7

After making sure the hotel proprietor had been informed of O’Keefe’s arrival, Peter went on to see Marsha Preyscott in 555.

As she opened the door, “I’m glad you came,” she said.

There was something almost breathtaking in the half-woman, half-child appearance.

“I’m sorry it took so long.”

“It’s the room for emergencies, isn’t it? If you don’t mind, I thought I’d stay on for tonight, at least,” she said.

“Oh! May I ask why?”

“I’m not sure,” she lied, as she knew that the real reason was to put off her return to the empty house. “Maybe it’s because I want to recover from what happened yesterday, and the best place to do it is here.”

He nodded doubtfully. “How do you feel?”

“Better. It isn’t the kind of experience you get over in a few hours,” Marsha admitted, “but I’m afraid I was pretty stupid to come here at all – just as you reminded me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you thought it.”

“We all get into tough situations sometimes. I was hoping you’d tell me how it all started.”

Last night her overwhelming feelings had been shock, hurt pride, and physical exhaustion. But now the shock was gone and her pride, she suspected, might suffer less from silence than by protest. It was likely, too, that in the sober light of morning Lyle Dumaire and his cronies would not be eager to boast of what they had attempted.

“I can’t persuade you if you decide to keep quiet,” Peter said. “Though I’d remind you that what people get away with once they’ll try again – not with you, perhaps, but someone else. I don’t know if the men who were in that room last night were friends of yours or not. But even if they were, I can’t think of a single reason for shielding them.”

“One was a friend. At least, I thought so.”

“We know two of them already. Who was the leader?”

“I think… Dixon.”

“Now then, tell me what happened beforehand.”

Marsha had a sense of being dominated, and, surprisingly, she found herself liking it. Obediently she described the sequence of events ending with the welcome arrival of Aloysius Royce. Only twice was she interrupted. Had she seen the women in the adjoining room whom Dixon and the others had referred to? Had she observed anyone from the hotel staff? To both questions she shook her head negatively.

At the end she had an urge to tell him more.

“Yesterday was my birthday. I was nineteen.”

“And you were alone?”

Marsha described the telephone call from Rome and her disappointment at her father’s failure to return.

“I’m sorry,” he said when she had finished. “And what I want to do now is make use of what you’ve told me. I’ll call the four people – Dixon, Dumaire and the other two – into the hotel for a talk.”

“That way, wouldn’t a lot of people find out?”

“I promise that when we’re finished there’ll be even less likelihood of anyone talking.”

“All right,” Marsha agreed. “And thank you for all you’ve done.”

It had been easier than he expected, Peter thought.

“There’s something I should explain, Miss Preyscott.”

“Marsha.”

“All right, I’m Peter.” He supposed the informality was all right.

“A lot of things go on in hotels, Marsha, that we close our eyes to. But when something like this happens we can be extremely tough. That includes anyone on our staff, if we find out they were implicated.”

It was one area, Peter knew – involving the hotel’s reputation – where Warren Trent would agree with him. The conversation went on.

“You’re new to New Orleans, aren’t you?” Marsha said.

“Fairly new. In time I hope to know it better.”

She said with sudden enthusiasm, “I know lots about local history. Would you let me teach you I’d like to do something to show how grateful… “

“There isn’t any need for that.”

“Well then, I’d like to anyway. Please!” She put a hand on his arm.

Wondering if he was being wise, he said, “It’s an interesting offer.”

“That’s settled. I’m having a dinner party at home tomorrow night. It’ll be an old-fashioned New Orleans evening. Afterward we can talk about history.”

The past, the importance of avoiding involvement with a young girl who was also a hotel guest, made Peter hesitate. Then he decided: it would be silly to refuse. And there was nothing bad about accepting an invitation to dinner. There would be others present, after all. “If I come,” he said, “I want you to do one thing for me now.”

“What?”

“Go home, Marsha. Leave the hotel and go home.”

Their eyes met directly.

“All right,” she said. “If you want me to, I will.”

It troubled Peter McDermott that someone as young as Marsha Preyscott should be so apparently neglected. If I were her father, he thought… or brother…

In his office his thoughts were interrupted by Flora Yates, his freckle-faced secretary.

