Red Gardenias

CHAPTER XIV

In a corner of the Country Club ballroom Crane found Ann talking to Alice and Talmadge March. "May I have this dance, madam?" he inquired. He hadn t seen her since dinner.

She was wearing an evening gown of black satin which clung tightly to her body and then, halfway to her knees, flared out to the floor. The black contrasted well with her taffy hair. She fitted very nicely in his arms. She smelled very nice, too. She smelled of English lavender.

"You re a swell dancer," he said.

The music was on the sweet side, with lots of muted brass in the orchestra. He saw Carmel and Peter on the floor. They danced as gracefully, as effortlessly as professional dancers, but neither of them seemed to be having a good time. Peter s black brows were drawn into a scowling V. He stared at Crane without recognition.

Crane asked, "What s wrong with the guy?"

"He quarreled with Talmadge," Ann said.

"What about?"

Ann didn t know. "I saw them just as it ended," she said. "They were both white with rage. I think, if they d been alone, they d have fought."

Crane frowned in thought. "That s a swell family, the March family. Simeon hates Carmel; Alice and Talmadge hate Carmel; Simeon hates Richard; Peter fights with Talmadge; Carmel almost betrays John with Richard; Peter likes…"

"Well, go on," Ann said.

He said, "I think you re the prettiest girl here."

The orchestra wasn t bad, even if it was a trifle corny. It played some of the old pieces Crane liked: "Sweet Sue,"

"Who,"

"Star Dust,"

"Three O Clock in the Morning" and "Melancholy Baby."

It was nice dancing with Ann, even though she probably wished she were somewhere else. She danced beautifully.

After a time he said, "I m sorry I ve been so nasty about Peter. Maybe I won t have him hung after all."

"I don t think you can," she said. "You do like him, don t you?"

"Yes."

The familiar pieces the orchestra was playing made him a little bit sad. He thought it was a good thing she liked Peter. He had plenty of dough and he was young. And Ann would be a swell wife. It d be tough on a gal like that (any gal, for that matter) to hook up with a detective who suffered from chronic hang-overs. He sighed. He felt a lot older than thirty-five.

"What s the matter?" Ann asked.

"I don t know." He evaded a man and a girl in a filmy violet dress, moved into a clear space by the wall. "Ann…"

"What?"

"Would it help any if I explained to Peter that we aren t married?"

"No."

"I mean that we re working together… nothing immoral."

She said, "I m tired of hearing you talk about Peter."

"I m sorry." The music paused and they stood facing each other. "Look, Ann. I think you re swell. I really haven t meant to hurt you, chasing Delia and drinking too much."

The music started again; it was an old-fashioned waltz. The noise of the violins was sad. The dancers were more graceful than they had been, moving in smooth arcs, like ice skaters.

"I wanted you to know. Anything you do is O.K."

He took her in her arms, began to waltz. "It s my fault we ve been fighting. I ll try to be nicer."

"I ll try, too."

He swung her toward the center of the floor. "Look, let s pretend… since we have to work together… that we like each other. I mean, as far as our conversation."

"All right."

He grinned at her. "I m nuts, but a detective doesn t have a hell of a lot of family life." Her body, scented with lavender, was slender, supple. "I d like to see what it s like."

She didn t say anything. He felt a little ashamed of himself. A slick-haired youngster cut in on them. He said, "So long, Ann," and cut in on Alice March.

She said, "You don t drink, do you?"

"A medicinal drop now and then."

"I need a drink."

"Come to the taproom."

"No. I don t want a crowd."

"Lady, you know this place better than…"

She pressed his arm, said, "Meet me at the entrance to the Ladies Locker Room," and left him.

Ann was getting a rush from the collegiate stag line, so he went down to the taproom. At the table in front of the open fire sat Judge Dornbush, the March amp;

Company attorney, Dr Woodrin, Simeon March and two other men. They were drinking brandy. In the light of the blazing logs, the judge s face was brick red; he looked like a regency three-bottle man.

They were talking about the duck shooting in the morning, assuring each other the cold weather would bring the birds down from Canada.

"We ll see you, won t we?" Dr Woodrin called to Crane.

Crane said, "Sure." He refused an invitation to have a drink.

