Admittedly, the fabled Croydon gem collection was not likely to be—in its entirety—in New Orleans. On her travels, as was known, the Duchess carried only portions of her Aladdin’s treasure trove. Even so, the potential loot was likely to be large and, though some jewels might be safeguarded in the hotel’s vault, it was a certainty there would be others immediately at hand.
The key to the situation, as always, lay in a key to the Croydons’ suite. Systematically, Keycase Milne set out to obtain it.
He rode elevators several times, choosing different cars so as not to make himself conspicuous. Eventually, finding himself alone with an elevator operator, he asked the seemingly casual question, “Is it true the Duke and Duchess of Croydon are staying in the hotel?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“I suppose the hotel keeps special rooms for visitors like that.” Keycase smiled genially. “Not like us ordinary people.”
“Well, sir, the Duke and Duchess have the Presidential Suite.”
“Oh, really! What floor’s that?”
“Ninth.”
Mentally, Keycase ticked off “point one” and left the elevator at his own floor, the eighth.
Point two was to establish the precise room number. It proved simple. Up one flight by the service stairs, then a short walk! Double padded-leather doors with gold fleur-delis proclaimed the Presidential Suite. Keycase noted the number: 973–7.
Down to the lobby once more, this time for a stroll—apparently casual—past the reception desk. A quick, keen-eyed inspection showed that 973–7, like more plebeian rooms, had a conventional mail slot. A room key was in the slot.
It would be a mistake to ask for the key at once. Keycase sat down to watch and wait. The precaution proved wise.
After a few minutes’ observation it became obvious that the hotel had been alerted. Compared with the normal easygoing method of handing out room keys, today the desk clerks were being cautious. As guests requested keys, the clerks asked names, then checked the answers against a registration list. Undoubtedly, Keycase reasoned, his coup of early this morning had been reported, with security tightened as a result.
A cold stab of fear was a reminder of an equally predictable effect: the New Orleans police would by now be alerted and, within hours, might be seeking Keycase Milne by name. True, if the morning paper was to be believed, the hit-and-run fatalities of two nights earlier still commanded the bulk of police attention. But it was a certainty that someone at police headquarters would still find time to teletype the FBI. Once again, remembering the awful price of one more conviction, Keycase was tempted to play safe, check out and run. Irresolution held him. Then, forcing doubts aside, he comforted himself with the memory of this morning’s omen in his favor.
After a time the waiting proved worthwhile. One desk clerk, a young man with light wavy hair, appeared unsure of himself and at moments nervous. Keycase judged him to be new to his job.
The presence of the young man provided a possible opportunity, though to utilize it would be a gamble, Keycase reasoned, and a long shot at that. But perhaps the opportunity—like other events today—was an omen in itself. He resolved to take it, employing a technique he had used before.
Preparations would occupy at least an hour. Since it was now midafternoon, they must be completed before the young man went off duty. Hurriedly, Keycase left the hotel. His destination was the Maison Blanche department store on Canal Street.
Using his money frugally, Keycase shopped for inexpensive but bulky items—mainly children’s toys—waiting while each was enclosed in a distinctive Maison Blanche box or wrapping paper. At the end, carrying an armful of packages he could scarcely hold, he left the store. He made one additional stop—at a florist’s, topping off his purchases with a large azalea plant in bloom, after which he returned to the hotel.
At the Carondelet Street entrance a uniformed doorman hurried to hold the doorway wide. The man smiled at Keycase, largely hidden behind his burden of parcels and the flowering azalea.
Inside the hotel, Keycase loitered, ostensibly inspecting a series of showcases, but actually waiting for two things to happen. One was a convergence of several people on the reception and mail desk; the second, the reappearance of the young man he had observed earlier. Both events occurred almost at once.
Tensely, his heart pounding, Keycase approached the Reception area.
