Red Gardenias (3 page)

"No one."

"Not even your son, Peter?"

"Not even Peter. And nobody must know, you understand? That's why I've had you pose as an employee of the advertising department. I want you to mingle with John's friends without arousing suspicion."

"It's a good setup," Crane said. "Provided I can write advertisements for washing machines."

"If you get in trouble I can arrange for a New York agency to write them for you."

"Maybe I'll turn out all right," Crane said.

"The only thing I don't like about the scheme is the agency's idea of your pretending to be married."

"Colonel Black thought a married couple would mix more easily."

"But aren't you likely to compromise Miss Fortune?"

"It's like taking a secretary on a business trip," Crane said. "Nobody thinks anything of that now."

"Well, it's her problem." Simeon March chewed his cigar. "When will you have something for me?"

Crane raised his shoulders. "It's a pretty large order. Especially when there's such a lapse of time."

"Do as much as you can." Crane said, "I'll keep..."

Carmel March entered the room, smiled at Crane, said, "He's a slave driver, isn't he?" Then, to Simeon March, "Dad, I'll run along with Peter."

"All right."

She smiled again at Crane. "Good night."

"Good night."

She was taller than Crane had thought, and she walked with long, graceful steps. She had a beautiful figure. He watched her until she went out the door. She smelled of gardenias.

"How long had John been married?" he asked Simeon March.

"Six years."

"Any children?"

"No." Simeon March's face was expressionless. "None."

Crane thought he caught a note deeper than irony in Simeon March's tone. He debated about his next question for an instant, then decided to ask it. Certainly, the trend of the conversation invited it.

"Did they get along well?" he inquired.

Simeon March shook his head. "No." He walked to one of the windows overlooking the driveway. "John was a serious boy. He was a worker...." His voice died away.

"And Carmel?"

"She didn't help him. She liked to go out. Parties, dancing..."

Crane walked to the window, stood just in back of March. "And when John wouldn't take her out she went out anyway?"

The old man didn't answer.

Crane asked, "Is there a motive which would link the deaths, Mr March?"

"I can't say."

"Can't or won't?" Simeon March was silent.

There were voices in the drive. Peter March was helping Carmel into a green convertible with white-wall tires. She was laughing and they heard her say, "You're going to have a swell shiner tomorrow, Peter. I know the signs."

"I'll say you gave it to me," Peter said. "I'll tell everybody you got tight and let me have it."

Crane said to Simeon March, "You must have had a reason for hiring detectives. You must suspect someone."

"I do."

"Who?"

Simeon March shook his head. "I told you I'd rather not say. I don't — "

Carmel March's voice was very distinct. "Let's do go and get tight, Peter," she called.

Peter went around the car. "All right." He got in and backed down the driveway. They were laughing about something. The car disappeared behind a row of elms.

"John... now Peter!" Simeon March stared at the empty driveway, suddenly wheeled on Crane. "There's your murderer! Tie a rope around her neck, Detective. Stand her on the gallows." His voice was hoarse, almost indistinct. "I'll see the trap is sprung."

Breakfast was served by a large colored lady who arrived at seven-thirty and said her name was Beulah. She brought with her a young colored girl to assist in the housework.

Crane felt pretty well. He hadn't had enough sleep because he had spent an hour before going back to bed telling Ann Fortune of the deaths from carbon monoxide and of Simeon March's accusation of Carmel, but then he hardly ever had enough sleep. Between the cereal and the eggs, he tried to piece together the scraps of paper thrown by Peter March in the living-room wastebasket. Ann came to the table.

"Any luck?"

She was, he had to admit, a nice example of what nature could do in the way of a blonde. She was wearing a pair of blue lounging pajamas which contrasted very well with her tanned skin and her eyes, turquoise this morning.

"Not much." He grinned at her. "Aren't you going to kiss me good morning?"

It appeared that she wasn't. She sat across the table from him, pulled some of the scraps to her. Deftly, she pieced together two liquor bills. They were for June and July and showed by their size that Richard March had entertained extensively.

Crane assembled one more, and then Ann found a more interesting note; written on half a sheet of fine linen paper in purple ink. It was dated July 15, and read: Darling,

Can't make Brookfield this W. E. Business. Stop Dairy.

