills, all of small denominations.

With trembling hands, he counted fifteen thousand dollars.

22

Peter McDermott was called out by the night manager in the lobby. “Mr. McDermott, here’s a note from Miss Francis.”

It read simply:

I’ve gone home. Come if you can.

– Christine.

He would go, he decided. Nothing else to do tonight at the hotel. Or was there? Abruptly, Peter remembered he had promised to telephone Marsha, but he had forgotten until now. It seemed like days, but he supposed he should call her, late as it was.

Marsha answered on the first ring.

“Oh, Peter,” she said, “I waited and waited, then called twice and left my name.”

“I’m genuinely sorry, and I can’t explain, at least not yet.”

“Tell me tomorrow. At breakfast,” Marsha said. “You’ll love a New Orleans breakfast. They’re famous. And Anna’s are special.”

It was impossible not to be charmed by Marsha’s enthusiasms. And he felt sorry for this afternoon.

They agreed on 7:30 a.m.

A few minutes later he was in a taxi on his way to Christine’s apartment.

Christine was waiting with the apartment door open. “Not a word,” she said, “until after the second drink.”

She had mixed daiquiris, which were chilling in the refrigerator.

They talked continuously for almost two hours, all the time their closeness growing. At the end, they concluded that tomorrow would be an interesting day.

“I know I won’t sleep now.” Christine said.

“I couldn’t either,” Peter said. “But not for the reason you mean.”

He had no doubts. He took her in his arms and kissed her.

Later, it seemed the most natural thing in the world that they should make love.

Friday

1

There had been no message during the night concerning anything found in the incinerator. The night manager reported that he had spoken with the incinerator employee, Graham, who was sorry, but the paper Mr. McDermott wanted had not turned up.

Between sips of coffee, and while dressing, Peter thought constantly about Christine and his own future, if any, at the St. Gregory Hotel.

Whatever might be ahead, he wished Christine to be a part of it. It might be unromantic, Peter reflected, to say that he was comfortable with Christine. But it was true and, in a sense, reassuring.

As to the hotel, it was hard to believe, even now, that Albert Wells had assumed control of the St. Gregory, or would today. It seemed possible that Peter’s own position might be strengthened by the unexpected development. But Peter decided not to worry about events until they happened.

Clocks were chiming seven-thirty as Peter McDermott arrived, by taxi, at the Preyscott mansion.

“Good morning!” Marsha smiled. They exchanged a few phrases, but Peter’s thoughts kept drifting away.

As they sat down, Ben placed a Creole cream cheese Evangeline, garlanded with fruit, in front of them.

“Earlier on,” Marsha said, “you said something about the hotel.”

“Oh, yes.” Between mouthfuls of cheese and fruit, he explained about Albert Wells. The call had been from Warren Trent. It informed Peter that Mr. Dempster of Montreal, financial representative of the St. Gregory’s new owner, was en route to New Orleans. Surprisingly, Warren Trent had sounded not in the least depressed.

Peter also knew that Curtis O’Keefe and his companion Miss Lash were due to leave the St. Gregory later this morning, in different directions though.

“You’re thinking about a lot of things,” Marsha said. “I wish you’d tell me some.”

Peter smiled. He told her the kind of day that he expected it to be.

As they talked, the remains of the cheeses Evangeline were removed, to be replaced by steaming, aromatic eggs Sardou. Peter caught sight of the housekeeper, Anna, hovering in the background. He called out “Magnificent!” and saw her smile.

More plates arrived, and Peter pointed, “You’ve made this breakfast an occasion. This and a good deal more. Meeting you, my history lessons, being with you here. I won’t forget it – ever.”

“It sounds as if you’re saying goodbye.”

“I am, Marsha.” He met her eyes steadily, then smiled.

“I thought…”

He reached out across the table, his hand covering Marsha’s. “Perhaps we were both daydreaming. I think we were. But it’s quite the nicest daydream I ever had.”

Perhaps, at this moment, he was making a mistake, which years from now he would remember with regret. He sensed that Marsha was close to tears.

“Excuse me.” She stood up and walked from the gallery.

Peter wished he could have spoken more gently. After a few minutes, Anna appeared. “I don’t believe Miss Marsha’ll be back.”

He asked, “How is she?”

“She’s crying in her room.” Anna shrugged. “It’s a way she has when she doesn’t get all she wants. When she’s past the most of it, I’ll do the best I can. If only her father were at home more…”

“You’re very understanding.” Peter remembered what Marsha had told him about Anna. “I heard about your husband. He must have been a fine man.”

“My husband!” The housekeeper cackled. “I had no husband. My goodness! Miss Marsha’s been taking you in with all her stories. A lot of the time she is just acting, which is why you don’t need to worry now.”

Peter wondered if he would ever be wise about women. He rather doubted it.