He got a bottle of scotch, some seltzer, two glasses and a bowl of ice. He had promised Ann not to drink, but this was business. His feet echoed on the stone corridor leading to the locker rooms, and he tried to walk on his toes. He found a green screen on which there was a sign: Ladies Locker. He leaned against the cement wall and waited. He waited five minutes, ten minutes, nearly fifteen minutes before Alice March appeared. Her canary-bird-colored hair was disarranged, her plump face was white. She looked ill.

"Let s go in here," she said.

"But my goodness! That s the Ladies…"

"Nobody comes down here." She pushed him past the screen.

He was relieved to discover a small anteroom with wicker chairs and a magazine-covered table in front of the lockers. He could see white tile and shower curtains at the other end of the long room. He sat down so that his back was toward the white tile, mixed two drinks.

Alice March said, "Here s how," and emptied half her glass.

"Hey!" Crane said in alarm. "You ll get tight that way.

"I want to."

She wore a brown evening gown. Her eyes were pink from weeping; her nose was a trifle red. She finished her glass, handed it to Crane. She had good legs, but the rest of her body was too plump.

They finished a second drink, and a third. Crane began to feel philosophical. It must have turned very cold outside, he decided, because the small, square windows in the locker room were frosted. Or maybe there was frosted glass in them. In that case you couldn t be sure about the weather. It could have turned cold without his knowing it. He fixed two more drinks. He was surprised to see the bottle was only half full.

He asked Alice, "Why have you been weeping?"

"I haven t," she said.

"Yes, you have." He closed one eye and looked at her through the other. "Is it because of Talmadge?"

"What if it is?"

"He s a nice fellow."

"He s a rat."

"Why, I didn t know that." He opened both eyes. "I can hardly believe it. A real rodent?"

"You d believe it if you knew what I know about him."

"What do you know about him?"

"I know he s trying to protect Carmel."

"Carmel?"

"Peter and Carmel. He knows something about them, but he won t tell."

"Is that why he had a quarrel with Peter?"

"Yes." She laughed bitterly. "He had a quarrel with me, too. I wanted him to tell what he knows about them."

Crane waited for her to continue.

"He told me to mind my business," she said.

"This seems to be Talmadge s night to fight."

Her voice suddenly softened. "It s his cold. He has a terrible cold."

"What does he know about Peter and Carmel?" Crane asked.

She shook her head. "He wouldn t tell me. I think he threatened Peter with it tonight. They had such a quarrel. It must be about Carmel." Her plump hands trembled. "Peter s a fool. He ought to know she s out to destroy the March family."

Crane nodded wisely. A girl was singing with the orchestra in the ballroom. He hoped he would be able to remember what Alice was saying. He took a sip of whisky to clear his mind, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He no longer felt embarrassed about being in the Ladies Locker Room.

She continued in a voice harsh with passion. "You don t know it, but Richard March was in love with her. She made him love her; then she killed him."

His eyes popped open. "Killed him?"

"She was responsible." Defiantly, she finished her drink. "Oh, she didn t kill him herself. She hasn t the courage for that, but she was responsible." Her glass slid across the wicker table, was nearly deflected to the floor by a pile of golfing magazines. "Richard wasn t so bad, either."

"A lot of girls thought he was swell."

"Sure they did." Her words sounded like sobs. Crane realized she didn t care who she was talking to; she was simply having a good emotional blowoff. "Sure they did," she repeated. "Why not?"

"He had appeal, hey?"

"There wasn t a girl in town who didn t want him."

He nodded to show he understood.

"And then, when he did fall in love himself, he had to fall for her."

Crane said, "Don t tell me you still love him?"

"I don t know." Her eyes glowed. "I loved him like hell once. I would have done anything for that man."

This was the second time Crane had heard a woman say she loved Richard. Delia, and now Alice, who should hate him. He was beginning to have an acute admiration for Richard.

He asked, "But what about Talmadge?"

She thought for a moment. "I like him, but in a different way."

Crane closed his eyes again. He seemed to be able to hear better with them closed. He groped for his glass, found it, had a drink. The inside of his mouth was numb, he could hardly taste the whisky.

"Why do you think he ought to turn up Peter?"

"I ll tell you. He — " She hesitated for so long a time that, thinking she might have left the room, Crane opened his eyes. " I don t know why I m saying all this."

