They began to move closer.
She wheeled. “I’m warning you: if you touch me I shall scream.”
“Be a pity if you did that,” Stanley Dixon murmured. “You might miss all the fun.” Suddenly, without seeming to move, he was behind her, clapping a big sweaty hand across her mouth, another pinioning her arms. His head was close to hers, the smell of rye whiskey overpowering.
She struggled, and tried to bite the hand, but without success.
“Listen, Marsha,” Lyle said, his face twisted into a smirk, “you’re going to get it, so you might as well enjoy it. That’s what they always say, isn’t it? If Stan lets go, will you promise not to make any noise?”
She shook her head furiously.
One of the others seized her arm. “Come on, Marsha. Lyle says you’re a good sport. Why don’t you prove it?”
She was struggling madly now, but unavailingly. The grip around her was unyielding. Lyle had the other arm and together they were forcing her toward the adjoining bedroom.
“The hell with it,” Dixon said. “Somebody grab her feet.” The remaining boy took hold. She tried to kick, but all that happened was her high-heeled pumps came off. With a sense of unreality Marsha felt herself being carried through the bedroom doorway.
“This is the last time,” Lyle warned. The veneer of good humor had vanished. “Are you going to co-operate or not?”
Her answer was to struggle more violently.
“Get her things off,” someone said. And another voice—she thought it was from whoever was holding her feet—asked hesitantly, “Do you think we should?”
“Quit worrying.” It was Lyle Dumaire. “Nothing’ll happen. Her old man’s whoring it up in Rome.”
There were twin beds in the room. Resisting wildly, Marsha was forced backward onto the nearest. A moment later she lay across it, her head pressed back cruelly until all she could see was the ceiling above, once painted white but now closer to gray, and ornamented in the center where a light fitting glowed. Dust had accumulated on the fitting and beside it was a yellowed water stain.
Abruptly the ceiling light went out, but there was a glow in the room from another lamp left on. Dixon had shifted his grip. Now he was half sitting on the bed, near her head, but the grasp on her body as well as across her mouth was inflexible as ever. She felt other hands, and hysteria swept over her. Contorting herself, she attempted to kick but her legs were pinned down. She tried to roll over and there was a rending sound as her Balenciaga gown tore.
“I’m first,” Stanley Dixon said. “Somebody take over here.” She could hear his heavy breathing.
Footsteps went softly on the rug around the bed. Her legs were still held firmly, but Dixon’s hand on her face was moving, another taking its place. It was an opportunity. As the new hand came over, Marsha bit fiercely. She felt her teeth go into flesh, meeting bone.
There was an anguished cry, and the hand withdrawn.
Inflating her lungs, Marsha screamed. She screamed three times and ended with a desperate cry. “Help! Please help me!”
Only the last word was cut off as Stanley Dixon’s hand slammed back into place with a force that made her senses swim. She heard him snarl, “You fool! You stupid goon!”
“She bit me!” The voice was sobbing with pain. “The bitch bit my hand.”
Dixon said savagely, “What did you expect her to do, kiss it? Now we’ll have the whole goddamned hotel on our necks.”
Lyle Dumaire urged, “Let’s get out of here.”
“Shut up!” Dixon commanded. They stood listening.
Dixon said softly, “There’s nothing stirring. I guess nobody heard.”
It was true, Marsha thought despairingly. Tears clouded her vision. She seemed to have lost the power to struggle any more.
There was a knock on the outside door. Three taps, firm and assertive.
“Christ!” the third boy said. “Somebody did hear.” He added with a moan, “Oh God!—my hand!”
The fourth asked nervously, “What do we do?”
The knocking was repeated, this time more vigorously.
After a pause a voice from outside called, “Open the door, please. I heard someone shout for help.” The caller’s speech had a soft, southern accent.
Lyle Dumaire whispered, “There’s only one; he’s by himself. Maybe we can stall.”
“It’s worth a try,” Dixon breathed. “I’ll go.” He murmured to one of the others, “Hold her down and this time don’t make any mistake.”
