Red Gardenias

by Jonathan Latimer

  The doctor was seated, too. "That's my limit." He lit a cigarette. "Now you shoot."

  Crane examined the wood on the front of the blind, found a hole near the top edge. It was a new hole, about large enough to admit his little finger. He got off his stool and sat on the floor of the blind.

  "What's the matter?" Dr Woodrin asked.

  "You better join me," Crane said.

  "Why?"

  "I think somebody's shooting at us."

  The doctor obviously thought he'd gone crazy. Crane showed him the hole. The doctor stood up to look at it. Crane pulled him down on the stool. The pinging noise came a quarter second later.

  "Hear that?" Crane asked.

  "You're imagining things."

  "But the hole!"

  "An insect."

  "Listen!" Crane took off his sweater, draped it over the shotgun, put his hat on top. He held the gun above the blind. There was a ping, a tap. He lowered the gun, but he couldn't find a hole in either the hat or the sweater. "He's a lousy shot," he said.

  "My God!" Dr Woodrin got on the floor with Crane. "Why would anybody shoot at us? And where's the report of the gun?"

  "A silencer."

  "What'll we do?"

  "I stay right here," Crane said.

  "What a hell of a trick!" The doctor's pink-and-white face was angry. "Do you think it's a madman?"

  "I don't know."

  "We can't lie here all day."

  "I can," Crane said.

  After several minutes of silence they heard two shots from the direction of Mallard Lane. A moment later there was a faint whistling noise in the air. Crane crouched as close to the bottom of the blind as he could. He wondered if the guy could be using shrapnel.

  "A couple of teal," Dr Woodrin said.

  "Oh," Crane relaxed a little. "What if he comes off the ridge and rushes us?"

  "We could nail him with bird shot when he got close enough."

  They both looked to see if their shotguns were loaded, then waited in silence. Some mallard had settled among the decoys. They made efforts to talk with the wooden lures, quacking interrogatively. One of the mallards was within ten feet of the blind.

  Crane thought they'd have very little chance if the man did attack. He could pick them off from a tree on the shore, or he could come out in a boat. Crane didn't suppose a shotgun loaded with bird shot could stop a man at more than fifty feet.

  He didn't feel good. It was not a pleasant feeling to know you were likely to get a bullet in any part of your body you exposed. It was not a pleasant feeling to be shot at anywhere, but it was particularly unpleasant to be trapped. He looked at his watch. It was seven thirty-five.

  "Listen!" Dr Woodrin said. "I hear a boat."

  The mallards had gone away. Wind shook the dry leaves of trees on shore. A shotgun boomed in the distance. Not far away there was a faint splashing noise.

  Dr Woodrin had his mouth close to Crane's ear. "We'll both come up together. He'll get one of us, but the other'll get him."

  Crane nodded, flicked the safety catch off his gun.

  He got to his feet, his knees under him so that he could rise in one motion. He felt a little sick to his stomach.

  Water gurgled almost beside the blind. Dr Woodrin said, "Now!"

  The old house in the country didn't look occupied. In the gray light of early morning it didn't look as though anybody had lived in it for a long time. It looked gaunt and lonely, and yet there was a sinister quality of silence about it, as though the house was waiting for something to happen, something abrupt and violent and tragic. Ann felt a little afraid, and she wondered what she ought to do. Was Delia Young asleep? Was she alone? Ann's watch read thirty-five minutes past seven. She had to do something soon.

  She had found the house through Dolly Wilson. At first, when Ann woke her in the tiny third-floor room at Fourth and Elm, Dolly hadn't wanted to tell where Delia was. She was frightened. But Ann soothed her, assured her nothing was going to happen to Delia.

  "I just want to ask her something," she said.

  Dolly thought she wanted to ask about her husband. She thought it was too bad a fellow with as pretty a wife as Ann would go chasing after a dame like Delia. She told Ann where Delia was.

  "Thanks," Ann said. "And don't forget there's a job for you in New York, Dolly." She hurried down to the limousine.

