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!"
CHAPTER XI
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 se
ized 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."
With them were Talmadge March, who had come with Alice, and Carmel March and Dr Woodrin. It was almost midnight, and many people in the velvet-draped room were having late suppers. The tinkle of glass, of silver, mingled with blare of unmuted trumpets bearing down on the Tommy Dorsey arrangement of "The Song of India."
Ann s excuse for accepting a date with Peter March had been that Bill Crane was too ill to go out. She wasn t sure whether any of them believed this, or felt, as Alice March obviously did, that she was paying Crane back for deserting her for the night-club singer. She didn t really care; she wanted to listen to them talk, to see if she could detect a false note in their conversation. She felt it would be impossible for the murderer not to betray himself if one were only acute enough to catch the right remark.
Over the noise of the band, Alice March said, "That singer must be very, very attractive." She smiled sweetly at Ann.
Ann thought her pink face was the kind Italian painters used to float cherubs around. She would have liked to slap it hard. She said instead, "You ll see her in a minute."
A thin sound of flutes, a weird rumble of drums marked the end of "The Song of India." There was a muffled crash of cymbals; couples returned to their tables from the floor.
Carmel said, "Don t you wish you had some of her allure, Alice?"
For an instant Alice March looked like an angry Persian cat. She didn t reply, but Talmadge came to her rescue. "I ve heard she uses the same fascinating gardenia perfume Carmel does," he drawled.
Ann wondered why he was trying so hard to establish the fact Carmel used a gardenia perfume. It certainly seemed as though he was trying to implicate Carmel in the deaths. It was certainly very suspicious.
Carmel said in a brittle voice, "Perhaps Alice should use gardenia… Maybe she could keep her man."
"You re always trying to pick a quarrel, aren t you, dear?" Alice March said sweetly.
"Well, aren t you?"
"Why, Carmel!"
"Yes, you are. Only you don t dare bring it out in the open." Carmel s dark eyes glistened. "Why don t you say what you re thinking… you and Talmadge?"
Dr Woodrin said, "Carmel! Let s don t have any silly fights."
Peter March said, "Let s go home. I don t want to see that singer again."
"Oh, but I do," Alice March said, apparently undisturbed by Carmel s outburst.
Ann wondered, as the floor show started with a chorus routine, what Carmel had meant. What were Talmadge and Alice March thinking? She felt Carmel would like to slap Alice, too. There were certainly some dark undercurrents in the March family. She decided she didn t like either Talmadge or Alice. They both had an air of conspiracy about them.
She talked to Peter March during the floor show, noticing Carmel s eyes on them at intervals. She had a good time with Peter; he was fun. He was telling her about a bicycle trip he had taken in Italy. Dr Woodrin disappeared for a while and when he came back he sat beside Ann.
"May I speak to Mrs Crane a second?" he asked Peter.
"Why, sure."
Dr Woodrin spoke softly in her ear. "This is probably a joke, but while I was out that little chorus girl, Dolly, spoke to me in the hall. She asked me to tell you to leave, that you were in danger."
"In danger?" Ann felt her heart jump. "Are you sure she meant me? What kind of danger?"
"She wouldn t say."
"I ll have to talk to her," Ann said.
The floor show was ending, and she saw Dolly Wilson in the chorus. The girl was very pale, and her eyes were frightened. She disappeared into the hall back of the orchestra.
Ann was getting up when Alice March said, "But where s the singer… Delia Young?"
Nobody knew. Ann said, "Excuse me a moment, please?" Alice said, "I ll go with you, dear." Ann said, "No, thanks."
Dolly Wilson was stepping into peach-colored panties when Ann found the dressing room. Her figure was like that of a boy, supple and thin, without hips and firm breasted. Her skin was good.
She said, wide eyed, "You shouldn t have come here."
Ann said, "You d make a good debutante model."
She said, "Do you think so?" She blushed. "I m not used to having women look at me," she explained.
"Have you ever thought of modeling?" Ann asked. "I think I could get you a job."
They talked, and when the other girls had gone Ann discovered Dolly had heard the bartender calling Mr Crane on Donovan s private wire. "He told Mr Crane you d be in trouble if he didn t take you back to New York," she said.
She thought Donovan was angry at Mr Crane because of Delia Young.
"What happened to her?" Ann asked.
"She s all right. She s somewhere out in the country. I had a note from her." Dolly added with obvious pride, "She s my best friend."
"Is she with Donovan?"
"I don t know. The note didn t say. But Delia can take care of herself."
"Donovan likes her, doesn t he?"
"I
think they re married," Dolly confided.
"But why did she let Bill-my husband-go up?"
"She may have liked him, but I ll bet she was using him to make Donovan jealous," Dolly said.
Ann wrote a note to Mrs Jacobson at Causeman-Mason s in New York. "She s the buyer there," she said, giving the note to Dolly. "I m sure she can find work for you if you ever go to New York."
When she got to the table Bill Crane was there. She felt herself blushing. He had just arrived and Dr Woodrin was offering him a drink. He grinned at her and refused the drink.
"I m on the wagon… for at least an hour," he explained.
Carmel March said, "You look as though you d been run over by the wagon."
Ann could see she was pleased by Bill s arrival.
Bill turned to Ann. "Haven t I seen you before?"
"I m your wife," Ann said.
"Isn t that a coincidence?" He was being very suave. "Or am I simply de trop?" Carmel said, "Please stay."
Ann could see Peter March was very embarrassed. "I think it s time to be going," he said. He looked at Bill, then turned his eyes away. "Would you like to take your wife home?" He was obviously not looking at Ann.
"Darling, will you ride with me?" Bill asked.
"I guess I ll have to," Ann said.
"I thought I was going to stay in bed," Bill explained to Peter. "But I suddenly felt better. That s how I happened to come out here."
Ann saw the others believed only part of that. They thought he d let her go out, then sneaked out himself to see Delia Young, not knowing Ann would be at the Crimson Cat.
"I m glad you re not sick," Peter March said.
Bill said, "Stop at my house on the way home for a drink." Ann remembered that Jameson, the real-estate man, would be at the house to look at Peter. She hoped he would accept.
He did. He was pleased to have relations pleasant. "I d like to." He looked at the others. "That is, if…"
"You go," Dr Woodrin told Carmel. "I ve got to get some sleep."
"We can t go," Alice March said, speaking for Talmadge. "I m sorry you didn t find your Delia, Mr Crane."
"Oh, I ll find her," Bill said.
Ann slipped on her caracul coat and they said good night to the others. They found Williams in the bar. He was drinking scotch and soda. The bartender with the gold teeth scowled at Bill. "You here again, pal?" he said.
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