Curtis O’Keefe attributed his feelings to the loss of the hotel, though usually he was more resilient about such matters. In his long career he had experienced his share of business disappointments and had schooled himself to bounce back, getting on with the next thing, rather than waste time in lamenting failures.
But on this occasion, even after a night’s sleep, the mood persisted.
It made him irritable with God. There was a distinct sharpness, plus an undertone of criticism, in his morning prayers.… Thou hast seen fit to place thy St. Gregory Hotel in alien hands … No doubt thou hast thine own inscrutable purpose, even if experienced mortals like thy servant can perceive no reason …
He prayed alone, taking less time than usual, and afterward found Dodo packing his bags as well as her own. When he protested, she assured him, “Curtie, I like doing it. And if I didn’t this time, who would?”
He felt disinclined to explain that none of Dodo’s predecessors had ever packed or unpacked for him, or that he usually summoned someone from a hotel housekeeping department to do the job, as from now on, he supposed, he would have to do once more.
It was at that point he telephoned room service to order breakfast, but the idea hadn’t worked despite the fact that when they sat down, Dodo tried again. “Gee, Curtie, we don’t have to be miserable. It isn’t like we’ll never see each other. We can meet in L.A. lots of times.”
But O’Keefe, who had traveled this road before, knew that they would not. Besides, he reminded himself, it was not parting with Dodo, but the loss of the hotel which really concerned him.
The moments slipped by. It was time for Dodo to leave. The bulk of her luggage, collected by two bellboys, had gone down to the lobby several minutes earlier. Now, the bell captain arrived for the remaining hand baggage, and to escort Dodo to her specially chartered airport limousine.
Herbie Chandler, aware of Curtis O’Keefe’s importance, and sensitive as always to potential tips, had supervised this call himself. He stood waiting at the corridor entrance to the suite.
O’Keefe checked his watch and walked to the connecting doorway. “You’ve very little time, my dear.”
Dodo’s voice floated out. “I have to finish my nails, Curtie.”
Wondering why all women left attending to their finger nails until the very last minute, Curtis O’Keefe handed Herbie Chandler a five-dollar bill. “Share this with the other two.”
Chandler’s weasel face brightened. “Thank you very much, sir.” He would share it all right, he reflected, except that the other bellboys would get fifty cents each, with Herbie retaining the four dollars.
Dodo walked out from the adjoining room.
There should be music, Curtis O’Keefe thought. A blazoning of trumpets and the stirring sweep of strings.
She had on a simple yellow dress and the big floppy picture hat she had worn when they arrived on Tuesday. The ash-blond hair was loose about her shoulders. Her wide blue eyes regarded him.
“Goodbye, dearest Curtie.” She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. Without intending to, he held her tightly.
He had an absurd impulse to instruct the bell captain to bring back Dodo’s bags from downstairs, to tell her to stay and never to leave. He dismissed it as sentimental foolishness. In any case, there was Jenny LaMarsh. By this time tomorrow …
“Goodbye, my dear. I shall think of you often, and I shall follow your career closely.”
At the doorway she turned and waved back. He could not be sure, but he had an impression she was crying. Herbie Chandler closed the door from outside.
On the twelfth-floor landing, the bell captain rang for an elevator. While they waited, Dodo repaired her make-up with a handkerchief.
The elevators seemed slow this morning, Herbie Chandler thought. Impatiently he depressed the call button a second time, holding it down for several seconds. He was still tense, he realized. He had been on tenterhooks ever since the session yesterday with McDermott, wondering just how and when the call would come—a direct summons from Warren Trent perhaps?—which would mark the end of Herbie’s career at the St. Gregory Hotel. So far there had been no call and now, this morning, the rumor was around that the hotel had been sold to some old guy whom Herbie had never heard of.
How would that kind of change affect him personally? Regretfully, Herbie decided there would be no advantage for himself—at least, if McDermott stayed on, which seemed probable. The bell captain’s dismissal might be delayed a few days, but that was all. McDermott! The hated name was like a sting inside him. If I had guts enough, Herbie thought, I’d put a knife between the bastard’s shoulder blades.
An idea struck him. There were other ways, less drastic but still unpleasant, in which someone like McDermott could be given a rough time. Especially in New Orleans. Of course, that kind of thing cost money, but there was the five hundred dollars which McDermott had turned down so smugly yesterday. He might be sorry that he had. The money would be worth spending, Herbie reflected, just for the pleasure of knowing that McDermott would writhe in some gutter, a mess of blood and bruises. Herbie had once seen someone after they received that kind of beating. The sight was not pretty. The bell captain licked his lips. The more he thought about it, the more the idea excited him. As soon as he was back on the main floor, he decided, he would make a telephone call. It could be arranged quickly. Perhaps tonight.
An elevator had arrived at last. Its doors opened.
There were several people already inside who eased politely to the rear as Dodo entered. Herbie Chandler followed. The doors closed.
It was number four elevator. The time was eleven minutes past noon.
9
It seemed to the Duchess of Croydon as if she was waiting for a slow-burning fuse to reach an unseen bomb. Whether the bomb would explode, and where, would only be known when the burning reached it. Nor was it certain how long, in time, the fuse would take.
