14

“There’s something exciting,” Peter McDermott observed, “about a girl fumbling in her handbag for the key to her apartment.”

“Here! – I’ve found it.”

“Hang on!” Peter took Christine’s shoulders, then kissed her. It was a long kiss and in course of it his arms moved, holding her tightly.

Taking the key, Peter opened the apartment door.

“Cigarette?”

“Yes, please.”

Peter held a match flame for them both.

“This is nice,” Christine said. “Just sitting, talking.”

“Talking wasn’t exactly…”

“I know. But there’s a question of where we’re going, and if, and why.”

“If what could happen… happens, it ought to mean something for both of us.”

He stubbed out his cigarette, then took Christine’s and did the same. “We need to get to know each other.” His eyes searched her face. “Words aren’t always the best way.”

His arms reached out and she came to him. Trembling, and to the pounding of her heart, she told herself: whatever was to happen must take its course.

Then, unexpectedly, they were no longer close together. He whispered, “You were right. Let’s give it time.”

She felt herself kissed gently, then heard footsteps recede.

“Please don’t go!” she breathed.

But there was only silence.

15

A few minutes only remained of Tuesday.

In a Bourbon Street strip club the big-hipped blonde leaned closer to her male companion. “Sure I want to go to bed with you, honey.”

If he breathes at me any more, she thought, I’ll puke.

“What are we waiting for, then? Why don’t we leave now?” the man asked thickly.

“I already told you, sugar. I work here. I can’t leave yet. I got my act to do.”

As if with sudden inspiration, the hippy blonde said, “What hotel you staying at?”

“St. Gregory.”

“Wait, Stanley darling! I’ve an idea.”

For the past hour and a half Stan whoever-he-was from somewhere had docilely followed the tired old routine: the first drink at four times the price he would have paid in an honest bar. Then the waiter had brought her over to join him. They had been served a succession of drinks. And later they were served a bottle of domestic champagne, for which the bill, though Stanley didn’t know it yet, would be forty dollars! So all that remained was to ditch him, though she wanted to get a bonus for enduring that stinking breath.

“Leave me your hotel key. You can get another at the desk, they always have spares. Soon as I’m through here I’ll come and join you.”

He said doubtfully, “Hey, you sure you’ll…”

“Honey, I promise I’ll fly.”

He gave her the key and, before he could change his mind, she had left the table. She wondered how long he would lie hopefully awake in his hotel room, and how long it would take him to realize she wasn’t coming, and never would.

Some two hours later she sold the key for ten dollars.

The buyer was Keycase Milne.

Wednesday

1

At the first gray streaks of a new dawn, Keycase was refreshed, alert, and ready for work. He dismissed a shadow of fear concerning the awful possibility of being sent down for fifteen years if he was caught.

He had five keys now. One of the keys had been obtained last evening in the simplest way possible – by asking for it at the hotel front desk. His own room number was 830. He had asked for the key of 803. The fifth key had been sold to him by a Bourbon Street girl.

He made his last preparations. In the bathroom he gargled with whiskey thoroughly, though drinking none. Checking his pockets where his collection of keys was disposed, he let himself out of the room.

He went two floors down to the sixth, moving easily, not hurrying. The corridor was deserted and silent.

Keycase had already studied the hotel layout and the system of numbering rooms. Taking the key of 641 from an inside pocket, he held it casually in his hand and walked unhurriedly to where he knew the room was.

The door of 641 was in front of him. He stopped. No light from beneath. He produced gloves and slipped them on. Making no sound, he inserted the key. The door opened noiselessly. Removing the key, he went in, gently closing the door behind him.

To the right was the shadow of a bed. From the sound of even breathing, its occupant was well asleep.

The dressing table was the place to look for money first. His gloved fingers encountered a small pile of coins. Where there were coins there was likely to be a wallet. Ah! – he had found it. It was interestingly bulky.

A bright light in the room snapped on.

Reaction was instinctive. He dropped the wallet and spun around guiltily, facing the light.

The man who had switched on the bedside lamp was in pajamas, sitting up in bed. He was youngish, muscular, and angry. He said explosively, “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

Swaying as if drunkenly, Keycase said, “Wadya mean, wha’m I doin’? Wha’ you doin’ in my bed?” Unobtrusively, he slipped off the gloves.