Delia

Crane was interested. "That sounds as though Richard was up to something immoral." The second letter, also in violet ink, read: S. is sprung. He's heard something, so be careful if you can't be good. I hope you can't.

Delia

"Ah!" Crane drunk the last of his coffee. "Trouble looms."

Ann said, "It's awfully ominous. Bill, what does 'sprung' mean?"

"Freed from a bastille."

"Oh!" She looked to see if he was serious, then asked, "What's a heister? I ought to know words like those, hadn't I, if I'm to catch criminals?"

He told her a heister was a stick-up man. "S. sounds nasty," Ann said. "Going around hearing things."

"He probably wouldn't overlook a week end."

"Not with a passionate woman like Delia."

Crane spoke to her severely. "How can you tell Delia is passionate? I think she's very reserved, just signing her name to the letters."

"The violet ink," Ann said. "You don't write business letters in violet ink."

"It depends upon what business you're in," Crane said.

Beulah brought more coffee. "Is everything all right, ma'am?" she asked Ann. "It's fine, Beulah."

Crane leaned back in his chair, sighed mournfully. "I suppose I'd better report to March & Company."

"Aren't you going to do anything about Delia?"

"I'll see if I can hear of somebody named Delia."

"I'll find her," Ann said.

"If somebody named Delia calls on you, you will."

"No, I'll find her."

"Am I supposed to keep house while you're doing this?"

"No. I'll just find her. There's no reason why I can't detect."

"No reason except blondes don't have brains."

"You'll see."

"O.K.," Crane said. "But I bet I get her first."

"Champagne?"

"Sure."

"It's a bet."

They shook hands. Ann's hand felt smooth and slender. Crane asked, "What are you going to do?"

"Do you think I'd give away the secrets of my profession?"

"Gosh!" He was impressed. "You're beginning to talk like a detective."

"I am a detective," Ann said. "Just because you didn't want me to come along doesn't mean — "

"You were the boss's niece."

"You were afraid I would tell him how much you drank?"

"No," Crane lied. "The thing was I hadn't seen you in blue pajamas."

Ann looked as though she might blush, and said, "About the deaths, what do you want me to find out from Carmel?" She didn't look angry. "She's coming over this morning."

"Maybe I won't go to work," Crane said.

"You'll go to work if I have to send for the police," Ann declared. "What do you want me to find out?"

"I don't know." He looked at his coffee cup, but it was empty. "What'd you and Carmel talk about while I was with old man March?"

"Just ordinary small talk." Ann tinkled the bell on the table. "How stuffy a small town is... the best shops... where to get your hair done... places to go at night... "

Crane asked eagerly, "Did you get the names of some good joints?"

Beulah came in and said, "Yes, ma'am?" Ann said, "More coffee for Mr Crane." Pleased, Crane thought it might be nice to have a thoughtful girl like Ann around the house. Particularly one as seductive in a pair of pajamas. He wondered if she had slept with her bedroom door locked.

Ann continued, "They both seemed awfully nervous." Crane said, "They seemed pretty interested in each other, too."

"Do you think so?" she asked coldly, as if she didn't like the idea.

"When a dame almost weeps over a guy's wound I wonder." Crane put sugar in his coffee. "You notice, she didn't worry whether I had a wound or not."

"Give her time."

Crane laughed, then said, "Carmel scares me. Especially after hearing old man March accuse her. I'd hate to have her pump me full of carbon monoxide."

Ann said, "Bill, do you really think those people were murdered?"

"Carmel'd have a good motive."

Ann's green eyes were thoughtful. "She'd certainly have some money if she blotted out the entire March family."

"Twenty millions or so."

"A girl could dress well on that."

It had turned out to be a fine morning. Sunlight the color of overripe Camembert cheese flooded the cement driveway, made the lawn a bright green. Two businesslike robins looked for bugs in the grass.

Ann said, "Of course, Peter has the same motive as Carmel."

"Sure. If he lives he gets the dough."

"But I'm sure he didn't do it," Ann said. "Why?"

"Well... he doesn't look like a murderer."

