Red Gardenias (11 page)

"That's clever." Donovan's long face was thoughtful. "I might have thought of that myself." He suddenly looked at Crane. "You didn't think I did it, did you?"

"I thought maybe you were angry because Richard pursued Delia while you were in... away that year."

"In jail," Donovan said. "A year in jail." The cigar had crumpled in his hand. He looked with surprise at the mass of tobacco, then dropped it on the floor. "I didn't know about the house in Brookfield," he said. "But I wouldn't have killed Richard that way."

"I wasn't sure."

"You are now, though."

"Oh yes," Crane said. "But having Lefty shoot at me, and then learning he was Delia's bodyguard, I naturally..."

"Lefty won't shoot at you again," Donovan said.

"That's fine."

Donovan's milky eyes studied Crane. "It's a smart idea, to use carbon-monoxide gas. It would pass as an accident in most cases, wouldn't it?"

"It certainly did in Richard's case."

"In fact, you're the only one in Marchton who realizes his death was not accidental."

"Yes."

"That's very fortunate... for me."

"How do you mean?"

"You aren't going to talk about it."

"Why not?"

Donovan's pale eyes were on Crane's face. "In ten minutes you won't be talking to anybody." His face was grim.

"You're joking," Crane said.

"You think so?"

There was a noise in the hall. The door opened and Frenchy Duval came in the room. He had his hands in the air. Back of him came Williams, holding a revolver against Duval's neck. Pete and the smooth-faced young man followed with drawn automatics, and behind them walked Ann Fortune.

"Bill!" she said when she saw Crane. "Are you all right?"

"Sure."

Williams spoke to the smooth-faced man. "You shoot, punk, and this gun'll go off, too." He said to Donovan, "You wouldn't want the Frog's brains all over your floor, would you?"

The smooth-faced young man's face was undecided.

"What do you say, Slats?"

Donovan said, "Put the rods away." His face was impassive.

The two men put their pistols in their pockets, but Williams held his to Frenchy's neck. Ann Fortune went over to Crane.

"Are you really all right?"

"I'm fine."

Frenchy Duval's sallow face was the color of a turnip. He said, "I couldn't help it, Slats. This man, he caught me by the bar and..."

"Forget it," Donovan said. "We're all friends."

"Yeah?" said Williams.

Crane was glad to see Ann, mostly to be rescued, but also because it showed she wasn't too angry with him. "This is my little wife," he told Donovan.

Donovan said, "Pleased to meet you."

"I think it would be nice to go home," Ann said.

Crane walked with her to the door. "Good night," he said.

Frenchy Duval was frightened again. "Slats, don't let them kill me!" Under the pressure of Williams' revolver he walked stiff-legged to the door. "Slats!"

The smooth-faced young man had his pistol out again. "I can fog him easy, Slats," he said.

"Let them go," Donovan said.

Crane thought it was wonderful to be safe again.

In the hall he tried to take Ann's hand, but she wouldn't let him.

"Thanks for coming back," he said. "It was Williams," she said. "I really didn't want to."

They were going down the stairs, and Crane could see the red light in the hall below. "Well, thank you, anyway."

Outside, Frenchy Duval pleaded, "Please don't kill me.

Williams said, "All right, Frog. Run."

Frenchy Duval ran away. They got in the limousine. "Where to?" asked Williams.

"Where's Richard's car?" Crane asked..

"In the Union Garage. They're holding it for the estate."

"Let's go there."

The sun came up on the way to Marchton. There were no cars on the road. When they halted for a stop sign they could hear a rooster crowing. A cold wind came from the east.

"What did Donovan want?" Ann asked.

"He was angry because I talked to Delia."

"What was he going to do about it?" Williams asked.

"I think he was going to kill me."

"Really?" Ann asked.

"I got that impression," Crane said. "I really did."

It was broad daylight when they reached the garage, persuaded the sleepy watchman to let them see the sedan. It was a big one, painted a cream yellow. "Plannin' to buy it?" the watchman asked.

"Yeah," Crane said. "Mind if we look it over?"

"Go right ahead." The watchman walked away. Crane examined the heater, found it was in perfect condition. Williams, peering over his shoulder, said, "No leak there."

