Red Gardenias

CHAPTER II

Under the white porch light was a woman in a magnificently marked mink coat. She was a slender woman and her hair glistened darkly. Back of her, obscured by shadow, stood a man.

"Is this Mr Crane?" she inquired.

"Carmel!" Peter March moved past Crane, held the door open. "And Dad! What are you doing here?"

Simeon March followed the woman into the house walking with hard, abrupt steps. He was the richest man in his state; owner of March amp; Company, the nation s second largest manufacturer of electric washing machines and refrigerators; founder of Marchton, and chairman of the March Foundation for Medical Research.

For Crane, he had another distinction. He was, for the moment, his employer.

In the blue-and-white living room Peter March made the proper introductions. The dark woman s name was Carmel March. Looking at Simeon March, Crane wondered who Carmel March was. Not Richard March s wife; her name was Alice. He put this problem away to answer Simeon March s questions.

"At the last minute we came by airplane," he said. "That s why we re early."

Simeon March had perfectly white hair, heavy pepper-and-salt eyebrows, a drooping mustache, and brown eyes the color of maple sugar. The skin on his face and hands was discolored; it was mostly tan, but there were dark brown patches. He was very wrinkled, almost like an old Indian. He made Crane think of Theodore Roosevelt without in the least looking like him.

He started to say something else to Crane, but an exclamation from Carmel halted him.

"Peter! What s the matter?" She came across the room to him, her dark eyes on the bruise over his temple. "How did you hurt yourself?"

"It isn t anything," Peter said.

"But it is." Her voice was anxious; she turned to Crane. "How did it happen?"

Crane told her, thinking as he talked she was very beautiful. There was a masklike quality about her oval face, but her anxiety over Peter March gave it, for the moment, a lovely mobility. She was one of the most vividly colored women he had ever seen-India-inkk hair, raspberry lips, milk-of-magnesia skin, and eyes.. eyes so dark, so luminous, so liquid they made hit think of very strong coffee.

" But why the devil did you try to stop him?" Simeon March gruffly asked his son when Crane finished.

"He could use the letters for blackmail," Peter said.

Simeon March grunted. "Let him try."

"He got all of them, Peter?" Carmel asked. "All of them?"

"Yes."

She had forgotten about his bruise. She sat on the sofa, let the mink fall away from her, revealing exquisite shoulders. "That s strange," she said softly. She wore black evening gown of tulle, cut so low in front it exposed a blue-shadowed hollow between her breasts.

Crane caught Ann s eyes, green and narrow, on him and he grinned. Let her admire Peter March; he had something to admire, too. He wondered again who Carmel was; she seemed pretty exotic to be a March except by marriage.

Peter was explaining it to his father that he had wanted to destroy Richard s personal documents before the house was occupied. "I just thought of it," he said.

Simeon March demanded, "Did you call the police?"

"If you call the police there ll be publicity," Peter warned.

Crane said, "The man spoke of getting the papers for someone."

"It sounded like blackmail," Peter said.

"Blackmail a dead man?" Simeon March grunted. "Huh!"

Crane thought with considerable pride that he had guessed correctly about Richard. He wondered how long he had been dead.

"This sounds like a mystery drama," Ann said.

"Doesn t it, though?" Carmel March said.

Simeon March stared at her. "You could have prevented this," he growled. "You had a whole year to destroy Richard s papers."

Carmel asked, "Why should I have thought to destroy them?" Her voice was brittle.

For a moment her eyes met his in a defiant stare, then Simeon March swung around to his son, " You could have done it."

"I should have," Peter admitted. "But I never thought until today."

Simeon March s anger made his eyes topaz yellow. "Stupid," he snarled.

Crane thought he d hate to cross the millionaire. He wasn t the kind of man you d try any slick business tricks on. To avert a further explosion, he said, "Will anyone have a drink?"

"I will," Ann said. "I always will."

The others accepted, too. Carmel offered to help get ice and glasses, but Ann refused.

"Sooner or later I m going to have to explore that kitchen," she said. "It might as well be now."

"I ll go along as a bodyguard," Crane said.

Glistening with porcelain and chromium, the kitchen looked as fancy as the ones in magazine advertisements. There was a double sink, an electric stove, an electric dishwasher, and the largest refrigerator Crane had ever seen. He opened the refrigerator door gingerly.

"What s the matter?" Ann asked.

"I was afraid a corpse would come tumbling out."

"Richard s?" Ann asked.

"Someone s," Crane said. "It s a poor case where they haven t got a corpse tucked around the house."

Ann found a tray and high glasses in the pantry. "I think it s a nice case."

"You would." Crane jerked out a rubber ice tray, squeezed cubes of ice into one of the sinks. "I saw you giving Peter March the gladeye."

She said, "You were rubbering at Carmel, too."

He found some seltzer and they went into the living room. After everyone had a drink Simeon March said:

"Crane, I d like to have a word with you."

"Dad, no business now," Peter said. "This is the middle of the night."

"We ll only be a moment," Simeon March said.

Crane followed him into the library, sat down beside him ok a leather davenport. "D you know why you re here?" Simeon March asked him.

All four walls of the library, except where there were narrow windows and a high fireplace, were lined with books. Most of them were bound in leather with illuminated titles, largely in gold; and they ran in matched sets. Crane decided they had been bought for appearance, rather than reading.

"I ve got a rough idea," he said.

"Then I won t have to tell you…"

Crane interrupted him. "I wish you would." He hadn t the least idea what the case was about, but he thought he ought to bluff. "I d like to get the straight story."

"All right." Jerkily, Simeon March produced two cigars. Crane started to duck, so violent was the motion. "Have one?" asked Simeon March.

"No, thanks."

"Don t smoke?"

"Yes. Cigarettes."

