Momentarily the Duchess closed her eyes, letting waves of relief, like soothing anodynes, wash over her.
The voice on the telephone cut in, "Ma'am, are you still there?"
"Yes." She forced her mind to function.
"About a statement, what we'd like . . ."
"At the moment," the Duchess injected, "my husband has no statement, nor will he have unless and until the appointment is officially confirmed."
"In that case . . ."
"The same applies to photography."
The voice sounded disappointed. "We'll run what we have, of course, in the next edition."
"That is your privilege."
"Meanwhile, if there's an official announcement we'd like to be in touch."
"Should that occur, I'm sure my husband will be glad to meet the press."
"Then we may telephone again?"
"Please do."
After replacing the telephone, the Duchess of Croydon sat upright and unmoving. At length, a slight smile hovering around her lips, she said,
"It's happened. Geoffrey has succeeded."
Her husband stared incredulously. He moistened his lips. "Washington?"
She repeated the gist of the AP bulletin. "The leak was probably deliberate, to test reaction. It's favorable."
"I wouldn't have believed that even your brother.
"His influence helped. Undoubtedly there were other reasons. Timing.
Someone with your kind of background was needed. Politics fitted. Don't forget either that we knew the possibility existed. Fortunately, everything chanced to fall together."
"Now that it's happened . He stopped, unwilling to complete the thought.
"Now that it's happened - what?"
"I wonder ... can I carry it through?"
"You can and you will. We will."
He moved his head doubtfully. "There was a time
"There is still a time." The Duchess's voice sharpened with authority.
"Later today you will be obliged to meet the press. There will be other things. It will be necessary for you to be coherent and remain so."
He nodded slowly. Do best I can." He lifted his glass to sip.
"No!" The Duchess rose. She removed the tumbler from her husband's fingers and walked to the bathroom. He heard the contents of the glass being poured into the sink. Returning, she announced, "There will be no more. You understand? No more whatever."
He seemed about to protest, then acknowledged, "Suppose ... only way."
"If you'd like me to take away the bottles, pour out this one ..."
He shook his head. "I'll manage." Perceptibly, with an effort of will, he brought his thoughts to focus. With the same chameleon quality he had exhibited the day before, there seemed more strength in his features than a moment earlier. His voice was steady as he observed, "It's very good news."
"Yes," the Duchess said. "It can mean a new beginning.
He took a half step toward her, then changed his mind. Whatever the new beginning, he was well aware it would not include that.
His wife was already reasoning aloud. "It will be necessary to revise our plans about Chicago. From now on your movements will be the subject of close attention. If we go there together it will be reported prominently in the Chicago press. It could arouse curiosity when the car is taken for repair."
"One of us must go."
The Duchess said decisively, "I shall go alone. I can change my appearance a little, wear glasses. If I'm careful I can escape attention." Her eyes went to a small attache case beside the secretaire.
"I will take the remainder of the money and do whatever else is needed."
"You're assuming . . . that man will get to Chicago safely. He hasn't yet."
Her eyes widened as if remembering a forgotten nightmare. She whispered,
"Oh God! Now, above all else . . . he must! He must!"
12
Shortly after lunch, Peter McDermott managed to slip away to his apartment where he changed, from the formal business suit he wore most of the time in the hotel, to linen slacks and a lightweight jacket. He returned briefly to his office to sign letters which, on the way out, he deposited on Flora's desk.
"I'll be back late this afternoon," he told her. Then, as an afterthought: "Did you discover anything about Ogilvie?"
His secretary shook her head. "Not really. You asked me to find out if Mr. Ogilvie told anyone where he was going. Well, he didn't."
Peter grunted. "I didn't really expect he would."
"There's just one thing." Flora hesitated. "It's probably not important, but it seemed a little strange."
"'What?"
"The car Mr. Ogilvie used - you said it was a Jaguar?"
"Yes."
"It belongs to the Duke and Duchess of Croydon."
"Are you sure someone hasn't made a mistake?"
"I wondered about that," Flora said, "so I asked the garage to double check. They told me to talk to a man named Kulgmer who's the garage night checker."
"Yes, I know him."
"He was on duty last night and I phoned him at home. He says Mr. Ogilvie had written authority from the Duchess of Croydon to take the car."
Peter shrugged. "Then I guess there's nothing wrong." It was strange, though, to think of Ogilvie using the Croydons' car, even stranger that there should be any kind of rapport between the Duke and Duchess and the uncouth house officer. Obviously, Flora had been considering the same thing.
He inquired, "Has the car come back?"
Flora shook her head negatively. "I wondered if I should check with the Duchess of Croydon. Then I thought I'd ask you first."
"I'm glad you did." He supposed it would be simple enough to ask the Croydons if they knew Ogilvie's destination. Since Ogilvie had their car, it seemed probable they would. All the same, he hesitated. After his own skirmish with the Duchess on Monday night, Peter was reluctant to risk another misunderstanding, especially since any kind of inquiry might be resented as a personal intrusion. There was also the embarrassing admission to be made that the hotel had no knowledge of the whereabouts of its chief house officer.
He told Flora, "Let's leave it for the time being."
There was another piece of unfinished business, Peter remembered - Herbie Chandler. This morning he had intended to inform Warren Trent of the statements made yesterday by Dixon, Dumaire, and the others, implicating the bell captain in events leading up to Monday night's attempted rape.
However, the hotel owner's obvious preoccupation made him decide against it. Now Peter supposed he had better see Chandler himself.
"Find out if Herbie Chandler's on duty this evening," he instructed Flora. "If he is, tell him I'd like to see him here at six o'clock. If not, tomorrow morning."
Leaving the executive suite, Peter descended to the lobby. A few minutes later, from the comparative gloom of the hotel, he stepped out into the brilliant, early afternoon sunlight of St. Charles Street.
"Peter! I'm here."
Turning his head, he saw Marsha waving from the driver's seat of a white convertible, the car wedged into a line of waiting cabs. An alert hotel doorman briskly preceded Peter and opened the car door. As Peter slid into the seat beside Marsha, he saw a trio of cab drivers grin, and one gave a long wolf whistle.
"Hi!" Marsha said. "If you hadn't come I was going to have to pick up a fare." In a light summer dress, she appeared as delectable as ever, but for all the lighthearted greeting he sensed a shyness, perhaps because of what had passed between them the night before. Impulsively, he took her hand and squeezed it.
"I like that," she assured him, "even though I promised my father I'd use both hands to drive." With help from the taxi drivers, who moved forward and back to create a space, she eased the convertible out into traffic.
It seemed, Peter reflected as they waited for a green light at Canal Street, that he was constantly being driven about New Orleans by attractive women. Was it only three days ago that he had ridden with Christine in the Volkswagen to her apartment? That was the same night he had met Marsha for the first time. It seemed longer than three days, perhaps because a proposal of marriage by Marsha had occurred in the meantime. In the reality of daylight he wondered if she had had more rational second thoughts, though either way, he decided, he would say nothing unless she revived the subject herself.