Hotel

"Pour lightly, Ben," Peter said. "I know absinthe Suissesse goes with a New Orleans breakfast, but I've a new boss. I'd like to meet him sober."

The manservant grinned. "Yessir!"

As they sat at the table, Marsha said, "Was that why you ...

"Why I disappeared like a conjurer's rabbit? No. That was something else."

Her eyes widened as he related as much as he could of the hit-and-run investigation without mentioning the Croydons' name. He declined to be drawn by Marsha's questioning, but told her, "Whatever happens, there will be some news today."

To himself, he reasoned: By now, Ogilvie was probably back in New Orleans and being interrogated. If retained in custody, he would have to be charged, with an appearance in court which would alert the press.

Inevitably there would be a reference to the Jaguar which, in turn, would point a finger at the Croydons.

Peter sampled the fluffy absinthe Suissesse which had appeared before him.

From his own bartending days he remembered the ingredients - herbs aint, white of an egg, cream, orgeat syrup, and a dash of anisette. He had seldom tasted them better mixed. Across the table Marsha was sipping orange juice.

Peter wondered: Could the Duke and Duchess of Croydon, in face of Ogilvie's accusation, continue to maintain their innocence? It was one more question which today might determine.

But certainly the Duchess's note - if it ever existed was gone. There had been no further word from the hotel - at least, on that point - and Booker T. Graham would have long since gone off duty.

In front of both Peter and Marsha, Ben placed a Creole cream cheese Evangeline, garlanded with fruit.

Peter began to eat with enjoyment.

"Earlier on," Marsha said, "you started to say something. It was about the hotel."

"Oh, yes." Between mouthfuls of cheese and fruit, he explained about Albert Wells. "The new ownership is being announced today. I had a telephone call just as I was leaving to come here."

The call had been from Warren Trent. It informed Peter that Mr. Dempster of Montreal, financial representative of the St. Gregory's new owner, was en route to New Orleans. Mr. Dempster was already in New York where he would board an Eastern Airlines flight, arriving at mid-morning. A suite was to be reserved, and a meeting between the old and new management groups was scheduled tentatively for eleven-thirty.

Peter was instructed to remain available in case he was required.

Surprisingly, Warren Trent had sounded not in the least depressed and, in fact, brighter than in recent days. Was W.T. aware, Peter wondered, that the new owner of the St. Gregory was already in the hotel?

Remembering that until an official changeover, his own loyalty lay with the old management, Peter related the conversation of last evening between himself, Christine, and Albert Wells. "Yes," Warren Trent had said, "I know. Emile Dumaire of Industrial Merchants Bank - he did the negotiating for Wells - phoned me late last night. It seems there was some secrecy. There isn't any more."

Peter also knew that Curtis O'Keefe, and his companion Miss Lash, were due to leave the St. Gregory later this morning. Apparently they were going separate ways since the hotel - which handled such matters for VIPs - had arranged a flight to Los Angeles for Miss Lash, while Curtis O'Keefe was headed for Naples, via New York and Rome.

"You're thinking about a lot of things," Marsha said. "I wish you'd tell me some. My father used to want to talk at breakfast, but my mother was never interested. I am."

Peter smiled. He told her the kind of day that he expected it to be.

As they talked, the remains of the cheeses Evangeline were removed, to be replaced by steaming, aromatic eggs Sardou. Twin poached eggs nestled on artichoke bottoms, appetizingly topped with creamed spinach and hollandaise sauce. A rose wine appeared at Peter's place.

Marsha said, "I understand what you meant about today being very busy."

"And I understand what you meant by a traditional breakfast." Peter caught sight of the housekeeper, Anna, hovering in the background. He called out, "Magnificent!" and saw her smile.

Later, he gasped at the arrival of sirloin steaks with mushrooms, hot french bread and marmalade.

Peter said doubtfully, "I'm not sure . . ."

"There's cripes suzette to come," Marsha informed him, "and cafe au lait.

When there were great plantations here, people used to scoff at the petit dejeuner of the continentals. They made breakfast an occasion."

"You've made it an occasion," Peter said. "This, and a good deal more.

Meeting you; my history lessons; being with you here. I won't forget it - ever."

"You make it sound as if you're saying goodbye."

"I am, Marsha." He met her eyes steadily, then smiled. "Right after the cripes suzette."

There was a silence before she said, "I thought .."

He reached out across the table, his hand covering Marsha's. "Perhaps we were both daydreaming. I think we were. But it's quite the nicest daydream I ever had."

"Why does it have to be just that?"