The hand on Marsha’s mouth changed swiftly and another held her body.
A lock clicked, followed by a squeak as the door opened partially. Stanley Dixon, as if surprised, said, “Oh.”
“Excuse me, sir. I’m an employee of the hotel.” It was the voice they had heard a moment earlier. “I happened to be passing and heard someone cry out.”
“Just passing, eh?” Dixon’s tone was oddly hostile. Then, as if deciding to be diplomatic, he added, “Well, thanks anyway. But it was only my wife having a nightmare. She went to bed before me. She’s all right now.”
“Well …” The other appeared to hesitate. “If you’re sure there’s nothing.”
“Nothing at all,” Dixon said. “It’s just one of those things that happen once in a while.” He was convincing, and in command of the situation. In a moment, Marsha knew, the door would close.
Since she had relaxed she had become aware that the pressure on her face had lessened also. Now she tensed herself for one final effort. Twisting her body sideways, momentarily she freed her mouth. “Help!” she called. “Don’t believe him! Please help!” Once more, roughly, she was stopped.
There was a sharp exchange outside. She heard the new voice say, “I’d like to come in, please.”
“This is a private room. I told you my wife is having a nightmare.”
“I’m sorry, sir; I don’t believe you.”
“All right,” Dixon said. “Come in.”
As if not wishing to be witnessed, the hands upon Marsha removed themselves. As they did, she rolled over, pushing herself partially upright facing the door. A young Negro was entering. In his early twenties, he had an intelligent face and was neatly dressed, his short hair parted and carefully brushed.
He took in the situation at once and said sharply, “Let the young lady go.”
“Take a look, fellas,” Dixon said. “Take a look at who’s giving orders.”
Dimly, Marsha was aware that the door to the corridor was still partially open.
“All right, nigger boy,” Dixon snarled. “You asked for it.” His right fist shot out expertly, the strength of his broad shoulders behind the blow which would have felled the young Negro if it had found its target. But in a single movement, agile as a ballet step, the other moved sideways, the extended arm going harmlessly past his head, with Dixon stumbling forward. In the same instant the Negro’s own left fist snapped upward, landing with a hard, sharp crack at the side of his attacker’s face.
Somewhere along the corridor another door opened and closed.
A hand on his cheek, Dixon said, “You son-of-a-bitch!” Turning to the others, he urged, “Let’s get him!”
Only the boy with the injured hand held back. As if with a single impulse, the other three fell upon the young Negro and, before their combined assault, he went down. Marsha heard the thud of blows and also—from outside—a growing hum of voices in the corridor.
The others heard the voices too. “The roof is falling in,” Lyle Dumaire warned urgently. “I told you we should get out of here.”
There was a scramble to the door, led by the boy who had not joined in the fighting, the others hastily behind him. Marsha heard Stanley Dixon stop to say, “There’s been some trouble. We’re going for help.”
The young Negro was rising from the floor, his face bloody.
Outside, a new, authoritative voice rose above the others. “Where is the disturbance, please?”
“There was screaming an
d a fight,” a woman said excitedly. “In there.”
Another grumbled, “I complained earlier, but no one took any notice.”
The door opened wide. Marsha caught a glimpse of peering faces, a tall, commanding figure entering. Then the door was closed from the inside and the overhead light snapped on.
Peter McDermott surveyed the disordered room. He inquired, “What happened?”
Marsha’s body was racked with sobs. She attempted to stand, but fell back weakly against the headboard of the bed, gathering the torn disheveled remnants of her dress in front of her. Between sobs her lips formed words: “Tried … rape …”
McDermott’s face hardened. His eyes swung to the young Negro, now leaning for support against the wall, using a handkerchief to stem the bleeding from his face.
“Royce!” Cold fury flickered in McDermott’s eyes.
“No! No!” Barely coherent, Marsha called pleadingly across the room. “It wasn’t him! He came to help!” She closed her eyes, the thought of further violence sickening her.
The young Negro straightened. Putting the handkerchief away, he mocked, “Why don’t you go ahead, Mr. McDermott, and hit me. You could always say afterward it was a mistake.”
