Red Gardenias

by Jonathan Latimer

  "Hey!" Crane called. "Wait a minute."

  The car swayed as it entered the street, swung wide around their sedan. Crane caught a vivid impression of the woman. She was handsome with milk-white skin and carrot hair, and her large mouth looked as though it had been lipsticked with a vermilion squirt gun. The man kept his face turned away.

  Ann pulled Crane back into the sedan. "Come on."

  They got around in a wide sweep which carried them over the curb and onto the soft lawn of a Spanish cottage across the lane. The other car was still in sight. Ann shoved the sedan to fifty-five before she shifted into high. Motor and tires began to scream.

  Crane clutched desperately at the dashboard. "Do you think this is a good idea?"

  Ann didn't answer. She watched the road, her foot holding the accelerator against the rubber floor mat. Her eyes gleamed and her face was determined. She held the wheel so firmly her knuckles showed white through her skin.

  She was a beautiful girl, Crane thought, but he wondered if she didn't have just a shade too much character. She seemed to take the detective business too seriously. She didn't act like a blonde at all. He wondered if she'd been a redhead, too, and had bleached her hair.

  With a wail of tires, the sedan rounded a turn. He looked at the speedometer, saw with horror they were going eighty miles an hour. The other car, swaying violently from one side of the clay road to the other, was about two hundred yards ahead. He hoped his car was more stable, but he suspected it was not. They seemed to be gaining on the other car.

  He had to shout to be heard. "What do we do when we catch them?"

  "Arrest him. He's a burglar."

  "What if he resists?"

  "Knock him down."

  They were passing through a long valley, and the light was dim. Ann switched on the headlights, but they didn't do much good. The road undulated slightly, and every time they raced over a crest and dropped into the following hollow Crane felt his stomach turn over. It didn't seem to be the road they had come over from Marchton.

  Crane shouted, "What if he has a gun?"

  "Shoot him."

  "With what?"

  "In my purse... a pistol."

  The pistol was a.25 automatic with an effective range of about ten yards. He examined it gingerly, then put it back in the purse.

  "You haven't got a drink in there?" he shouted.

  She ignored him. She was concentrating on the chase, which was turning out to be a pretty even affair. She drove well, catching the turns with a minimum of slide and seldom allowing the arrow indicator to fall below seventy miles an hour.

  The other car had more trouble. On one abrupt curve it slid onto the grass, throwing up a screen of dust, and Crane thought it was going to overturn. He could see suitcases and boxes tumbling about the rear and the man and woman leaning far over to the right, away from the pull of momentum. Almost on the lip of the ditch the car straightened, careened back onto the road.

  An instant later Ann hit the turn and Crane held his breath. They made it without trouble.

  "Good gal," he said.

  He felt a little better. He was beginning to have confidence in her. He was also beginning to feel they would never catch the other car.

  Ahead, dark green in the half-light, a wavelike barrier of low hills obstructed the road. The road went up at an easy angle for a half mile, then abruptly made a hairpin turn to the left so that it came back parallel to them, about twenty feet away, but higher. The sedan in front cut almost into the left-hand ditch to make the long turn, taking advantage of the natural banking provided by the ditch. As it came back toward them, not more than thirty yards to the left, Crane could see the woman clinging to the wheel, her face half a foot from the windshield. The man leaned over her back, his head almost out her window, a hand holding a revolver thrust through it. He fired as they passed. Crane ducked at the flash, but he heard no report.

  Ann, intent on making the U turn, asked, "What's the matter?"

  Crane reached down and turned off the ignition.

  "What's the matter?" Ann asked again.

  The car lost speed rapidly on the steep grade, came to a stop. They could see the taillight of the other car far up the hill. Presently it disappeared around a bend. There was a sound of crickets from the woods above them.

  "We would have caught them," Ann said. "Why did you make me stop?"

  Crane turned to the rear seat of the sedan, pointed a finger. In the left-door window, low and to the left, was a neat, thumb-sized hole. The glass around the hole had slivered; it looked like a pineapple ice. The bullet had apparently gone through the open window on the other side. Anyway, they were unable to locate a hole.

