Arthur Hailey - Hotel

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.

He seemed surprised. "Yesterday was your birthday?"

"I was nineteen."

"And you were alone?"

Now that she had revealed so much, there was no point in holding back.

Marsha described the telephone call from Rome and her disappointment at her father's failure to return.

"I'm sorry," he said when she had finished. "It makes it easier to understand a part of what happened."

"It will never happen again. Never."

"I'm sure of that." He became more businesslike. "What I want to do now is make use of what you've told me."

She said doubtfully, "In what way?"

"I'll call the four people - Dixon, Dumaire and the other two - into the hotel for a talk."

"They may not come."

"They'll come." Peter had already decided how to make sure they would.

Still uncertain, Marsha said, "That way, wouldn't a lot of people find out?"

"I promise that when we're finished there'll be even less likelihood of anyone talking."

"All right," Marsha agreed. "And thank you for all you've done." She had a sense of relief which left her curiously lightheaded.

It had been easier than he expected, Peter thought. And now he had the information, he was impatient to use it. Perhaps, though, he should stay a few minutes more, if only to put the girl at ease. He told her,

"There's something I should explain, Miss Preyscott."

"Marsha."

"All right, I'm Peter." He supposed the informality was all right, though hotel executives were trained to avoid it, except with guests they knew very well.

"A lot of things go on in hotels, Marsha, that we close our eyes to. But when something like this happens we can be extremely tough. That includes anyone on our staff, if we find out they were implicated."

It was one area, Peter knew - involving the hotel's reputation - where Warren Trent would feel as strongly as himself. And any action Peter took - providing he could prove his facts - would be backed solidly by the hotel proprietor.

The conversation, Peter felt, had gone as far as it need. He rose from his chair and walked to the window. From this side of the hotel he could see the busy mid-morning activity of Canal Street. Its six traffic lanes were packed with vehicles, fast and slow moving, the wide sidewalks thronged by shoppers. Knots of transit riders waited on the palm-fronded center boulevard where air-conditioned buses glided, their aluminum panels shining in the sunlight. The N.A.A.C.P. was picketing some business again, he noticed. THIS STORE DISCRIMINATES. DO NOT PATRONIZE, one placard advised, and there were others, their bearers pacing stolidly as the tide of pedestrians broke around them.

"You're new to New Orleans, aren't you?" Marsha said.

She had joined him at the window. He was conscious of a sweet and gentle fragrance.

"Fairly new. In time I hope to know it better."

She said with sudden enthusiasm, "I know lots about local history. Would you let me teach you?"

"Well ... I bought some books. It's just I haven't had time."

"You can read the books after. It's much better to see things first, or be told about them. Besides, I'd like to do something to show how grateful...

"There isn't any need for that."

"Well then, I'd like to anyway. Please!" She put a hand on his arm.

Wondering if he was being wise, he said, "It's an interesting offer."

"Good! That's settled. I'm having a dinner party at home tomorrow night. It'll be an old-fashioned New Orleans evening. Afterward we can talk about history."

He protested, "Whoa! . . ."

"You mean you've something already arranged?"

"Well, not exactly."

Marsha said firmly, "Then that's settled too."

The past, the importance of avoiding involvement with a young girl who was also a hotel guest, made Peter hesitate. Then he decided: it would be churlish to refuse. And there was nothing indiscreet about accepting an invitation to dinner. There would be others present, after all. "If I come," he said, "I want you to do one thing for me now."

:'What?"

"Go home, Marsha. Leave the hotel and go home."

Their eyes met directly. Once more he was aware of her youthfulness and fragrance.

"All right," she said. "If you want me to, I will."

Peter McDermott was engrossed in his own thoughts as he re-entered his office on the main mezzanine a few minutes later. It troubled him that someone as young as Marsha Preyscott, and presumably born with a gold-plated list of advantages, should be so apparently neglected. Even with her father out of the country and her mother decamped - he had heard of the former Mrs. Preyscott's multiple marriages - he found it incredible that safeguards for a young girl's welfare would not be set up. If I were her father, he thought ...

or brother . . .

He was interrupted by Flora Yates, his homely frecklefaced secretary.

Flora's stubby fingers, which could dance over a typewriter keyboard faster than any others he had ever seen, were clutching a sheaf of telephone messages. Pointing to them, he asked, "Anything urgent?"

"A few things. They'll keep until this afternoon."