“I’m practical. And speaking of being practical, there’s something else you might remember. That man Ogilvie has had ten thousand dollars of our money. At least we should get something for it.”
“By the way,” the Duke said, “where is the other fifteen thousand?”
“Still in the small suitcase which is locked and in my bedroom. We’ll take it with us when we go. I already decided it might attract attention to return it to the bank here.”
“You really do think of everything.”
“I didn’t with that note. When I thought they had it … I must have been mad to write what I did.”
“You couldn’t have foreseen.”
They had reached the end of the brightly lighted portion of Canal Street. Now they turned, retracing their steps toward the city center.
“It’s diabolical,” the Duke of Croydon said. His last drink had been at noon. As a result, his voice was a good deal clearer than in recent days. “It’s ingenious, devilish, and diabolical. But it might, it just might work.”
20
“That woman is lying,” Captain Yolles said. “But it’ll be hard to prove, if we ever do.” He continued to pace, slowly, the length of Peter McDermott’s office. They had come here—the two detectives, with Peter—after an ignominious departure from the Presidential Suite. So far Yolles had done little more than pace and ponder while the other two waited.
“Her husband might break,” the second detective suggested. “If we could get him by himself.”
Yolles shook his head. “There isn’t a chance. For one thing, she’s too smart to let it happen. For another, with them being who and what they are, we’d be walking on eggshells.” He looked at Peter. “Don’t ever kid yourself there isn’t one police procedure for the poor and another for the rich and influential.”
Across the office, Peter nodded, though with a sense of detachment. Having done what duty and conscience required, what followed now, he felt, was the business of the police. Curiosity, however, prompted a question. “The note that the Duchess wrote to the garage …”
“If we had that,” the second detective said, “it’d be a clincher.”
“Isn’t it enough for the night checker—and Ogilvie, I suppose—to swear that the note existed?”
Yolles said, “She’d claim it was a forgery, that Ogilvie wrote it himself.” He mused, then added, “You said it was on special stationery. Let me see some.”
Peter went outside and in a stationery cupboard found several sheets. They were a heavy bond paper, light blue, with the hotel name and crest embossed. Below, also embossed, were the words Presidential Suite.
Peter returned and the policemen examined the sheets.
“Pretty fancy,” the second detective said.
Yolles asked, “How many people have access to this?”
“In the ordinary way, just a few. But I suppose a good many others could get hold of a sheet if they really wanted to.”
Yolles grunted. “Rules that out.”
“There is one possibility,” Peter said. For the moment, with a sudden thought, his detachment vanished.
“What?”
“I know you asked me this, and I said that once garbage had been cleared—as it was from the garage—there was no chance of retrieving anything. I really thought … it seemed so impossible, the idea of locating one piece of paper. Besides, the note wasn’t so important then.”
He was aware of the eyes of both detectives intently on his face.
“We do have a man,” Peter said. “He’s in charge of the incinerator. A lot of the garbage he sorts by hand. It would be a long shot and it’s probably too late …”
“For Christ’s sake!” Yolles snapped. “Let’s get to him.”
They walked quickly to the main floor, then used a staff doorway to reach a freight elevator which would take them the rest of the way down. The elevator was busy on a lower level where Peter could hear packages being unloaded. He shouted down for the crew to hurry.
While they were waiting, the second detective, Bennett, said, “I hear you’ve had some other trouble this week.”
“There was a robbery early yesterday. With all this, I’d almost forgotten.”
“I was talking with one of our people. He was with your senior house dick … what’s his name?”
“Finegan. He’s acting chief.” Despite the seriousness, Peter smiled. “Our regular chief is otherwise engaged.”
“About the robbery, there wasn’t much to go on. Our people checked your guest list, didn’t turn up anything. Today, though, a funny thing happened. There was a break-in in Lakeview—private home. A key job. The woman lost her keys downtown this morning. Whoever found them must have gone straight there. It had all the signs of your robbery here, including the kind of stuff taken, and no prints.”
“Has there been an arrest?”
The detective shook his head. “Wasn’t discovered till hours after it happened. There is a lead, though. A neighbor saw a car. Couldn’t remember anything, except it had license plates that were green and white. Five states use plates with those colors—Michigan, Idaho, Nebraska, Vermont, Washington—and Saskatchewan in Canada.”
“How does that help?”
“For the next day or two, all our boys will be watching for cars from those places. They’ll stop them and check. It could turn something up. We’ve been lucky before, with a whole lot less to go on.”
Peter nodded, though with lukewarm interest. The robbery had happened two days ago, with no recurrence. At present a good deal else seemed more important.
A moment later the elevator arrived.
The sweat-shining face of Booker T. Graham beamed with pleasure at the sight of Peter McDermott, the only member of the hotel’s executive staff who ever bothered visiting the incinerator room, deep within the hotel basement. The visits, though infrequent, were treasured by Booker T. Graham as royal occasions.
Captain Yolles wrinkled his nose at the overpowering odor of garbage, magnified by intense heat. The reflection of flames danced on smoke-grimed walls. Shouting to make himself heard above the roar of the furnace set into one side of the enclosure, Peter cautioned, “Better leave this to me. I’ll explain what we want.”