"There has to be something," Crane said. "Or else I lied to Slats Donovan."

"Do you care?" Ann asked.

"I always hate to lie," Crane lied.

He knelt down by the rear bumper, ran his finger around the edge of the exhaust pipe. It was sticky. He held his finger to his nose, then stretched out his arm toward Ann. "Smell," he said.

"Rubber!"

"Sure." He led the way back to their car. "That proves Richard was murdered. The exhaust pipe got hot while the hose was on it, melted some of the rubber.

Now if we can find something wrong with John's car we can prove Carmel's suicide note was a fake."

Williams started the limousine. "We can bust into Carmel's garage. That's where John's car is."

By walking along the hedge which divided Richard's property from Carmel's, they approached the garage from the rear. Williams had no trouble finding a master key to fit the lock on a side door. There was a green convertible, a space for a car and a big sedan inside the garage.

"The big one's John's," Williams whispered. Crane knelt and ran his fingers over the exhaust pipe. He smelled his finger, nodded his head, stood up. "Rubber?" Ann asked.

Crane nodded solemnly and Williams whispered, "Then it's a double murder!"

It was probably the worst hang-over William Crane had ever had. It took him forty minutes to bathe and put on a gray chalk-striped suit. He tottered downstairs to the living room and found Williams and Ann talking in front of a bright wood fire. There was a tomato-juice pickup on the table.

"It's about time you got up," Ann said. "It's ten o'clock."

"Morning or evening?"

"Evening. You've been asleep fifteen hours."

Williams grinned at him. "You're sure you're alive?" he asked.

"You can tell I'm not a corpse," Crane said. "A corpse is livelier."

He carried the pickup to the blue couch and lay down with his head toward the flames so the light wouldn't get in his eyes. He pushed a satin pillow under his head.

Williams said, "Ann was saying that night-club gal.

Dolly, mistook Peter for John March."

"I guess they were a lot alike," Crane said. "Brothers often are."

"I wonder if their voices were alike," Williams said.

"I don't know." Crane got the pickup to his mouth, but the glass shook so it made a tinkling noise against his teeth. "Is it important?" Some of the red liquid ran down his chin.

"Maybe," Williams said mysteriously. "Can you get Peter over here sometime tonight? I'd like to have that Jameson take a look at him."

Ann asked, "The Brookfield rental man?"

Williams nodded, and Crane said, "I'll get hold of Peter. He was coming over anyway." The edge of the glass banged so hard against his teeth he became alarmed. He didn't want to swallow a lot of broken glass.

"Do you want a straw?" Ann asked.

He shook his head. He put the glass down and took off his necktie.

"How do you figure John was killed?" Williams asked.

Crane fastened the tie around his neck in the manner of a sling. "I think somebody held him while he got the gas." He put his right arm through the sling and grasped the pickup.

The other two were torn between interest in what he was saying and what he was doing. "But how could anybody do that?" Ann asked.

Crane drew the tie away from his neck with his left hand until it pulled against his right wrist. "I figure the guy threw some kind of a hood over John's head so he couldn't yell, then wrapped him up in canvas or a fish net or something." He raised the glass to his lips, all the time keeping the tie taut with his left hand.

"What in the world are you doing?" Ann asked.

Williams was nodding. "Then the guy hosed the gas from the exhaust pipe to the hood."

Ann objected, " But why didn't he just hit John over the head and administer the gas while he was unconscious?"

Crane tilted his wrist and drank. The improvised sling kept his hand steady. "The murderer didn't want any bumps on John's head." He finished the pickup, let go the sling and put the glass down.

Williams said, "What's the difference? He might have gotten a bump falling down."

"No," said Crane. "Not if there was blood. A chemist could analyze the blood, find if the wound was made before or after gas had been breathed into the system."

"I see," Ann said. "The murderer wouldn't dare take the chance of an autopsy being made."

"Of course, this is just a theory, darling."

"Don't 'darling' me," Ann said. "Not in private."

Williams laughed and went out in the pantry for some scotch.

"You're still angry?" Crane asked.

Her voice was cold. "No."

