Hotel

The strain between them had persisted since yesterday afternoon.

After his angry outburst then, O'Keefe had been immediately and genuinely sorry. He continued to resent bitterly what he considered to be the perfidy of Warren Trent. But his tirade against Dodo had been inexcusable, and he knew it.

Worse, it was impossible to repair. Despite his apologies, the truth remained. He was getting rid of Dodo, and her Delta Air Lines flight to Los Angeles was due to leave this afternoon. He was replacing her with someone else Jenny LaMarsh who, at this moment, was waiting for him in New York.

Last night, contritely, he had laid on an elaborate evening for Dodo, taking her first to dine superbly at the Commander's Palace, and afterward to dance and be entertained at the Blue Room of the Roosevelt Hotel. But the evening had not gone well, not through any fault of Dodo's, but, perversely, through his own low spirits.

She had done her best to be gay good company.

After her obvious unhappiness of the afternoon, she had, it seemed, resolved to put hurt feelings behind her and be engaging, as she always was. "Gee, Curtie," Dodo exclaimed at dinner, "a lotta girls would give their Playtex girdles to have a movie part like I got." And later, placing her hand over his, "You're still the sweetest, Curtie. You always will be."

The effect had been to deepen his own depression which, in the end, proved contagious to them both.

Curtis O'Keefe attributed his feelings to the loss of the hotel, though usually he was more resilient about such matters. In his long career he had experienced his share of business disappointments and had schooled himself to bounce back, getting on with the next thing, rather than waste time in lamenting failures.

But on this occasion, even after a night's sleep, the mood persisted.

It made him irritable with God. There was a distinct sharpness, plus an undertone of criticism, in his morning prayers. . . . Thou hast seen fit to place thy St. Gregory Hotel in alien hands . . . No doubt thou hast thine own inscrutable purpose, even if experienced mortals like thy servant can perceive no reason . . .

He prayed alone, taking less time than usual, and afterward found Dodo packing his bags as well as her own. When he protested, she assured him,

"Curtie, I like doing it. And if I didn't this time, who would?"

He felt disinclined to explain that none of Dodo's predecessors had ever packed or unpacked for him, or that he usually summoned someone from a hotel housekeeping department to do the job, as from now on, he supposed, he would have to do once more.

It was at that point he telephoned room service to order breakfast, but the idea hadn't worked despite the fact that when they sat down, Dodo tried again. "Gee, Curtie, we don't have to be miserable. It isn't like we'll never see each other. We can meet in L.A. lots of times."

But O'Keefe, who had traveled this road before, knew that they would not.

Besides, he reminded himself, it was not parting with Dodo, but the loss of the hotel which really concerned him.

The moments slipped by. It was time for Dodo to leave. The bulk of her luggage, collected by two bellboys, had gone down to the lobby several minutes earlier. Now, the bell captain arrived for the remaining hand baggage, and to escort Dodo to her specially chartered airport limousine.

Herbie Chandler, aware of Curtis O'Keefe's importance, and sensitive as always to potential tips, had supervised this call himself. He stood waiting at the corridor entrance to the suite.

O'Keefe checked his watch and walked to the connecting doorway. "You've very little time, my dear."

Dodo's voice floated out. "I have to finish my nails, Curtie."

Wondering why all women left attending to their finger nails until the very last minute, Curtis O'Keefe handed Herbie Chandler a five-dollar bill. "Share this with the other two."

Chandler's weasel face brightened. "Thank you very much, sir." He would share it all right, he reflected, except that the other bellboys would get fifty cents each, with Herbie retaining the four dollars.

Dodo walked out from the adjoining room.

There should be music, Curtis O'Keefe thought. A blazoning of trumpets and the stirring sweep of strings.

She had on a simple yellow dress and the big floppy picture hat she had worn when they arrived on Tuesday. The ash-blond hair was loose about her shoulders. Her wide blue eyes regarded him.

"Goodbye, dearest Curtie." She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. Without intending to, he held her tightly.

He had an absurd impulse to instruct the bell captain to bring back Dodo's bags from downstairs, to tell her to stay and never to leave. He dismissed it as sentimental foolishness. In any case, there was Jenny LaMarsh. By this time tomorrow.

"Goodbye, my dear. I shall think of you often, and I shall follow your career closely."

At the doorway she turned and waved back. He could not be sure, but he had an impression she was crying. Herbie Chandler closed the door from outside.

On the twelfth-floor landing, the bell captain rang for an elevator.

While they waited, Dodo repaired her makeup with a handkerchief.

The elevators seemed slow this morning, Herbie Chandler thought.

Impatiently he depressed the call button a second time, holding it down for several seconds. He was still tense, he realized. He had been on tenterhooks ever since the session yesterday with McDermott, wondering just how and when the call would come - a direct summons from Warren Trent perhaps? - which would mark the end of Herbie's career at the St. Gregory Hotel. So far there had been no call and now, this morning, the rumor was around that the hotel had been sold to some old guy whom Herbi, - had never heard of.