He was third in line in front of the young man with light wavy hair. A moment later there was only a middle-aged woman immediately ahead, who secured a room key after identifying herself. Then, about to leave, the woman remembered a query concerning readdressed mail. Her questioning seemed interminable, the young desk clerk’s answers hesitant. Impatiently, Keycase was aware that around him the knot of people at the desk was thinning. Already one of the other room clerks was free, and he glanced across. Keycase avoided his eye, praying silently for the colloquy ahead to finish.
At length the woman moved away. The young clerk turned to Keycase, then—as the doorman had done—smiled involuntarily at the awkward profusion of packages topped by the blooms.
Speaking acidly, Keycase used a line already rehearsed. “I’m sure it’s very funny. But if it isn’t too much trouble I’d like the key of 973.”
The young man reddened, his smile dissolving instantly. “Certainly, sir.” Flustered, as Keycase intended, he wheeled and selected the key from its place in the rack.
At the mention of the room number, Keycase had seen one of the other clerks glance sideways. It was a crucial moment. Obviously the number of the Presidential Suite would be well known, and intervention by a more experienced clerk could mean exposure. Keycase sweated.
“Your name, sir?”
Keycase snapped, “What is this—an interrogation?” Simultaneously he allowed two parcels to drop. One stayed on the counter, the other rebounded to the floor behind the desk. Increasingly flustered, the young clerk retrieved both. His more senior colleague, with an indulgent smile, looked away.
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“Never mind.” Accepting the parcels and rearranging the others, Keycase held out his hand for the key.
For a hairsbreadth of time the young man hesitated. Then the image Keycase had hoped to create won out: a tired, frustrated shopper; absurdly burdened; the epitome of respectability as attested by the familiar Maison Blanche wrappings; an already irritated guest, not to be trifled with further …
Deferentially the desk clerk handed over the key of 973.
As Keycase walked unhurriedly toward the elevators, activity at the reception desk resumed. A fleeting backward glance showed him the desk clerks were once more busy. Good! It lessened the likelihood of discussion and possible second thoughts about what had just occurred. All the same, he must return the key as quickly as possible. Its absence might be noticed, leading to questions and suspicion—especially dangerous since the hotel was already partially alert.
He instructed the elevator operator, “Nine”—a precaution in case anyone had heard him demand a ninth-floor key. Stepping out as the elevator stopped, he loitered, adjusting parcels until the doors closed behind him, then hurried to the service stairs. It was a single flight down to his own floor. On a landing, halfway, was a garbage can. Opening it, he stuffed in the plant which had served its purpose. A few seconds later he was in his own room, 830.
He shoved the parcels hurriedly into a closet. Tomorrow he would return them to the store and claim refunds. The cost was not important compared with the prize he hoped to win, but they would be awkward to take along, and to abandon them would leave a conspicuous trail.
Still moving swiftly, he unzippered a suitcase, taking out a small leather-covered box. It contained a number of white cards, some finely sharpened pencils, calipers, and a micrometer. Selecting one of the cards, Keycase laid the Presidential Suite key upon it. Then, holding the key still, he painstakingly drew an outline around the edge. Next, with micrometer and calipers, he measured the thickness o
f the key and the exact dimensions of each horizontal groove and vertical cut, jotting the results beside the outline on the card. A manufacturer’s letter-number code was stamped on the metal. He copied it; the code might help in selecting a suitable blank. Finally, holding the key to the light, he drew a careful freehand sketch of its end view.
He now had an expertly detailed specification which a skilled locksmith could follow unerringly. The procedure, Keycase often reflected amusedly, was a long way from the wax impression gambit beloved by detective fiction writers, but a good deal more effective.
He put the leather-covered box away, the card in his pocket. Moments later he was back in the main lobby.
Precisely as before, he waited until the desk clerks were busy. Then, walking casually across, he laid the 973 key unnoticed upon the counter.
Again he watched. At the next lull a room clerk observed the key. Disinterestedly, he lifted it, glanced at the number and returned it to its slot.
