Red Gardenias

CHAPTER IX

There was green carpet on the upstairs hall floor. There were many doors. There was a stink of incense and cheap perfume. Delia Young entered the next-to-last room on the right without glancing back to see if Crane was following.

"Close the door," she said over her shoulder.

The room obviously had been furnished by a department store. It looked like display window No. 3; Moderne, in green. There was a low davenport finished in a material that looked like green-stained burlap, and on it were three tan-and-absinthe pillows. The pale rug on the floor was about the shade of creamed spinach. Two white lacquered chairs had seats covered with the green-stained burlap, if that was what it was.

Delia had gone into an inside room. Beside a bookcase filled with novels in bright wrappers was a white cabinet. He found a bottle of whisky, some seltzer and two glasses in it. He poured himself a drink.

Delia called, "Mix me one, too."

He did, then sat on the davenport. He was worried about Lefty s neck. He wondered if it had had a steel tube in it, perhaps because of a bullet wound, and if Delia s fist could have jolted the tube. Then Lefty would probably choke to death. He wondered if Delia had purposely hit the man s neck. He didn t feel so good about Delia. He took a drink of the whisky.

He had almost finished the glass when she appeared. She was wearing pajamas. They were of silk, entirely black except for a DY woven in white thread over her left breast. She had put on a diamond bracelet.

She got her glass and sat down beside him on the davenport, touching his thigh with her elbow. She smelled of chypre. Her eyes were underlined with violet mascara.

"I like you, Arthur," she said.

"I certainly hope so. I d hate to have you punch me."

"Lefty had it coming to him."

"But won t he tell Slats?"

"No. That monkey s been trying to promote me for months. He knows what I d tell Slats if he crossed me."

When she bent toward him a slit appeared between two of the buttons on her pajama coat, and he could see her white stomach. A woman was laughing shrilly down the hall. She finished the whisky.

"Want a real rear?" she inquired.

"Laudanum?"

"Yeah. A dash with the next whisky."

"I m tall now."

"I didn t think you d be yellow, Arthur."

"All right."

She patted his thigh and went to the cabinet. Someone knocked and Crane started to get up. "No," she said. She went to the door, opened it a crack. A man s voice said something in a whisper.

"Like hell," Delia Young said.

The man whispered again.

"Screw, Frog." Delia slammed the door. "Frenchy Duval don t think you ought to be up here."

"Maybe he s right."

"I m of age, ain t I?"

This was obvious, particularly as one of the two buttons permitting a partial view of her stomach had become unfastened. She came over and gave him a glass. "Try this, Arthur."

He did, and it was terrible. It tasted like cough medicine; it tasted like embalming fluid. It was really awful. He drained the glass.

"Not bad," he said.

Her purple eyes were surprised. "Say, Arthur, you can handle it."

"Sure," he said. "Can t your boy chum?"

"Who?"

"Slats."

"That mick!" She laughed, slapped his thigh. "He don t drink nothing but bubbles, and very little of them He s a businessman."

"I hear he s tough, though."

"I don t know." Her eyes were contemptuous. "He took a beating from old Simeon March without putting up a fight."

Crane was interested. "How?" he asked.

Delia told him. It happened six years back, she said, when Slats was trying to go straight. He got the state distribution agency for both March products, washing machines and refrigerators, when the man who had it retired, and was doing well until Simeon March heard he d done time and kicked him out.

"He took it with his tail between his legs," she said. "He just quit trying to be straight."

Crane asked, "What had he been in jail for?"

"The alky business."

"He s been in since, hasn t he?"

She tasted her drink, made a face. "A year on an income-tax rap. He got out two summers ago."

Crane felt pleased. That fitted with the notes in Richard s house. He wondered if Slats had known about Richard. That would have given him a double motive for the murder: Delia s betrayal and revenge on Simeon March.

"He didn t like the March family, then?" he asked tentatively.

"You don t know the half of it."

The half of it proved to be very interesting. After Donovan had been fired by Simeon he and Talmadge March and Dr Woodrin, Delia said, had decided to start a night club. Woodrin and Talmadge were to put up eight thousand dollars apiece, and Donovan was to manage it. Woodrin was in because he wanted to make money; Talmadge for the fun of being a night-club operator.

But it had been running only a week when John March found out Talmadge was a backer and told Simeon March, who made him drop out.

"They couldn t have a March in a business like that," Delia explained.

The withdrawal of Talmadge diminished the capital, and the club failed. Donovan was very bitter about it, Delia said. He finally got a gambler from Chicago to back him in another club and made a lot of money, but he still hated Simeon March. She said he was always talking about killing him.

This was pretty good, Crane thought. It pointed to Donovan, but it pointed even more to Talmadge March. He murdered Richard because of Alice March; John because he meddled in his business. And, of course, each death meant more money for Talmadge. And he was trying to implicate Carmel with the odor of gardenias.

"What happened to Woodrin?" he asked.

"He lost his dough, too. He was almost as sore as Slats."

No wonder Slats was angry, Crane thought. First Simeon March forced him out of legitimate business. And then John March broke up his night-club venture. And Richard March stole his girl, though perhaps he didn t know that.

"Does Slats hate all the Marchs?" he asked, trying to find out about Richard.

