Hotel

by Arthur Hailey

  His present specialty-within-a-specialty was based on people’s indifference to hotel keys, an indifference—Keycase long ago learned—which was the constant despair of hoteliers everywhere. Theoretically, when a departing guest paid his bill, he was supposed to leave his key. But countless people left a hotel with their room keys forgotten in pocket or purse. The conscientious ones eventually dropped the keys in a mailbox, and a big hotel like the St. Gregory regularly paid out fifty dollars or more a week in postage due on keys returned. But there were other people who either kept the keys or discarded them indifferently.

  This last group kept professional hotel thieves like Keycase steadily in business.

  From the terminal building Keycase returned to the parking lot and the five-year-old Ford sedan which he had bought in Detroit and driven first to Kansas City, then New Orleans. It was an ideally inconspicuous car for Keycase, a dull gray, and neither old nor new enough to be unduly noticed or remembered. The only feature which bothered him a little were the Michigan license plates—an attractive green on white. Out-of-state plates were not unusual in New Orleans, but the small distinctive feature was something he would have preferred to be without. He had considered using counterfeit Louisiana plates, but this seemed to be a greater risk, besides which, Keycase was shrewd enough not to step too far outside his own specialty.

  Reassuringly, the car’s motor started at a touch, purring smoothly as the result of an overhaul he had performed himself—a skill learned at federal expense during one of his various incarcerations.

  He drove the fourteen miles to town, carefully observing speed limits, and headed for the St. Gregory which he had located and reconnoitered the day before. He parked near Canal Street, a few blocks from the hotel, and removed two suitcases. The rest of his baggage had been left in the motel room on which he had paid several days’ rent in advance. It was expensive to maintain an extra room. It was also prudent. The motel would serve as a cache for whatever he might acquire and, if disaster struck, could be abandoned entirely. He had been careful to leave nothing there which was personally identifiable. The motel key was painstakingly hidden in the carburetor air filter of the Ford.

  He entered the St. Gregory with a confident air, surrendering his bags to a doorman, and registered as B. W. Meader of Ann Arbor, Michigan. The room clerk, conscious of well-cut clothes and firm chiseled features which bespoke authority, treated the newcomer with respect and allocated room 830. Now, Keycase thought agreeably, there would be three St. Gregory keys in his possession—one the hotel knew about and two it didn’t.

  Room 830, into which the bellboy ushered him a few moments later, turned out to be ideal. It was spacious and comfortable and the service stairway, Keycase observed as they came in, was only a few yards away.

  When he was alone he unpacked carefully. Later, he decided, he would have a sleep in preparation for the serious night’s work ahead.

  7

  By the time Peter McDermott reached the lobby, Curtis O’Keefe had been efficiently roomed. Peter decided not to follow; there were times when too much attention could be as bothersome to a guest as too little. Besides, the St. Gregory’s official welcome would be extended by Warren Trent and, 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. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t.”

  She was wearing a sleeveless apricot dress, he saw, which obviously she had sent for this morning. It touched her body lightly. Her long black hair hung loosely about her shoulders in contrast to the more sophisticated—though disordered—hairdo of the previous night. There was something singularly provoking—almost breathtaking—in the half-woman, half-child appearance.

  “I’m sorry it took so long.” He regarded her approvingly. “But I see you’ve used the time.”

  She smiled. “I thought you might need the pajamas.”

  “They’re just for emergency—like this room. I use it very rarely.”

  “That’s what the maid told me,” Marsha said. “So if you don’t mind, I thought I’d stay on for tonight, at least.”

  “Oh! May I ask why?”

  “I’m not sure.” She hesitated as they stood facing each other. “Maybe it’s because I want to recover from what happened yesterday, and the best place to do it is here.” But the real reason, she admitted to herself, was a wish to put off her return to the big, empty Garden District mansion.

  He nodded doubtfully. “How do you feel?”

  “Better.”

  “I’m glad of that.”

  “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.”

