Red Gardenias (17 page)

They stood up, flung their guns to their shoulders, but neither fired. Karl Johnson sat in the rear of the brown canoe, his paddle held by both hands. He looked startled, then amused.

"Trying to scare me?" he demanded.

"Scare you, hell!" Dr Woodrin said. "Somebody's been potting at us with a rifle."

Crane looked at the yellow-leaved ridge, but he could see nothing. "From up there," he said.

Karl was quickly convinced when they showed him the bullet hole in the blind. "Come on," he said. "I'll get my.30-.30."

They hurried back to the clubhouse. Peter was smoking in front of the fire. "You're slow," he said. "I've been through for ten minutes."

They told him about the shooting. They got rifles and went up on the ridge, and presently Karl discovered a pile of brown oak leaves. "Looks like somebody was lying here." He felt among the leaves. "Look."

It was a small brass shell. It was about the diameter of a.22 rifle shell, but it was longer.

"But that couldn't hurt anybody," Peter objected. "A.22 rifle!"

Crane took the shell in his hand. "Don't fool yourself," he said. "That's a.220 Swift. It's the highest velocity small rifle in the world. One of these'll drop a moose in his tracks."

They stared at the small shell with respect.

"You didn't see anybody?" Crane asked Karl.

"No sir. I waited at the house for Mr March. And when he didn't come I came back to the lake."

Crane felt sudden suspicion of the caretaker's long wait. "Why didn't you telephone Mr March's house to see if he'd started?"

"No telephone anywhere out this way."

Further examination of the ground produced three more shells and a black hairpin. "A woman?" Peter asked incredulously.

"It sure looks like it," Karl said.

Crane took the hairpin and put it in his pocket. They decided to see if they could find where the assailant's car had been parked. Karl said he knew where a car could come in from the gravel road.

Walking behind the others, Crane tried to think. He felt the attack had been directed at him. He thought it was a lucky thing the day had been windy; otherwise the sharpshooter, man or woman, would have nailed him. He wondered what Peter had done after he'd finished shooting. "Look!" Karl said.

A car had left tracks on a narrow road down the other slope of the ridge. It had been parked behind some bushes and it had gone out as it had come in, from the gravel road two hundred yards away. Its tires were not of any brand Crane knew. The tread looked like that of the vacuum-cup tires popular years ago. It left a series of small craters on the soft earth.

Nobody said much on the way back to the clubhouse. Crane wondered if somebody had followed him out from Marchton. He regretted having slugged the bartender at the Crimson Cat.

They were almost down the lake side of the ridge when a green convertible with the top down turned into the club drive from the gravel road. Dust rose in clouds from the wheels. The car was too far from the club for them to recognize the driver.

Judge Dornbush met them at the door. He was smiling. "How'd you make out? I got a cinnamon teal."

They started to tell him about the attack when the convertible came up, halted in a long skid. Carmel March, wearing the mink coat over a tan sweater and a brown tweed skirt, jumped out. "Peter," she called. "Peter!"

They watched her run toward them, having a hard time with her high-heeled shoes in the gravel. Her face was like soap.

"Dad!" she gasped. "... Overcome... gas..."

Peter asked, "Dead?"

"No," Carmel said. "Not yet... "

Carmel went back to town with Peter, and Dr Woodrin took Crane in her convertible. The doctor seemed very upset about Simeon March.

"He just couldn't have been gassed," he said.

"He was, though," Crane said.

"It isn't reasonable."

"There have been a lot of people gassed," Crane agreed.

"It couldn't have happened." Dr Woodrin swung the car around a curve in a long skid on the gravel. "It doesn't make sense."

He fell silent, his eyes on the winding road. Occasionally his lips moved, but Crane couldn't hear what he was saying. He seemed to be agitated. He looked ill, too.

Crane didn't understand why he should be so perturbed about Simeon March. Why hadn't he displayed as much emotion when Talmadge was gassed? Of course, the possibility that all the March deaths were not accidental might have just occurred to him. Then he would be upset.

Dr Woodrin got out of the convertible at City Hospital. "I'll see what I can do," he said. "Will you take the car to Carmel's house?"

