It was not without reason that a New York prosecuting attorney years before had observed in court, "Everything this man becomes involved in, your honor, is a key case. Frankly, I've come to think of him as 'Keycase' Milne."
The observation had found its way into police records and the name stuck, so that even Keycase himself now used it with a certain pride. It was a pride seasoned by such expert knowledge that given time, patience, and luck, the chances of securing a key to almost anything were extremely good.
His present specialty-within-a-specialty was based on people's indifference to hotel keys, an indifference-Key-case long ago learned - which was the constant despair of hoteliers everywhere. Theoretically, when a departing guest paid his bill, he was supposed to leave his key. But countless people left a hotel with their room keys forgotten in pocket or purse. The conscientious ones eventually dropped the keys in a mailbox, and a big hotel like the St. Gregory regularly paid out fifty dollars or more a week in postage due on keys returned. But there were other people who either kept the keys or discarded them indifferently.
This last group kept professional hotel thieves like Keycase steadily in business.
From the terminal building Keycase returned to the parking lot and the five-year-old Ford sedan which he had bought in Detroit and driven first to Kansas City, then New Orleans. It was an ideally inconspicuous car for Keycase, a dull gray, and neither old nor new enough to be unduly noticed or remembered. The only feature which bothered him a little were the Michigan license plates - an attractive green on white. Out-of-state plates were not unusual in New Orleans, but the small distinctive feature was something he would have preferred to be without. He had considered using counterfeit Louisiana plates, but this seemed to be a greater risk, besides which, Keycase was shrewd enough not to step too far outside his own specialty.
Reassuringly, the car's motor started at a touch, purring smoothly as the result of an overhaul he had performed himself - a skill learned at federal expense during one of his various incarcerations.
He drove the fourteen miles to town, carefully observing speed limits, and headed for the St. Gregory which he had located and reconnoitered the day before. He parked near Canal Street, a few blocks from the hotel, and removed two suitcases. The rest of his baggage had been left in the motel room on which he had paid several days' rent in advance. It was expensive to maintain an extra room. It was also prudent. The motel would serve as a cache for whatever he might acquire and, if disaster struck, could be abandoned entirely. He had been careful to leave nothing there which was personally identifiable. The motel key was painstakingly hidden in the carburetor air filter of the Ford.
He entered the St. Gregory with a confident air, surrendering his bags to a doorman, and registered as B. W. Meader of Ann Arbor, Michigan. The room clerk, conscious of well-cut clothes and firm chiseled features which bespoke authority, treated the newcomer with respect and allocated room 830. Now, Keycase thought agreeably, there would be three St. Gregory keys in his possession: one the hotel knew about and two it didn't.
Room 830, into which the bellboy ushered him a few moments later, turned out to be ideal. It was spacious and comfortable and the service stairway, Keycase observed as they came in, was only a few yards away.
When he was alone he unpacked carefully. Later, he decided, he would have a sleep in preparation for the serious night's work ahead.
7
By the time Peter McDermott reached the lobby, Curtis O'Keefe had been efficiently roomed. Peter decided not to follow; there were times when too much attention could be as bothersome to a guest as too little. Besides, the St. Gregory's official welcome would be extended by Warren Trent and, after making sure the hotel proprietor had been informed of O'Keefe's arrival, Peter went on to see Marsha Preyscott in 555.
As she opened the door, "I'm glad you came," she said. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't."
She was wearing a sleeveless apricot dress, he saw, which obviously she had sent for this morning. It touched her body lightly. Her long black hair hung loosely about her shoulders in contrast to the more sophisticated - though disordered - hairdo of the previous night. There was something singularly provoking - almost breathtaking - in the half-woman, half-child appearance.
"I'm sorry it took so long." He regarded her approvingly. "But I see you've used the time."
She smiled. "I thought you might need the pajamas."
"They're just for emergency - like this room. I use it very rarely."
"That's what the maid told me," Marsha said. "So if you don't mind, I thought I'd stay on for tonight, at least."
"Oh! May I ask why?"
"I'm not sure." She hesitated as they stood facing each other. "Maybe it's because I want to recover from what happened yesterday, and the best place to do it is here." But the real reason, she admitted to herself, was a wish to put off her return to the big, empty Garden District mansion.
He nodded doubtfully. "How do you feel?"
"Better."
"I'm glad of that."
"It isn't the kind of experience you get over in a few hours," Marsha admitted, "but I'm afraid I was pretty stupid to come here at all - just as you reminded me."
"I didn't say that."
"No, but you thought it."
"If I did, I should have remembered we all get into tough situations sometimes." There was a silence, then Peter said, "Let's sit down."
When they were comfortable he began, "I was hoping you'd tell me how it all started."
"I know you were." With the directness he was becoming used to, she added, "I've been wondering if I should."
Last night, Marsha reasoned, her overwhelming feelings had been shock, hurt pride, and physical exhaustion. But now the shock was gone and her pride, she suspected, might suffer less from silence than by protest. It was likely, too, that in the sober light of morning Lyle Dumaire and his cronies would not be eager to boast of what they had attempted.
"I can't persuade you if you decide to keep quiet," Peter said. "Though I'd remind you that what people get away with once they'll try again - not with you, perhaps, but someone else." Her eyes were troubled as he continued, "I don't know if the men who were in that room last night were friends of yours or not. But even if they were, I can't think of a single reason for shielding them."
"One was a friend. At least, I thought so.
"Friend or not," Peter insisted, "the point is what they tried to do - and would have, if Royce hadn't come along. What's more, when they were close to being caught, all four scuttled off like rats, leaving you alone."
"Last night," Marsha said tentatively, "I heard you say you knew the names of two."
"The room was registered in the name of Stanley Dixon. Another name I have is Dumaire. Were they two?"
She nodded.
"Who was the leader?"
"I think ... Dixon."
"Now then, tell me what happened beforehand."
In a way, Marsha realized, the decision had been taken from her. She had a sense of being dominated. It was a novel experience, and even more surprisingly, she found herself liking it. Obediently she described the sequence of events beginning with her departure from the dance floor and ending with the welcome arrival of Aloysius Royce.
Only twice was she interrupted. Had she, Peter McDermott asked, seen anything of the women in the adjoining room whom Dixon and the others had referred to? Had she observed anyone from the hotel staff? To both questions she shook her head negatively.
At the end she had an urge to tell him more. The whole thing, Marsha said, probably would not have happened if it had not been her birthday.