Red Gardenias (8 page)

"Practically," he said, "except for a wife."

"Oh, excuse me."

He took her arm. "Come on." If Ann was going to be nasty he'd give her something to be nasty about. "We've got an extra man." He grinned at her. "He'll take care of my wife."

"All right." A closer inspection showed she was more mature than he thought. "At least for a while. Later I got to dance."

"I'll dance with you."

"No. I mean in the floor show. I do a specialty."

"Every woman should have a specialty," he said. "I tap-dance," she said.

"I think that's nice. And here are our friends." He bowed to Peter March and Dr Woodrin. "This little lady is going to sit with us for a short time and partake of champagne."

"If it's champagne I may sit for a long time." She sat down by Dr Woodrin. "My name's Dolly Wilson."

"Mine's Bill Crane." Crane waved for a waiter. "These are Mr March and Doctor Woodrin."

Miss Wilson gaped at Peter March. "Say!" she exclaimed. "I thought you was dead."

"I'm not, though," Peter said.

"Well, that's funny. You were out here a couple of times a year or so ago, and then I heard you were dead."

"That was my brother. We looked very much alike."

"Oh, say!" She reached over and squeezed his hand. "I'm awful sorry, Mister March."

"That's all right."

Carmel and Ann came to the table. All over the room people stared at them; the women looking at their clothes, the men at their faces. From even a few feet away Carmel was much the more striking, with dead-white skin, tomato-red lips and jet-black hair.

But Ann, Crane thought, was best quite near. Her tan skin was flawless; her eyes had interesting green depths. Her hair was the color of sun-dried bamboo. She was pretty even when she was angry.

He tried to hold her chair for her, but Peter March got to it first. He introduced Dolly Wilson to the women.

Dr Woodrin, his eyes twinkling, said, "An old friend of Crane's."

Crane said, "She nursed me back to health after the battle of Gettysburg."

This set Miss Wilson to giggling. It was awfully funny because how could she have nursed him after the battle of Gettysburg? She was only nineteen and she must have been a little girl then. It was awfully funny.

Peter had already ordered champagne, and the waiter poured it into hollow-stemmed glasses. "Here's how," Crane said.

They drank. Ann pointedly ignored Crane, carried on a quiet conversation with Peter March. They seemed to like each other, Crane thought. Well, all right. The orchestra started a slow fox trot and he asked Miss Wilson if she would like to dance.

"And how!" she said.

She danced very well. For a time she was wary, watching for a false move of one kind or another on his part, but she soon came closer to him, closed her eyes, put a cheek against his.

"You're not bad," she said.

"I'm wonderful."

She had to giggle at this. Imagine his saying he was wonderful! He was awfully funny. She wondered which one was his wife. She hoped it wasn't the haughty-looking brunette. She was swell looking, all right, but she looked as though she'd be tough to live with. The blonde looked nice.

"Who runs this joint?" Crane asked.

"Frenchy Duval," she said. "But he doesn't own it. It's one of Slats' places."

He recalled the "Slats" of Delia's letter to Richard. "Slats who?"

"Slats Donovan."

"Who's he?"

"Oh, you've heard of him."

"No, I haven't."

"You must have. He runs the gambling in this district. You've heard of him."

"I've heard of Al Capone."

"Oh, you!"

The orchestra, according to a bass drum lit with red bulbs, was Sammy Parson's Swing Seven, but the members didn't work very hard at whatever they were playing. They had a good sense of time, though, and the music was good, if a little brassy.

"They don't jam until after the last show," Dolly explained.

Crane caught sight of a woman who had just come out from behind magenta drapes at the orchestra end of the room. She was wearing a black velvet evening gown which clung to her body as tightly as a wet bathing suit. She had fine curves but she wasn't fat. She had carrot-red hair.

Crane danced in her direction. "Who's that dame?"

"Which one? Oh! Delia Young."

Crane's stomach tingled. It was the Delia of the letters. And the redhead of the chase. And Slats was Slats. He wondered if she would recognize him, and danced closer. Her eyes passed over him casually, went to other couples on the floor.

"What's she do?" he asked.

"She sings. She's good. They say she makes two hundred dollars a week."

