He nodded slowly. “… Do best I can.” He lifted his glass to sip.
“No!” The Duchess rose. She removed the tumbler from her husband’s fingers and walked to the bathroom. He heard the contents of the glass being poured into the sink. Returning, she announced, “There will be no more. You understand? No more whatever.”
He seemed about to protest, then acknowledged, “Suppose … only way.”
“If you’d like me to take away the bottles, pour out this one …”
He shook his head. “I’ll manage.” Perceptibly, with an effort of will, he brought his thoughts to focus. With the same chameleon quality he had exhibited the day before, there seemed more strength in his features than a moment earlier. His voice was steady as he observed, “It’s very good news.”
“Yes,” the Duchess said. “It can mean a new beginning.”
He took a half step toward her, then changed his mind. Whatever the new beginning, he was well aware it would not include that.
His wife was already reasoning aloud. “It will be necessary to revise our plans about Chicago. From now on, your movements will be the subject of close attention. If we go there together it will be reported prominently in the Chicago press. It could arouse curiosity when the car is taken for repair.”
“One of us must go.”
The Duchess said decisively, “I shall go alone. I can change my appearance a little, wear glasses. If I’m careful I can escape attention.” Her eyes went to a small attaché case beside the secrétaire. “I will take the remainder of the money and do whatever else is needed.”
“You’re assuming … that man will get to Chicago safely. He hasn’t yet.”
Her eyes widened as if remembering a forgotten nightmare. She whispered, “Oh God! Now … above all else … he must! He must!”
12
Shortly after lunch, Peter McDermott managed to slip away to his apartment where he changed, from the formal business suit he wore most of the time in the hotel, to linen slacks and a lightweight jacket. He returned briefly to his office to sign letters which, on the way out, he deposited on Flora’s desk.
“I’ll be back late this afternoon,” he told her. Then, as an afterthought: “Did you discover anything about Ogilvie?”
His secretary shook her head. “Not really. You asked me to find out if Mr. Ogilvie told anyone where he was going. Well, he didn’t.”
Peter grunted. “I didn’t really expect he would.”
“There’s just one thing.” Flora hesitated. “It’s probably not important, but it seemed a little strange.”
“What?”
“The car Mr. Ogilvie used—you said it was a Jaguar?”
“Yes.”
“It belongs to the Duke and Duchess of Croydon.”
“Are you sure someone hasn’t made a mistake?”
“I wondered about that,” Flora said, “so I asked the garage to double check. They told me to talk to a man named Kulgmer who’s the garage night checker.”
“Yes, I know him.”
“He was on duty last night and I phoned him at home. He says Mr. Ogilvie had written authority from the Duchess of Croydon to take the car.”
Peter shrugged. “Then I guess there’s nothing wrong.” It was strange, though, to think of Ogilvie using the Croydons’ car; even stranger that there should be any kind of rapport between the Duke and Duchess and the uncouth house officer. Obviously, Flora had been considering the same thing.
He inquired, “Has the car come back?”
Flora shook her head negatively. “I wondered if I should check with the Duchess of Croydon. Then I thought I’d ask you first.”
“I’m glad you did.” He supposed it would be simple enough to ask the Croydons if they knew Ogilvie’s destination. Since Ogilvie had their car, it seemed probable they would. All the same, he hesitated. After his own skirmish with the Duchess on Monday night, Peter was reluctant to risk another misunderstanding, especially since any kind of inquiry might be resented as a personal intrusion. There was also the embarrassing admission to be made that the hotel had no knowledge of the whereabouts of its chief house officer.
He told Flora, “Let’s leave it for the time being.”
There was another piece of unfinished business, Peter remembered—Herbie Chandler. This morning he had intended to inform Warren Trent of the statements made yesterday by Dixon, Dumaire, and the others, implicating the bell captain in events leading up to Monday night’s attempted rape. However, the hotel owner’s obvious preoccupation made him decide against it. Now Peter supposed he had better see Chandler himself.