  Now the problem was how to reach Delia in the house. Ann didn't dare to call her; it might arouse someone else. She pushed through some half-dead gooseberry bushes and went around to the back. Rusty tin cans, discarded kitchen utensils, rags, pieces of cardboard, littered the yard. Torn wire marked a coop that had once held chickens. The kitchen steps were warped and some of the planks were loose; she climbed gingerly and tried the door. It was fastened. She wished Bill Crane, incompetent as he was, was with her. She supposed he was having a fine time shooting ducks.

  The thought made her angry. She'd find a way into the house to Delia Young and she'd ask her about Slats Donovan. She knew with the singer's help she could prove Donovan was the murderer. That would show Bill Crane!

  Near the kitchen steps was an old-fashioned cellar entrance, with slanting doors. The wood on the doors was rotten and gray-brown with age; she was able to pry off the hasp with a piece of wood. It didn't make much noise, but she felt a nervous tension within her, as though someone was watching her. She looked at the house, but green shutters masked the windows.

  It took all her strength to lift the long, right-hand cellar door. Oblique light bared moss-covered steps leading down under the house. She was terribly scared, but she made herself go down the steps. It was very dark in the cellar, very damp and chill. The air smelled a little bit like the bank of a river, earthy and green, but there was something in it that choked her, made it impossible for her to get a full breath. Gradually her eyes became used to darkness; she saw the dim outlines of wooden boxes, two carpenter's horses, a broken rocking chair, a shelf of mason jars.

  Black and bulky, a crude flight of stairs rose mysteriously across the cellar. Walking on tiptoe, she made her way toward them. She could hear her heart pound, could feel blood in her ears. She couldn't catch her breath; the damp, earthy air made goose flesh rise on her body; she had trouble keeping her balance on her high-heeled shoes.

  Something rustled. She halted, lost for an instant in terror, and the noise ceased. She took a single step. There was no noise. She took another step, then another, and another... Something soft squashed under her foot, uttered a faint sigh. She would have screamed, but her throat was stiff with terror. It felt as though she had crushed some plump, small animal. She was afraid to move her foot. Her fingers fumbled with a match; finally she got it lit and bent over.

  She had stepped on a mushroom. The whole floor of the cellar was dotted with the tan hoods of mushrooms. Their white, dead-flesh stalks gleamed in the light of the match. It was like a grotesque stunted forest. The match flickered, and at the same moment something rustled behind her. She turned and saw, just as the match went out, a big rat watching her.

  She went on across the cellar to the stairs. Twice mushrooms oozed horribly under a foot, but she didn't stop. She wanted terribly to get on those stairs. Darkness closed in on her at the far end of the cellar; she had to feel her way for fear of falling. Finally, with her left foot, she found the bottom step and started upward.

  At the top she felt for the knob to the door, but her hands recoiled from spider webs. She lit a match, found the knob, blew out the match. The door opened with a faint squeak, and she peered into the kitchen.

  Blue shades, heavy outside shutters made the room's furnishings obscure. Two paintless chairs and a table occupied the center of the kitchen. On the table were dishes and a metal pot over which swarmed flies. An iron hand pump stood at the end of a large sink. She opened the door a little further and stepped into the room. A plank creaked under her foot. Eggs had been eaten from two of the unwashed plates, and a spider had spun a web between one of them and th
e pot.

  Ann thought the web meant no one had eaten in the kitchen for some time. She wondered if Delia had gone. The house did feel empty. It suddenly seemed to her that Delia was dead; that her body was lying somewhere in the house. She felt a terror even greater than before. The dirty kitchen, bathed in blue light, suddenly became as ominous as the cellar.

  She took a deep breath and stepped forward and then screamed madly. Hands clutched her from behind, bruised her breasts, finally found her mouth. The hands were strong and smelled of tobacco. She struggled, trying to catch her breath, but she couldn't free herself. She couldn't get air. The blue room became dimmer and dimmer...

  CHAPTER XVI

  They stood up, flung their guns to their shoulders, but neither fired. Karl Johnson sat in the rear of the brown canoe, his paddle held by both hands. He looked startled, then amused.

  "Trying to scare me?" he demanded.

