Crane waited, but she didn't go on. He asked, "He overheard you talking?"
"Richard was begging me to go away with him."
"Was John terribly angry? Did he make any threats?"
She was facing him on the couch now, her face completely unguarded. Her lips were soft and moist and red.
"He was very quiet... I couldn't see his face. He asked me to go into the clubhouse. I should have been afraid, his voice was so strange, but I went in... left him there with Richard."
"And then — "
"The next thing I knew Richard was dead."
Crane was surprised to see tears rolling in big, slow drops down her cheeks. It was very strange. She didn't sob or move in any way; she just sat there, her face like ivory, talking and letting those big tears roll down her cheeks.
"I never talked to John about it," she went on. "I was never sure... until I found his body."
"How do you suppose he killed Richard?"
"I don't know." Tears made her black eyes luminous. She pulled her mink coat from the back of the couch. "I think Richard must have passed out; he had too much champagne, and John did something to the car." She found a lace handkerchief, held it to her eyes. "I'm sorry."
"I know," he said. "Your husband's death must have been a shock."
"It wasn't as if I'd loved him." She looked at him over the handkerchief. "We hadn't been getting along." Her eyes had changed from black to amber.
"You cared for Richard?"
"I liked him, but I didn't love him."
She spoke so simply that Crane believed her. He believed her entire story. He wondered if he did because she was so beautiful. He thought he would make a hell of a juror if she were on trial. He'd let her go with a vote of confidence.
The tears had stopped; she put the handkerchief back in the mink coat. "You think I'm horrible."
"No, I don't."
"You must."
"I really don't."
She touched his wrist for an instant with the tips of her fingers. "Thanks. I had to tell somebody." He felt goose flesh rise all over him. "There was nobody in town I could talk to." She stood up and he held the mink coat for her.
"You won't..." she began.
"Of course not."
"Say good night to your wife for me."
"I'll take you home."
"Don't bother."
"But..."
"I'd rather go alone."
They were at the front door. "Well, then, good night."
"Good night... and thanks."
CHAPTER VII
The limousine traveled the winding road at a good speed, and without strain climbed a long grade. So bright was the moon that the rays from the headlights looked like spilled milk on the cement. The countryside was gray and black.
Dr Woodrin, between Ann Fortune and Carmel March on the back seat, commented on the car's power.
Crane and Peter March were on small seats facing the other three. Crane lied: "I wrote some advertisements for the company. They gave it to me."
"I should've taken up advertising," Dr Woodrin said.
Carmel said, "You could have a private tennis court then, Paul."
While Peter explained to Ann that Dr Woodrin's chief enthusiasm was tennis Crane thought over the day, decided he had accomplished exactly nothing. The party was bound for the Crimson Cat, with Williams driving, and he hoped he would find something there.
He hadn't even told Simeon March about Carmel's story of Richard's murder and her husband's suicide. He knew the old man wouldn't believe it, and he wasn't sure he did himself, now that he'd thought it over. The tools and the lifted hood on John's car puzzled him. How had she had the courage to set the stage for the police, with her husband's body lying there? The natural thing would be to call for help at once.
Of course her story, if true, did tie everything....
"Do you play tennis, Bill?" Peter March asked him.
"Huh? Oh, a little."
Ann said she did, and Crane returned to his thoughts. If Carmel's story wasn't true it meant that John had been murdered. She wouldn't bother to lie if the death had been accidental. It was either suicide or murder.
He felt his heart beat accelerate. Murder made it a real case, with plenty to worry about. It was a spooky way the victims died, without a struggle or a call for help, just being eased out of life by a gas that left their faces purple and their blood filled with poison. And if it was murder it meant someone wanted to get rid of the March family. It meant there would probably be another attempt on a March. He hoped it wouldn't be Carmel. He felt she was interesting.
"Paul even carries a tennis net in his car," Peter said. "I saw it the other day."
"Why not?" Dr Woodrin demanded. "The hospital courts don't have nets."
And the scent of gardenias... How did that fit into the case? That was a creepy angle, Crane thought. It looked as though someone wanted to implicate Carmel. And why was Talmadge March so eager to establish the odor? Just being with someone didn't leave a smell of gardenias about them. Or did it?
Carmel asked, "Bill, you're not asleep?"
"What? Me? Oh no."
"You're so silent."
Ann said acidly, "His edge has worn off."
Crane didn't like that. Maybe he'd had a few too many cocktails before dinner but he'd been a gentleman. He said, "I hope we're not getting a dose of carbon monoxide."
This was not the right thing to say. Peter March hastily pointed out the left window. "Down there," he said, "you'll see our fair city."
Street lights crisscrossed a spot on the valley below them, made the whole valley look like a velvet setting for an intricate pattern of diamonds. The limousine was no longer climbing. The city looked small and compact.
"Only two miles," Peter said.
Carmel's face, faintly illuminated by the light from the dash, looked sad. Her cheeks were hollow and her red lips had a tragic downward curve. "That's good," she said. "I need a drink."
"Me, too," Crane said.
He had, at that, done one thing during the day. Or rather, Williams had. He'd located both Richard's and John's cars. It would be interesting to examine them, to see if they had been tampered with. That might show...
A swerve of the car interrupted him again. They had turned into the driveway leading to the night club. The white cement building was large and had a Spanish appearance. There was a row of small balconies in front of the upstairs windows. A big red cat, with an arched back and a fuzzy tail, was formed by neon lights over the entrance.
"They've a hot band here," Dr Woodrin said.
There was no doorman. Crane helped the women out. Carmel's hand, in his for an instant, was hot. He let the others start into the club.
Williams eyed Carmel's ankles, slender and seductive, under her mink coat. "I'd like to get trapped in an elevator with that dame," he said.
Crane said, "You do and the newspapers'll have a story headed: New Carbon-Monoxide Victim."
"You think she's the one?"
Crane shrugged his shoulders. He went into the building and checked his coat and hat. He started for the main room, but went by mistake into a taproom with modern tables made of chromium and glass, red leather chairs and a bright red bar. He paused for a double scotch and soda.
"Doing a good business?" he asked the bartender.
The bartender had two gold teeth. "Wouldn't you like to know, pal?" he said.
Crane let the matter drop and found the main room. He could see Peter March and Dr Woodrin at a table by the dance floor. He felt better because of the whisky. He stood and watched the Negro orchestra come through a door in back of the stand. He wondered if he ought to go back and sock the bartender. He guessed not.
A pretty blonde in a cheap evening gown stopped him on his way to the table. "Alone?" She looked about seventeen years old.
"Practically," he said, "except for a wife."
"Oh, excuse me."
He took her arm. "Come on." If Ann was goin
g 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.
CHAPTER VIII
"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 tho
ughtful, 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.
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