Already it had been fourteen hours.
Since last night, when the police detectives left, there had been no further word. Troublesome questions remained unanswered. What were the police doing? Where was Ogilvie? The Jaguar? Was there some scrap of evidence which, for all her ingenuity, the Duchess had overlooked? Even now, she did not believe there was.
One thing seemed important. Whatever their inner tensions, outwardly the Croydons should maintain an appearance of normalcy. For this reason, they had breakfasted at their usual time. Urged on by the Duchess, the Duke of Croydon exchanged telephone calls with London and Washington. Plans were begun for their departure tomorrow from New Orleans.
At mid-morning, as she had most other days, the Duchess left the hotel to exercise the Bedlington terriers. She had returned to the Presidential Suite half an hour ago.
It was almost noon. There was still no news concerning the single thing that mattered most.
Last night, considered logically, the Croydons’ position seemed unassailable. And yet, today, logic seemed more tenuous, less secure.
“You’d almost think,” the Duke of Croydon ventured, “that they’re trying to wear us down by silence.” He was standing, looking from the window of the suite living room, as he had so many times in recent days. In contrast to other occasions, today his voice was clear. Since yesterday, though liquor remained available in the suite, he had not wavered in his abstinence.
“If that’s the case,” the Duchess responded, “we’ll see to it that …”
She was interrupted by the jangling of the telephone. It honed their nervousness to an edge, as had every other call this morning.
The Duchess was nearest to the phone. She reached out her hand, then abruptly stopped. She had a sudden premonition that this call would be different from the rest.
The Duke asked sympathetically, “Would you rather have me do it?”
She shook her head, dismissing the momentary weakness. Lifting the telephone, she answered, “Yes?”
A pause. The Duchess acknowledged, “This is she.” Co
vering the mouthpiece, she informed her husband, “The man from the hotel—McDermott—who was here last night.”
She said into the telephone, “Yes, I remember. You were present when those ridiculous charges …”
The Duchess stopped. As she listened, her face paled. She closed her eyes, then opened them.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, I understand.”
She replaced the receiver. Her hands were trembling.
The Duke of Croydon said, “Something has gone wrong.” It was a statement, not a question.
The Duchess nodded slowly. “The note.” Her voice was scarcely audible. “The note I wrote has been found. The hotel manager has it.”
Her husband had moved from the window to the center of the room. He stood, immobile, his hands loosely by his sides, taking time to let the information sink in. At length he asked, “And now?”
“He’s calling the police. He said he decided to notify us first.” She put a hand to her forehead in a gesture of despair. “The note was the worst mistake. If I hadn’t written it …”
“No,” the Duke said. “If it wasn’t that, it would have been something else. None of the mistakes were yours. The one that mattered—to begin with—was mine.”
He crossed to the sideboard which served as a bar, and poured a stiff Scotch and soda. “I’ll just have this, no more. Be a while before the next, I imagine.”
“What are you going to do?”
He tossed the drink down. “It’s a little late to talk of decency. But if any shreds are left, I’ll try to salvage them.” He went into the adjoining bedroom, returning almost at once with a light raincoat and a Homburg hat.
“If I can,” the Duke of Croydon said, “I intend to get to the police before they come to me. It’s what’s known, I believe, as giving yourself up. I imagine there isn’t much time, so I’ll say what I have to say quickly.”
The Duchess’s eyes were on him. At this moment, to speak required more effort than she could make.
In a controlled, quiet voice the Duke affirmed, “I want you to know that I’m grateful for all you did. It was a mistake both of us made, but I’m still grateful. I’ll do all I can to see that you’re not involved. If, in spite of that, you are, then I’ll say that the whole idea—after the accident—was mine and that I persuaded you.”
The Duchess nodded dully.
“There’s just one other thing. I suppose I shall need some kind of lawyer chap. I’d like you to arrange that, if you will.”
The Duke put on the hat and with a finger tapped it into place. For one whose entire life and future had collapsed around him a few moments earlier, his composure seemed remarkable.
“You’ll need money for the lawyer,” he reminded her. “Quite a lot, I imagine. You could start him off with some of that fifteen thousand dollars you were taking to Chicago. The rest should go back into the bank. Drawing attention to it doesn’t matter now.”
The Duchess gave no indication of having heard.
A look of pity crossed her husband’s face. He said uncertainly, “It may be a long time …” His arms went out toward her.
Coldly, deliberately, she averted her head.
The Duke seemed about to speak again, then changed his mind. With a slight shrug he turned, then went out quietly, closing the outer door behind him.
For a moment or two the Duchess sat passively, considering the future and weighing the exposure and disgrace immediately ahead. Then, habit reasserting itself, she rose. She would arrange for the lawyer, which seemed necessary at once. Later, she decided calmly, she would examine the means of suicide.
Meanwhile, the money which had been mentioned should be put in a safer place. She went into her bedroom.
It took only a few minutes, first of unbelief, then of frantic searching to discover that the attache case was gone. The cause could only be theft. When she considered the possibility of informing the police, the Duchess of Croydon convulsed in demented, hysterical laughter.
