Hotel

He had an unsettled sense tonight, of being suspended in time between the past and future. So much he was concerned with seemed indefinite, with decisions delayed until outcomes should be known. There was the question of the St. Gregory itself. Would Curtis O'Keefe take over? If so, other affairs seemed minor by comparison - even the dentists' convention, whose officers were still debating whether or not to march protestingly from the St. Gregory or not. An hour ago the executive session called by the fiery dentists' president, Dr. Ingram, was still in progress and looked like continuing, according to the head waiter of room service, whose staff had made several trips into the meeting to replenish ice and mixes.

Although Peter had confined his behind-scenes inquiry as to whether the meeting showed signs of breaking up, the head waiter informed him there appeared to be a good deal of heated discussion. Before leaving the hotel Peter left word with the duty assistant manager that if any decision from the dentists became known, he was to be telephoned immediately. So far there had been no word. He wondered now whether Dr. Ingram's forthright viewpoint would prevail or if Warren Trent's more cynical prediction about nothing happening would prove true.

The same uncertainty had caused Peter to defer - at least until tomorrow - any action concerning Herbie Chandler. What ought to be done, he knew, was immediate dismissal of the sleazy bell captain, which would be like purging the hotel of an unclean spirit. Specifically, of course, Chandler would not be dismissed for running a call girl system - which someone else would organize if Chandler didn't but for allowing greed to overcome good sense.

With Chandler gone, a good many other abuses could be curbed, though whether Warren Trent would agree to such summary action was an open question. However, remembering the accumulated evidence and Warren Trent's concern with the hotel's good name, Peter had an idea he might.

Either way, Peter reminded himself, he must ensure that the Dixon-Dumaire group statements were safeguarded and used within the hotel only. He would keep his promise on that point. Also he had been bluffing this afternoon in threatening to inform Mark Preyscott about the attempted rape of his daughter. Then, as now, Peter remembered Marsha's entreaty: My father's in Rome. Don't tell him, please - ever!

The thought of Marsha was a reminder to hurry. A few minutes later he left the apartment and hailed a cruising cab.

Peter asked, "This is the house?"

"Sure is." The cab driver looked speculatively at his passenger.

"Leastways, if you got the address right."

"It was right." Peter's eyes followed the driver's to the immense, white-fronted mansion. The facade alone was breathtaking. Behind a new hedge and towering magnolia trees, graceful fluted columns rose from a terrace to a high railed gallery. Above the gallery the columns soared on to a crowning, classically proportioned pediment. At either end of the main building two wings repeated the details in miniature. The entire facade was in superb repair, its wood surfaces preserved and paintwork fresh. Around the house the scent of sweet olive blossoms hung in the early evening air.

Paying off the cab, Peter approached an iron grilled gate which opened smoothly. A curving pathway of old red brick led between trees and lawns.

Though barely dusk, two elevated flare pots had been lighted at either side of the pathway as it neared the house. He had reached the terrace steps when a latch clicked solidly and the double doors to the house swung open. The wide doorway framed Marsha. She waited until he reached the head of the steps, then walked toward him.

She was in white - a slim, sheath gown, her raven black hair startling by contrast. He was aware, more than ever, of the provoking woman-child quality.

Marsha said gaily, "Welcome!"

"Thank you." He gestured about him. "At the moment I'm a little overwhelmed."

"So's everybody." She entwined her arm in his. "I'll give you the Preyscott official tour before it's dark."

Returning down the terrace steps, they crossed the lawn, soft underfoot.

Marsha remained close. Through his coat sleeve he could feel the warm firmness of her flesh. Her finger tips touched his wrist lightly. There was an added gentle fragrance to the scent of olive blossoms.

"There!" Abruptly Marsha wheeled. "This is where you see it all best.

It's from here they always take the pictures."

From this side of the lawn the view was even more impressive.

"A fun-lovin' French nobleman built the house," Marsha said. "In the 1840s. He liked Greek Revival architecture, happy laughing slaves, and also having his mistress handy, which was the reason for an extra wing.

My father added the other wing. He prefers things balanced - like accounts and houses."

"This is the new guide style - philosophy with fact?"