"Just Simeon."

"If he s so tough I d think he d get Simeon."

"He s not so tough, Arthur, I told you. He s soft inside, like marshmallow."

Someone knocked on the door. "Yeah?" Delia said. A man with a pale skin and a small black mustache opened the door. "Hello, Frenchy," Delia said. "Meet my friend, Arthur. Frenchy Duval."

Frenchy looked worried. "Look, Delia," he said, ignoring Crane. "This joint is just startin to make money."

"So what?" Delia said.

"So we don t want any shootings. It ll give us a bad name."

"Who s going to do any shooting?"

"If Slats should…"

"He won t," Delia said.

"It ll ruin us if he comes, though," Frenchy said. Delia laughed huskily. "You can t scare Arthur that way, Frenchy."

"Yes, he can," said Crane.

Delia ignored him. "Scram, Frenchy," she said.

Frenchy closed the door.

Crane said, "I think I ll be going."

"Yellow?"

"You bet."

He got up. In some way his glass had been filled with whisky. He dosed it with laudanum, and downed the drink. "Good-by." The liquor hurt his throat.

Delia was looking at the empty glass. "Man! You drink just like Richard used to."

"Richard March?"

"Who d you think?"

"You were never out with him?"

"You wouldn t want me to sap you, would you, Arthur?"

"No."

"Then don t get wise."

"I m not wise. I just know Richard liked another girl."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Carmel March."

Delia Young s reaction to this was excellent."Where d you hear about her?"

"Oh, around."

"It was around, was it?" She drained her glass. "Gee! That s awful stuff." She tossed the glass into a corner of the room. The shattered pieces made a tinkling noise on the floor, and the dregs left a stain on the wall. "Well, let me tell you somethin about her."

"Go ahead."

"Richard didn t go with her because he wanted to."

"No?"

"He was afraid of her."

Crane made what he hoped was a knowing leer. "Maybe that s what he told you."

"Maybe he did, Arthur. But he told the truth."

Crane had difficulty keeping her face in focus.

"I wanted to have her bumped for him, but he wouldn t go for that," Delia said. "I could of had it done in a minute. But he said he d handle it."

"I guess he didn t, though."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he s dead, isn t he?"

"Sure, but…" Her hand, just above his elbow, pinched his flesh. "Say! You re not tryin to tell me she…"

"Somebody knocked him off."

For thirty seconds Delia was immobile and then, when she spoke, her voice was hardly more than a husky whisper. "How do you know?"

"Somebody hosed carbon monoxide into his car while he was in it."

Her hand hurt his arm. "Could she…"

"I don t know." He watched her face. "There was a smell of gardenias on his body. Her perfume."

Her eyes were wide and purple.

"Of course, Slats might have done it," he said.

She took her hand from his arm; scowled in thought. "It must be her… Slat s would ve said something if… Say! How do you happen to know so much about this, Arthur?"

"I get around."

"I m asking you a question," she said grimly. Crane smiled at her.

"I m going to have to sap you, wise guy."

Her eyes were coldly angry, but under the black silk pajamas her breast moved with her quick breathing. She drew a little away from him.

"I wouldn t," he said.

Suddenly her attention left him. She was listening to something. She smiled. "Okay," she said.

"That s fine." He started around her to the door. "Good-by."

Her attitude was strange. "Don t go away mad." She was smiling, but only with her mouth. She still seemed to be listening to something. "Have one more drink." She took hold of his arm.

"I have to go."

There was a noise of feet in the hall. Her face was suddenly savagely triumphant. She came close to Crane. "Darling," she said.

He was thinking, what the hell? when the door opened. "What s this?" said a man.

He was in a tuxedo and he looked like an ex-prizefighter. He had wide shoulders, a barrel chest, a wasp waist. He was about six feet five and he weighed over two hundred pounds. He had blue-white eyes and a long pock-marked face.

"Slats!" Delia s voice was filled with terror.

The man walked into the room. Back of him came Frenchy Duval and Lefty and two other men. The man walked up to Delia, pulled her away from Crane. He turned toward Crane.

Delia pushed herself between them. "Don t kill him, Slats," she cried. "Don t, please."

It was an act. Crane knew it was an act. It was a beautiful act. But what was it about?

Slats pulled Delia away again. She fought him. In the scuffle Slats hit Crane hard in the face with his elbow.

"I wouldn t do that," Crane said.

Slats swung his shoulders, sent Delia onto the davenport. At the same time his elbow caught Crane s face again. He said to Delia, "Two-time me, will you?"

Crane hit him below his right ear, at the junction of neck and jawbone. Pain shot through his hand and he knew he had broken a knuckle. Slats Donovan looked at him with surprise, as though he hadn t seen him before. The blow hadn t even jarred him.

One of the men had gold teeth. He asked, "Should we bump him, Slats?" He was the bartender from downstairs.

Slats hunched his shoulders, and Crane got ready to duck. Then Slats said, "Hell, I just had a manicure."

He jerked his head at the others. "Keep him… I may want to talk to him." He picked up Delia Young and carried her into the other room.

The four men advanced on Crane. The man with the gold teeth had a pistol. Crane said, "Never mind. I ll go with you."

"Sure you will, pal," said the man. "Sure you will."