Yolles nodded. Like others who had preceded him here, it occurred to him that the first sight of hell might be remarkably like this moment. He wondered how a human being could exist in these surroundings for any length of time.
Yolles watched as Peter McDermott talked with the big Negro who sorted the garbage before incinerating it. McDermott had brought a sheet of the special Presidential Suite stationery and held it up for inspection. The Negro nodded and took the sheet, retaining it, but his expression was doubtful. He gestured to the dozens of overflowing bins crowded around them. There were also others, Yolles observed as they came in, lined up outside on hand trucks. He realized why, earlier on, McDermott had dismissed the possibility of locating a single piece of paper. Now, in response to a question, the Negro shook his head. McDermott returned to the two detectives.
“Most of this,” he explained, “is yesterday’s garbage, collected today. About a third of what came in has already been burned and whether what we want was in there or not, we’ve no means of knowing. As for the rest, Graham has to go through it, looking for things we salvage, like silverware and bottles. While he’s doing that, he’ll keep an eye open for a paper of the kind I’ve given him, but as you can see, it’s a pretty formidable job. Before the garbage gets here, it’s compressed and a lot of it is wet, which soaks everything else. I’ve asked Graham if he wants extra help, but he says there’s even less chance if someone else comes in who isn’t used to working the way he does.”
“Either way,” the second detective said, “I wouldn’t lay any bets.”
Yolles conceded, “I suppose it’s the best we can do. What arrangement did you make if your man finds anything?”
“He’ll call upstairs right away. I’ll leave instructions that I’m
to be notified, whatever time it is. Then I’ll call you.”
Yolles nodded. As the three men left, Booker T. Graham had his hands in a mess of garbage on a large flat tray.
21
For Keycase Milne, frustration had piled upon frustration.
Since early evening he had maintained a watch upon the Presidential Suite. Near dinnertime—when he confidently expected the Duke and Duchess of Croydon to leave the hotel, as almost all visitors did—he had taken post on the ninth floor near the service stairs. From there he had a clear view of the entrance to the suite, with the advantage that he could avoid being observed himself by ducking quickly out of sight through the stairway door. He did this several times as elevators stopped and occupants of other rooms came and went, though on each occasion Keycase managed to catch a glimpse of them before his own departure. He also calculated, correctly, that at this time of day there would be little staff activity on the upper floors. In case of anything unforeseen, it was a simple matter to retreat to the eighth floor and, if necessary, his own room.
That part of his plan had worked. What had gone wrong was that through the entire evening the Duke and Duchess of Croydon had failed to leave their suite.
However, no room service dinner had been delivered, a fact which made Keycase linger hopefully.
Once, wondering if he had somehow missed the Croydons’ departure, Keycase walked gingerly down the corridor and listened at the suite door. He could hear voices inside, including a woman’s.
Later, his disappointment was increased by the arrival of visitors. They appeared to come in ones and twos and, after the first few, the doors to the Presidential Suite were left open. Soon after, room service waiters appeared with trays of hors d’oeuvres, and a growing hum of conversation, mixed with the clink of ice and glasses, was audible in the corridor.
He was puzzled, later still, by the arrival of a broad-shouldered youngish man whom Keycase judged to be an official of the hotel. The hotelman’s face was set grimly, as were those of two other men with him. Keycase paused long enough for a careful look at all three and, at first glance, guessed the second and third to be policemen. Subsequently he reassured himself that the thought was the product of his own too active imagination.
The three more recent arrivals left first, followed a half hour or so later by the remainder of the party. Despite the heavy traffic in the later stages of the evening, Keycase was certain he had been unobserved, except possibly as just another hotel guest.
With departure of the last visitor, silence was complete in the ninth floor corridor. It was now close to eleven P.M. and obvious that nothing more would happen tonight. Keycase decided to wait another ten minutes, then leave.
His mood of optimism earlier in the day had changed to depression.
He was uncertain whether he could risk remaining in the hotel another twenty-four hours. He had already considered the idea of entering the suite during the night or early tomorrow morning, then dismissed it. The hazard was too great. If someone awakened, no conceivable excuse could justify Keycase’s presence in the Presidential Suite. He had also been aware since yesterday that he would have to consider the movements of the Croydons’ secretary and the Duchess’s maid. The maid, he learned, had a room elsewhere in the hotel and had not been in evidence tonight. But the secretary lived in the suite and was one more person who might be awakened by a night intrusion. Also, the dogs which Keycase had seen the Duchess exercising were likely to raise an alarm.
He was faced, then, with the alternative of waiting another day or abandoning the attempt to reach the Duchess’s jewels.
Then, as he was on the point of leaving, the Duke and Duchess of Croydon emerged, preceded by the Bedlington terriers.
Swiftly, Keycase melted into the service stairway. His heart began to pulse faster. At last, when he had abandoned hope, the opportunity he coveted had come.
It was not an uncomplicated opportunity. Obviously the Duke and Duchess would not be away for long. And somewhere in the suite was the male secretary. Where? In a separate room with the door closed? In bed already? He looked a Milquetoast type who might retire early.