Keycase felt a warming glow of professional achievement. Through a combination of inventiveness and skill, and overcoming the hotel’s precautions, his first objective had been won.
13
Selecting a dark blue Schiaparelli tie from several in his clothes closet, Peter McDermott knotted it pensively. He was in his small downtown apartment, not far from the hotel, which he had left an hour earlier. In another twenty minutes he was due at Marsha Preyscott’s dinner party. He wondered who the other guests would be. Presumably, as well as Marsha’s friends—who, he hoped, would be of a different caliber from the Dixon-Dumaire quartet—there would be one or two older people, accounting for his own inclusion.
Now that the time had come, he found himself resenting the commitment, wishing instead that he had remained free to meet Christine. He was tempted to telephone Christine before leaving, then decided it would be more discreet to wait until tomorrow.
He had an unsettled sense tonight, of being suspended in time between the past and future. So much he was concerned with seemed indefinite, with decisions delayed until outcomes should be known. There was the question of the St. Gregory itself. Would Curtis O’Keefe take over? If so, other affairs seemed minor by comparison—even the dentists’ convention, whose officers were still debating whether or not to march protestingly from the St. Gregory or not. An hour ago the executive session called by the fiery dentists’ president, Dr. Ingram, was still in progress and looked like continuing, according to the head waiter of room service, whose staff had made several trips into the meeting to replenish ice and mixes. Although Peter had confined his behind-scenes inquiry as to whether the meeting showed signs of breaking up, the head waiter informed him there appeared to be a good deal of heated discussion. Before leaving the hotel Peter left word with the duty assistant manager that if any decision from the dentists became known, he was to be telephoned immediately. So far there had been no word. He wondered now whether Dr. Ingram’s forthright viewpoint would prevail or if Warren Trent’s more cynical prediction about nothing happening would prove true.
The same uncertainty had caused Peter to defer—at least until tomorrow—any action concerning Herbie Chandler. What ought to be done, he knew, was immediate dismissal of the sleazy bell captain, which would be like purging the hotel of an unclean spirit. Specifically, of course, Chandler would not be dismissed for running a call girl system—which someone else would organize if Chandler didn’t—but for allowing greed to overcome good sense.
With Chandler gone, a good many other abuses could be curbed, though whether Warren Trent would agree to such summary action was an open question. However, remembering the accumulated evidence and Warren Trent’s concern with the hotel’s good name, Peter had an idea he might.
Either way, Peter reminded himself, he must ensure that the Dixon-Dumaire group statements were safeguarded and used within the hotel only. He would keep his promise on that point. Also he had been bluffing this afternoon in threatening to inform Mark Preyscott about the attempted rape of his daughter. Then, as now, Peter remembered Marsha’s entreaty: My father’s in Rome. Don’t tell him, please—ever!
The thought of Marsha was a reminder to hurry. A few minutes later he left the apartment and hailed a cruising cab.
Peter asked, “This is the house?”
“Sure is.” The cab driver looked speculatively at his passenger. “Leastways, if you got the address right.”
“It was right.” Peter’s eyes followed the driver’s to the immense, white-fronted mansion. The façade alone was breathtaking. Behind a yew hedge and towering magnolia trees, graceful fluted columns rose from a terrace to a high railed gallery. Above the gallery the columns soared on to a crowning, classically proportioned pediment. At either end of the main building two wings repeated the details in miniature. The entire façade was in superb repair, its wood surfaces preserved and paintwork fresh. Around the house the scent of sweet olive blossoms hung in the early evening air.
Paying off the cab, Peter approached an iron-grilled gate which opened smoothly. A curving pathway of old red brick led between trees and lawns. Though barely dusk, two elevated flare pots had been lighted at either side of the pathway as it neared the house. He had reached the terrace steps when a latch clicked solidly and the double doors to the house swung open. The wide doorway framed Marsha. She waited until he reached the head of the steps, then walked toward him.