Flora’s fingers, which could dance over a typewriter keyboard faster than any others he had ever seen, were clutching a pack of telephone messages.

“Anything urgent?”

“They’ll keep until this afternoon.”

“We’ll let them, then. I asked the cashier’s office to send me a bill for room 1126-7. It’s in the name of Stanley Dixon.”

“It’s here.” Flora plucked a folder from several others on his desk. “There’s also an estimate from the carpenters’ shop for damages in the suite. I put the two together.”

The bill was for seventy-five dollars, the carpenters’ estimate for a hundred and ten. Peter said, “Get me the phone number for this address. I expect it’ll be in his father’s name.”

There was a folded newspaper on his desk which he had not looked at until now. The hit-and-run fatality of the night before was on the front page. It had become a double tragedy, the mother had died in the hospital during the early hours of the morning. “Police attach credence to the report of an unnamed bystander that a “low black car moving very fast” was observed leaving the scene seconds after the accident.” City and state police were looking for a presumably damaged automobile fitting this description.

Peter wondered if Christine had seen the newspaper report.

The return of Flora with the telephone number he had asked for brought his mind back to more immediate things.

A deep male voice answered, “The Dixon residence.”

Peter introduced himself. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Stanley Dixon.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Dixon, junior, is not available.”

“Tell him if he doesn’t choose to come to the telephone I intend to call his father directly.”

There was a click on the line and a voice announced, “This’s Stan Dixon. What’s all the fuss?”

Peter answered sharply, “The fuss concerns what happened last night. Does it surprise you?”

“Who are you?”

He repeated his name. “I’ve talked with Miss Preyscott. Now I’d like to talk to you.”

“You’re talking now,” Dixon said.

“Not this way. In my office at the hotel. Four o’clock tomorrow, with the other three. You’ll bring them along.”

“Whoever you are, you’d better watch out because my old man knows Warren Trent.”

“For your information I’ve already discussed the matter with Mr. Trent. He left it for me to handle. But I’ll tell him you prefer to have your father brought in.”

“Hold it!” There was the sound of heavy breathing, “I’ve got a class tomorrow at four.”

“Cut it,” Peter told him, “and have the others do the same. My office is on the main mezzanine.”

Replacing the telephone, he found himself looking forward to tomorrow’s meeting.

8

The pages of the morning newspaper lay around the Duchess of Croydon’s bed. There was little in the news that the Duchess had not read thoroughly. There had never been a time, she realized, when her wits and resourcefulness were needed more.

She suddenly announced thinking aloud, “What we desperately need is to have some attention focused on you.”

As if by consent, neither referred to the events of the night before.

“Only thing likely to do that is an announcement confirming my appointment to Washington.”

“Exactly.”

“You can’t hurry it…” The Duke’s tone was close to hysteria.

“I’m going to call London. I shall speak to Geoffrey. I intend to ask him to do everything he can to speed up your appointment.” In contrast to her husband, the Duchess’s tone was businesslike. “Geoffrey’s good at pressure when he wants to be. Besides, if we sit here and wait it maybe worse still.”

The Duchess picked up the telephone beside the bed and instructed the operator, “I wish to call London and speak to Lord Selwyn.” When the Duchess of Croydon had explained its purpose, her brother, Lord Selwyn, was notably unenthusiastic.

“If things are left as they are, how long will a decision take?”

“The way I hear, though, it could be weeks.”

“We simply cannot wait weeks,” the Duchess insisted. “What I’m asking is for the family’s sake as well as our own.”

“I don’t like it, sis, but you usually know what you are doing. I’ll do what I can.”

The bedside telephone rang again in a few moments.

A nasal voice inquired, “Duchess of Croydon?”

“This is she.”

“Ogilvie. Chief house officer. I want a private talk. With your husband and you.”

The Duchess’s hands were shaking, “It is not convenient to see you right now.”

“I’ll be there in an hour.” It was a declaration, not a question. There was a click as the caller hung up.

“Who was it?” The Duke approached, his face paler than before.

The Duchess closed her eyes. She had a desperate yearning to be relieved of leadership and responsibility for them both. In her family, though strength was a norm, others followed her lead. Even Geoffrey always listened to her in the end, as he had just now. She could not give up and she would not.