5

“You must have been insane,” the Duchess of Croydon protested after Peter McDermott’s departure, carefully closing the inner door behind her.

“I’m sorry, old girl. Couldn’t hear the fellow. Thought he’d left.”

“You make it sound as if it’s all some sort of game.”

The Duchess went on accusingly, “I was doing the best I could. I even invented a walk that we went for in case anyone saw us come in. And then you announce you left your cigarettes in the car.”

“Only one heard me.”

“He noticed. I was watching his face.” She continued, “We’d be suspected. That’s why I made that trouble with the waiter. It isn’t an alibi but it’s the next best thing. Going gambling tonight was madness; and to take that woman…”

“We have already discussed that,” the Duke said wearily. “Exhaustively. On our way back. Before it happened.” The Duke of Croydon sipped his drink. “Why’d you marry me?”

“I suppose it was mostly that you stood out in our circle as someone who was doing something worthwhile.”

“Washington?” The word was a question.

“We could manage it,” the Duchess said. “If I could keep you sober and in your own bed.”

“Aha!” Her husband laughed. “A cold bed it is. Ever wondered why I married you?” He drank again, as if for courage, “Wanted you in that bed. Fast. Legally.”

“I’m surprised you bothered. With so many others to choose from – before and since.”

“Didn’t want others. Wanted you. Still do. Magnificent. Savage. Passionate.”

“Stop it! Stop it!” Her face was white, her voice high pitched. “I don’t care if the police catch you! I hope they do! I hope you get ten years!”

6

After making the necessary arrangements, Peter McDermott returned to 1439 and asked for Dr. Uxbridge’s permission to transfer the patient to another room on the same floor.

The doctor who had responded to Christine’s emergency call nodded.

Then McDermott turned to Christine, “We’ll let Dr. Aarons arrange nursing care.”

“I’m worried about that. I don’t think he has much money.” When she was concentrating, Peter noticed, Christine’s nose had a charming way of crinkling. He was aware of her closeness and a faint, fragrant perfume.

“Oh well,” he said, “we’ll let the credit department look into it then. Now let’s get Mr. Wells to 1410.” But the doorway, they discovered, was an inch too narrow for the bed.

“Never mind,” Peter said. “There’s a quicker way – if you’re agreeable, Mr. Wells.”

The other smiled, and nodded. Peter bent down, put a blanket around the elderly man’s shoulders and picked him up.

“You’ve strong arms, son,” the little man said.

Peter smiled. Then, as easily, as if his burden were a child, he strode down the corridor and into the new room.

Fifteen minutes later all was functioning. The oxygen equipment had been successfully transferred, the air conditioning made the air sweeter. The resident physician, Dr. Aarons, had arrived, and accepted Dr. Uxbridge’s offer to drop in the following day. A private duty nurse had been telephoned was on the way. Albert Wells was sleeping gently.

Walking with Peter toward the elevators, Christine said, “I’m glad we let him stay. Some places wouldn’t. All they want is people to check in, check out, and pay the bill.”

“A real hotel is for hospitality if a guest needs it. Unfortunately, too many people in hotel business have forgotten it.”

“You think we’ve forgotten here?”

“You’re damn right we have! A lot of the time, anyway. If I had my way there’d be a good many changes…” He stopped, embarrassed. The St. Gregory was inefficient in many ways. Currently the hotel was facing a financial crisis. “But W.T. isn’t keen on new ideas.”

“That’s no reason for giving up.”

He laughed. “You sound like a woman.”

“I am a woman.”

“I know,” Peter said. “I’ve just begun to notice.”

For most of the time he had known Christine – since his own arrival at the St. Gregory – he had taken her for granted. Recently, though, he had started to notice how attractive she was.

“I didn’t have dinner tonight; too much going on. If you feel like it, how about joining me for a late supper?”

Christine said, “I love late suppers.”

“There’s one more thing I want to check. I sent Herbie Chandler to look into that trouble on the eleventh but I don’t trust him. Will you wait on the main mezzanine?”

His hands were surprisingly gentle for his size. It was an interesting face as well, with a hint of determination, she thought.

“All right,” she agreed. “I’ll wait.”

