"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.
CHAPTER IV
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."
Miss Kirby seemed about to fly from the room.
"They glisten, Miss Kirby. They will not stain or lose their luster. They dress the kitchen, make the basement look like the living room."
Under the impression this was a flight of the advertising mind, Miss Kirby began to take notes.
"They're orange juice and ginproof, guaranteed to freeze diapers in ten seconds with the rugged Rapo-Arctic finger-tip, freewheeling action. They have the highest humidity, the lowest frigidity, the greatest rigidity, the finest-"
"Miss Kirby, where does a man in my condition go?"
Some of the alarm left Miss Kirby's face.
"Well, Mr Richard March used to go over to the Morgan House taproom about this time in the afternoon. He used to say thinking of ice boxes gave him chills."
Crane looked at her closely. "Did Mr Richard March come back to the office later?"
"No sir."
Crane seized his coat and hat. "Thank you."
He was followed out of the office by Miss Kirby, who halted to confide to Miss Anselman, the assistant production manager's secretary, that she didn't think Mr Crane was going to do at all.
"He doesn't seem to be serious," she said.
The Morgan House taproom was like home after a long visit with foreigners. It was cool and dim, and there was an odor of limes in the air. He sat in a red-leather upholstered armchair, leaned on a red-lacquered table.
He'd no idea there was so much to manufacturing. He was really confused between the March Rapo-Arctic refrigerator, with the finger-tip blizzard control, and the foam-flinging March Acrobat washer. He had walked down scores of assembly lines, fingered bright parts, nodded wisely to technical lectures on current consumption, shelf features, soap consumption, rinsing, temperature zones, humidity controls, crispers, automatic ironing, fruit storage, clothes capacity, food capacity...
He ordered a double scotch and soda. After a time a man came in the taproom and walked up to his table.
"You probably don't remember me," he said. "I'm Doctor Woodrin. I met you at lunch, at the City Club."
"Sure," Crane said. "Sit down. Have a drink?"
The doctor ordered ale. He was a healthy man with a round, pink-and-white face and light blue eyes. His complexion was so fresh it made him look under' forty, but Cra
ne was sure he was nearer forty-five.
"After I leave the hospital I drop in for a bottle of ale," Dr Woodrin explained. "I usually run into somebody to gab with."
Crane said, "My secretary told me this was Richard March's afternoon headquarters."
"He used to be here in the morning, too."
"A good idea," Crane said.
After Crane got another scotch and soda they talked. They discussed Marchton. Dr Woodrin said he'd lived in the town for fifteen years. Before that he'd been chief physician for the International Oil Company in Texas and Oklahoma. He was a graduate of Rush Medical, in Chicago. He was now chief of staff at Marchton City Hospital.
"It's a nice position," he said, "but not much money."
Crane, after a time, worked the conversation back to Richard March. He told the physician he had the Richard March house, wanted to know how it happened to be so elaborately decorated.
"That's Alice March," Dr Woodrin said. "You'll understand when you see her. She dresses the same way."
"She divorced him?"
"They were divorced. It was sort of a standoff." He drank the remainder of his ale. "She didn't get any alimony, but was allowed to divorce him. I think Dick's lawyer, old Judge Dornbush, was too smart for Alice's lawyer, Talmadge March."
"Who's Talmadge March?"
"Richard's younger brother." The doctor looked at Crane over his glass. "Their story's like those Greek plays we used to read in college."
Crane took his word for that. Anyway, it was a strange one. Alice had been Talmadge's girl; they were engaged to be married when the handsome Richard met her. The doctor said he supposed it was, for Richard, more the challenge of the engagement, the lure of someone's property, than love; and besides, the brothers had always hated each other.
Marchton's tongue moved a great deal over the elopement, moved less when Alice left Richard five years later, but regained vigor when Talmadge appeared as her attorney in the divorce suit. The gossip reached a climax when, five months before Richard died, the divorce was granted with no settlement, no alimony, Dr Woodrin said. The town wondered what Richard had on his wife. It must have been good; she had plenty on him. There was speculation as to whether Talmadge was involved beyond the role of counsel; it was popularly believed he was still in love with Alice.
"It was a triumph for Talmadge, then," Crane said.
"No. Richard didn't care. He was through with her."
Crane learned Talmadge March was not connected with the March business. He had refused to enter the company, had opened his own law office. He was moderately successful and, the doctor added, he had a large income from the interest his father had left him in the company. It was larger now that Richard was gone.
"That was a funny death," Crane said. "Richard's, I mean."
"It was," Dr Woodrin agreed. "I've often thought about it. You know I was there when he was found."
"You were?"
"I'll tell you about it." The doctor crooked a finger at the waiter. "Two more of the same, Charley."
Crane said, "Let me get these."
Dr Woodrin shook his head at Crane. "It was one of those dry, clear nights in early February," he began. "It was cold, but there was a three-quarter moon. We'd all decided to take a drive after the Country Club dance."
He had come out of the club, he continued, with John March and Carmel, Peter March and Alice and Talmadge, just as the orchestra began to play "Home, Sweet Home." The orchestra had been bad, and they were all glad the dance was over. Alice, who was ahead with Peter, called over her shoulder, "Dick must have passed out."
They could see Richard sprawled over the wheel of his big sedan, his head cradled in his arms; a pale vapor slipping out from under the left-hand running board. The gas was almost the color of milk in the moonlight; Dr Woodrin said. It was like a mist rising over a swamp.
Carmel had called to Peter, ahead: "Dick's engine's on."
Peter went to the sedan and opened the door by the driver's seat, the doctor said, and shook Richard's shoulder. "Come on, old boy," he had said. "Time to go home." He shook him again violently, and said, " Dick!"
