Hotel

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 ...