7

Marsha Preyscott wished she had spent her nineteenth birthday some other way. It had been a mistake to come here. But as always, and rebelliously, she had sought something different, which was what Lyle Dumaire had promised.

She had known that boy for years and dated occasionally. His father was president of one of the city’s banks as well as a close friend of her own father. Without thinking about it, she said yes, when he asked whether she wanted to come with him upstairs to the small, crowded suite 1126-7. There were more people than she expected, and some of the boys were already very drunk. One of the girls had passed out.

Something was happening in the adjoining room, to which the door was closed, though a group of boys, whom Lyle Dumaire had joined – leaving Marsha alone – was there. She heard a question, “What was it like?” but the answer was lost in a shout of laughter. When she realized, or at least suspected, what was happening, disgust made her want to leave.

If her father had come home as he promised, she would not have been here now. Instead, there would have been a birthday celebration at home. But he had not come home. Instead, he had telephoned from Rome. Perhaps, there were some things in Rome, which he wouldn’t tell her about, just as she would never tell him what was happening in room 1126 now.

Youth was a dull time, Marsha often thought, especially when you had to share it with others the same age as yourself. There were moments – and this was one – when she longed for companionship that was more mature. She would not find it though in Lyle Dumaire.

Others were beginning to leave the suite. One of the older boys whom she knew as Stanley Dixon came out from the other room, “… girls said they’re going.”

“Why not somebody from here?” It was Lyle Dumaire’s voice, much less under control than it had been earlier.

“Yeah, but who?”

Marsha ignored them. The suite was almost cleared. If Lyle planned to escort her, Marsha thought, she would turn him down.

Then she heard the outer door close. Stanley Dixon was standing in front of it, his hands behind him. The lock clicked.

“Hey, Marsha,” Lyle Dumaire said. “What’s the big rush?”

Marsha had known Lyle since childhood, but now there was a difference.

“I’m going home.”

“Aw, come on. Have a drink.”

“No, thank you.”

“You’re going to be a good girl, aren’t you?”

“Some of us have had a good time already. It’s made us want more of the same,” said Dixon. The other two, whose names she didn’t know, were grinning.

“I’m not interested in what you want.” Though her voice was firm, she was aware of an underlying note of fear.

“Listen, Marsha,” Lyle blustered. “We know you want to. All girls want to. Eh, fellas?”

They began to move closer.

“If you touch me I shall scream.”

Suddenly, without seeming to move, Dixon was behind her, clapping a big sweaty hand across her mouth, another holding her arms. She struggled, and tried to bite the hand, but without success.

“Listen, Marsha,” Lyle said, “you’re going to get it, so you might as well enjoy it.”

Lyle had the other arm and together they were forcing her toward the adjoining bedroom.

“Somebody grab her feet.” The remaining boy took hold. With a sense of unreality Marsha felt herself being carried through the bedroom doorway.

“Get her things off,” someone said.

There were twin beds in the room. Resisting wildly, Marsha was forced backward onto the nearest. A moment later she lay across it, her head pressed back cruelly. All she could see was the ceiling above.

Dixon was half sitting on the bed, near her head. She felt hands holding her. She attempted to kick but her legs were pinned down. Someone tore her dress.

“I’m first,” Stanley Dixon said. “Somebody take over here.”

Her legs were still held firmly, but Dixon’s hand on her face was moving, another taking its place. It was an opportunity. As the new hand came over, Marsha bit fiercely. She felt her teeth go into flesh, meeting bone.

Inflating her lungs, Marsha screamed. “Help! Please help me!”

Only the last word was cut off by Stanley Dixon’s hand. She heard him snarl, “You fool! You stupid goon!”

“She bit me!”

There was a knock on the outside door.

“Christ! Somebody did hear.”

“What do we do?”

The knocking was repeated.

“I’ll go,” said Dixon. He murmured to one of the others, “Hold her down and this time don’t make any mistake.”

The lock clicked.

“Excuse me, sir. I’m an employee of the hotel. I happened to be passing and heard someone cry out.”

“Well, thanks. But it was only my wife having a nightmare.”

Twisting her body sideways, Marsha freed her mouth. “Help!” she called before she could be stopped.

She heard the new voice say, “I’d like to come in, please.”

“This is a private room. I told you my wife is having a nightmare.”

