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expertly through the narrow streets of the French Quarter. Then she said, “There's something I think you should know. Curtis O'Keefe is arriving in the morning.” It was the kind of news that he had feared, yet half-expected. Curtis O'Keefe was Head of the worldwide O'Keefe chain, he bought hotels as other men chose ties and handkerchiefs. Obviously, the appearance of Curtis O'Keefe in the St. Gregory meant his interest in acquiring the hotel for the constantly expanding O'Keefe chain. Peter asked, “Is it a buying trip?”

      “It could be.” Christine kept her eyes on the dimly lighted street ahead. “W.T. doesn't want it that way. But it may turn out there isn't any choice.” She was about to add that the last piece of information was confidential, but checked herself. And as for the presence of Curtis O'Keefe, that news would telegraph itself around the St. Gregory tomorrow morning within minutes of the great man's arrival.

      “I suppose it had to come. All the same, I think it's a pity.”

      Christine reminded him, “It hasn't happened yet. I said W.T. doesn't want to sell.”

      Peter nodded without speaking.

      Christine said, “There are problems about refinancing. W.T. has been trying to locate new capital. He still hopes he may.”

      “And if he doesn't?”

      “Then I expect we shall be seeing a lot more of Mr. Curtis O'Keefe.”

      And a whole lot less of Peter McDermott, Peter thought. It seemed likely that he might soon have to look for other employment. He decided to worry when it happened.

      “The O'Keefe – St. Gregory,” Peter said. “When shall we know for sure?”

      “One way or the other by the end of this week.”[41]

      “That soon!”

      There were some reasons, Christine knew, why it had to be that soon. For the moment she kept them to herself. Peter said emphatically, “The old man won't find new financing.”

      “What makes you so sure?”

      “Because people with money want a sound investment[42]. That means good management, and the St. Gregory hasn't got it. It could have, but it hasn't.”

      They were headed north when abruptly a flashing white light loomed directly ahead. Christine braked and, as the car stopped, a uniformed traffic officer walked forward. Directing his flashlight onto the Volkswagen, he circled the car, inspecting it. While he did, they could see that the section of road immediately ahead was blocked off by a rope barrier. Beyond the barrier other uniformed men, and some in plain clothes[43], were examining the road surface with the aid of powerful lights.

      Christine lowered her window as the officer came to her side of the car. Apparently satisfied by his inspection, he told them, “You'll have to detour, folks. Drive slowly through the other lane, and the officer at the far end will wave you back into this one.”

      “What is it?” Peter said. “What's happened?”

      “Hit and run[44]. Happened earlier tonight.”

      Christine asked, “Was anyone killed?”

      The policeman nodded. “Little girl of seven.” Seeing their shocked expressions, he told them, “Walking with her mother. The mother's in the hospital. Kid was killed outright. Whoever was in the car must have known. They drove right on.” He added, “Bastards!”

      “Will you find out who it is?”

      “We'll find out.” The officer nodded grimly, indicating the activity behind the barrier. “The boys usually do. There's glass on the road, and the car that did it must be marked.” More headlights were approaching from behind and he motioned them on.

      They were silent as Christine drove slowly through the detour and, at the end of it, was waved back into the regular lane.

      Somewhere in Peter's mind was a half-thought he could not define. He supposed the incident itself was bothering him, as sudden tragedy always did, but it was something different. Then, with surprise, he heard Christine say, “We're almost home.”

      A moment later the little car turned right, then left, and stopped in the parking area of a modern, two-story apartment building.

      “If all else fails,” Peter called out cheerfully, “I can go back to bartending.” He was mixing drinks in Christine's living-room.

      “Were you ever one?”[45]

      “For a while.” He measured three ounces of rye whiskey, dividing it two ways, then reached for some bitters. “Sometime I'll tell you about it.”

      Straightening up, he cast a glance around the living-room, with its comfortable mixture of furnishings and color. The walls held some prints and a modern impressionist oil. The effect was of warmth and cheerfulness, much like Christine herself, he thought. On the sideboard there was an unmistakably Victorian mantel clock, ticking softly. Peter looked at it curiously.

      When he took the drinks to the kitchen, Christine was emptying beaten eggs from a mixing dish into a softly sizzling pan.

      “Three minutes more,” she said, “that's all.”

      He gave her the drink and they clinked glasses.

      “Keep your mind on my omelet,” Christine said. “It's ready now.”

      It proved to be everything she had promised – light, fluffy, and seasoned with herbs. “The way omelets should be,” he assured her, “but seldom are.”

      “I can boil eggs too.”

      He waved a hand airily. “Some other breakfast.”

      Afterward they returned to the living-room and Peter mixed a second drink. It was almost two a.m.

      Sitting beside her on the sofa he pointed to the odd-appearing clock. “I get the feeling that thing is looking at me – announcing the time in a disapproving tone.”

      “Perhaps it is,” Christine answered. “It was my father's. It used to be in his office where patients could see it. It's the only thing I saved.”

      There was a silence between them. Once before Christine had told him about the airplane accident in Wisconsin. Now he said gently, “After it happened, you must have felt desperately alone.”

      She said simply, “I wanted to die. Though you get over that, of course – after a while.”

      “How long?”

      She gave a short, swift smile. “The human spirit mends quickly.[46] That part – wanting to die, I mean – took just a week or two.”

      “And after?”

      “When I came to New Orleans,” Christine said, “I tried to concentrate on not thinking. It got harder, and I had less success as the days went by. I knew I had to do something but I wasn't sure what – or where.”

      She stopped and Peter said, “Go on.”

      “For a while I considered going back to university, then decided not. Getting an arts degree just for the sake of it[47] didn't seem important and besides, suddenly it seemed as if I'd grown away from it all.”

      “I can understand that.”

      Christine sipped her drink. “Anyway,” Christine went on, “one day I was walking and saw a sign which said 'Secretarial School'. I thought – that's it! I'll learn what I need to, then get a job involving endless hours of work. In the end that's exactly what happened.”

      “How did the St. Gregory fit in?”

      “I was staying there. I had since I came from Wisconsin.[48] Then one morning the Times-PicayuneСкачать книгу