“Find out if Herbie Chandler’s on duty this evening,” he instructed Flora. “If he is, tell him I’d like to see him here at six o’clock. If not, tomorrow morning.”
Leaving the executive suite, Peter descended to the lobby. A few minutes later, from the comparative gloom of the hotel, he stepped out into the brilliant, early afternoon sunlight of St. Charles Street.
“Peter! I’m here.”
Turning his head, he saw Marsha waving from the driver’s seat of a white convertible, the car wedged into a line of waiting cabs. An alert hotel doorman briskly preceded Peter and opened the car door. As Peter slid into the seat beside Marsha, he saw a trio of cab drivers grin, and one gave a long wolf whistle.
“Hi!” Marsha said. “If you hadn’t come I was going to have to pick up a fare.” In a light summer dress, she appeared as delectable as ever, but for all the lighthearted greeting he sensed a shyness, perhaps because of what had passed between them the night before. Impulsively, he took her hand and squeezed it.
“I like that,” she assured him, “even though I promised my father I’d use both hands to drive.” With help from the taxi drivers, who moved forward and back to create a space, she eased the convertible out into traffic.
It seemed, Peter reflected as they waited for a green light at Canal Street, that he was constantly being driven about New Orleans by attractive women. Was it only three days ago that he had ridden with Christine in the Volkswagen to her apartment? That was the same night he had met Marsha for the first time. It seemed longer than three days, perhaps because a proposal of marriage by Marsha had occurred in the meantime. In the reality of daylight he wondered if she had had more rational second thoughts, though either way, he decided, he would say nothing unless she revived the subject herself.
There was an excitement, just the same, in being close together, especially remembering their parting moments of the night before—the kiss, tender, then with mounting passion as restraint dissolved; the breathless moment when he had thought of Marsha not as a girl, but as a woman; had held her, tightly, sensing the urgent promise of her body. He watched her covertly now; her eager youthfulness, the lissome movements of her limbs; the slightness of her figure beneath the thin dress. If he reached out …
He checked the impulse, though reluctantly. In the same self-chastening vein, he reminded himself that all his adult life, so far, the immediacy of women had clouded his own judgment, precipitating indiscretions.
Marsha glanced sideways, diverting her attention from the traffic ahead. “What were you thinking about just then?”
“History,” he lied. “Where do we start?”
“The old St. Louis Cemetery. You haven’t been there?”
Peter shook his head. “I’ve never put cemeteries high on my list of things to do.”
“In New Orleans you should.”
It was a short drive to Basin Street. Marsha parked neatly on the south side and they crossed the boulevard to the walled cemetery—St. Louis number one—with its ancient pillared entrance.
“A lot of history begins here,” Marsha said, taking Peter’s arm. “In the early 1700s, when New Orleans was founded by the French, the land was mostly swamp. It would still be swamp, even now, if it weren’t for the levees which keep the river out.”
“I know it’s a wet city underneath,” he agreed. “In the hotel basement, twenty-four hours
a day, we pump our waste water up, not down, to meet the city sewers.”
“It used to be a whole lot wetter. Even in dry places water was just three feet down, so when a grave was dug it flooded before anyone could put a coffin in. There are stories that gravediggers used to stand on coffins to force them down. Sometimes they punched holes in the wood to make the coffin sink. People used to say, if you weren’t really dead, you’d drown.”
“Sounds like a horror movie.”
“Some books say the smell of dead bodies used to seep into the drinking water.” She made a grimace of distaste. “Anyway, later on there was a law that all burials had to be above the ground.”
They began to walk between rows of uniquely constructed tombs. The cemetery was unlike any other Peter had ever seen. Marsha gestured around them. “This is what happened after the law was passed. In New Orleans we call these places cities of the dead.”
“I can understand why.”
