"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.
Carmel smiled at Crane. "Sings well, doesn't she?"
"My God!" Crane said.
After a while he saw Delia Young seated alone at a table diagonally across the dance floor. He had the waiter bring a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, tied to the bottle a card on which he had written: "If you want help with this I am ready."
The waiter hesitated. "I'm not sure Miss Young will appreciate this. You know she's..."
"So I've heard." Crane gave him a five-dollar bill. "Don't let it worry you."
Ann was also looking at Delia. She turned to Crane, "If you're not too tight will you tell me something?"
"Darling, I'm not a bit tight."
"Is that our Delia?"
He nodded his head. The floor show ended and the orchestra began to play dance music. Ann smiled at Peter March and he took her onto the floor. She didn't look at Crane. The waiter brought a note. It read: "Bring your own bottle."
He was genuinely amused. That was a smart one. He'd sent her a bottle, but apparently he had no interest in it. "Send Miss Young another battle," he told the waiter. He thought he was going to like Delia.
He got up and said to Carmel and Dr Woodrin, "Please forgive me."
"Why?" Carmel asked.
"I've been invited to a small reception... a very small reception in honor of Miss Young."
Carmel drawled. "She's said to be the gal of the toughest guy in these parts."
"Please forgive me," Crane said.
He had trouble crossing the dance floor. There seemed to be a great many people on the floor, and all of them had to bump into him. Some of them had to bump into him twice. The thing was that if the floor hadn't been tilted up in the direction of Delia Young's table he wouldn't have had to walk bent over and consequently could have avoided the couples who bumped him. But he couldn't avoid them, and for a time he considered getting on hands and knees and crawling under the couples and up the incline. Suddenly he found himself by her table.
Her eyes were purple and amused. "The sea rough?"
He sat opposite her. "Would you care to dance?"
"Do you think you can, mister?"
He stood up, bowed, caught his balance by clutching the table. "Excuse!" He bowed, caught his balance by clutching a chair. He gave up trying to bow. "Madam, please meet the greatest little dancer of them all."
Delia Young slid back her chair. "Remember, Arthur Murray, I leave you where you fall."
They walked to the floor and danced, and it was quite a surprise to everybody.
It surprised Delia Young because he danced very well, and it surprised Crane because he hadn't expected her to dance with him. It surprised Frenchy Duval, watching from the door and thinking it was a good thing Slats Donovan was not there, because ordinarily when Delia had a snootful she didn't exactly dance that way. It surprised Dolly Wilson, who had taken off her tap shoes expecting to dance with Crane. And it surprised Ann, though not very much.
When the orchestra stopped, Crane walked fairly steadily back to the table, held the chair for Delia Young. She looked at him curiously as he sat down. "You're not bad, Arthur."
"No, I'm not."
The waiter poured champagne. He filled Delia's glass only halfway, but she called him back. "What's the idea? Frenchy trying to taper me off?" He filled it to the brim.
They drank and then danced. Then they drank. Crane thought she was a splendid woman. "I think you are a splendid woman," he said.
"I'm high, wide and handsome," she said. "I'm tall."
"Tall?"
"High. Tight. Crocked. Drunk."
"Oh, tall?" Crane had never before heard this word. It was a good one. He said, "Champagne always makes me tall."
"Did you ever try gin and laudanum?"
"Gin and laudanum always makes me tall."
"Did you ever try champagne and laudanum?"
"No."
"Never champagne and laudanum, Arthur?"
&
nbsp; "No. Did you?"
"No."
Her black dress was cut in such a way that when she stood up only about one half of her breast was exposed, but when she bent over the table he could see she wasn't wearing a brassiere. She noticed his eyes, but she didn't bother to sit upright.
"You know whose girl I am, Arthur?"
"Sure. Mine."
Her laughter was mocking, throaty. It came from way down in her chest. It was deep. It sounded as though it would bring up phlegm.
"I wish I was," she said.
"Don't you like Slats?"
"He's all right, but he don't know what a woman wants."
"I thought he gave you plenty of do-re-me."
"Don't be smart."
"I'm not."