  “If I did, I should have remembered we all get into tough situations sometimes.” There was a silence, then Peter said, “Let’s sit down.”

  When they were comfortable he began, “I was hoping you’d tell me how it all started.”

  “I know you were.” With the directness he was becoming used to, she added, “I’ve been wondering if I should.”

  Last night, Marsha reasoned, 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.” Her eyes were troubled as he continued, “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.”

  “Friend or not,” Peter insisted, “the point is what they tried to do—and would have, if Royce hadn’t come along. What’s more, when they were close to being caught, all four scuttled off like rats, leaving you alone.”

  “Last night,” Marsha said tentatively, “I heard you say you knew the names of two.”

  “The room was registered in the name of Stanley Dixon. Another name I have is Dumaire. Were they two?”

  She nodded.

  “Who was the leader?”

  “I think … Dixon.”

  “Now then, tell me what happened beforehand.”

  In a way, Marsha realized, the decision had been taken from her. She had a sense of being dominated. It was a novel experience, and even more surprisingly, she found herself liking it. Obediently she described the sequence of events beginning with her departure from the dance floor and ending with the welcome arrival of Aloysius Royce.

  Only twice was she interrupted. Had she, Peter McDermott asked, seen anything of 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. The whole thing, Marsha said, probably would not have happened if it had not been her birthday.

  He seemed surprised. “Yesterday was your birthday?”

  “I was nineteen.”

  “And you were alone?”

  Now that she had revealed so much, there was no point in holding back. 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. “It makes it easier to understand a part of what happened.”

  “It will never happen again. Never.”

  “I’m sure of that.” He became more businesslike. “What I want to do now is make use of what you’ve told me.”

  She said doubtfully, “In what way?
”

  “I’ll call the four people—Dixon, Dumaire and the other two—into the hotel for a talk.”

  “They may not come.”

  “They’ll come.” Peter had already decided how to make sure they would.

  Still uncertain, Marsha said, “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.” She had a sense of relief which left her curiously lightheaded.

  It had been easier than he expected, Peter thought. And now he had the information, he was impatient to use it. Perhaps, though, he should stay a few minutes more, if only to put the girl at ease. He told her, “There’s something I should explain, Miss Preyscott.”

  “Marsha.”

  “All right, I’m Peter.” He supposed the informality was all right, though hotel executives were trained to avoid it, except with guests they knew very well.

  “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 feel as strongly as himself. And any action Peter took—providing he could prove his facts—would be backed solidly by the hotel proprietor.

  The conversation, Peter felt, had gone as far as it need. He rose from his chair and walked to the window. From this side of the hotel he could see the busy mid-morning activity of Canal Street. Its six traffic lanes were packed with vehicles, fast and slow moving, the wide sidewalks thronged by shoppers. Knots of transit riders waited on the palm-fronded center boulevard where air-conditioned buses glided, their aluminum panels shining in the sunlight. The N.A.A.C.P. was picketing some businesses again, he noticed. THIS STORE DISCRIMINATES. DO NOT PATRONIZE, one placard advised, and there were others, their bearers pacing stolidly as the tide of pedestrians broke around them.

  “You’re new to New Orleans, aren’t you?” Marsha said. She had joined him at the window. He was conscious of a sweet and gentle fragrance.

  “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?”

  “Well … I bought some books. It’s just I haven’t had time.”

  “You can read the books after. It’s much better to see things first, or be told about them. Besides, 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.”

  “Good! 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.”

  He protested, “Whoa!…”

  “You mean you’ve something already arranged?”

  “Well, not exactly.”

  Marsha said firmly, “Then that’s settled too.”

  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 churlish to refuse. And there was nothing indiscreet 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. Once more he was aware of her youthfulness and fragrance.