It was like a city, he thought. The streets irregular, with tombs in the style of miniature houses, brick and stuccoed, some with ironwork balconies and narrow sidewalks. The house had several floors or levels. An absence of windows was the only consistent feature, but in their place were countless tiny doorways. He pointed. “They’re like apartment entrances.”
“They are apartments, really. And most on short leases.”
He looked at her curiously.
“The tombs are divided into sections,” Marsha explained. “The ordinary family tombs have two to six sections, the bigger ones more. Each section has its own little door. When there’s to be a funeral, ahead of time one of the doorways is opened up. The coffin already inside is emptied, and the remains from it pushed to the back where they fall through a slot into the ground. The old coffin is burned and the new one put in. It’s left for a year, then the same thing happens.”
“Just a year?”
A voice behind said. “’S all it needs. ‘Times, though, it’s longer—if the next to go ain’t in a hurry. Cockroaches help some.”
They turned. An elderly, barrel-shaped man in stained denim coveralls regarded them cheerfully. Removing an ancient straw hat, he mopped his bald head with a red silk handkerchief. “Hot, ain’t it? Lot cooler in there.” He slapped his hand familiarly against a tomb.
“If it’s all one to you,” Peter said, “I’ll settle for the heat.”
The other chuckled. “Git y’ anyhow in th’ end. Howdy, Miss Preyscott.”
“Hullo, Mr. Collodi,” Marsha said. “This is Mr. McDermott.”
The sexton nodded agreeably. “Takin’ a look at the family snuggery?”
“We were going to,” Marsha said.
“This way, then.” Over his shoulder he called out. “We cleaned ‘er up, week or two back. Lookin’ mighty good now.”
As they threaded their way through the narrow, make-believe streets, Peter had an impression of ancient dates and names. Their guide pointed to a smoldering pile of rubble in an open space. “Havin’ a bit of a burn-up.” Peter could see portions of coffin amid the smoke.
They stopped before a six-sectioned tomb, built like a traditional Creole house. It was painted white and in better repair than most around it. On weathered marble tablets were many names, mostly of Preyscotts. “We’re an old family,” Marsha said. “It must be getting crowded down among the dust.”
Sunshine slanted brightly on the tomb.
“Purty, ain’t it?” The sexton stood back admiringly, then pointed to a doorway near the top. “That’s the next one for opening, Miss Preyscott. Your daddy’ll go in there.” He touched another in a second tier. “That’n ’ll be fer you. Doubt, though, I’ll be the one to put you in.” He stopped, then added contemplatively, “Comes sooner than we want for all of us. Don’t do, neither, to waste no time; no sir!” Mopping his head once more, he ambled off.
Despite the heat of the day, Peter shivered. The thought of earmarking a place of death for someone so young as Marsha troubled him.
“It’s not as morbid as it seems.” Marsha’s eyes were on his face and he was aware once more of her ability to understand his thoughts. “It’s simply that here we’re brought up to see all this as part of us.”
He nodded. Just the same, he had had enough of this place of death.
They were on the way out, near the Basin Street gate, when Marsha put a hand on his arm restrainingly.
A line of cars had stopped immediately outside. As their doors opened, people emerged and were gathering on the sidewalk. From their appearance it was obvious that a funeral procession was about to come in.
Marsha whispered, “Peter, we’ll have to wait.” They moved away, still within sight of the gates, but less conspicuously.
Now the group on the sidewalk parted, making way for a small cortege. A sallow man with the unctuous bearing of an undertaker came first. He was followed by a priest.
Behind the priest was a group of six pallbearers, moving slowly, a heavy coffin on their shoulders. Behind them, four others carried a tiny white coffin. On it was a single spray of oleanders.
“Oh no!” Marsha said.
Peter gripped her hand tightly.
The priest intoned, “May the angels take you into paradise: may the martyrs come to welcome you on your way, and lead you into the holy city, Jerusalem.”
A group of mourners followed the second coffin. In front, walking alone, was a youngish man. He wore an ill-fitting black suit and carried a hat awkwardly. His eyes seemed riveted on the tiny coffin. Tears coursed his cheeks. In the group behind, an older woman sobbed, supported by another.