Crane showed great surprise for Dolly's benefit.

"I'd like to meet her." Dolly was alarmed. "No, you wouldn't."

"Why?"

"She's Slats' girl."

"Couldn't I buy her a drink?"

"Listen." Dolly moved back a few inches, looked in his face. "The last guy who bought her a drink—they found him dead of an oversupply of mineral."

"Mineral?"

"He had too much lead in his body." She giggled. "I got you on that."

"Well, well." He looked longingly at Delia Young's curves. "Slats is jealous, hey?"

"With reason." Dolly's young face was wise. "She gets a few slugs under her girdle and thinks it's Christmas."

Crane was bewildered. "Christmas?"

"Yeah. She gets into the spirit of giving things away."

"Oh. And Slats doesn't like that?"

"What man would? He even went so far as to give her a bodyguard."

"A sort of walking chastity belt, hey?"

"Huh?"

"That's one I got you on," Crane said. "Does the guy talk as though he had a bad needle on his phonograph?"

She jerked away from him, stopped dancing. "Say! What do you know?"

Other dancers began to look at them. "Nothing," he said. "I remembered someone in Marchton telling me about her, that's all."

She allowed him to dance with her again, but her face was suspicious. "You've never seen her before?"

"Never," he lied.

"If Slats heard me telling this I'd get my teeth knocked out."

"He's tough?"

"I seen him put his fist through a door once." She squeezed his arm. "I gotta go. The show starts in five minutes. Keep out of trouble until I get back."

"I will," he promised.

He walked back to the table. Carmel and Dr Woodrin were there alone. Carmel said, "We thought you had gone for the evening."

"The evening's young yet," Crane said.

He sat down and looked for Ann and Peter, but they weren't dancing. He felt a trifle angry. Ann was supposed to be his wife, even though she wasn't. He drank some of his champagne. He decided to watch for an opportunity to meet Delia Young. He didn't know whether he was going to do it to pursue his investigations, or to annoy Ann. He guessed he didn't much care.

"Bringing a strange girl to the table," Ann said, dancing as far away from him as possible. "A pickup!"

"So that's what's the matter," Crane said.

"No, it isn't."

"Then why are you angry?"

"I'm not."

It was the last dance before the floor show. Ann had come back with Peter March and Crane had asked her to dance. She hadn't seemed enthusiastic, but she went out on the floor with him.

"I guess I'm glad I'm not married to you," he said.

"Not half as glad as I am."

"I'm not really glad," he said. "I think you're swell. But don't you see I have to work?"

"Do you call drinking and chasing after girls working?"

"Certainly."

"How do you think I feel, having a husband on the loose?"

"But we're not married."

"People think we are." Her voice was cold. "I don't like people thinking they have to be nice to me because you aren't."

"You mean Peter?"

She looked at him scornfully. "He's been very thoughtful."

"I'm thoughtful, too. But I have to work."

The orchestra was playing an old piece which Crane remembered Paul Whiteman as having played. It was a fairly fast piece, with lots of work for saxophones and trumpets, and it was hard to dance and talk. He thought the name of it was "You Took Advantage of Me." He caught sight of Delia Young's red hair in a corner of the room. She was talking to a man in a black suit.

"Would you want me to slight my work?" he asked.

She didn't answer and when he looked at her he was surprised to see moisture in her green eyes. He felt a tingling sensation in his stomach. He supposed it was sympathy. He felt a desire to hold her tight against his chest. That was sympathy, too.

"I'll quit work," he said. "I'll be nice."

"It's nothing to me what you do," she said.

She pushed his arms away and stopped dancing and left him. She held herself very stiff in walking.

He wondered why she had done that. It made him a little mad.

He went into the taproom and had a double scotch and soda. He saw Williams at the end of the red bar, in conversation with the tough barman, but he ignored him. Presently Peter March came in and sat on the next stool.

"Have a drink?" Crane said. "Sure."

Crane ordered two more double scotch and sodas. "Aren't you drinking quite a lot?" Peter March said. "Not so much."

"Ann... your wife doesn't like it very well."

"So I gathered."

"She's a nice girl."

"So am I," Crane said. "I'm a nice girl."

"Sure. But I just thought..."

"Don't. Don't ever think."