  CHAPTER VI

  They drove home soberly, both preoccupied, and parked the sedan in front of the house.

  "How're we to explain the bullet hole?" Ann asked.

  "We could say you shot at me and missed."

  She said, "When I do I won't miss."

  They went in and found Doc Williams in the kitchen. He was an operative of their agency. He'd driven their car from New York and he was posing as their chauffeur. He was a middle-sized, dapper man with a waxed mustache and a streak of dead-white hair over his left temple. He saluted Crane smartly.

  "Have a nice trip?" Crane asked formally.

  "Very good, sir."

  "Come up to my room. I want to talk with you."

  Crane turned to Beulah. "This is Mr Williams. I want you to treat him right."

  They mixed a shakerful of martinis in the dining room, then went upstairs.

  "How're you gettin' along with tutz?" Williams asked Crane. He winked at Ann, who was carrying celery, olives, and caviar canapes on a tray.

  "I wish she wouldn't keep trying to get into my room at night," Crane said.

  "Still got the appeal, hey?"

  "It's my silk pajamas," Crane said modestly.

  "Next time a burglar comes I'll let him take the ground floor away," Ann declared.

  "A burglar?" Doc Williams was interested. "You had a burglar?"

  Crane poured the martinis. "First a drink."

  The drinks were just right, with the vermouth cutting the flavor of the gin without destroying the dryness. Crane poured a second round, then told of the burglary, of Mr March's accusation of Carmel March, of Delia and of the recent chase.

  Williams was pleased. "It looks as though we're in for something."

  "You'll think so when you see Carmel."

  "A good number?"

  Crane said, "Just looking at her makes me wish I knew how to tango."

  The caviar was excellent. The black eggs were the size of buckshot, and about half the canapes had grated onion sprinkled over them. Some of the celery was stuffed with Roquefort.

  Williams smiled at Ann. "It looks to me like you was giving Uncle William some lessons in detection."

  "I am," Ann said.

  Crane finished his drink, poured another. "I was afraid you were going to mention that." He selected a heart-shaped canape.

  "Yes, and where's my champagne?" Ann said.

  "You'll get it... probably across the bow, too, the way they christen a ship."

  They sipped the martinis, munched celery and discussed the case. They agreed they would visit the Crimson Cat on the following night. Ann went to her room and presently reappeared in a semiformal dress of blue brocaded lame with silver shoulder straps. Her skin was smooth and tan.

  Williams removed an olive pit from his mouth, flicked it under Crane's bed. "Bill was saying John traveled for the company, Ann."

  "Yes?"

  "That'd give Richard a chance to chase Carmel."

  "And John knew it," Crane added. "Or else he wouldn't have inquired about Richard's dovecot from the Jamesons."

  Ann sat on the arm of Williams' chair. "But where did he hear about the cottage?"

  Crane didn't know.

  "He couldn't have heard much," Williams asserted. "He wouldn't have asked the Jamesons to describe the w
oman if he had."

  Crane admired Ann's eyes, quite green under artificial light. He said, "We agreed John found out about Richard and Carmel and killed Richard to stop the affair."

  "But who killed John?" Williams objected. "We thought of that," Ann said. "He killed himself in remorse."

  "What about Carmel?" Williams asked Crane, who was furtively tilting the shaker over his glass.

  "I think she's beautiful," he replied.

  Ann asked, "You're not going to get tight again, Bill?"

  "Oh no." The shaker was empty, anyway. "Not me."

  "I mean," Williams said, "couldn't Carmel have killed her husband?"

  "Why?"

  "She loved Richard, she wanted to avenge him."

  Crane picked the olive out of his glass. It had absorbed enough alcohol to taste good. "Old man March thinks she killed him. He thinks she killed them both."

  Williams asked, "Does he think she's going to wipe out the whole family... one by one?"

  "Gosh!" Crane said. "I didn't ask him."

  After dinner, Beulah's brother, James, served Ann and Crane coffee and brandy in the library before a bright pine fire.

  "I don't like being a detective," Ann said.