“I’m sorry, sir; I don’t believe you.”

The hands upon Marsha removed themselves. A young Negro was entering. In his early twenties, he had an intelligent face and was neatly dressed. “Let the young lady go.”

“Take a look, fellas,” Dixon said. “Take a look at who’s giving orders. You asked for it, nigger boy.” His right fist blow would have felled the young Negro, but in a single movement the other moved sideways. In the same instant the Negro’s own left fist landed with a crack at the side of his attacker’s face.

A hand on his cheek, Dixon said, “Let’s get him!”

Assaulted by three, the Negro went down. Marsha heard the thud of blows and also a growing hum of voices in the corridor. The others heard the voices as well and hurried out of the room hastily.

The young Negro was rising from the floor, his face bloody.

Outside, a new, authoritative voice asked. “Where is the disturbance, please?”

“In there.”

The door opened wide and then closed from the inside.

Peter McDermott asked, “What happened?”

Marsha’s body was shivering with sobs. She attempted to stand, but fell back weakly: “Tried… rape…”

McDermott’s looked at the young Negro.

“No! No!” called Marsha. “It wasn’t him! He came to help!”

The young Negro put the handkerchief away from his face, “Why don’t you go ahead, Mr. McDermott, and hit me. You could always say afterward it was a mistake.”

McDermott had a profound dislike of Aloysius Royce who combined the role of personal valet to the hotel owner, Warren Trent, with the study of law at Loyola University, and whom Peter found too arrogant.

“There were four of them. Four nice white young gentlemen. I recognized two of them.”

Peter crossed to the telephone beside the nearer bed.

“Who you calling?”

“The city police.”

There was a smile on the young Negro’s face. “I wouldn’t do it. For one thing, I’d have to be a witness. And no court in Louisiana is gonna take a nigger boy’s word in a white rape case. Not when four young white gentlemen say the nigger boy is lying. Not even if Miss Preyscott supports the nigger boy, which I doubt her pappy’d let her.”

Peter put down the receiver as what Royce had said was true. “Did you say ‘Miss Preyscott’?”

Unhappily, Marsha nodded.

“Miss Preyscott,” Peter said, “did you know the people who were responsible for what happened?”

“Yes.”

“And did you come here with them to this suite?”

Again a whisper. “Yes.”

“It’s up to you, Miss Preyscott, whether you make an official complaint or not. Whatever you decide, the hotel will go along with. But I’m afraid Royce is right about publicity.” He added: “Of course, it’s really something for your father to decide.”

Marsha raised her head, looking directly at Peter for the first time. “My father’s in Rome. Don’t tell him, please, ever.”

Peter was startled to see how much of a child Marsha was, and how very beautiful. “Is there anything I can do now?”

“I don’t know.” She began to cry again.

Uncertainly, Peter took out a white linen handkerchief, which Marsha accepted.

“Thank you.”

“I think you should rest a while.”

“I don’t want to stay here. I couldn’t.”

He nodded understandingly. “In a little while we’ll get you home.”

“No! Not that! Please, isn’t there somewhere else… in the hotel?”

Peter hesitated. “There’s 555, I suppose.” He glanced at Royce.

Room 555 was a small one, which went with the assistant general manager’s job. Peter rarely used it, except to change. It was empty now.

“It’ll be all right,” Marsha said. “As long as someone phones my home. Ask for Anna the housekeeper.”

“I’ll go get the key,” Royce offered.

As the young Negro opened the outer door, voices filtered in, with a barrage of eager questions. McDermott heard Royce’s answers, quietly reassuring, then the voices fade.

Marsha murmured, “You haven’t told me who you are.”

“I’m sorry.” He told her his name and his connection with the hotel.

She was taken to 555 in a service elevator and shown to the bathroom. There were men’s pajamas there prepared for her, in dark blue, and too large. She put them on.

Hands helped her into bed. She was aware of Peter McDermott’s calm voice once more. It was a voice she liked, Marsha thought – and its owner also. “Royce and I are leaving now, Miss Preyscott. The door to this room is self-locking and the key is beside your bed. You won’t be disturbed.”

“Thank you.” Sleepily she asked, “Whose pajamas?”

“They’re mine. I’m sorry they’re so big.”

“No matter… nice…” It was her final thought.