  "Scare you, hell!" Dr Woodrin said. "Somebody's been potting at us with a rifle."

  Crane looked at the yellow-leaved ridge, but he could see nothing. "From up there," he said.

  Karl was quickly convinced when they showed him the bullet hole in the blind. "Come on," he said. "I'll get my.30-.30."

  They hurried back to the clubhouse. Peter was smoking in front of the fire. "You're slow," he said. "I've been through for ten minutes."

  They told him about the shooting. They got rifles and went up on the ridge, and presently Karl discovered a pile of brown oak leaves. "Looks like somebody was lying here." He felt among the leaves. "Look."

  It was a small brass shell. It was about the diameter of a.22 rifle shell, but it was longer.

  "But that couldn't hurt anybody," Peter objected. "A.22 rifle!"

  Crane took the shell in his hand. "Don't fool yourself," he said. "That's a.220 Swift. It's the highest velocity small rifle in the world. One of these'll drop a moose in his tracks."

  They stared at the small shell with respect.

  "You didn't see anybody?" Crane asked Karl.

  "No sir. I waited at the house for Mr March. And when he didn't come I came back to the lake."

  Crane felt sudden suspicion of the caretaker's long wait. "Why didn't you telephone Mr March's house to see if he'd started?"

  "No telephone anywhere out this way."

  Further examination of the ground produced three more shells and a black hairpin. "A woman?" Peter asked incredulously.

  "It sure looks like it," Karl said.

  Crane took the hairpin and put it in his pocket. They decided to see if they could find where the assailant's car had been parked. Karl said he knew where a car could come in from the gravel road.

  Walking behind the others, Crane tried to think. He felt the attack had been directed at him. He thought it was a lucky thing the day had been windy; otherwise the sharpshooter, man or woman, would have nailed him. He wondered what Peter had done after he'd finished shooting. "Look!" Karl said.

  A car had left tracks on a narrow road down the other slope of the ridge. It had been parked behind some bushes and it had gone out as it had come in, from the gravel road two hundred yards away. Its tires were not of any brand Crane knew. The tread looked like that of the vacuum-cup tires popular years ago. It left a series of small craters on the soft earth.

  Nobody said much on the way back to the clubhouse. Crane wondered if somebody had followed him out from Marchton. He regretted having slugged the bartender at the Crimson Cat.

  They were almost down the lake side of the ridge when a green convertible with the top down turned into the club drive from the gravel road. Dust rose in clouds from the wheels. The car was too far from the club for them to recognize the driver.

  Judge Dornbush met them at the door. He was smiling. "How'd you make out? I got a cinnamon teal."

  They started to tell him about the attack when the convertible came up, halted in a long skid. Carmel March, wearing the mink coat over a tan sweater and a brown tweed skirt, jumped out. "Peter," she called. "Peter!"

  They watched her run toward them, having a hard time with her high-heeled shoes in the gravel. Her face was like soap.

  "Dad!" she gasped. "... Overcome... gas..."

  Peter asked, "Dead?"

  "No," Carmel said. "Not yet... "

  Carmel went back to town with Peter, and Dr Woodrin took Crane in her convertible. The doctor seemed very upset about Simeon March.

  "He just couldn't have been gassed," he said.

  "He was, though," Crane said.

  "It isn't reasonable."

  "There have been a lot of people gassed," Crane agreed.

  "It couldn't have happened." Dr Woodrin swung the car around a curve in a long skid on the gravel. "It doesn't make sense."

  He fell silent, his eyes on the winding road. Occasionally his lips moved, but Crane couldn't hear what he was saying. He seemed to be agitated. He looked ill, too.

  Crane didn't understand why he should be so perturbed about Simeon March. Why hadn't he displayed as much emotion when Talmadge was gassed? Of course, the possibility that all the March deaths were not accidental might have just occurred to him. Then he would be upset.

  Dr Woodrin got out of the convertible at City Hospital. "I'll see what I can do," he said. "Will you take the car to Carmel's house?"

  "Sure."

  Crane halted at his house, set the emergency and stepped out into a bed of dahlias. Williams appeared, his eyes bright with curiosity.