"Maybe you're right," Peter March said reflectively. "It's none of my business. But there is something that is." He paused and eyed Crane. "There was a bullet in my car."

"Sure," said Crane. "I told you."

"But how did it get there?"

"I don't know."

There was authority in Peter March's voice. "I think you'd better tell me."

"All right," Crane said. "Ann tried to kill me. She wants my millions. But my steel vest deflected the bullet."

Peter's brows were straight lines above his eyes. He looked as though he would like to hit Crane. Then he saw Dr Woodrin coming toward them. "O.K.," he said. He got up and left him.

"Have a drink?" Crane asked Dr Woodrin when he came up.

The doctor had a scotch and soda, too.

"Say!" Crane said when the bartender had left them. "I've just heard something strange from Carmel. I think I'd better tell you since you're involved."

"What is it?"

Crane told him Carmel's story of John's suicide. "Was there really a note?" he asked.

Dr Woodrin's pink-and-white face was serious. "Gosh! I hoped that wouldn't get out." His blue eyes searched Crane's face. "How'd she happen to tell you?"

"She was angry at Talmadge March."

"I don't blame her.... I don't know what he was driving at yesterday."

"I guess he doesn't like her," Crane said.

"That's Alice's work." The doctor shook his head. "Alice hates Carmel."

"Because of Richard?"

"Partly, and partly just because they're different breeds of cats."

"And there was a note?" Crane persisted.

"Yes." The doctor drained his glass. "Her story's true." He slid off his stool. "I hope you won't say anything about it, though."

"I won't," Crane said.

"I'd be in trouble if the police found out. I helped to make it look accidental," Dr Woodrin said. "And it would kill Simeon March." He walked away.

After a time Crane went back to the table. The show had started and six girls in blue silk panties and glass-encrusted brassieres were dancing. They were very bad. Crane recognized Dolly Wilson at the left end. She waved at him. Ann was back at the table with the others, and he sat beside her. She paid no attention to him.

He felt a little bit lonely. Nobody liked him except Dolly Wilson. It was tough, being a detective and having nobody but Dolly Wilson like you. He felt possibly he was a little drunk. That was good, but he wished he had someone around who liked him and who... and whom he liked. That was good grammar. Damn good grammar! He liked Ann, but she didn't like him. He didn't like the floor show, and he didn't care whether the floor show liked him or not. That was immaterial. Absolutely. He didn't like Peter March. He tried to look at Dr Woodrin to see if he liked him, but his chair overbalanced and Carmel March had to catch him.

"Thank you," he said to Carmel. "You have saved my life."

"I didn't do anything," Carmel said. "You saved my life." Ann said, "Be quiet."

A moment later he didn't have to be urged to be quiet. The lights went out, the orchestra began to moan, a circle of chalk light sought out Delia Young by the magenta curtains. She moved slowly, exaggerating the swing of her curved hips, to the center of the floor. Her skin was as white as bathroom tile.

She looked as though she were half asleep. Her eyes were almost closed. The piano hit a few chords. She sang:

"I'm not much to look at;

Nothing to see..."

Cold shivers coursed along Crane's back. Her voice was like no other voice he had ever heard. It was husky-hoarse, but in a feminine way; it was as though she had a cold, as though she had tuberculosis of the larynx. But the voice had range and control, rising to an icy vibrancy which made Crane's ears shudder, then falling to a dry whisper that people held their breath to hear.

The piece was a very sad one. The tempo was slow; the accompaniment of drum, piano and violin subdued. Delia Young sang:

"I got a fellow crazy for me,

He's funny that way...."

She finished the verse, stood in the spotlight with closed eyes. Back of her the orchestra swung it with trumpets, clarinet and saxophones. It made a hell of a contrast; it was a very fine effect. Then the piano took the break again, very slow, and the husky, magic voice poured from Delia Young's lips.

Her face was expressionless, sleepy, bored; her breast hardly moved; it was as if she, through no volition of her own, simply opened her mouth and let the melancholy song come out.

There was no clapping immediately after she finished. Then there was a lot, but she wouldn't sing again. She glided behind the curtains; the lights went on; Dolly Wilson began to tap-dance with more energy than skill.