Hotel

At the end, the hotel proprietor shook his head decisively. "They won't go. They'll talk, but that will be the end of it."

"Dr. Ingram seems quite serious."

"He maybe, but others won't. You say there's a meeting this afternoon; I can tell you what will happen. They'll debate around for a while, then there'll be a committee formed to draft a resolution. Later - tomorrow probably - the committee will report back to the executive. They may accept the report, they may amend it; either way they'll talk some more.

Later still - perhaps the next day - the resolution will be debated on the convention floor. I've seen it all before - the great democratic process.

They'll still be talking when the convention's over."

"I suppose you could be right," Peter said. "Though I'd say it's a pretty sick point of view."

He had spoken recklessly and braced himself for an explosive response.

It failed to occur. Instead Warren Trent growled, "I'm practical, that's all. People will cluck about so-called principles till their tongues dry out. But they won't inconvenience themselves if they can avoid it."

Peter said doggedly, "It might still be simpler if we changed our policy.

I can't believe that Dr. Nicholas, if we'd admitted him, would have undermined the hotel."

"He might not. But the riff-raff who'd follow would. Then we'd be in trouble."

"It's been my understanding we're that way already." Perversely, Peter was conscious of indulging in verbal brinksmanship. He speculated on just how far he could go. And why - today - he wondered, was his employer in such comparative good humor?

Warren Trent's patrician features creased sardonically. "We may have been in trouble for a while. In a day or two, however, that will not be true."

Abruptly he asked: "Is Curtis O'Keefe still in the hotel?"

"So far as I know. I'd have heard if he'd checked out."

"Good!" The hovering smile remained. "I've some information that may interest you. Tomorrow I shall tell O'Keefe and his entire hotel chain to go jump in Lake Pontchartrain."

From his vantage point at the bell captain's upright desk, Herbie Chandler watched covertly as the four young men entered the St. Gregory from the street outside. It was a few minutes before four p.m.

Two of the group Herbie recognized as Lyle Dumaire and Stanley Dixon, the latter scowling as he led the way toward the elevators. A few seconds later they were out of sight.

On the telephone yesterday, Dixon had assured Herbie that the bell captain's part in the previous night's embroilment would not be divulged.

But Dixon, Herbie realized uneasily, was merely one of four. How the others - and perhaps Dixon too - would react under questioning, possibly threats, was something else again.

As he had for the past twenty-four hours, the bell captain continued to brood with growing apprehension.

On the main mezzanine, Stanley Dixon again led the way as the four youths left the elevator. They stopped outside a paneled doorway with a softly illumined sign, EXECUTIVE OFFICES, while Dixon morosely repeated an earlier warning. "Remember! - leave the talking to me."

Flora Yates showed them into Peter McDermott's office. Looking up coldly, he motioned them to chairs and inquired, "Which of you is Dixon?"

"I am."

"Dumaire?"

Less confidently, Lyle Dumaire nodded.

"I don't have the other two names."

"That's too bad," Dixon said. "If we'd known, we could have all brought calling cards."

The third youth interjected, "I'm Gladwin. This is Joe Waloski." Dixon shot him an irritated glance.

"All of you," Peter stated, "are undoubtedly aware that I've listened to Miss Marsha Preyscott's report of what occurred Monday night. If you wish, I'm willing to hear your version."

Dixon spoke quickly, before anyone else could intervene. "Listen! - coming here was your idea, not ours. There's nothing we want to say to you. So if you've got any talking, get on with it."

Peter's face muscles tightened. With an effort he controlled his temper.

"Very well. I suggest we deal with the least important matter first." He shuffled papers, then addressed Dixon. "Suite 1126-7 was registered in your name. When you ran away" - he emphasized the last two words - "I assumed you had overlooked checking out, so I did it for you. There is an unpaid bill of seventy-five dollars and some cents. There is a further bill, for damage to the suite, of one hundred and ten dollars."

The one who had introduced himself as Gladwin whistled softly.

"We'll pay the seventy-five," Dixon said. "That's all."

"If you dispute the other account, that's your privilege," Peter informed him. "But I'll tell you we don't intend to drop the matter. If necessary, we'll sue."

"Listen, Stan . . ." It was the fourth youth, Joe Waloski. Dixon waved him to silence.

Beside him, Lyle Dumaire shifted uneasily. He said softly, "Stan, whatever happens they can make a lot of fuss. If we have to, we can split it four ways." He addressed Peter: "If we do pay - the hundred and ten - we might have trouble getting it all at once. Could we pay a little at a time?"

"Certainly." There was no reason, Peter decided, not to extend the normal amenities of the hotel. "One or all of you can see our credit manager and he'll make the arrangements." He glanced around the group. "Are we to regard that part as settled?"

One by one the quartet nodded.

"That leaves the matter of the attempted rape - four so-called men against one girl." Peter made no effort to keep the contempt from his voice.

Waloski and Gladwin flushed. Lyle Dumaire uncomfortably avoided Peter's eyes.