Peter spoke curtly. “I already made a mistake, Royce, and I apologize.” He had a profound dislike of Aloysius Royce who combined the role of personal valet to the hotel owner, Warren Trent, with the study of law at Loyola University. Years before, Royce’s father, the son of a slave, had become Warren Trent’s body servant, close companion, and confidant. A quarter century later, when the old man died, his son Aloysius, who had been born and raised in the St. Gregory, stayed on and now lived in the hotel owner’s private suite under a loose arrangement by which he came and went as his studies required. But in Peter McDermott’s opinion Royce was needlessly arrogant and supercilious, seeming to combine a distrust of any proffered friendliness with a perpetual chip on his shoulder.
“Tell me what you know,” Peter said.
“There were four of them. Four nice white young gentlemen.”
“Did you recognize anyone?”
Royce nodded. “Two.”
“That’s good enough.” Peter crossed to the telephone beside the nearer bed.
“Who you calling?”
“The city police. We’ve no choice but to bring them in.”
There was a half-smile on the young Negro’s face. “If you want some advice, I wouldn’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“Fo’ one thing,” Aloysius Royce drawled, accenting his speech deliberately, “I’d have to be a witness. An’ let me tell you, Mr. McDermott, no court in this sovereign State of Louisiana is gonna take a nigger boy’s word in a white rape case, attempted or otherwise. No, sir, not when four upstanding young white gentlemen say the nigger boy is lying. Not even if Miss Preyscott supports the nigger boy, which I doubt her pappy’d let her, considering what all the newspapers and such might make of it.”
Peter had picked up the receiver; now he put it down. “Sometimes,” he said, “you seem to want to make things harder than they are.” But he knew that what Royce had said was true. His eyes swinging to Marsha, he asked, “Did you say ‘Miss Preyscott’?”
The young Negro nodded. “Her father is Mr. Mark Preyscott. The Preyscott. That’s right, miss, isn’t it?”
Unhappily, Marsha nodded.
“Miss Preyscott,” Peter said, “did you know the people who were responsible for what happened?”
The answer was barely audible. “Yes.”
Royce volunteered, “They were all from Alpha Kappa Epsilon, I think.”
“Is that true, Miss Preyscott?”
A slight movement of her head, assenting.
“And did you come here with them—to this suite?”
Again a whisper. “Yes.”
Peter looked questioningly at Marsha. At length, he said, “It’s up to you, Miss Preyscott, whether you make an official complaint or not. Whatever you decide, the hotel will go along with. But I’m afraid there’s a good deal of truth in what Royce said just now about publicity. There would certainly be some—a good deal, I imagine—and not pleasant.” He added: “Of course, it’s really something for your father to decide. Don’t you think I should call, and have him come here?”
Marsha raised her head, looking directly at Peter for the first time. “My father’s in Rome. Don’t tell him, please—ever.”
“I’m sure something can be done privately. I don’t believe anyone should get away with this entirely.” Peter went around the bed. He was startled to see how much of a child she was, and how very beautiful. “Is there anything I can do now?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” She began to cry again, more softly.
Uncertainly, Peter took out a white linen handkerchief which Marsha accepted, wiped the tears, then blew her nose.
“Better?”
She nodded. “Thank you.” Her mind was a turmoil of emotions: hurt, shame, anger, an urge to fight back blindly whatever the consequences, and a desire—which experience told her would not be fulfilled—to be enfolded in loving and protective arms. But beyond the emotions, and exceeding them, was an overwhelming physical exhaustion.
“I think you should rest a while.” Peter McDermott turned down the coverlet of the unused bed and Marsha slipped under it, lying on the blanket beneath. The touch of the pillow to her face was cool.
She said, “I don’t want to stay here. I couldn’t.”
He nodded understanding. “In a little while we’ll get you home.”
“No! Not that either! Please, isn’t there somewhere else … in the hotel?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid the hotel is full.”