“… May the choir of angels welcome you, and with Lazarus who was once poor, may you have everlasting rest …”
Marsha whispered, “It’s the people who were killed in that hit-and-run. There was a mother, a little girl. It was in the newspapers.” He saw that she was crying.
“I know.” Peter had a sense of being part of this scene, of sharing its grief. The earlier chance encounter of Monday night had been grim and stark. Now the sense of tragedy seemed closer, more intimately real. He felt his own eyes moisten as the cortege moved on.
Behind the family mourners were others. To his surprise, Peter recognized a face. At first he was unable to identify its owner, then realized it was Sol Natchez, the elderly room-service waiter suspended from duty after the dispute with the Duke and Duchess of Croydon on Monday night. Peter had sent for Natchez on Tuesday morning and conveyed Warren Trent’s edict to spend the rest of the week away from the hotel, with pay. Natchez looked across now to where Peter and Marsha were standing but gave no sign of recognition.
The funeral procession moved farther into the cemetery and out of sight. They waited until all the mourners and spectators had followed it.
“We can go now,” Marsha said.
Unexpectedly a hand touched Peter’s arm. Turning, he saw it was Sol Natchez. So he had observed them, after all.
“I saw you watching, Mr. McDermott. Did you know the family?”
“No,” Peter said. “We were here by chance.” He introduced Marsha.
She asked, “You didn’t wait for the end of the service?”
The old man shook his head. “Sometimes there’s just so much you can bear to watch.”
“You knew the family, then?”
“Very well. It’s a sad, sad thing.”
Peter nodded. There seemed nothing else to say.
Natchez said, “I didn’t get to say it Tuesday, Mr. McDermott, but I appreciate what you did. In speaking up for me, I mean.”
“It’s all right, Sol. I didn’t think you were to blame.”
“It’s a funny thing when you think about it.” The old man looked at Marsha, then Peter. He seemed reluctant to leave.
“What’s funny?” Peter asked.
“All this. The accident.” Natchez gestured in the direction the cortege had gone. “It must have happened just before I had that bit of trouble Monday night. Just think, while you and me were talking …
”
“Yes,” Peter said. He felt disinclined to explain his own experience later at the accident scene.
“I meant to ask, Mr. McDermott—was anything more said about that business with the Duke and Duchess?”
“Nothing at all.”
Peter supposed that Natchez found it a relief, as he himself did, to consider something other than the funeral.
The waiter ruminated, “I thought about it a lot after. Seemed almost as if they went out of their way to make a fuss. Couldn’t figure it out. Still can’t.”
Natchez, Peter remembered, had said much the same thing on Monday night. The waiter’s exact words came back to him. Natchez had been speaking of the Duchess of Croydon. She jogged my arm. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was deliberate. And later Peter had had the same general impression: that the Duchess wanted the incident remembered. What was it she had said? Something about spending a quiet evening in the suite, then taking a walk around the block. They had just come back, she said. Peter recalled wondering at the time why she had made such a point of it.
Then the Duke of Croydon had mumbled something about leaving his cigarettes in the car, and the Duchess had snapped back at him.
The Duke had left his cigarettes in the car.
But if the Croydons had stayed in the suite, then merely walked around the block …
Of course, the cigarettes might have been left earlier in the day.
Somehow Peter didn’t think so.
Oblivious of the other two, he concentrated.
Why did the Croydons wish to conceal the use of their car on Monday night? Why create an appearance—apparently false—of having spent the evening in the hotel? Was the complaint about spilled shrimp Creole a staged device—deliberately involving Natchez, then Peter—intended to uphold this fiction? Except for the Duke’s chance remark, which angered the Duchess, Peter would have accepted it as true.
Why conceal the use of their car?
Natchez had said a moment ago: It’s a funny thing … the accident … must have happened just before I had that bit of trouble.
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