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without delay.
Keycase was pleased at the news, as he had planned to make reservations at all of New Orleans' major hotels, employing a different name for each. At the St. Gregory he had reserved as “Byron Meader,” a name of a major sweepstake winner. This seemed like a good omen, and omens impressed Keycase very much indeed.
They had seemed to work out well. His night entry into various Detroit hotel rooms had gone smoothly and rewardingly, largely – he decided afterward – because all room numbers except the last contained the numeral two, his lucky number. It was this final room, without the digit, whose occupant awakened and screamed just as he was packing her mink coat into a suitcase, having already put her cash and jewelry in one of his topcoat pockets.
It was bad luck that a house dick had been within hearing of the screams. But now, having served his time[87] and having enjoyed a successful ten-day foray in Kansas City, he was anticipating a profitable fortnight or so in New Orleans.
It had started well.
He arrived at the Airport, driving from the cheap motel where he had stayed the night before. It was a fine, modern terminal building, Keycase thought, with lots of glass and chrome as well as many trash cans, the latter important to his present purpose.
Strolling through the airport terminal, a trim, well-dressed figure, carrying a folded newspaper beneath his arm, Keycase stayed carefully alert. He gave the appearance[88] of a well-to– do businessman, relaxed and confident. Only his eyes moved ceaselessly, following the movements of the travelers, pouring into the terminal from limousines and taxis which had delivered them from downtown hotels. Twice he saw the beginning of the thing he was looking for. Two men, reaching into pockets for tickets or change, found a room key which they had carried away by mistake. The first took the trouble to locate a postal box and mail the key, as suggested on its plastic tag. The other handed his to an airline clerk who put it in a cash drawer, probably for return to the hotel.
Both incidents were disappointing, but Keycase was a patient man. Soon, he knew, what he was waiting for would happen.
Ten minutes later he was rewarded.
A balding man, carrying a topcoat, stopped to choose a magazine on his way to the departure hall. At the newsstand cash desk he discovered a key which passing a trash can he threw in.
For Keycase the rest was routine. Strolling past the trash can, he tossed in his own folded newspaper, then, as if abruptly changing his mind, turned back and recovered it. At the same time he looked down, found the key and took it quietly. A few minutes later in the privacy of the men's toilet he read that it was for room 641 of the St. Gregory Hotel.
Half an hour later, a similar incident ended with the same kind of success. The second key was also for the St. Gregory – a convenience which prompted Keycase to telephone at once, confirming his own reservation there.
From the terminal building Keycase returned to the parking lot and the five-year-old Ford sedan. It was an ideal car for Keycase, neither old nor new enough to be noticed or remembered. The only feature which bothered him a little were the Michigan license plates – an attractive green on white. He had considered using fake Louisiana plates, but this seemed to be a greater risk.
He drove the fourteen miles to town, carefully observing speed limits, and headed for the St. Gregory which he had located the day before. He parked a few blocks from the hotel, and removed two suitcases. The rest of his baggage had been left in the motel room. It was expensive to maintain an extra room. But it was prudent. The motel would serve as a hiding place for whatever he might acquire and, if disaster struck, could be left at once. He had been careful to leave nothing there which was personally identifiable.
He entered the St. Gregory with a confident air, giving 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 features of his face, 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 turned out to be ideal. It was spacious and comfortable and the service stairway 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.
The morning newspapers lay around the Duchess of Croydon's bed. There was little in the news that the Duchess had not read thoroughly and now she lay back, propped against pillows, her mind working busily.
On a bedside table a room-service tray had been used and pushed aside. Even in moments of crisis the Duchess was accustomed to breakfasting well.
The Duke, who had eaten alone in the living-room, had returned to the bedroom a few moments earlier. He too had read the newspaper as soon as it arrived. Now, he was pacing restlessly. Occasionally he passed a hand through his disordered hair.
“For goodness sake, keep still!” The tenseness was in his wife's voice. “I can't possibly think when you're parading like a stallion at Ascot[89].”
He turned, his face lined and despairing in the bright morning light. “What bloody good will thinking do? Nothing's going to change.”
“Thinking always helps. That's why some people make a success of things and others don't.”
His hand went through his hair once more. “Nothing looks any better than it did last night.”
“At least it isn't any worse,” the Duchess said practically, “and that's something to be thankful for. We're still here – intact.”
He shook his head wearily. He had had little sleep during the night. “How does it help?”
“As I see it, it's a question of time. Time is on our side. The longer we wait and nothing happens…” She stopped, then went on slowly, thinking aloud, “What we need is to have some attention focused on you.”
The Duke resumed his pacing. “Only thing likely to do that is an announcement confirming my appointment to Washington.”
“Exactly.”
“You can't hurry it. If Hal feels he's being pushed, he'll blow the roof off Downing Street.”[90]
There was a trace of hysteria in the Duke of Croydon's voice. He lit a cigarette, his hand shaking.
“We shall not give up!” In contrast to her husband, the Duchess's tone was businesslike. “Even prime ministers respond to pressure if it's from the right quarter. Hal's no exception. I'm going to call London.”
“Why?”
“I shall speak to Geoffrey. I intend to ask him to do everything he can to speed up your appointment.”
The Duke shook his head doubtfully.
“Geoffrey's good at pressure when he wants to be. Besides, if we sit here and wait it may be worse still.” Matching action to her words, the Duchess picked up the telephone beside the bed and instructed the operator, “I wish to call London and speak to Lord Selwyn.”
The call came through in twenty minutes. When the Duchess of Croydon had explained its purpose, her brother, Lord Selwyn, was unenthusiastic. From across the bedroom the Duke could hear his brother-in-law's deep voice, “Simon's appointment to Washington is a long shot right now.[91] Some of those in Cabinet feel he's the wrong man for the time.”
“If things are left as they are, how long will a decision take?”
“Hard to say for sure, old thing. The way I hear, though, it could be weeks.”
“We simply cannot wait weeks,” the Duchess insisted. “You'll have to take my word, Geoffrey, it would be an awful mistake not to make an effort now.”
“Can't see it myself.” The voice from London was annoyed.
“What
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