"Hell!" He poured her a good shot of whisky. "It s just between us girls."

"I don t care, anyway." She reached for the glass. "Peter hasn t any claim on me."

"Peter?"

"Yes." She looked like an angry cat. "I think he killed Richard. I don t believe it was an accident."

"Peter?" He realized he had said this before, and asked, "Why?"

"Because of Carmel."

He felt very confused. He didn t think it was the liquor, either. "But what makes you think…?"

"He was outside before Richard died." Her voice was spiteful. "We d been dancing, and I noticed he was looking around for Carmel. John was dancing with Janice Squires. When Carmel had been gone for half an hour Peter suddenly left me on the floor and went outside."

She took a drink. Crane could hear the music upstairs. He wondered how long he d been in the locker room.

Alice went on, "Then Carmel came back, looking scared. And in about ten minutes Peter came in. He was pale. I thought he was sick. Imagine! I was worried about him." She laughed. "Imagine! I asked him if he was sick."

"Maybe he was," Crane said. "Maybe he went out for air."

"No." Her lips were drawn into a thin smile. "He either saw… or did… something."

Crane suddenly became aware of someone in the room. He opened his eyes, saw a pair of silver slippers, a long row of big silver buttons, white shoulders. It was Carmel March. She had on a black evening gown with silver buttons up the middle. She apparently had been standing there for some time.

She came and stood over Alice. "You louse," she said. "You fat, troublesome louse!" Her voice was hard.

She bent over and slapped Alice s face from right to left. It sounded like a paper bag bursting.

She said, "I ve been wanting to do that for a long time."

Alice looked frightened, but she came out of her chair in a hurry, her head shielded by her left arm. "You…" she said, taking a step in Carmel s direction. She clawed at Carmel s face, left parallel red slashes on her neck.

Carmel slapped her again, sent her back against the table. Both the whisky bottle and the seltzer siphon toppled, rolled across the table in unison, shattered on the floor.

Alice fumbled for a weapon on the surface of the table, with both hands flung magazines in Carmel s face. She was sobbing, choking. She rushed at Carmel, grappled with her.

For five seconds they wrestled, their eyes white and mad, their red mouths distorted, their faces close. Above the sound of their breathing briefly rose the music of a waltz, sweet with violins. Then Alice s tangerine-colored nails flashed in the light, tore more flesh from Carmel s neck. A second downward, clawing stroke broke the skin on Carmel s shoulder, tore off one of the evening gown s straps, half her white brassiere. She threw both arms around Carmel s neck, tried to wrestle her to the floor. Carmel bit her forearm to the bone.

Alice s scream tortured Crane s eardrums.

Freed from the encircling arms, Carmel hit out with her closed fist, moved up, hit again. Alice, caught off balance, fell back against the wall, slid to the floor, remained for an instant in a sitting position, then fell on her left side. Blood oozed from the bite in her arm.

Carmel stood over her, watching her. She looked frightened. "She isn t…?" she began.

Crane said, "The Hays office would never pass you like that."

Without taking her eyes off Alice, Carmel pulled up brassiere and dress. "Look at her," she commanded. "See if she s dead."

"I hardly think so." Crane got up and bent over Alice. "No. She s breathing."

"Thank God!" Carmel sat in Alice s chair. "What a terrible thing!"

"I ve paid ten dollars for a seat at worse fights."

"If I d killed her… "

Feet sounded in the corridor. Dr Woodrin and Ann appeared at the locker-room door. "Did someone… " the doctor began, and then caught sight of Alice. "My God! What happened?"

"A little tussle," Crane said.

The doctor knelt beside Alice, felt her pulse. He straightened her body, said, "Get me a pillow." Ann got two damp towels from the shower room, and he wrapped these around the girl s head. In the medicine chest Ann found iodine and bandages for the arm.

Carmel, watching them, was so pale that Crane became alarmed. He thrust a glass in her hand. "Drink this."

"I m all right," she said.

"What happened?" Ann asked.

"They got into sort of a discussion," Crane said.

Carmel said, "Alice was drunk."

Dr Woodrin, from the floor, glanced at her with inquiring eyes. "It doesn t make any difference, anyway." He looked to Crane. "There ll be no scandal as long as we keep quiet."

