He now felt so good about everything, he stopped for breakfast in the St. Gregory coffee shop.
It was afterward, coming out, that he saw the Duchess of Croydon.
She had emerged, a moment earlier, from an elevator into the hotel lobby.
The Bedlington terriers - three on one side, two on the other - frisked ahead like spirited outriders. The Duchess held their leashes firmly and with authority, though her thoughts were clearly elsewhere, her eyes focused forward, as if seeing through the hotel walls and far beyond. The superb hauteur, her hallmark, was as evident as always. Only the observant might have noticed fines of strain and weariness in her face which cosmetics and an effort of will power had not obscured entirely.
Keycase stopped, at first startled and unbelieving. His eyes reassured him: it was the Duchess of Croydon. Keycase, an avid reader of magazines and newspapers, had seen too many photographs not to be sure. And the Duchess was staying, presumably, in this hotel.
His mind raced. The Duchess of Croydon's gem collection was among the world's most fabulous. Whatever the occasion, she never appeared anywhere without being resplendently jeweled. Even now his eyes narrowed at the sight of her rings and a sapphire clip, worn casually, which must be priceless. The Duchess's habit meant that, despite precautions, there would always be a part of her collection close at hand.
A half-formed idea - reckless, audacious, impossible ... or was it? ... was taking shape in Keycase's mind.
He continued watching as, the terriers preceding, the Duchess of Croydon swept through the St. Gregory lobby and into the sunlit street.
2
Herbie Chandler arrived early at the hotel, but for his own advantage, not the St. Gregory's.
Among the bell captain's sideline rackets was one referred to - in the many hotels where it existed - as "the liquor butt hustle."
Hotel guests who entertained in their rooms, or even drank alone, often had an inch or two of liquor left in bottles at the time of their departure.
When packing their bags, most of these guests refrained from including the liquor ends, either through fear of leakage or to avoid airline excess baggage charges. But human psychology made them balk at pouring good liquor away and usually it was left, intact, on dressing tables of the vacated rooms.
If a bellboy observed such a residue when summoned to carry a guest's bags at checkout time, he was usually back within a few minutes to collect it.
Where guests carried their own bags, as many preferred to do nowadays, the floor maid would usually notify a bellboy, who would cut her in on his eventual share of profit.
The dribs and drabs of liquor found their way to the corner of a basement storeroom, the private domain of Herbie Chandler. It was preserved as such through the agency of a storekeeper who, in turn, received help from Chandler with certain larcenies of his own.
The bottles were brought here, usually in laundry bags which bellboys could carry within the hotel without arousing comment. In the course of a day or two the amount collected was surprisingly large.
Every two or three days - more frequently if the hotel was busy with conventions - the bell captain consolidated his hoard, as he was doing now.
Herbie sorted the bottles containing gin into a single group. Selecting two of the more expensive labels, and employing a small well-worn funnel, he emptied the other miscellaneous brands into them. He ended with the first bottle full and the second three quarters full. He capped them both, putting the second bottle aside for topping up at the next consolidation. He repeated the process with bourbon, Scotch, and rye. In all, there were seven full bottles and several partial ones. A lonely few ounces of vodka he emptied, after a moment's hesitation, into the gin.
Later in the day the seven full bottles would be delivered to a bar a few blocks from the St. Gregory. The bar owner, only mildly concerned with scruples about quality, served the liquor to customers, paying Herbie half the going price of regularly bottled supplies. Periodically, for those involved within the hotel, Herbie would declare a dividend - usually as small as he dared make it.
Recently the liquor butt hustle had been doing well, and today's accumulation would have pleased Herbie if he had not been preoccupied with other thoughts. Late last night there had been a telephone call from Stanley Dixon. The young man had relayed his own version of the conversation between himself and Peter McDermott. He had also reported the appointment - for himself and his cronies in McDermott's office at four p.m. the following afternoon, which was now today. What Dixon wanted to find out was: Just how much did McDermott know?
Herbie Chandler had been unable to supply an answer, except to warn Dixon to be discreet and admit nothing. But, ever since, he had been wondering what exactly happened in rooms 1126-7 two nights earlier, and just how well informed - concerning the bell captain's own part in it - the assistant general manager was.
It was another nine hours until four o'clock. They would, Herbie expected, pass slowly.
3
As he did most mornings, Curtis O'Keefe showered first and prayed afterward. The procedure was typically efficient since he came clean to God and also dried off thoroughly in a towel robe during the twenty minutes or so he was on his knees.
Bright sunshine, entering the comfortable air-conditioned suite, gave the hotelier a sense of well being. The feeling transferred itself to his loquacious prayers which took on the air of an intimate man-to-man chat.
Curtis O'Keefe did not forget, however, to remind God of his own continuing interest in the St. Gregory Hotel.
Breakfast was in Dodo's suite. She ordered for them both, after frowning at length over a menu, followed by a protracted conversation with room service during which she changed the entire order several times. Today the choice of juice seemed to be causing her the most uncertainty and she vacillated - through an exchange with the unseen order taker lasting several minutes - over the comparative merits of pineapple, grapefruit, and orange.
Curtis O'Keefe amusedly pictured the havoc which the prolonged call was causing at the busy room-service order desk eleven floors below.
Waiting for the meal to arrive, he leafed through the morning newspapers the New Orleans Times-Picayune and an airmailed New York Times. Locally, he observed, there had been no fresh developments in the hit-and-run case that had eclipsed most other Crescent City news. In New York, he saw, on the Big Board, O'Keefe Hotels stock had slipped three quarters of a point. The decline was not significant - merely a normal fluctuation, and there was sure to be an offsetting rise when word of the chain's new acquisition in New Orleans leaked out, as it probably would before too long.
The thought reminded him of the annoying two days he would have to wait for confirmation. He regretted that he had not insisted on a decision last night; but now, having given his word, there was nothing to do but bide his time patiently. He had not the least doubt of a favorable decision from Warren Trent. There could, in fact, be no possible alternative.
Near the end of breakfast there was a telephone call which Dodo answered first - from Hank Lemnitzer, Curtis O'Keefe's personal representative on the West Coast. Halfsuspecting the nature of the call, he took it in his own suite, closing the communicating door behind him.
The subject he had expected to be raised came up after a routine report on various financial interests - outside the hotel business - on which Lemnitzer astutely rode herd.
"There's one thing, Mr. O'Keefe" - the nasal Californian drawl came down the telephone. "It's about Jenny LaMarsh, the doll ... er, the young lady you kindly expressed interest in that time at the Beverly Hills Hotel.