"I'm not talking about cash."
He nodded his head wisely. People were dancing near their table. A jigaboo was singing, " I'll always hear that melody..." The orchestra was finishing "Star Dust." A waiter filled their glasses. What was she talking about? Oh yes. She was talking about not talking about cash.
"Any dame, even one like me, wants love," Delia Young said seriously.
"Have you ever been in love?" Crane asked. She nodded her carrot-red head. "That's nice."
"Like hell." She leaned toward him, and he modestly averted his eyes. "It hurts."
"You picked the wrong guy?"
"I'd pick him again if I had the chance."
"Why haven't you?"
"He's dead."
"Oh. What was his name?"
Her purple eyes studied his face. Her skin had the color, the smooth appearance of very rich milk: it was the kind of skin that went out of favor with the Gibson Girl. She had large, beautiful shoulders.
"If it's any of your Goddamn business," she said, "it was Richard March."
Crane put a great deal of disbelief in his voice. "You knew him?" Here was his chance to learn something.
"You don't think I did, Arthur?"
"Who am I to doubt a lady?"
"Get this." Her crimson mouth was grim. "I'm no lady, but I knew Richard, all right."
He tried to get further revelations from her. "I bet you wrote him mash notes."
"Would you like to have your throat cut, Arthur?"
"No," he said. "I'd rather dance."
The orchestra was playing "Sugar" and the trombone player was having a jam for himself. The other black boys in the orchestra showed white teeth and eyeballs in appreciation. The dancers moved about the floor rapidly, and they smiled, too.
Crane said, "That's the tonic."
Delia said, "Wasn't you with that party over there?" Crane looked, but all he could see was a vacant table. "What party over there?"
"The one that left a half-hour ago."
"If they left I am not aware." He tried again. "If they have left I was not aware. I am not aware they have..."
"I get the idea, Arthur," Delia said.
"They've ditched me," Crane said.
"Well, it's four o'clock."
The music stopped with a dum-titi-dum-dum on the piano; there was a crackle of applause; and the boys went out for an intermission. They went back to their table. Crane signaled the headwaiter.
"How much's the bill for that table over there?"
"Mr March paid it, sir."
Delia Young's hand closed on Crane's wrist, hurt the bone. When the waiter had gone she said huskily, "What March is that?"
"Peter March."
"Richard's cousin?"
"Unhand me, madam."
"Richard's cousin?"
"Yes."
"Is he a friend of yours?"
"I don't think so."
This apparently satisfied her. She let his wrist go, took a drink of champagne. She poured some more in her glass.
"What do you do in your spare time?" he asked. "Work in a blacksmith shop?"
She said, "I'm tall." She seemed surprised.
"My wrist'll never be the same."
"I feel as though my guts had been shot out," she said to nobody in particular. "I feel hollow inside."
Crane said, "I think the bone's broken." He gave his arm a tentative shake.
"Richard March," she said. "The only mug I ever loved."
Crane saw this was his opportunity to inquire further about Richard March. He said. "I'm tired of hearing about Richard March."
Her eyes were angry. "You don't think he'd look at me, Arthur?" She took hold of his wrist again. "You think I was the one who wrote letters? I'll show you. Come on." *
"Where?"
"Up to my apartment."
"What'll people think?"
"Listen..." She scowled at him, then laughed. "You're going to be the first guy I've had to drag upstairs."
Crane said, "I'll come quietly, madam."
He followed her through a door behind the magenta curtain, into a dim hall with a bare floor. Another door, with a red bulb burning over it, and a flight of wooden stairs were at the end of the hall. Two Negroes from the band were smoking reefers under the light. Their eyes showed yellow-white as Delia passed. A man lurked by the stairs.
"Hello, Lefty," Delia said.
He blocked her way. "What d'you think you're doing, Dee?"
The voice was the unearthly, metallic, whistling voice of the burglar. Crane kept in the pit of shadow beside the stairs.
Delia said, "You came back, did you?"
"Just in time, too," Lefty said. She started to push past him, but he caught her arm. "What's Slats going to say?" he croaked. "I don't give a damn."