"A woman s smoke."

This satisfactorily settled, Simeon March told his story. As he went along Crane felt a thrill of excitement. The case, if facts bore out the old man s inferences, looked like a humdinger.

Nine months ago, in February, Richard March had been discovered dead at the steering wheel of his sedan beside the Country Club at the conclusion of the dance. A defective heater had been blamed for his death by a coroner s jury.

"Your son?" Crane asked.

"My late brother s son. Joseph March s son."

Crane thought Mr March sounded as though he expected him to know who Joseph was, so he nodded as if he did know.

"Was there a defective heater?" he asked.

A look of grim humor came into Simeon March s wrinkled face. "I don t know. Nobody inquired."

"But why not?"

"People accepted his removal gratefully, without inquiring into whys and wherefores."

"He wasn t popular?"

"He was a complete wastrel."

"Didn t he work for March amp; Company?"

"Yes and no." Simeon March discovered the cigar was out. "Damn this thing!" He violently struck a match. "Richard was general manager in charge of sales." Air made a sucking noise through the cigar. "But I never heard of his working."

Crane nodded. "And then-"

Simeon March took a long pull at the cigar, blew the smoke out hard. "And then my John died."

He told of his death without evidence of emotion, but the hand holding the burning match trembled. He didn t look at Crane while he talked.

John had died just a month ago. He had apparently been trying to fix his motor in his garage ("He was a first-rate mechanic," Simeon March interpolated.) and had been overcome by carbon monoxide. His body was on the floor. The hood over the engine was up and there were tools on the car s running board. Carmel March had discovered him.

"His wife?" Crane asked.

"Yes."

Crane reflected that Carmel seemed pretty cheerful for a widow of a month s standing. She was wearing black, but her attitude…

He broke this train of thought to ask: "How did the doors happen to be closed? A mechanic should have known — "

"There was a strong wind that day. Supposed to have blown the doors shut."

"Two carbon-monoxide deaths." Crane frowned. "Quite a coincidence. What was the coroner s verdict?"

"Like the other-accidental."

"Well, there are a lot of accidental deaths that way… and a lot of suicides."

"John wouldn t kill himself."

"What about Richard?"

"Richard was drunk when he died." Simeon March s voice showed his dislike for Richard. "You don t kill yourself when you re drunk."

"I never have," Crane admitted. He scratched the back of his neck. "Do you have any proofs of murder?"

"Do you think I would have hired you if I had?"

"But your suspicions were aroused by something?"

"Yes."

"By what?"

Simeon March stood up. His jaw was set. "I d rather not say." He chewed his cigar. "I want you to make an independent investigation. If you find anything, come to any conclusion, I want to know about it. That s all."

"All right." Crane stood up, too. "Does anyone know Miss Fortune and I are detectives?"

"No one."

"Not even your son, Peter?"

"Not even Peter. And nobody must know, you understand? That s why I ve had you pose as an employee of the advertising department. I want you to mingle with John s friends without arousing suspicion."

"It s a good setup," Crane said. "Provided I can write advertisements for washing machines."

"If you get in trouble I can arrange for a New York agency to write them for you."

"Maybe I ll turn out all right," Crane said.

"The only thing I don t like about the scheme is the agency s idea of your pretending to be married."

"Colonel Black thought a married couple would mix more easily."

"But aren t you likely to compromise Miss Fortune?"

"It s like taking a secretary on a business trip," Crane said. "Nobody thinks anything of that now."

"Well, it s her problem." Simeon March chewed his cigar. "When will you have something for me?"

Crane raised his shoulders. "It s a pretty large order. Especially when there s such a lapse of time."

"Do as much as you can." Crane said, "I ll keep…"

Carmel March entered the room, smiled at Crane, said, "He s a slave driver, isn t he?" Then, to Simeon March, "Dad, I ll run along with Peter."

"All right."

She smiled again at Crane. "Good night."

"Good night."

She was taller than Crane had thought, and she walked with long, graceful steps. She had a beautiful figure. He watched her until she went out the door. She smelled of gardenias.

"How long had John been married?" he asked Simeon March.

"Six years."

"Any children?"

"No." Simeon March s face was expressionless. "None."

Crane thought he caught a note deeper than irony in Simeon March s tone. He debated about his next question for an instant, then decided to ask it. Certainly, the trend of the conversation invited it.

"Did they get along well?" he inquired.

Simeon March shook his head. "No." He walked to one of the windows overlooking the driveway. "John was a serious boy. He was a worker…" His voice died away.

"And Carmel?"

"She didn t help him. She liked to go out. Parties, dancing…"

Crane walked to the window, stood just in back of March. "And when John wouldn t take her out she went out anyway?"

The old man didn t answer.

Crane asked, "Is there a motive which would link the deaths, Mr March?"

"I can t say."

"Can t or won t?" Simeon March was silent.

There were voices in the drive. Peter March was helping Carmel into a green convertible with white-wall tires. She was laughing and they heard her say, "You re going to have a swell shiner tomorrow, Peter. I know the signs."

"I ll say you gave it to me," Peter said. "I ll tell everybody you got tight and let me have it."

Crane said to Simeon March, "You must have had a reason for hiring detectives. You must suspect someone."

"I do."

"Who?"

Simeon March shook his head. "I told you I d rather not say. I don t — "

Carmel March s voice was very distinct. "Let s do go and get tight, Peter," she called.

Peter went around the car. "All right." He got in and backed down the driveway. They were laughing about something. The car disappeared behind a row of elms.

"John… now Peter!" Simeon March stared at the empty driveway, suddenly wheeled on Crane. "There s your murderer! Tie a rope around her neck, Detective. Stand her on the gallows." His voice was hoarse, almost indistinct. "I ll see the trap is sprung."