"Sure."

Crane halted at his house, set the emergency and stepped out into a bed of dahlias. Williams appeared, his eyes bright with curiosity.

Crane asked, "Where's Ann?"

"Not back yet." Williams eyed the convertible. "Where'd you get the job with the outside plumbing?"

"It's Carmel's," Crane said, leading the way into the house. He felt a little worried about Ann.

"How was the shooting?" Williams asked.

"Lousy," Crane said. "Nobody could hit me."

He got a decanter of scotch, poured himself a good drink. He told Williams about Simeon March and gave him a graphic account of the attack at the Duck Club. He was so moved by his tale that he had another drink.

"You certainly have a tough time with your suspects," Williams said, taking the decanter from Crane. "You pick Talmadge and he gets knocked off. You pick the doc and what does he do but fix it so you're his alibi for the attack on old man March."

"There're still some more suspects," Crane said.

"Is the old man dead?" Williams asked.

"I don't know."

"Who was doing the shooting at you?"

"I don't know."

Williams disgustedly emptied the decanter into a glass. "You're making a hell of a fine record on this case."

Crane said, "Well, I'm still alive."

Over their drinks, Williams related what he had done during the morning. He had, in the first place, examined the exhaust pipe on Talmadge's car. There was rubber on it.

"It was sticky," he said. "It came off on my fingers."

But his most important discovery was made at the Country Club. Slats Donovan had been seen there by the head locker man about the time Talmadge had died.

Crane lowered his glass. "You're sure?"

"Positive. Thomas, that's the lockerman, used to get his stuff from Donovan during prohibition. He said he spoke to Donovan outside the locker room, thought he was waiting for a member."

"That puts Donovan right up there," Crane said.

Williams objected. "Only I can't see a gangster knockin' off anybody with gas."

The doorbell rang and Beulah let in Peter March. His face was pale and tired. Williams nodded to him and left the room.

"Is he still alive?" Crane asked.

"Barely. He's at City Hospital."

"Dr Woodrin taking care of him?"

"He's helping Rutledge, the doctor they called first."

"How did it happen?"

"Like the others... carbon monoxide. He was found in his garage."

"In the car?"

"No. He'd fallen beside it." Curiosity lifted his eyebrows a bit. "What makes you ask?"

"I was just wondering." Crane stared at him curiously. "Peter, do you mind if I ask you something?"

"Why, no."

"Did you find Carmel with Richard in his car that night at the Country Club?"

The question was like a blow in Peter's face. His lips became loose, his eyelids fell over his eyes. "How did you know?"

Crane didn't reply.

"Carmel shouldn't have told," Peter said after a long while.

"Did you kill Richard?" Crane asked softly.

"My God! No!" His black eyes were startled. "He was killed by... You know that." His eyes became angry. "And if he weren't, why should I?"

"I don't know... maybe for Carmel." Crane watched his hands, his fluttering fingers. "You didn't tell Simeon March you killed all these people, did you?"

Peter's face was pale. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Crane went on: "Simeon March didn't fake this attack to provide you with an alibi, to throw suspicion off you, did he?"

"You must be crazy."

Crane himself couldn't see old man March doing a thing like that to protect Peter. He'd be more likely to turn his son over to the police. "Maybe I am crazy," he said. "I get funny ideas."

Some of the anger left Peter's face. "What makes you think Richard and John and Talmadge were murdered?"

"Three deaths in the same family by carbon monoxide are stretching it a bit."

"I don't mind telling you about Richard," Peter said. "I didn't do anything to be ashamed of."

He said he had noticed a growing intimacy between Carmel and Richard. He was alarmed about it for John. So when they both disappeared at the Country Club dance, he went out and found them in Richard's car. He'd told Carmel to go inside, intending to give Richard a good tongue lashing, but Richard promptly passed out. So he had gone back to the dance.

Crane asked, "Peter, did you ever tell John?"

"No."

"But didn't Carmel tell you she thought it was John, not you, who caught her in the car with Richard?"

"You mean John never came out there at all?"

"I don't think so."

"Then the suicide note was forged?"

"I think so."