Whatever the risk of an encounter, it had to be taken. Keycase knew that if he failed to act now, his nerves would not survive another day of waiting.
He heard elevator doors open, then close. Cautiously, he returned to the corridor. It was silent and empty. Walking quietly, he approached the Presidential Suite.
His specially made key turned easily, as it had this afternoon. He opened one of the double doors slightly, then gently released the spring pressure and removed the key. The lock made no noise. Nor did the door as he opened it slowly.
A hallway was immediately ahead, beyond it a larger room. To the right and left were two more doors, both closed. Through the one on the right he could hear what sounded like a radio. There was no one in sight. The lights in the suite were turned on.
Keycase went in. He slipped on gloves, then closed and latched the outside door behind him.
He moved warily, yet wasting no time. Broadloom in the hallway and living room muffled his footsteps. He crossed the living room to a farther door which was ajar. As Keycase expected, it led to two spacious bedrooms, each with a bathroom, and a dressing room between. In the bedrooms, as elsewhere, lights were on. There was no mistaking which room was the Duchess’s.
Its furnishings included a tallboy, two dressing tables and a walk-in closet. Keycase began, systematically, to search all four. A jewelbox, such as he sought, was in neither the tallboy nor the first dressing table. There were a number of items—gold evening purses, cigarette cases and expensive-looking compacts—which, with more time and in other circumstances, he would have gathered gladly. But now he was racing, seeking a major prize and discarding all else.
At the second dressing table he opened the first drawer. It contained nothing worthwhile. The second drawer yielded no better result. In the third, on top, was an array of negligees. Beneath them was a deep, oblong box of hand-tooled leather. It was locked.
Leaving the box in the drawer, Keycase worked with a knife and screwdriver to break the lock. The box was stoutly made and resisted opening. Several minutes passed. Conscious of fleeting time, he began to perspire.
At length the lock gave, the lid flew back. Beneath, in scintillating, breathtaking array were two tiers of jewels—rings, brooches, necklets, clips, tiaras; all of precious metal, and most were gem-encrusted. At the sight, Keycase drew in breath. So, after all, a portion of the Duchess’s fabled collection had not been consigned to the hotel vault. Once more a hunch, an omen, had proved right. With both hands he reached out to seize the spoils. At the same instant a key turned in the lock of the outer door.
His reflex was instantaneous. Keycase slammed down the jewelbox lid and slid the drawer closed. On the way in, he had left the bedroom door slightly ajar; now he flew to it. Through an inch-wide gap he could see into the living room. A hotel maid was entering. She had towels on her arm and was headed for the Duchess’s bedroom. The maid was elderly, and waddled. Her slowness offered a single slim chance.
Swinging around, Keycase lunged for a bedside lamp. He found its cord and yanked. The light went out. Now he needed something in his hand to indicate activity. Something! Anything!
Against the wall was a small attache case. He seized it and stalked toward the door.
As Keycase flung the door wide, the maid recoiled. “Oh!” A hand went over her heart.
Keycase frowned. “Where have you been? You should have come here earlier.”
The shock, followed by the accusation, made her flustered. He had intended that it should.
“I’m sorry, sir. I saw there were people in, and …”
He cut her short. “It doesn’t matter now. Do what you have to, and there’s a lamp needs fixing.” He gestured into the bedroom.
“The Duchess wants it working tonight.” He kept his voice low, remembering the secretary.
“Oh, I’ll s
ee that it is, sir.”
“Very well.” Keycase nodded coolly, and went out.
In the corridor he tried not to think. He succeeded until he was in his own room, 830. Then, in bafflement and despair, he flung himself across the bed and buried his face in a pillow.
It was more than an hour before he bothered forcing the lock of the attaché case he had brought away.
Inside was pile upon pile of United States currency. All used bills, of small denominations.
With trembling hands he counted fifteen thousand dollars.
22
Peter McDermott accompanied the two detectives from the incinerator in the hotel basement to the St. Charles Street door.
“For the time being,” Captain Yolles continued, “I’d like to keep what’s happened tonight as quiet as possible. There’ll be questions enough when we charge your man Ogilvie, whatever it’s with. No sense in bringing the press around our necks until we have to.”
Peter assured him, “If the hotel had any choice, we’d prefer no publicity at all.”
Yolles grunted. “Don’t count on it.”
Peter returned to the main dining room to discover, not surprisingly, that Christine and Albert Wells had gone.
In the lobby he was intercepted by the night manager. “Mr. McDermott, here’s a note Miss Francis left for you.”
It was in a sealed envelope and read simply:
I’ve gone home. Come if you can.
—Christine.
He would go, he decided. He suspected that Christine was eager to talk over the events of the day, including this evening’s astounding disclosure by Albert Wells.
Nothing else to do tonight at the hotel. Or was there? Abruptly, Peter remembered the promise he had made to Marsha Preyscott on leaving her at the cemetery so unceremoniously this afternoon. He had said he would telephone later, but he had forgotten until now. The crisis of the afternoon was only hours away. It seemed like days, and Marsha somehow remote. But he supposed he should call her, late as it was.