“There were four of them. Four nice white young gentlemen. I recognized two of them.”

Peter crossed to the telephone beside the nearer bed.

“Who you calling?”

“The city police.”

There was a smile on the young Negro’s face. “I wouldn’t do it. For one thing, I’d have to be a witness. And no court in Louisiana is gonna take a nigger boy’s word in a white rape case. Not when four young white gentlemen say the nigger boy is lying. Not even if Miss Preyscott supports the nigger boy, which I doubt her pappy’d let her.”

Peter put down the receiver as what Royce had said was true. “Did you say ‘Miss Preyscott’?”

Unhappily, Marsha nodded.

“Miss Preyscott,” Peter said, “did you know the people who were responsible for what happened?”

“Yes.”

“And did you come here with them to this suite?”

Again a whisper. “Yes.”

“It’s up to you, Miss Preyscott, whether you make an official complaint or not. Whatever you decide, the hotel will go along with. But I’m afraid Royce is right about publicity.” He added: “Of course, it’s really something for your father to decide.”

Marsha raised her head, looking directly at Peter for the first time. “My father’s in Rome. Don’t tell him, please, ever.”

Peter was startled to see how much of a child Marsha was, and how very beautiful. “Is there anything I can do now?”

“I don’t know.” She began to cry again.

Uncertainly, Peter took out a white linen handkerchief, which Marsha accepted.

“Thank you.”

“I think you should rest a while.”

“I don’t want to stay here. I couldn’t.”

He nodded understandingly. “In a little while we’ll get you home.”

“No! Not that! Please, isn’t there somewhere else… in the hotel?”

Peter hesitated. “There’s 555, I suppose.” He glanced at Royce.

Room 555 was a small one, which went with the assistant general manager’s job. Peter rarely used it, except to change. It was empty now.

“It’ll be all right,” Marsha said. “As long as someone phones my home. Ask for Anna the housekeeper.”

“I’ll go get the key,” Royce offered.

As the young Negro opened the outer door, voices filtered in, with a barrage of eager questions. McDermott heard Royce’s answers, quietly reassuring, then the voices fade.

Marsha murmured, “You haven’t told me who you are.”

“I’m sorry.” He told her his name and his connection with the hotel.

She was taken to 555 in a service elevator and shown to the bathroom. There were men’s pajamas there prepared for her, in dark blue, and too large. She put them on.

Hands helped her into bed. She was aware of Peter McDermott’s calm voice once more. It was a voice she liked, Marsha thought – and its owner also. “Royce and I are leaving now, Miss Preyscott. The door to this room is self-locking and the key is beside your bed. You won’t be disturbed.”

“Thank you.” Sleepily she asked, “Whose pajamas?”

“They’re mine. I’m sorry they’re so big.”

“No matter… nice…” It was her final thought.

It had been a full evening, Peter thought – with its share of unpleasantness – though not exceptional for a big hotel. When the elevator arrived he told the operator, “Lobby, please.” Christine was waiting on the main mezzanine, but his business on the main floor would take only a few minutes.

He noted with impatience that although the elevator doors were closed, they had not yet started down.

“Are you sure the gates are fully closed?”

“Yes, sir, they are. It isn’t that, it’s the connections I think, either here or up top,” the operator explained.

With a jerk the mechanism took hold and the elevator started down.

Peter made a mental note to ask the chief engineer exactly what was wrong.

It was almost half-past-twelve by the lobby clock as he stepped from the elevator. Peter turned right toward Reception, but had gone only a few paces when he was aware of an obese figure approaching him. It was Ogilvie, the chief house officer. As always, he was accompanied by an odor of stale cigar smoke.

“I hear you were looking for me,” Ogilvie said.

Peter felt some of his earlier anger return. “I certainly was. Where were you?”

“Doing my job, Mr. McDermott. I was over at police headquarters reporting some trouble we had here. There was a suitcase stolen from the baggage room today.”

“Police headquarters! Which room was the poker game in?”

“Maybe you should speak to Mr. Trent about it.”

Warren Trent would never take action against Ogilvie, who had been at the St. Gregory as long as the hotel proprietor himself. There were some who said that the fat detective knew where a body or two was buried, and thus had a hold over Warren Trent.