Aloysius Royce had gone into the bathroom to wash the blood from his face. Now he returned and stood in the doorway of the adjoining living room. He whispered softly, surveying the mess of the disarranged furniture, overflowing ash trays, spilled bottles, and broken glass.
As McDermott joined him, Royce observed, “I guess it was quite a party.”
“It seems to have been.” Peter closed the communicating door between the living room and the bedroom.
Marsha pleaded, “There must be some place in the hotel. I couldn’t face going home tonight.”
Peter hesitated. “There’s 555, I suppose.” He glanced at Royce.
Room 555 was a small one which went with the assistant general manager’s job. Peter rarely used it, except to change. It was empty now.
“It’ll be all right,” Marsha said. “As long as someone phones my home. Ask for Anna the housekeeper.”
“If you like,” Royce offered, “I’ll go get the key.”
Peter nodded. “Stop in there on the way back—you’ll find a dressing gown. I suppose we ought to call a maid.”
“You let a maid in here right now, you might as well put it all on the radio.”
Peter considered. At this stage nothing would stop gossip. Inevitably when this kind of incident happened any hotel throbbed backstairs like a jungle telegraph. But he supposed there was no point in adding postscripts.
“Very well. We’ll take Miss Preyscott down ourselves in the service elevator.”
As the young Negro opened the outer door, voices filtered in, with a barrage of eager questions. Momentarily, Peter had forgotten the assemblage of awakened guests outside. He heard Royce’s answers, quietly reassuring, then the voices fade.
Her eyes closed, Marsha murmured, “You haven’t told me who you are.”
“I’m sorry. I should have explained.” He told her his name and his connection with the hotel. Marsha listened without responding, aware of what was being said, but for the most part letting the quiet reassuring voice flow easily over her. After a while, eyes still closed, her thoughts wandered drowsily. She was aware dimly of Aloysius Royce returning, of being helped from the bed into a dressing gown, and being escorted quickly and quietly down a silent corridor. From an elevator there was more corrid
or, then another bed on which she laid down quietly. The reassuring voice said, “She’s just about all in.”
The sound of water running. A voice telling her that a bath was drawn. She roused herself sufficiently to pad to the bathroom where she locked herself in.
There were pajamas in the bathroom, neatly laid out, and afterward Marsha put them on. They were men’s, in dark blue, and too large. The sleeves covered her hands and even with the trouser bottoms turned up it was hard not to trip over them.
She went outside where hands helped her into bed. Snuggling down in the crisp, fresh linen, she was aware of Peter McDermott’s calm, restoring voice once more. It was a voice she liked, Marsha thought—and its owner also. “Royce and I are leaving now, Miss Preyscott. The door to this room is self-locking and the key is beside your bed. You won’t be disturbed.”
“Thank you.” Sleepily she asked, “Whose pajamas?”
“They’re mine. I’m sorry they’re so big.”
She tried to shake her head but was too tired. “No matter … nice …” She was glad they were his pajamas. She had a comforting sense of being enfolded after all.
“Nice,” she repeated softly. It was her final waking thought.
8
Peter waited alone for the elevator on the fifth floor. Aloysius Royce had already taken the service elevator to the fifteenth floor, where his quarters adjoined the hotel owner’s private suite.
It had been a full evening, Peter thought—with its share of unpleasantness—though not exceptional for a big hotel, which often presented an exposed slice of life that hotel employees became used to seeing.
When the elevator arrived he told the operator, “Lobby, please,” reminding himself that Christine was waiting on the main mezzanine, but his business on the main floor would take only a few minutes.
He noted with impatience that although the elevator doors were closed, they had not yet started down. The operator—one of the regular night men—was jockeying the control handle back and forth. Peter asked, “Are you sure the gates are fully closed?”
“Yes, sir, they are. It isn’t that; it’s the connections I think, either here or up top.” The man angled his head in the direction of the roof where the elevator machinery was housed, then added, “Had quite a bit of trouble lately. The chief was probing around the other day.” He worked the handle vigorously. With a jerk the mechanism took hold and the elevator started down.
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