Only Dixon maintained his self-assurance. "That's her story. Could be, we'd tell a different one."

"I already said I'm willing to listen to your version."

"Nuts!"

"Then I've no alternative but to accept Miss Preyscott's."

Dixon sniggered. "Don't you wish you'd been there, buster? Or maybe you had your piece after."

Waloski muttered, "Take it easy, Stan."

Peter gripped the arms of his chair tightly. He fought back an impulse to rush out from behind the desk and strike the smugly leering face in front of him. But he knew that if he did he would give Dixon an advantage which the youth was probably, and astutely, trying to gain. He would not, he told himself, be goaded into losing control.

"I assume," he said icily, "you are all aware that criminal charges can be laid."

"If they were going to be," Dixon countered, "somebody'd have done it by now. So don't feed us that old line."

"Would you be willing to repeat that statement to Mr. Mark Preyscott? If he's brought back from Rome after being told what happened to his daughter?"

Lyle Dumaire looked up sharply, his expression alarmed. For the first time there was a flicker of disquiet in Dixon's eyes.

Gladwin inquired anxiously, "Is he being told?"

"Shut up!" Dixon enjoined. "It's a trick. Don't fall for it!" But there was a shade less confidence than a moment earlier.

"You can judge for yourself whether it's a trick or not." Peter opened a drawer of his desk and took out a folder which he opened. "I have here a signed statement, made by me, of exactly what I was informed by Miss Preyscott, and what I observed myself on arrival at suite 1126-7, Monday night. It has not been attested to by Miss Preyscott, but it can be, along with any other details she may see fit to add. There is a further statement made and signed by Aloysius Royce, the hotel employee you assaulted, confirming my report and describing what happened immediately after his arrival."

The idea of obtaining a statement from Royce had occurred to Peter late yesterday. In response to a telephoned request the young Negro had delivered it early this morning. The neatly typed document was clear and carefully phrased, reflecting Royce's legal training. At the same time Aloysius Royce had cautioned Peter, "I still say no Louisiana court will take a nigger boy's word in a white rape case." Though irritated by Royce's continued abrasiveness, Peter assured him, "I'm sure it will never come to court, but I need the ammunition."

Stan Jakubiec had been helpful also. At Peter's request the credit manager had made discreet inquiries about the two youths, Stanley Dixon and Lyle Dumaire. He reported: "Dumaire's father, as you know, is the bank president; Dixon's father is a car dealer - good business, big home.

Both kids seemingly get a lot of freedom - parental indulgence, I guess - and a fair amount of money, though not unlimited. From all I hear, both fathers wouldn't exactly disapprove of their kids laying a girl or two; more likely to say 'I did the same when I was young.' But attempted rape is something else again, particularly involving the Preyscott girl. Mark Preyscott has as much influence as anyone in this town. He and the other two men move in the same circle, though Preyscott probably rates higher socially. Certainly if Mark Preyscott got after the older Dixon and Dumaire, accusing their sons of raping his daughter, or trying to, the roof would fall in and the Dixon and Dumaire kids know it." Peter had thanked Jakubiec, storing the information for use if necessary.

"All that statement stuff," Dixon said, "ain't worth as much as you make it out. You weren't there until after, so yours is hearsay."

"That maybe true," Peter said. "I'm not a lawyer, so I wouldn't know.

But I wouldn't discount it entirely. Also, whether you won or lost you would not come out of court smelling sweetly, and I imagine your families might give some of you a hard time." From a glance between Dixon and Dumaire he knew the last thrust had gone home.

"Christ!" Gladwin urged the others, "we don't want to go in any court."

Lyle Dumaire asked sullenly, "What are you going to do?"

"Providing you cooperate, I intend to do nothing more, at least so far as you are concerned. On the other hand, if you continue making things difficult I intend, later today, to cable Mr. Preyscott in Rome and deliver these papers to his lawyers here."

It was Dixon who asked disagreeably, "What's 'cooperate' supposed to mean?"

"It means that here and now you will each write a fun account of what took place Monday night, including whatever occurred in the early part of the evening and who, if anyone, was involved from the hotel."

"Like hell!" Dixon said. "You can stuff that

Gladwin cut in impatiently. "Can it, Stan!" He inquired of Peter,

"Suppose we do make statements. What will you do then?"

"Much as I'd like to see them used otherwise, you have my word they will be seen by no one, other than internally within the hotel."

"How do we know we can trust you?"

"You don't. You'll have to take that chance."

There was a silence in the room, the only sounds the creaking of a chair and the muffled clatter of a typewriter outside.

Abruptly Waloski said, "I'll take a chance. Give me something to write on."

"I guess I will too." It was Gladwin.

Lyle Dumaire, unhappily, nodded his assent.

Dixon scowled, then shrugged. "So everybody's on a writing kick. What's the difference?" He told Peter, "I like a pen with a broad nib. It suits my style."