“Damn you! This is my bed. And my room!”

Moving closer, Keycase loosed a blast of breath. He saw the other recoil. Keycase had bluffed his way out of dangerous situations like this before. He said stupidly, “Your room? You sure?”

“You lousy drunk! Of course I’m sure it’s my room!”

“This is 614?”

“You stupid jerk! It’s 641.”

“Sorry, old man. Guess, it’s my mistake.”

“Get out!”

Already he was on the way to the door. “Said I’m sorry, old man. No need to get upset.”

Keycase closed the door behind him.

The man inside got out of bed, the protective chain went on.

For fully five minutes Keycase stood in the corridor, waiting to hear if the man in the room telephoned downstairs. But there was no sound, no telephone call. The immediate danger was removed.

Later, though, it might be a different story. When Mr. 641 awoke again in the full light of morning he would remember what had occurred. What Keycase ought to do was pack up and run. If he hurried, he could be clear of the city in less than an hour.

Except that he had invested money – the motel, his hotel room, the girl. Now, funds were running low. Think hard, Keycase told himself.

So how long did he have? Another clear day, probably two. It would be enough.

And he must go on now before he could lose his nerve.

The man named Stanley, from Iowa, who had fallen for the oldest routine on Bourbon Street, was at last asleep. He neither heard Keycase enter, nor move carefully and methodically around the room. He continued to sleep soundly as Keycase extracted the money from his wallet, then pocketed his watch, ring, gold cigarette case, matching lighter and diamond cuff links. He did not stir as Keycase, just as quietly, left.

It was mid-morning before Stanley from Iowa awoke, and another hour before he was aware of having been robbed.

The same day Keycase saw the Duchess of Croydon.

Keycase stopped, at first startled and unbelieving. An avid reader of magazines and newspapers, he had seen too many photographs not to be sure. And the Duchess was staying, presumably, in this hotel.

The Duchess of Croydon’s gem collection was among the world’s most fabulous. Whatever the occasion, she never appeared anywhere without being resplendently jeweled. Even now his eyes narrowed at the sight of her rings, worn casually, which must be priceless.

A half-formed idea – reckless, audacious, impossible… or was it?… was taking shape in Keycase’s mind.

2

Hotel guests who entertained in their rooms, or even drank alone, often had an inch or two of liquor left in bottles at the time of their departure. Good liquor was usually left intact on dressing tables of the vacated rooms. If a bellboy observed such bottles when summoned to carry a guest’s bags at checkout time, he was usually back within a few minutes to collect them. In laundry bags the liquor found its way to the corner of a basement storeroom, the private domain of Herbie Chandler.

Herbie sorted the bottles containing gin into a single group. He repeated the process with bourbon, Scotch, and rye. A lonely few ounces of vodka he emptied, after a moment’s hesitation, into the gin.

Later in the day the seven full bottles would be delivered to a bar a few blocks from the St. Gregory. The bar owner served the liquor to customers, paying Herbie half the going price of regularly bottled supplies.

Today’s accumulation would have pleased Herbie if he had not been preoccupied with other thoughts. Late last night there had been a telephone call from Stanley Dixon. The young man told about the conversation between himself and Peter McDermott. What Dixon wanted to find out was: Just how much did McDermott know?

Herbie Chandler had been unable to supply an answer, except to warn Dixon to be discreet and admit nothing. But, ever since, he had been wondering what exactly happened in rooms 1126-7 two nights earlier, and just how well informed – concerning the bell captain’s own part in it – the assistant general manager was.

Another nine hours until four o’clock would pass slowly.

3

In his morning prayer, Curtis O’Keefe did not forget to remind God of his own continuing interest in the St. Gregory Hotel. He regretted that he had not insisted on Warren Trent’s decision last night. He had not the least doubt of a favorable decision from Warren Trent. There could be no possible alternative.

Near the end of breakfast there was a telephone call from Hank Lemnitzer, Curtis O’Keefe’s personal representative on the West Coast.