"I was going to call the newspapers," Crane said. "But…"

Carmel interrupted him. "Will she be all right?"

"Sure." Dr Woodrin looked boyish with his close-cut black hair and pink-and-white cheeks. "I think it s alcohol rather than concussion."

Crane said, "You d better look after Carmel s cuts."

Ann found some alcohol, and the doctor bathed the scratches.

Alice moaned and sat up. She looked at them with incurious eyes. "I don t feel well," she said.

Dr Woodrin helped her to her feet, held her with an arm around her waist when she swayed unsteadily. "You d better lie down for five or ten minutes," he said. "I ll give you some ammonia."

"There are some cots by the showers," Carmel said.

The surgeon led Alice to the back of the locker room. Ann looked at Crane curiously. "How come you re not scarred up?"

"It was a private fight."

Carmel said, "Not private enough, though." She turned her great eyes upon him. "You re not going to pay any attention…?"

"She was tight," Crane said.

"Thanks," Carmel said.

Fairly sober again, Crane watched her admiringly. She had been accused of murder, adultery and a few other more or less destructive qualities; had finished a really first-class drag-out fight, yet her composure was perfect. That wasn t all that was perfect about her, either. It was too bad, he thought, that Alice hadn t lasted a little longer. She might have stripped Carmel naked.

Dr Woodrin came back. "She ll be all right now." He looked at the door. "Hello! Who s this?"

It was Williams. His button-bright black eyes were excited. "Mr Crane," he said.

"What is it?"

"Something outside I d like to show you."

"What?"

"You better come. The doc, too."

Something in his tone brought them all on his heels. Crane walked beside Ann along the corridor leading to the service entrance.

She said, "Didn t I hear you say you weren t going to drink?"

"I didn t drink very much." He had an idea. "Anyway, it was business."

She didn t consider that a very good excuse. "I thought we were going to be nice to each other, too," she added.

"We are." He tried to take her arm, but she pulled away.

"Do you think leaving me alone for an hour to drink around with Carmel is being nice?"

"It was Alice."

"Do you have to call them by their first names?"

"You call Peter, Peter."

"That s different," she said angrily.

Outside, bitter air stung their nostrils, made their heads ache. The moon was nearly full: its light silver on the dew-coated grass. In the distance, clear in the tranquil air, violins mourned over a tango, "La Cumparsita."

"This way," Williams said.

They passed along a dark passageway formed by parked cars, walking now on cinders. Their shoes made a crunching noise. The faces of the two women were like jasmine blossoms in the moonlight. Crane pulled his dinner jacket over his chest. It was cold.

"Here," Williams said.

They halted a few feet from a black sedan. For a moment Crane was conscious of something very odd about the sedan, but he didn t know what it was. Then three things came to his attention: the motor was running; a gray mist, almost like steam, was floating from the right rear window; a man was huddled against the right front door, asleep in the seat next to the driver s.

He knew the man was not asleep.

He could not tell, afterward, how long they stood there, watching the wispy mist above the rear window. It was the color of pine smoke. It was like air from the lungs on a cold day. It diminished and expanded; it was like very sheer gray silk; it was like cigarette smoke rolling from an open mouth.

"I heard the motor," Williams said.

Crane jerked open the front door, helped Dr Woodrin lift out the body. He held his breath while his head was within the car. He stepped aside after they had placed the body on the cinders, allowed the doctor to kneel by the head.

Carmel s voice was out of tune. "Talmadge March!" she cried. Her voice made shivers run up and down Crane s back.

Even in the moonlight Crane could see Talmadge s face was discolored. It looked purple, but he supposed in daylight it would be crimson. That was the usual color of carbon monoxide victims.

Dr Woodrin stood up. "We d better send for the coroner." His voice was matter of fact.

Carmel said, "It s Talmadge s car-why isn t he in the driver s seat?"

"I don t know," Crane said.

With a last sigh of violins, "La Cumparsita" came to an end. The clubhouse filled with a hollow sound of handclapping. Carmel March s breath Wheezed in her throat. Crane went over to the sedan, put his head inside, turned the ignition key. He sniffed cautiously.

Heavy, sweet, cloying, an odor of gardenias clogged his nostrils, made his heart pound with excitement.