Charley, the waiter, put ale and a double scotch and soda on the table, accepted the quarter tip. Crane said, "Thanks."
The doctor said. "Peter sounded scared, and I ran over to him."
They pulled Richard from the sedan, he continued, stretched him on the ground, and he had jerked loose the rear-vision mirror and held it against Richard's lips. It hadn't clouded!
"I knew he was gone, but I sent someone to call an ambulance," Dr Woodrin concluded. "They worked on him at the hospital. He'd been dead for some time."
"Who'd been dead?" a woman's voice asked.
Startled, Crane pivoted to encounter Carmel March's dark eyes. She was smiling. She wore a gray suit trimmed with blue fox and tailored so that it was tight over sleek hips and high breasts and padded at the shoulders to give them a military appearance. She looked like a Cossack lady.
"Who'd been dead?" she repeated.
Back of her were a man and a woman. Crane knew, at once, that the woman was Alice March. She was blonde and plump, and there was a sweet smile on her face, as though it had been painted there. She was wearing a quantity of jewelry, a silver fox fur and a floppy hat with some imitation blue flowers on it.
"Hello, there," Dr Woodrin said. "Join us?"
It was Alice March. The man with her, a middle-sized man with a bored face and languid manners, was Talmadge March. "How d'you do," he said to Crane. He didn't offer his hand.
In response to Crane's invitation, they ordered martinis. Crane had another double scotch and soda with them.
Carmel sat next to Crane. "For the last time, who'd been dead?"
Dr Woodrin said, "I was telling Mr Crane about the former owner of his house."
"The late lamented Richard?" Talmadge inquired.
Crane thought his lightly contemptuous attitude was hardly proper in front of the widow (even the divorced widow), but Alice March smiled sweetly. She seemed pleased.
Carmel asked, "What about Richard?"
"Just the usual story of his death," Dr Woodrin replied.
Talmadge drawled, "I suppose our local Galen told you of the mystery?"
"No," Crane said. "A real mystery?"
"A lady." Talmadge's amused eyes were on Carmel. "A woman, anyway."
"Hell!" said Dr Woodrin. "That mystery's been buried a long time."
"Has it?" Talmadge took a sip of his martini. "I wonder."
Dr Woodrin said, "He's talking about lipstick marks on Richard's face."
"Fresh lipstick," Talmadge drawled. "Naturally there was speculation as to the identity of the lady."
Alice March, her voice sweet, said, "It narrowed down to two or three, I believe."
"Not to you, though, dear," Carmel said.
Crane got an idea the two women didn't like each other.
"The marks looked green," Dr Woodrin said. "I don't know anybody who uses green lipstick."
"I saw them," Talmadge's smile was mocking. "The moon plays strange tricks with colors." He looked directly at Carmel. "But the lady of the green lipstick never came forward."
"She never explained what she was doing," Dr Woodrin said sadly.
"Hell," Crane said. "She must have been kissing Richard."
"A very fine piece of deduction," Talmadge drawled.
"The kiss of death," Crane said. "That's what she was giving him." He liked the phrase. "The kiss of death."
Carmel March's eyes, suddenly jet black, examined his face for a halved second. He grinned foolishly at her. She looked frightened, he thought.
Talmadge said, "There was another clue."
"How do you know so much about this?" demanded Dr Woodrin.
"I was there, and I have eyes... and a nose."
Crane gaped at him. "A nose?"
"There was an odor of perfume on Richard's coat." Talmadge's speech was so affected it made him sound feminine. "I caught it
as I helped put him in the ambulance—you remember, Woodrin, I lent a hand?" Woodrin nodded.
"What was the odor?" Crane asked. "Gardenia perfume."
Carmel said coldly, "You're making that up, Tam."
"Am I, darling?"
Crane got an impression they had forgotten him. He was conscious of an undercurrent of genuine emotion, of a tensity in each of them, with the possible exception of Dr Woodrin. He supposed they ignored him because they thought he was either slightly simple, or drunk. He determined to maintain this impression.
Carmel's face was like a delicately tinted dancer's mask. "You have a lawyer's imagination, Tam." She did not change expression when she talked.
"If I have," Talmadge countered, "how is it you gave up gardenias after Dick died?"
That's done it, Crane thought. Now for an explosion. He wondered why Simeon March hadn't mentioned the gardenia business. He watched Carmel for the eruption, but none came.
She laughed, genuinely amused. What a fine detective you are!" She leaned toward Crane so that his face was in the hollow formed by her neck and shoulder. "What do you smell, Mr Crane?"
Crane took a deep breath, then said gallantly, "I smell Nassau in May."
"No," she said.
"I smell the Sabine hills after an April rain. I smell flower-strewn boats at Xochimilco. I smell the cherry blossoms of Nippon. I smell a hot tub filled with English bath salts."
Every one laughed except Carmel, who said:
"No, specifically."
Crane said, "I smell gardenias."
Talmadge didn't seem embarrassed. "I thought I might trap you into a confession, Carmel." He grinned at her over his martini. "A lawyer's trick."
"I think it's in pretty poor taste." Carmel remained close to Crane. "... If it was a joke."
Dr Woodrin was lighting a pipe. "You've a macabre sense of humor, Tam."
Crane was delighted with Talmadge's composure under fire. He liked the name Talmadge March. He acted and sounded like the villains in the 1880 dramas of the New England barn revivals. All he needed was a Whip and a pair of handle-bar mustaches.
Talmadge was watching Carmel. "Perhaps it is a bit on the macabre side." She met his eyes angrily, and he looked away. "I'm sorry."
Again Crane felt tension. He asked, "Just what difference does it make who was in the car with Richard before he died?"
Red Gardenias Page 3