"Yes, you do." His voice sounded like voices of persons supposed to be making telephone calls in plays on the radio. "You're not going upstairs with anybody."
"No?"
"No."
She hit him. It was a fine punch, right on the neck, right on the Adam's apple. Lefty's head flew back, he caught the banister with his right hand. She moved up a step and hit him again. He fell down.
"Come on," she said.
Crane bent over Lefty. He was on his back, face to the red bulb, one arm twisted under him. He looked at Crane through wide-open eyes, but he didn't move. His neck looked curiously bent; blood trickled from his mouth.
One of the Negroes said, "Wham!"
The other corrected him. "Wham! And Wham!"
"Are you coming?" Delia Young asked.
CHAPTER IX
There was green carpet on the upstairs hall floor. There were many doors. There was a stink of incense and cheap perfume. Delia Young entered the next-to-last room on the right without glancing back to see if Crane was following.
"Close the door," she said over her shoulder.
The room obviously had been furnished by a department store. It looked like display window No. 3; Moderne, in green. There was a low davenport finished in a material that looked like green-stained burlap, and on it were three tan-and-absinthe pillows. The pale rug on the floor was about the shade of creamed spinach. Two white lacquered chairs had seats covered with the green-stained burlap, if that was what it was.
Delia had gone into an inside room. Beside a bookcase filled with novels in bright wrappers was a white cabinet. He found a bottle of whisky, some seltzer and two glasses in it. He poured himself a drink.
Delia called, "Mix me one, too."
He did, then sat on the davenport. He was worried about Lefty's neck. He wondered if it had had a steel tube in it, perhaps because of a bullet wound, and if Delia's fist could have jolted the tube. Then Lefty would probably choke to death. He wondered if Delia had purposely hit the man's neck. He didn't feel so good about Delia. He took a drink of the whisky.
He had almost finished the glass when she appeared. She was wearing pajamas. They were of silk, entirely black except for a DY woven in white thread over her left breast. She had put on a diamond bracelet.
She got her glass and sat down beside him on the davenport, touching his thigh with her elbow. She smelled of chypre. Her eyes were underlined with violet mascara.
"I like
you, Arthur," she said.
"I certainly hope so. I'd hate to have you punch me."
"Lefty had it coming to him."
"But won't he tell Slats?"
"No. That monkey's been trying to promote me for months. He knows what I'd tell Slats if he crossed me."
When she bent toward him a slit appeared between two of the buttons on her pajama coat, and he could see her white stomach. A woman was laughing shrilly down the hall. She finished the whisky.
"Want a real rear?" she inquired.
"Laudanum?"
"Yeah. A dash with the next whisky."
"I'm tall now."
"I didn't think you'd be yellow, Arthur."
"All right."
She patted his thigh and went to the cabinet. Someone knocked and Crane started to get up. "No," she said. She went to the door, opened it a crack. A man's voice said something in a whisper.
"Like hell," Delia Young said.
The man whispered again.
"Screw, Frog." Delia slammed the door. "Frenchy Duval don't think you ought to be up here."
"Maybe he's right."
"I'm of age, ain't I?"
This was obvious, particularly as one of the two buttons permitting a partial view of her stomach had become unfastened. She came over and gave him a glass. "Try this, Arthur."
He did, and it was terrible. It tasted like cough medicine; it tasted like embalming fluid. It was really awful. He drained the glass.
"Not bad," he said.
Her purple eyes were surprised. "Say, Arthur, you can handle it."
"Sure," he said. "Can't your boy chum?"
"Who?"
"Slats."
"That mick!" She laughed, slapped his thigh. "He don't drink nothing but bubbles, and very little of them He's a businessman."
"I hear he's tough, though."
"I don't know." Her eyes were contemptuous. "He took a beating from old Simeon March without putting up a fight."
Crane was interested. "How?" he asked.
Delia told him. It happened six years back, she said, when Slats was trying to go straight. He got the state distribution agency for both March products, washing machines and refrigerators, when the man who had it retired, and was doing well until Simeon March heard he'd done time and kicked him out.
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