  Crane asked, "Where's Ann?"

  "Not back yet." Williams eyed the convertible. "Where'd you get the job with the outside plumbing?"

  "It's Carmel's," Crane said, leading the way into the house. He felt a little worried about Ann.

  "How was the shooting?" Williams asked.

  "Lousy," Crane said. "Nobody could hit me."

  He got a decanter of scotch, poured himself a good drink. He told Williams about Simeon March and gave him a graphic account of the attack at the Duck Club. He was so moved by his tale that he had another drink.

  "You certainly have a tough time with your suspects," Williams said, taking the decanter from Crane. "You pick Talmadge and he gets knocked off. You pick the doc and what does he do but fix it so you're his alibi for the attack on old man March."

  "There're still some more suspects," Crane said.

  "Is the old man dead?" Williams asked.

  "I don't know."

  "Who was doing the shooting at you?"

  "I don't know."

  Williams disgustedly emptied the decanter into a glass. "You're making a hell of a fine record on this case."

  Crane said, "Well, I'm still alive."

  Over their drinks, Williams related what he had done during the morning. He had, in the first place, examined the exhaust pipe on Talmadge's car. There was rubber on it.

  "It was sticky," he said. "It came off on my fingers."

  But his most important discovery was made at the Country Club. Slats Donovan had been seen there by the head locker man about the time Talmadge had died.

  Crane lowered his glass. "You're sure?"

  "Positive. Thomas, that's the lockerman, used to get his stuff from Donovan during prohibition. He said he spoke to Donovan outside the locker room, thought he was waiting for a member."

  "That puts Donovan right up there," Crane said.

  Williams objected. "Only I can't see a gangster knockin' off anybody with gas."

  The doorbell rang and Beulah let in Peter March. His face was pale and tired. Williams nodded to him and left the room.

  "Is he still alive?" Crane asked.

  "Barely. He's at City Hospital."

  "Dr Woodrin taking care of him?"

  "He's helping Rutledge, the doctor they called first."

  "How did it happen?"

  "Like the others... carbon monoxide. He was found in his garage."

  "In the car?"

  "No. He'd fallen beside it." Curiosity lifted his eyebrows a bit. "What makes you ask?"

  "I wa
s just wondering." Crane stared at him curiously. "Peter, do you mind if I ask you something?"

  "Why, no."

  "Did you find Carmel with Richard in his car that night at the Country Club?"

  The question was like a blow in Peter's face. His lips became loose, his eyelids fell over his eyes. "How did you know?"

  Crane didn't reply.

  "Carmel shouldn't have told," Peter said after a long while.

  "Did you kill Richard?" Crane asked softly.

  "My God! No!" His black eyes were startled. "He was killed by... You know that." His eyes became angry. "And if he weren't, why should I?"

  "I don't know... maybe for Carmel." Crane watched his hands, his fluttering fingers. "You didn't tell Simeon March you killed all these people, did you?"

  Peter's face was pale. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  Crane went on: "Simeon March didn't fake this attack to provide you with an alibi, to throw suspicion off you, did he?"

  "You must be crazy."

  Crane himself couldn't see old man March doing a thing like that to protect Peter. He'd be more likely to turn his son over to the police. "Maybe I am crazy," he said. "I get funny ideas."

  Some of the anger left Peter's face. "What makes you think Richard and John and Talmadge were murdered?"

  "Three deaths in the same family by carbon monoxide are stretching it a bit."

  "I don't mind telling you about Richard," Peter said. "I didn't do anything to be ashamed of."

  He said he had noticed a growing intimacy between Carmel and Richard. He was alarmed about it for John. So when they both disappeared at the Country Club dance, he went out and found them in Richard's car. He'd told Carmel to go inside, intending to give Richard a good tongue lashing, but Richard promptly passed out. So he had gone back to the dance.

  Crane asked, "Peter, did you ever tell John?"

  "No."

  "But didn't Carmel tell you she thought it was John, not you, who caught her in the car with Richard?"

  "You mean John never came out there at all?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Then the suicide note was forged?"