  Crane was astonished. "What could be nicer than this?" He halted his demitasse halfway to his mouth. "And besides, it isn't costing us a cent."

  "It's a dead man's house," Ann said.

  "Are you afraid of ghosts?"

  "I don't know what it is." She looked at him through very wide green eyes. "I think it's the way everybody dies. Doesn't it give you a creepy feeling, Bill?"

  "I haven't had a creep yet, darling."

  "I think it's the gas. It hasn't any odor or color; it just sneaks up and kills you. It's horrible. Thinking of it makes me feel it in my throat, choking off my breath."

  "Don't think about it, then," Crane said.

  "If I were a March I'd be scared to death." Light from the fire made her eyes glisten. "It's like having a curse on a family. So much hatred and death..."

  "You aren't a March," Crane said. She was silent.

  After a few minutes James brought Peter and Carmel into the library. Carmel took off her glossy mink coat, tossed it carelessly across the library couch. "Hello." Her voice had a throaty quality. She sat on the couch, crossed her legs. They were slender and long, but rounded.

  "Hello," Crane said.

  She had on a black velvet evening gown, so simple and so perfectly fitted to her body, that Crane knew it must have cost a lot of money. A diamond-and-ruby bracelet, on her left arm, glittered in the rays of the pine fire.

  Ann greeted Peter. "How's the burglary business tonight?"

  His face was pleasant with a smile. "I never start work before midnight."

  "Then have a drink," Crane said.

  James brought cups and fragile inhalers, and Ann poured them coffee from a chromium pot with an arched nose. Crane gave them good portions of brandy. Ann sat in a leather chair. Crane decided her legs were as attractive as Carmel's. They weren't so long, but the knees were better.

  Peter said, "What we came over for was..." Crane interrupted him. "I know. You came for your car."

  "Oh no."

  "It's slightly damaged but it runs," Crane persisted.

  "A pebble flew up and made a hole in the window," Ann explained.

  "No, it was a bullet," said Crane.

  "A passing car." Ann glared at him. "A stone must have shot up from its tires."

  "It was an obvious attempt to assassinate us both." Crane said. "I was terrified."

  While Ann poured the brandy Carmel said, "What we really came over for was to tell you about the Country Club dance Saturday night." Crane smelled her gardenia perfume.

  "I told you Dad fixed you up with a membership," Peter said. "We thought you might like to come with us."

  "That's awfully nice of you," Ann said.

  "I only dance the bunny hug," Crane said. "Has that got out here yet?"

  "Oh yes." Carmel smiled at him. "We do that and the subway dip and turkey in the straw."

  "Then I'll come," said Crane decisively. "But you'll have to come to the Crimson Cat with me tomorrow night."

  "I think that would be splendid," Carmel said.

  They drank some more and soon Crane found himself sitting on the davenport with Carmel. Ann and Peter were in the kitchen. Carmel's skin was very pale, but it had a warm undertone of health; he thought she was a remarkably seductive woman. There was insolence about the arch of her dark brows, passion in her scarlet lips, a contemptuous abandon in the curve of her body on the couch. She had the violet-shaded hollows under her cheekbones Crane admired so much in women.

  "Do all the corpses in Marchton smell of gardenias?" he asked.

  Her eyes widened for an instant. "What do you mean?" Then they looked directly into his. "Oh, you're remembering this afternoon."

  "Yes."

  "Talmadge has a malicious tongue."

  "But your husband, someone told me he smelled of gardenias," he lied.

  Anger brought a faint glow to her eyes. "Why shouldn't he? After all, he was my husband." She leaned toward him so that the gardenia odor was strong in his nostrils. "Who told you?"

  "Someone."

  "You won't tell?"

  "I don't think I better."

  "I can guess." She looked at him and he imagined he saw fear and anger in her eyes. "I can guess."

  "You have some enemies." He would have liked to know who she was thinking of, but he didn't dare press the matter further. He wanted her to believe he actually knew something.

  She was looking at him again. "Why are you so interested?"

  "I don't know," he said. "I am, though." She spoke slowly. "You're thinking there's something back of Richard's and John's deaths."