“There’s one thing, Mr. O’Keefe. It’s about Jenny LaMarsh…”

O’Keefe remembered a striking, rangy brunette with a superb figure and a quick mischievous wit. He had been impressed both with her obvious potential as a woman and the range of her conversation.

“I’ve talked with her, Mr. O’Keefe. She’d be pleased to go along with you on a trip. Or two.”

Conversation, as well as other things with Jenny LaMarsh, would be highly stimulating. Certainly she would have no trouble holding her own with people they met together.

But, surprising himself, he hesitated.

“There’s one thing I’d like to ensure, and that’s Miss Lash’s future. I’d like you to line up something for Miss Lash specifically. Something good. And I want to know about it before she leaves.”

The voice sounded doubtful. “I guess I could.”

Returning back to the dining room, he informed her, “I’m going to take a walk through the hotel.” Later today, he decided, he would make amends to Dodo by taking her on an inspection of the city. At the outer doorway, on impulse, he told her about it. She responded by flinging her arms around his neck.

He rode an elevator down to the main mezzanine and from there took the stairway to the lobby where he resolutely put Dodo out of his mind. He could see how he could change everything in this place and planned future reconstructions in his head.

The lobby was becoming busier. A small line had formed at the reception counter. O’Keefe stood watching. It was then that he observed what apparently no one else had seen.

A middle-aged, well-dressed Negro entered the hotel. At the counter he put down his bag and stood waiting, third in line.

“Good morning,” the Negro said. “I’m Dr. Nicholas; you have a reservation for me.” While waiting he had removed a black hat revealing carefully brushed iron-gray hair.

“Yes, sir. Could you register, please?” The words were spoken before the clerk looked up. As he did, his features stiffened.

“I’m sorry,” he said firmly, “the hotel is full.”

The Negro responded smilingly. “I have a reservation. The hotel sent a letter confirming it.”

“There must have been a mistake. We have a convention here.”

“It’s a convention of dentists. I happen to be one.”

The room clerk shook his head. “There’s nothing I can do for you.”

The Negro put away his papers. “In that case I’d like to talk with someone else.”

O’Keefe had a sense that a time bomb was ticking, ready to explode.

“You can talk to the assistant manager. Mr. Bailey!”

The title of assistant manager, as in most hotels, was mainly to make guests believe they were dealing with a higher personage than in reality. The real authority of the hotel was in the executive offices, out of sight.

“Mr. Bailey,” the room clerk said, “I’ve explained to this gentleman that the hotel is full…”

“And I’ve explained,” the Negro protested, “that I have a confirmed reservation.”

“Won’t you come and sit down over here?”

Smoothly and without fuss, a potentially embarrassing scene had been eased from center stage into the wings. Meanwhile the other arrivals were being quickly checked in with the aid of a second room clerk who had joined the first.

Well, O’Keefe thought, perhaps there might be no explosion after all.

The assistant manager gestured his companion to a chair beside the desk and eased into his own.

“I apologize for the misunderstanding, but I’m sure we can find you other accommodation in the city.”

“You tell me the hotel is full, but your clerks are checking people in. Do they have some special kind of reservation?”

“I guess you could say that.” The professional smile had disappeared.

“Jim Nicholas!” Behind the voice, a small elderly man took short hurried strides across the lobby.

The Negro stood. “Dr. Ingram! How good to see you!”

“How are you, Jim, my boy? I assume your practice is going well.”

“It is, thank you,” Dr. Nicholas smiled. “Of course my university work still takes a good deal of time.”

“Anyway you seem to have gotten the best of both with a fine reputation. By the way, I shall have the pleasure of introducing you to the convention. You know they made me president this year?”

Dr. Ingram patted his colleague on the shoulder. “Give me your room number, Jim. A few of us will be getting together for drinks later on. I’d like you to join us.”

“Unfortunately,” Dr. Nicholas said, “I’ve been told I won’t get a room. It seems to have something to do with my color.”

There was a shocked silence, in which the dentists’ president flushed deep red, “Jim, I’ll deal with this. I promise you, there will be an apology and a room. If there isn’t, I guarantee every other dentist will walk out of this hotel.”

The assistant manager instructed a bellboy urgently, “Get Mr. McDermott – fast!”