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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.

“Well, you’ve missed a couple of emergencies,” Peter said. Perhaps after all, he reflected, it was good that Ogilvie had not been available.

The night clerk whom he had telephoned earlier to ask for a room was at the desk. “Thank you for helping me out with that problem on the fourteenth. We have Mr. Wells in 1410. Dr. Aarons is arranging nursing care, and the chief has brought up oxygen. But I am concerned why Mr. Wells was moved into that other room earlier.”

“I’ll find that out.”

“We’ve had some trouble on the eleventh, too. Do you mind telling me whose name 1126-7 is in? [5] ”

The room clerk flipped through his records and produced a card. “Mr. Stanley Dixon. He’s the car dealer’s son. Mr. Dixon senior is often in the hotel.”

“Thank you. Have his bill sent to me tomorrow, and I’ll write a letter. There’ll be a claim for damages.”

“Very well, Mr. McDermott. And as I understand it, the suite is available now.”

“Yes.” With a friendly “good night” to the room clerk he crossed the lobby to an unoccupied desk, used in daytime by one of the assistant managers. He found Mark Preyscott at a Garden District address in a phone book.

The ringing tone continued for some time before a woman’s voice answered sleepily. Identifying himself, he announced, “I have a message for Anna from Miss Preyscott.”

“This is Anna. Is Miss Marsha all right?”

“She’s all right, but she asked me to tell you that she will stay the night at the hotel.”

The housekeeper’s voice said, “Who did you say that was again?”

“Look,” he said, “if you want to check, why don’t you call back? It’s the St. Gregory, and ask for the assistant manager’s desk in the lobby.”

In less than a minute they were reconnected. “It’s all right,” she said, “now I know who it is for sure. We worry about Miss Marsha.”

He decided he would have a talk with Marsha Preyscott tomorrow to find out what happened before the attempted rape occurred.

This time he rode up one floor only, to the main mezzanine.

Christine was waiting in his office.

“Don’t marry a hotel man,” he told her. “There’s never an end to the work.”

“I hadn’t told you, but I’ve a crush on that new sous-chef. The one who looks like Rock Hudson. Do we have more troubles?”

“Other people’s, mostly. I’ll tell you as we go.”

“Where to?”

“Anywhere away from the hotel. We’ve both had enough for one day.”

Christine considered. “We could go to the Quarter. There are plenty of places open. Or if you want to come to my place, I prepare perfect omelets.”

They went to the door where Peter switched off the office lights. “An omelet,” he declared, “is what I really wanted and didn’t know it.”

A sleepy parking attendant brought down Christine’s Volkswagen and they climbed in. She reminded him, “You were going to tell me what happened.”

He frowned, bringing his thoughts back to the hotel, then in short sentences told her what he knew about the attempted rape of Marsha Preyscott. Christine listened in silence, heading the little car northeast as Peter talked, ending with the suspicion that Herbie Chandler, the bell captain, had ignored the incident intentionally. “He always knows more than he says.”