Momentous issues, Peter McDermott reflected, could hinge upon the smallest quirk of fate.
He was alone in his office. Booker T. Graham, suitably thanked and glowing from his small success, had left a few minutes earlier.
The smallest quirk of fate.
If Booker T. had been a different kind of man, if he had gone home - as others would have done - at the appointed time, if he had been less diligent in searching, then the single sheet of paper, now staring up at Peter from his desk blotter, would have been destroyed.
The "ifs" were endless. Peter himself had been involved.
His visits to the incinerator, he gathered from their conversation, had had the effect of inspiring Booker T. Early this morning, it appeared, the man had even clocked out and continued to work without any expectation of overtime. When Peter summoned Flora and issued instructions that the overtime be paid, the look of devotion on Booker T. face had been embarrassing.
Whatever the cause, the result was here.
The note, face upward on the blotter, was dated two days earlier. Written by the Duchess of Croydon on Presidential Suite stationery, it authorized the hotel garage to release the Croydons' car to Ogilvie "at any time he may think suitable."
Peter had already checked the handwriting.
He had asked Flora for the Croydons' file. It was open on his desk. There was correspondence about reservations, with several notes in the Duchess's own hand. A handwriting expert would no doubt be precise. But even without such knowledge, the similarity was unmistakable.
The Duchess had sworn to police detectives that Ogilvie removed the car without authority. She denied Ogilvie's accusation that the Croydons paid him to drive the Jaguar away from New Orleans. She had suggested that Ogilvie, not the Croydons, had been driving last Monday night at the time of the hit-and-run. Questioned about the note, she challenged, "Show it to me!"
It could now be shown.
Peter McDermott's specific knowledge of the law was confined to matters affecting a hotel. Even so, it was obvious that the Duchess's note was incriminating in the extreme. Equally obvious was Peter's own duty - to inform Captain Yolles at once that the missing piece of evidence had been recovered.
With his hand on the telephone, Peter hesitated.
He felt no sympathy for the Croydons. From the accumulated evidence, it seemed clear that they had committed a dastardly crime, and afterward compounded it with cowardice and lies. In his mind, Peter could see the old St. Louis cemetery, the procession of mourners, the larger coffin, the tiny white one behind ...
The Croydons had even cheated their accomplice, Ogilvie. Despicable as the fat house detective was, his crime was less than theirs. Yet the Duke and Duchess were prepared to inflict on Ogilvie the larger blame and punishment.
None of this made Peter hesitate. The reason was simply a tradition - centuries old, the credo of an innkeeper of politeness to a guest.
Whatever else the Duke and Duchess of Croydon might be, they were guests of the hotel.
He would call the police. But he would call the Croydons first.
Lifting the telephone, Peter asked for the Presidential Suite.