She was in white—a slim, sheath gown, her raven black hair startling by contrast. He was aware, more than ever, of the provoking woman-child quality.
Marsha said gaily, “Welcome!”
“Thank you.” he gestured about him. “At the moment I’m a little overwhelmed.”
“So’s everybody.” She entwined her arm in his. “I’ll give you the Preyscott official tour before it’s dark.”
Returning down the terrace steps, they crossed the lawn, soft underfoot. Marsha remained close. Through his coat sleeve he could feel the warm firmness of her flesh. Her finger tips touched his wrist lightly. There was an added gentle fragrance to the scent of olive blossoms.
“There!” Abruptly Marsha wheeled. “This is where you see it all best. It’s from here they always take the pictures.”
From this side of the lawn the view was even more impressive.
“A fun-lovin’ French nobleman built the house,” Marsha said. “In the 1840s. He liked Greek Revival architecture, happy laughing slaves, and also having his mistress handy, which was the reason for an extra wing. My father added the other wing. He prefers things balanced—like accounts and houses.”
“This is the new guide style—philosophy with fact?”
“Oh, I’m brimming with both. You want facts?—look at the roof.” Their eyes went up together. “You’ll see it overhangs the upper gallery. The Louisiana-Greek style—most old big houses here were built that way—makes sense because in this climate it gave shade and air. Lots of times the gallery was the most lived-in place. It became a family center, a place of talk and sharing.”
He quoted, “Households and families, a sharing of the good life, in a form at once complete and self-sufficient.”
“Who said that?”
“Aristotle.”
Marsha nodded. “He’d dig galleries.” She stopped, considering. “My father did a lot of restoration. The house is better now, but not our use of it.”
“You must love all this very much.”
“I hate it,” Marsha said. “I’ve hated this place as long as I remember.”
He looked at her inquiringly.
“Oh, I wouldn’t if I came to see it—as a visitor, lined up with others who’d paid fifty cents to be shown around, the way we open the house for Spring Fiesta. I’d admire it because I love old things. But not to live with always, especially alone and after dark.”
He reminded her, “It’s getting dark now.”
“I know,” she said. “But you’re here. That makes it different.”
They had begun to return across the lawn. For the fi
rst time he was conscious of the quiet.
“Won’t your other guests be missing you?”
She glanced sideways, mischievously, “What other guests?”
“You told me …”
“I said I was giving a dinner party; so I am. For you. If it’s chaperonage you’re worried about, Anna’s here.” They had passed into the house. It was shadowy and cool, with ceilings high above. In the background a small elderly woman in black silk nodded, smiling. “I told Anna about you,” Marsha said, “and she approves. My father trusts her absolutely, so everything’s all right. Then there’s Ben.”
A Negro manservant followed them, soft footed, to a small book-lined study. From a sideboard he brought a tray with decanter and sherry glasses. Marsha shook her head. Peter accepted a sherry and sipped it thoughtfully. From a settee Marsha motioned him to sit beside her.
He asked, “You spend a lot of time alone here?”
“My father comes home between trips. It’s just that the trips get longer and the time between shorter. What I’d prefer to live in is an ugly modern bungalow. Just so long as it was alive.”
“I wonder if you really would.”
“I know I would,” Marsha said firmly. “If I shared it with someone I really cared about. Or maybe a hotel would be as good. Don’t hotel managers get an apartment to live in—at the top of their hotel?”
Startled, he looked up to find her smiling.
A moment later the manservant announced quietly that dinner was served.
In an adjoining room a small circular table was set for two. Candlelight gleamed on the dinner setting and paneled walls. Above a black marble mantel the portrait of a stern-faced patriarch gazed down, giving Peter an impression of being studied critically.
“Don’t let great-grandfather bother you,” Marsha said when they were seated. “It’s me he’s frowning at. You see, he once wrote in his diary that he wanted to found a dynasty and I’m his last forlorn hope.”