"I'm glad. Because that dress is swell. It looks as though you were poured into it. You look... well, sinuous. And the color... just like the peppermints I used to eat when I was a kid."

She had to smile. "It's Schiaparelli's. She calls the color shocking pink."

"Darling, it doesn't shock me a bit."

Her voice didn't get any friendlier. "Bill, why aren't you doing something about these people?"

"I'm not well. I have a hang-over."

"That's all you do... drink and have hang-overs," she said. "I think it's terrible, with two Marchs dead and maybe more to come."

"Darling, there're always dead people in a murder case."

" But these people... they're nice. Not like gangsters.

And it's so cold blooded! It scares me.... That strange gas strangling person after person while you..." She halted abruptly. "All right, smile."

"I'm not smiling."

Her green eyes were large and serious. "The murderer scares me, too. I dreamed last night I saw a horrible, pale man fastening a hose to the exhaust pipe of someone's sedan."

"Ann, you've seen too many movies."

"Just the same I'm scared. I feel danger all around us. And I can't understand why the Marchs aren't frightened, too."

"They do seem pretty calm.... I suppose because they think the deaths were accidents."

"You don't think they were accidents, but you're calm." Her chin was firm, her eyes narrow. "I think you're a slacker."

"But, my God, lady!" Crane said. "I have been working. You don't have to get yourself into a lather to do a little thinking."

"I suppose you have to get drunk to think, though?" She was really angry. "Or chase after women?"

Crane said mournfully, "I get my knuckles busted, nearly killed..."

Beulah came into the room. "They's waiting for you, Miss Ann."

Ann seized her black caracul coat, said angrily, "I wish my uncle had sent somebody beside a drunkard with me." She started toward the door. "Where are you going?"

"To do some of the work you're supposed to do."

He watched her leave the room. Presently he heard the noise of a car leaving the front of the house. After a few more minutes Williams, wearing his black chauffeur's uniform, came into the living room with a bottle of whisky in his hand.

"Have a drink?" he asked.

Crane shook his head. "Where'd Ann go?"

Williams didn't know. He poured himself an entire glassful of scotch. "She got you upset?"

"No."

"Like hell!" Williams tossed off half the glass. "Waaah! Not bad stuff." He sat on a chair opposite Crane, put his feet on the polished table. "Well, I think she likes you all right."

"Sure," said Crane bitterly.

"After all, you did do a bit of chasing last night." Williams lit a cigarette, tossed the match under Crane's couch. "And she came back with me to get you. Not many dames would've done that."

"The hell with it," said Crane.

Discussing the case, they agreed Donovan had the best motive. He might have killed Richard because of his affair with Delia, and John March because he spoiled his first night-club venture. They both thought, though, he would have been far more likely, if he was murdering somebody, to have killed Simeon March, since the old man had frustrated his one attempt to enter legitimate business. Williams didn't think he would use gas, anyway.

"It's pretty subtle for a hoodlum," Crane agreed. "And he seemed damn interested in how the gas worked, as though it had never occurred to him before."

The telephone rang and Crane answered it. A husky voice said, "You like your Wife?"

"My who?"

"Your wife, dope."

"Oh yes, my wife."

"If you want her around you'll scram back to New York."

Crane felt his skin tingle. "Why?"

"Never mind why, dope." The man sounded as though he was talking with a handkerchief in his mouth. "If you think I'm jokin' take a gander at your paper."

Williams hurried out and got a newspaper. He came back very excited, tossed the paper on Crane's chest. The banner line read:

Gambler Taken For Ride

Below this was a picture of a thin young man with a felt hat pulled down over his eyes. The caption read:

"Body found in Willow Creek identified as that of Charles ('Lefty') Dolan, local gambler."

"The guy at the bottom of the stairs," Williams said. "The guy with the hollow voice."

"Let's go," Crane said.

"Where?"

"To see if Slats bumped off Delia, too."

Ann smiled at Peter March across the champagne glasses, thinking he was probably the most presentable twenty million dollars she had ever seen. They were at the Crimson Cat again because of Alice March who simply had to see Delia Young.

"She's your husband's discovery, isn't she?" she'd asked Ann with innocently widened eyes. "I must see her."