  "Perhaps."

  "Well, you're right. There is."

  He stared at her in silence, hiding his excitement.

  "I might as well tell you before you stir up trouble." Her voice was flat. "John March killed himself."

  "But why..." he began, and stopped suddenly as Peter and Ann came from the kitchen. He began again, "But why don't they hold the dances at the Town Club?"

  "The ballroom isn't as large," Carmel said.

  Peter's voice sounded young. "I'm going to scram, give you a chance to get some sleep. Crane's got to be at the office on the dot or Dad'll think he's a loafer."

  "What office?" Crane demanded.

  Ann said, "You may not remember, darling, but you're employed by March & Company to write about refrigerators."

  Crane groaned. "For a happy moment that fact had completely slipped my mind."

  Peter asked, "Coming, Carmel?"

  "You take your car and I'll walk home. I want to have a word with Mr Crane." She glanced at Ann. "That is, if Mrs Crane doesn't mind?"

  "Of course I don't," Ann said.

  "Well, I'll be off," Peter said.

  Ann followed him out.

  Crane asked, "How do you know he killed himself?"

  "He left a note."

  "He did!" Crane didn't have to act; he was really surprised. "What did it say?"

  "I can remember it exactly." Carmel's fingers pulled at the diamond-and-ruby bracelet. "It was written to me. It said: 'I can't go on... I've got to see Richard... explain to him... good-by, darling.. forgive me as I've forgiven you.'"

  "My gosh!" Crane's mind sifted the implication of the note. "Was it signed?"

  "Yes. With a J. That's the way John signed all his private letters."

  "But why wasn't the note brought out at the inquest?"

  "I destroyed it." Her words came out jerkily, as though she had been running and was out of breath. "I wanted it to look like an accident."

  "Insurance?"

  She glared at him, really angry for the first time. "Do you think that would make any difference? What kind of a woman do you suppose I am?" Her breath made a rushing noise in her throat. "It was his father.... It would have kill
ed him to know John was a suicide."

  Crane, surprised, asked, " You worried about Simeon March?"

  "Oh, I know he hates me." She laughed briefly, without humor. "He wanted John to bury himself in work, to live for March & Company. I... I had other ideas." For a moment her face was tragic. "Simeon March keeps a shell of rage and hate and hard words about him, but he can be hurt inside. He loved John. I didn't want to make him suffer. God knows there's been enough already."

  She was either acting beautifully, or her emotion was genuine. Her slender fingers plucked at the rubies on the bracelet. Her face was still masklike, but her glistening, red lower lip trembled.

  He asked, "What gave you the idea of destroying the note?"

  "After I'd found John, I called Paul... Dr Woodrin. He thought, at first, it was an accident." She had turned her face away from him, was talking in a low voice. "That gave me the idea."

  "Did you show him the note?"

  She hesitated. "Yes. He agreed that it should be destroyed, to avoid a scandal and to save Simeon March. He helped me fix the tools... close the garage doors to make it look accidental."

  Crane thought of the bizarre twist her story gave the case. Carmel, risking a great deal to protect Simeon March from the knowledge that his favorite son had killed himself. And Simeon, convinced she had murdered John.

  He said, "What did John's note mean, 'I've got to see Richard... explain to him'?"

  A tiny blue vein fluttered at the base of her throat with each beat of her heart. She took a long time, then said in a flat expressionless voice, " John killed Richard."

  Crane got off the couch and put a chunk of pine on the fire. Sparks flew up the chimney, tongues of flame licked the fresh wood. He went back to the couch.

  "Why?" he asked. "He was jealous of Richard."

  "Yes, but a man doesn't"—he hesitated over the next word—"murder because he's jealous."

  "No."

  "Then what — "

  "He saw me with Richard in his car."

  "At the Country Club? On the night of Richard's death?"

  She nodded, her face still turned away from him. He understood, then, the smell of gardenia on the dead man's coat, the lipstick on his face.

  She went on, speaking slowly, "John must have come up to the car very quietly. I don't know how long he'd been there." Her low voice sounded as though she had not come to the end of a sentence, had only paused.