Crane groaned. "And you claim to be a detective!"

"I'm sorry," Ann said, and added, "but if he's a suspect he's your suspect."

"No. My suspect is Carmel."

"They're your suspects. I give them to you."

"All right," Crane said. "But what's left for you?"

"Oh, I'll dig up something."

"Don't get a secondhand suspect," Crane warned her. "They're not reliable."

"If I want I can have the bandit."

"You can if he isn't a friend of Peter."

"How could he be a friend of Peter? He hit him in the face, didn't he?"

"I know," Crane said. "But do you think Peter would have gone after him unless he was sure the man wouldn't shoot?" He put out his cigarette. "You didn't see me going after the man, did you?"

"No, I didn't."

"You don't have to be nasty about it."

"I wasn't. I just said, 'No, I didn't!'"

"I wouldn't be surprised," Crane said, "if the man came to help Peter, to act as a lookout."

"No," Ann said. "The bandit called him March. Don't you remember?"

"Sure, but..

"He wouldn't have called him by name if he was an accomplice. His idea would have been to pretend he didn't know him."

"Maybe blondes have brains at that."

Ann said, "You see who'll drink the champagne."

"I will," Crane said stoutly.

The doorbell rang and Beulah brought in Peter March.

"Beulah," he asked, "you fix the Cranes a good breakfast?"

"Yes, Mister Peter," Beulah giggled.

"Beulah used to work for Richard. She knows the house," Peter explained. "That's why Dad had her come."

"We found her this morning on our doorstep," Crane said. "We thought she was a waif."

"How's your wound?" Ann inquired. "It's fine," Peter said. "You were pretty brave."

"I wasn't really." Peter March looked down at her. "I just got mad at the thought of losing those letters."

To Crane's critical eye he didn't look as though he'd gone on much of a bender with Carmel. His face was clean shaven, and there was a touch of color in his cheeks. His straight black brows, in daylight, didn't seem so heavy. A smile made his face pleasant. "Have you heard from the guy?" Crane asked.

March looked at him sharply. "Why should I have?"

Crane's face was innocent. "Didn't you say something about blackmail last night?"

"That was just excitement." Peter March's face relaxed. "I don't think there was anything really dangerous in those letters."

Crane wanted to ask him, then, why the bandit was so eager to get them, but he decided he'd better not appear too interested.

"I hope the guy doesn't come back," he said.

Peter March smiled at Ann. "You're not afraid, are you?" He was really quite good looking when he smiled.

"Certainly I am," Ann said.

He stared at her admiringly. "You didn't look scared last night."

Crane thought, what the hell! Was this competition? The rich man's son and the poor employee's wife. Of course, Ann wasn't really his wife, but he suddenly decided he did not like Peter.

"I was scared, though," Ann said.

Peter said, "I won't believe it." He was looking into her green eyes. "But I'm sure there won't be any more armed men." He turned to Crane. "Like a ride to the office?"

Ann's voice was silky. "Bill'd love it. It's terribly nice of you to think of stopping for him."

What the hell! Crane thought again. He was damned glad he was not really married. He said, "I'll get a hat and coat." He thought of something. "And I'll have to kiss the little woman good-by."

He hoped "little woman" would make her mad. He knew the kiss would. He got his hat and a camel's-hair topcoat and bent over her. He saw Peter March watching. He determined to make as much of the kiss as possible. She had to endure it; she was posing as his wife.

"Good-by now, darling," he said.

It wasn't quite the triumph he thought it would be. He kissed her with gusto. She bit his lip with even more gusto.

On his fine mahogany desk the black-and-silver clock read ten past three when William Crane pushed the button for Miss Kirby. She was his secretary. She entered his office and waited in front of his desk, notebook in hand.

"Miss Kirby, I suffer from visions," Crane said.

An alarmed expression came upon Miss Kirby's thin face. "Yes sir," she said dubiously. She was a pale, middle-aged spinster with horn-rimmed glasses and a large mound of hair on top of her head.

"I keep seeing refrigerators, washing machines, washing machines, refrigerators, washing machines," Crane said. "Thousands of them, Miss Kirby. Millions of them."