If you wanted an elevator in a hurry, the Duke of Croydon reflected, you could count on it being slow in coming.
He seemed to have been waiting on the ninth floor landing for several minutes. Now, at last, he could hear a car approaching from above. A moment later its doors opened at the ninth.
For an instant the Duke hesitated. A second earlier he thought he had heard his wife cry out. He was tempted to go back, then decided not.
He stepped into number four elevator.
There were several people already inside, including an attractive blond girl and the hotel bell captain who recognized the Duke.
“Good day, Your Grace.”
The Duke of Croydon nodded absently as the doors slid closed.
10
It had taken Keycase Milne most of last night and this morning to decide that what had occurred was reality and not an hallucination. At first, on discovering the money he had carried away so innocently from the Presidential Suite, he assumed himself to be asleep and dreaming. He had walked around his room attempting to awaken. It made no difference. In his apparent dream, it seemed, he was awake already. The confusion kept Keycase genuinely awake until just before dawn. Then he dropped into a deep, untroubled sleep from which he did not stir until mid-morning.
It was typical of Keycase, however, that the night had not been wasted.
Even while doubting that his incredible stroke of fortune was true, he shaped plans and precautions in case it was.
Fifteen thousand dollars in negotiable cash had never before come Keycase’s way during all his years as a professional thief. Even more remarkable, there appeared only two problems in making a clean departure with the money intact. One was when and how to leave the St. Gregory Hotel. The other was transportation of the cash.
Last night he reached decisions affecting both.
In quitting the hotel, he must attract a minimum of attention. That meant checking out normally and paying his bill. To do otherwise would be sheerest folly, proclaiming dishonesty and inviting pursuit.
It was a temptation to check out at once. Keycase resisted it. A late night checkout, perhaps involving discussion as to whether or not an extra room day should be charged, would be like lighting a beacon. The night cashier would remember and could describe him. So might others if the hotel was quiet, as most likely it would be.
No!—the best time to check out was mid-morning or later, when plenty of other people would be leaving too. That way, he could be virtually unnoticed.
Of course, there was danger in delay. Loss of the cash might be discovered by the Duke and Duchess of Croydon, and the police alerted. That would mean a police stake-out in the lobby and scrutiny of each departing guest. But, on the credit side, there was nothing to connect Keycase with the robbery, or even involve him as a suspect. Furthermore, it seemed unlikely that the baggage of every guest would be opened and searched.
Also, there was an intangible. Instinct told Keycase that the presence of so large a sum in cash—precisely where and how he had found it—was peculiar, even suspicious. Would an alarm be raised? There was at least a possibility that it might not.
On reflection, to wait seemed the lesser risk.
The second problem was removal of the money from the hotel.
Keycase considered mailing it, using the hotel mail chute and addressing it to himself at a hotel in some other city where he would appear in a day or two. It was a method he had used successfully before. Then, ruefully, he decided the sum was too large. It would require too many separate packages which, in themselves, might create attention.
The money would have to be carried from the hotel. How?
Obviously, not in the attache case which he had brought here from the Duke and Duchess of Croydon’s suite. Before anything else was done, that must be destroyed. Keycase set out carefully to do so.
The case was of expensive leather and well constructed. Painstakingly, he took it apart, then, with razor blades, cut it into tiny portions. The work was slow
and tedious. Periodically, he stopped to flush portions down the toilet, spacing out his use of the toilet, so as not to attract attention from adjoining rooms.
It took more than two hours. At the end, all that remained of the attaché case were its metal locks and hinges. Keycase put them in his pocket. Leaving his room, he took a walk along the eighth-floor corridor.
Near the elevators were several sand urns. Burrowing into one with his fingers, he pushed the locks and hinges well down. They might be discovered eventually, but not for some time.
By then, it was an hour or two before dawn, the hotel silent. Keycase returned to his room where he packed his belongings, except for the few things he would need immediately before departure. He used the two suitcases he had brought with him on Tuesday morning. Into the larger, he stuffed the fifteen thousand dollars, rolled in several soiled shirts.
Then, still dazed and unbelieving, Keycase slept.
He had set his alarm clock for ten A.M., but either he slept through its warning or it failed to go off. When he awoke, it was almost 11:30, with the sun streaming brightly into the room.
The sleep accomplished one thing. Keycase was convinced at last that the happenings of last night were real, not illusory. A moment of abject defeat had, with Cinderella magic, turned into shining triumph. The thought sent his spirits soaring.
He shaved and dressed quickly, then completed his packing and locked both suitcases.
He would leave the suitcases in his room, he decided, while he went down to pay his bill and reconnoiter the lobby.
Before doing so, he disposed of his surplus keys—for rooms 449, 641, 803, 1062, and the Presidential Suite. While shaving, he had observed a plumber’s inspection plate low on the bathroom wall. Unscrewing the cover, he dropped the keys in. One by one he heard them strike bottom far below.
He retained his own key, 830, for handing in when he left his room for the last time. The departure of “Byron Meader” from the St. Gregory Hotel must be normal in every way.
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