"My God! Poor John..." He started for the door. "I'll have to talk to Judge Dornbush about this." He paused in the hall. "Give my regards to Ann."

"I will."

Williams appeared, and they had a drink. "I'm scared about Ann," Crane said. • "Oh, she'll be back," Williams said. "It isn't noon yet."

Crane telephoned City Hospital to inquire about Simeon March. He asked for Dr Woodrin, but got Dr Rutledge. He told the doctor he was a city detective. In reply to Crane's questions, the doctor said there were no bruises on Simeon March's body. There were no signs of a struggle. It was obviously an accident.

"Will he recover consciousness?" Crane asked.

"If he lives."

"Will he?"

"It's a fifty-fifty chance."

Crane asked him if he knew where the clothes the millionaire was wearing were. They were in the next room. Crane asked him to smell them.

"Anything funny?" he asked when the doctor returned to the telephone.

"No."

"You can't smell an odor of gardenias?"

"No," Dr Rutledge said. "I can't smell anything."

Crane went back to the blue-and-white living room and told Williams what he had learned. Both were surprised that there was no odor of gardenias. Until it was time for lunch they discussed the case. Crane said they had to determine if there was rubber on the exhaust pipe of Simeon March's car. Williams persisted in...

"We got plenty of clues," Williams said.

That wasn't what Crane meant at all. What he wanted was the relevant clue. That was the way Scotland Yard always worked. The inspector always singled out the relevant clue and followed it up to the murderer.

"How're you going to know when you got it?" Williams demanded.

"It has to be something that appeared in all the deaths."

"Gas," Williams said.

"No."

"Gardenias?"

"Simeon March didn't smell of gardenias."

"But he ain't dead, either."

Crane looked at him wide eyed. "Maybe you've got something there, Doc."

Williams said, "I wish we knew where Ann was."

Ann had been gone five hours, and now even Williams was terribly upset. With serious black eyes, he watched Crane walk a frustrated diamond-shaped figure on the blue-and-white Aubusson. They knew for certain Ann was in trouble. Unexpressed, but strong within them, was a fear she had been murdered. They had searched Marchton for her and now they were trying to think of something more to do.

They had entered the Crimson Cat together, had walked into the taproom. The barman's face was held together by gauze. He saw them, reached under the bar.

"No," Williams said, producing a revolver.

The bartender's hands rose; he looked as though he intended to chin himself on an imaginary bar above his head. "When Slats comes back to the city," he said, "he'll handle you guys."

"Too bad he ain't here now, pal," Williams said.

Crane asked, "Where is he, pal?"

"I don't know," the bartender said sullenly.

"Do you know where Dolly Wilson is?"

"What's that to you?"

Williams leaned over the bar, grasped a bottle of Canadian rye. "Do we have to open up your head again, pal?" he asked.

The bartender said, "She lives at Elm and Fourth, in a boardinghouse."

Perspiration made half-moons under the armholes of Mrs Grady's brown dress. "You just missed her, boys," she said. "She left for New York at one-thirty." She was a massive woman.

A blonde girl had talked to Dolly, Mrs Grady admitted. No, the blonde hadn't gone with her.

Miss Wilson had left no forwarding address, but she was going to write as soon as she was located in New York. She'd better, too, Mrs Grady added, because there was that little matter of nine dollars. Maybe the gentlemen...?

On a sofa under a peach-colored quilt, Alice March was eating bonbons and reading a paper-backed French novel by somebody named Vercel. She didn't seem especially upset over Talmadge's death, or Simeon March's condition.

"Carmel and Peter just left for the hospital," she said. "Won't you sit down?"

Crane refused. "I just dropped in to see how you were."

He and Williams agreed it didn't seem likely she was holding Ann.

Gloom filled the interior of Simeon March's big garage. The German gardener showed them where the millionaire's body had been found on the cement floor beside the open left front door of his favorite sedan.

"He warms the engine and the gas comes," the gardener explained. "Then he falls the door out."

Crane thought this was possible. He found, as usual, rubber on the exhaust pipe. As they left the garage, he told Williams the hose could have been stuck through a back window, as it had been in Richard's and Talmadge's death.