How would that kind of change affect him personally? Regretfully, Herbie decided there would be no advantage for himself - at least, if McDermott stayed on, which seemed probable. The bell captain's dismissal might be delayed a few days, but that was all. McDermott! The hated name was like a sting inside him. If I had guts enough, Herbie thought, I'd put a knife between the bastard's shoulder blades.

An idea struck him. There were other ways, less drastic but still unpleasant, in which someone like McDermott could be given a rough time.

Especially in New Orleans. Of course, that kind of thing cost money, but there was the five hundred dollars which McDermott had turned down so smugly yesterday. He might be sorry that he had. The money would be worth spending, Herbie reflected, just for the pleasure of knowing that McDermott would writhe in some gutter, a mess of blood and bruises. Herbie had once seen someone after they received that kind of beating. The sight was not pretty. The bell captain licked his lips. The more he thought about it, the more the idea excited him. As soon as he was back on the main floor, he decided, he would make a telephone call. It could be arranged quickly.

Perhaps tonight.

An elevator had arrived at last. Its doors opened.

There were several people already inside who eased politely to the rear as Dodo entered. Herbie Chandler followed. The doors closed.

It was number four elevator. The time was eleven minutes past noon.

9

It seemed to the Duchess of Croydon as if she was waiting for a slow-buming fuse to reach an unseen bomb. Whether the bomb would explode, and where, would only be known when the burning reached it. Nor was it certain how long, in time, the fuse would take.

Already it had been fourteen hours.

Since last night, when the police detectives left, there had been no further word. Troublesome questions remained unanswered. What were the police doing? Where was Ogilvie? The Jaguar? Was there some scrap of evidence which, for all her ingenuity, the Duchess had overlooked? Even now, she did not believe there was.

One thing seemed important. Whatever their inner tensions, outwardly the Croydons should maintain an appearance of normalcy. For this reason, they had breakfasted at their usual time. Urged on by the Duchess, the Duke of Croydon exchanged telephone calls with London and Washington. Plans were begun for their departure tomorrow from New Orleans.

At mid-morning, as she had most other days, the Duchess left the hotel to exercise the Bedlington terriers. She had returned to the Presidential Suite half an hour ago.

It was almost noon. There was still no news concerning the single thing that mattered most.

Last night, considered logically, the Croydons' position seemed unassailable. And yet, today, logic seemed more tenuous, less secure.

"You'd almost think," the Duke of Croydon ventured, "that they're trying to wear us down by silence." He was standing, looking from the window of the suite living room, as he had so many times in recent days. In contrast to other occasions, today his voice was clear. Since yesterday, though liquor remained available in the suite, he had not wavered in his abstinence.

"If that's the case," the Duchess responded, "well see to it that ... "

She was interrupted by the jangling of the telephone. It honed their nervousness to an edge, as had every other call this morning.

The Duchess was nearest to the phone. She reached out her hand, then abruptly stopped. She had a sudden premonition that this call would be different from the rest.

The Duke asked sympathetically, "Would you rather me do it?"

She shook her head, dismissing the momentary weakness. Lifting the telephone, she answered, "Yes?"

A pause. The Duchess acknowledged, "This is she." Covering the mouthpiece, she informed her husband, "The man from the hotel - McDermott - who was here last night."

She said into the telephone, "Yes, I remember. You were present when those ridiculous charges . . ."

The Duchess stopped. As she listened, her face paled. She closed her eyes, then opened them.

"Yes," she said slowly. "Yes, I understand."

She replaced the receiver. Her hands were trembling.

The Duke of Croydon said, "Something has gone wrong." It was a statement, not a question.

The Duchess nodded slowly. "The note." Her voice was scarcely audible.

"The note I wrote has been found. The hotel manager has it."

Her husband had moved from the window to the center of the room. He stood, immobile, his hands loosely by his sides, taking time to let the information sink in. At length he asked, "And now?"

"He's calling the police. He said he decided to notify us first." She put a hand to her forehead in a gesture O! despair. "The note was the worst mistake. If I hadn'written it . . ."

"No," the Duke said. "If it wasn't that, it would have been something else. None of the mistakes were yours. The one that mattered - to begin with - was mine.."

He crossed to the sideboard which served as a bar, and poured a stiff Scotch and soda. "I'll just have this, no more. Be a while before the next, I imagine."

"What are you going to do?"

He tossed the drink down. "It's a little late to talk of decency. But if any shreds are left, I'll try to salvage them." He went into the adjoining bedroom, returning almost at once with a light raincoat and a Homburg hat.

"If I can," the Duke of Croydon said, "I intend to tell to the police before they come to me. It's what's known I believe, as giving yourself up. I imagine there isn't muct time, so I'll say what I have to say quickly."

The Duchess's eyes were on him. At this moment, to speak required more effort than she could make.