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

  Peter McDermott was engrossed in his own thoughts as he reentered his office on the main mezzanine a few minutes later. It troubled him that someone as young as Marsha Preyscott, and presumably born with a gold-plated list of advantages, should be so apparently neglected. Even with her father out of the country and her mother decamped—he had heard of the former Mrs. Preyscott’s multiple marriages—he found it incredible that safeguards for a young girl’s welfare would not be set up. If I were her father, he thought … or brother …

  He was interrupted by Flora Yates, his homely freckle-faced secretary. Flora’s stubby fingers, which could dance over a typewriter keyboard faster than any others he had ever seen, were clutching a sheaf of telephone messages. Pointing to them, he asked, “Anything urgent?”

  “A few things. 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.”

  He glanced over them both. The bill, which included several room service charges, was for seventy-five dollars, the carpenters’ estimate for a hundred and ten. Indicating the bill, 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. It was the morning Times-Picayune. He opened it as Flora went out and black headlines flared up at him. The hit-and-run fatality of the night before had become a double tragedy, the mother of the slain child having died in the hospital during the early hours of the morning. Peter read quickly through the report which amplified what the policeman had told them when he and Christine had been stopped at the roadblock. “So far,” it revealed, “there are no firm leads as to the death vehicle or its driver. However, 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, the Times-Picayune added, were collaborating in a state-wide search for a presumably damaged automobile fitting this description.

  Peter wondered if Christine had seen the newspaper report. Its impact seemed greater because of their own brief contact at the scene.

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

  He put the newspaper aside and used a direct outside line to dial the number himself. A deep male voice answered, “The Dixon residence.”

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Stanley Dixon. Is he at home?”

  “May I say who is calling, sir?”

  Peter gave his name and added, “The St. Gregory Hotel.”

  There was a pause, and the sound of unhurried footsteps retreating, then returning at the same pace.

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

  Peter let his voice take on an edge. “Give him this message: Tell him if he doesn’t choose to come to the telephone I intend to call his father directly.”

  “Perhaps if you did that …”

  “Get on with it! Tell him what I said.”

  There was an almost audible hesitation. Then: “Very well, sir.” The footsteps retreated again.

  There was a click on the line and a sullen 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. “You got what you wanted.”

  “Not this way. In my office at the hotel.” There was an exclamation which Peter ignored. “Four o’clock tomorrow, with the other three. You’ll bring them along.”

  The response was fast and forceful. “Like hell I will! Whoever you are, buster, you’re just a hotel slob and I don’t take orders from you. What’s more you’d better watch out because my old man knows Wa
rren Trent.”

  “For your information I’ve already discussed the matter with Mr. Trent. He left it for me to handle, including whether or not we shall start criminal proceedings. But I’ll tell him you prefer to have your father brought in. We’ll carry on from there.”

  “Hold it!” There was the sound of heavy breathing, then, with noticeably less belligerence, “I 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. Remember—four o’clock sharp.”

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

  8

  The disarranged pages of the morning newspaper lay scattered around the Duchess of Croydon’s bed. There was little in the news that the Duchess had not read thoroughly and now she lay back, propped against pillows, her mind working busily. There had never been a time, she realized, when her wits and resourcefulness were needed more.

  On a bedside table a room-service tray had been used and pushed aside. Even in moments of crisis the Duchess was accustomed to breakfasting well. It was a habit carried over from childhood at her family’s country seat of Fallingbrook Abbey where breakfast had always consisted of a hearty meal of several courses, often after a brisk cross-country gallop.

  The Duke, who had eaten alone in the living room, had returned to the bedroom a few moments earlier. He too had read the newspaper avidly as soon as it arrived. Now, wearing a belted scarlet robe over pajamas, he was pacing restlessly. Occasionally he passed a hand through his still disordered hair.

  “For goodness sake, keep still!” The tenseness they shared was in his wife’s voice. “I can’t possibly think when you’re parading like a stallion at Ascot.”

  He turned, his face lined and despairing in the bright morning light. “What bloody good will thinking do? Nothing’s going to change.”

  “Thinking always helps—if one does enough and it’s the right kind. That’s why some people make a success of things and others don’t.”