Отель / Hotel
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“Somebody grab her feet.” The remaining boy took hold. With a sense of unreality Marsha felt herself being carried through the bedroom doorway.
“Get her things off,” someone said.
There were twin beds in the room. Resisting wildly, Marsha was forced backward onto the nearest. A moment later she lay across it, her head pressed back cruelly. All she could see was the ceiling above.
Dixon was half sitting on the bed, near her head. She felt hands holding her. She attempted to kick but her legs were pinned down. Someone tore her dress.
“I’m first,” Stanley Dixon said. “Somebody take over here.”
Her legs were still held firmly, but Dixon’s hand on her face was moving, another taking its place. It was an opportunity. As the new hand came over, Marsha bit fiercely. She felt her teeth go into flesh, meeting bone.
Inflating her lungs, Marsha screamed. “Help! Please help me!”
Only the last word was cut off by Stanley Dixon’s hand. She heard him snarl, “You fool! You stupid goon!”
“She bit me!”
There was a knock on the outside door.
“Christ! Somebody did hear.”
“What do we do?”
The knocking was repeated.
“I’ll go,” said Dixon. He murmured to one of the others, “Hold her down and this time don’t make any mistake.”
The lock clicked.
“Excuse me, sir. I’m an employee of the hotel. I happened to be passing and heard someone cry out.”
“Well, thanks. But it was only my wife having a nightmare.”
Twisting her body sideways, Marsha freed her mouth. “Help!” she called before she could be stopped.
She heard the new voice say, “I’d like to come in, please.”
“This is a private room. I told you my wife is having a nightmare.”
“I’m sorry, sir; I don’t believe you.”
The hands upon Marsha removed themselves. A young Negro was entering. In his early twenties, he had an intelligent face and was neatly dressed. “Let the young lady go.”
“Take a look, fellas,” Dixon said. “Take a look at who’s giving orders. You asked for it, nigger boy.” His right fist blow would have felled the young Negro, but in a single movement the other moved sideways. In the same instant the Negro’s own left fist landed with a crack at the side of his attacker’s face.
A hand on his cheek, Dixon said, “Let’s get him!”
Assaulted by three, the Negro went down. Marsha heard the thud of blows and also a growing hum of voices in the corridor. The others heard the voices as well and hurried out of the room hastily.
The young Negro was rising from the floor, his face bloody.
Outside, a new, authoritative voice asked. “Where is the disturbance, please?”
“In there.”
The door opened wide and then closed from the inside.
Peter McDermott asked, “What happened?”
Marsha’s body was shivering with sobs. She attempted to stand, but fell back weakly: “Tried… rape…”
McDermott’s looked at the young Negro.
“No! No!” called Marsha. “It wasn’t him! He came to help!”
The young Negro put the handkerchief away from his face, “Why don’t you go ahead, Mr. McDermott, and hit me. You could always say afterward it was a mistake.”
McDermott had a profound dislike of Aloysius Royce who combined the role of personal valet to the hotel owner, Warren Trent, with the study of law at Loyola University, and whom Peter found too arrogant.
“There were four of them. Four nice white young gentlemen. I recognized two of them.”
Peter crossed to the telephone beside the nearer bed.
“Who you calling?”
“The city police.”
There was a smile on the young Negro’s face. “I wouldn’t do it. For one thing, I’d have to be a witness. And no court in Louisiana is gonna take a nigger boy’s word in a white rape case. Not when four young white gentlemen say the nigger boy is lying. Not even if Miss Preyscott supports the nigger boy, which I doubt her pappy’d let her.”
Peter put down the receiver as what Royce had said was true. “Did you say ‘Miss Preyscott’?”
Unhappily, Marsha nodded.
“Miss Preyscott,” Peter said, “did you know the people who were responsible for what happened?”
“Yes.”
“And did you come here with them to this suite?”
Again a whisper. “Yes.”
“It’s up to you, Miss Preyscott, whether you make an official complaint or not. Whatever you decide, the hotel will go along with. But I’m afraid Royce is right about publicity.” He added: “Of course, it’s really something for your father to decide.”
Marsha raised her head, looking directly at Peter for the first time. “My father’s in Rome. Don’t tell him, please, ever.”
Peter was startled to see how much of a child Marsha was, and how very beautiful. “Is there anything I can do now?”
“I don’t know.” She began to cry again.
Uncertainly, Peter took out a white linen handkerchief, which Marsha accepted.
“Thank you.”
“I think you should rest a while.”
“I don’t want to stay here. I couldn’t.”
He nodded understandingly. “In a little while we’ll get you home.”
“No! Not that! Please, isn’t there somewhere else… in the hotel?”
Peter hesitated. “There’s 555, I suppose.” He glanced at Royce.
Room 555 was a small one, which went with the assistant general manager’s job. Peter rarely used it, except to change. It was empty now.
“It’ll be all right,” Marsha said. “As long as someone phones my home. Ask for Anna the housekeeper.”
“I’ll go get the key,” Royce offered.
As the young Negro opened the outer door, voices filtered in, with a barrage of eager questions. McDermott heard Royce’s answers, quietly reassuring, then the voices fade.