Red Gardenias Read online

  Simeon March followed the woman into the house walking with hard, abrupt steps. He was the richest man in his state; owner of March & 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 & 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."

  CHAPTER III

  Breakfast was served by a large colored lady who arrived at seven-thirty and said her name was Beulah. She brought with her a young colored girl to assist in the housework.

  Crane felt pretty well. He hadn't had enough sleep because he had spent an hour before going back to bed telling Ann Fortune of the deaths from carbon monoxide and of Simeon March's accusation of Carmel, but then he hardly ever had enough sleep. Between the cereal and the eggs, he tried to piece together the scraps of paper thrown by Peter March in the living-room wastebasket. Ann came to the table.

  "Any luck?"

  She was, he had to admit, a nice example of what nature could do in the way of a blonde. She was wearing a pair of blue lounging pajamas which contrasted very well with her tanned skin and her eyes, turquoise this morning.

  "Not much." He grinned at her. "Aren't you going to kiss me good morning?"

  It appeared that she wasn't. She sat across the table from him, pulled some of the scraps to her. Deftly, she pieced together two liquor bills. They were for June and July and showed by their size that Richard March had entertained extensively.

  Crane assembled one more, and then Ann found a more interesting note; written on half a sheet of fine linen paper in purple ink. It was dated July 15, and read: Darling,

  Can't make Brookfield this W. E. Business. Stop Dairy.

  Delia

  Crane was interested. "That sounds as though Richard was up to something immoral." The second letter, also in violet ink, read: S. is sprung. He's heard something, so be careful if you can't be good. I hope you can't.

  Delia

  "Ah!" Crane drunk the last of his coffee. "Trouble looms."

  Ann said, "It's awfully ominous. Bill, what does 'sprung' mean?"

  "Freed from a bastille."

  "Oh!" She looked to see if he was serious, then asked, "What's a heister? I ought to know words like those, hadn't I, if I'm to catch criminals?"

  He told her a heister was a stick-up man. "S. sounds nasty," Ann said. "Going around hearing things."

  "He probably wouldn't overlook a week end."

  "Not with a passionate woman like Delia."

  Crane spoke to her severely. "How can you tell Delia is passionate? I think she's very reserved, just signing her name to the letters."

  "The violet ink," Ann said. "You don't write business letters in violet ink."

  "It depends upon what business you're in," Crane said.

  Beulah brought more coffee. "Is everything all right, ma'am?" she asked Ann. "It's fine, Beulah."

  Crane leaned back in his chair, sighed mournfully. "I suppose I'd better report to March & Company."

  "Aren't you going to do anything about Delia?"


  "I'll see if I can hear of somebody named Delia."

  "I'll find her," Ann said.

  "If somebody named Delia calls on you, you will."

  "No, I'll find her."

  "Am I supposed to keep house while you're doing this?"

  "No. I'll just find her. There's no reason why I can't detect."

  "No reason except blondes don't have brains."

  "You'll see."

  "O.K.," Crane said. "But I bet I get her first."

  "Champagne?"

  "Sure."

  "It's a bet."

  They shook hands. Ann's hand felt smooth and slender. Crane asked, "What are you going to do?"

  "Do you think I'd give away the secrets of my profession?"

  "Gosh!" He was impressed. "You're beginning to talk like a detective."

  "I am a detective," Ann said. "Just because you didn't want me to come along doesn't mean — "

  "You were the boss's niece."

  "You were afraid I would tell him how much you drank?"

  "No," Crane lied. "The thing was I hadn't seen you in blue pajamas."

  Ann looked as though she might blush, and said, "About the deaths, what do you want me to find out from Carmel?" She didn't look angry. "She's coming over this morning."

  "Maybe I won't go to work," Crane said.

  "You'll go to work if I have to send for the police," Ann declared. "What do you want me to find out?"

  "I don't know." He looked at his coffee cup, but it was empty. "What'd you and Carmel talk about while I was with old man March?"

  "Just ordinary small talk." Ann tinkled the bell on the table. "How stuffy a small town is... the best shops... where to get your hair done... places to go at night... "

  Crane asked eagerly, "Did you get the names of some good joints?"

  Beulah came in and said, "Yes, ma'am?" Ann said, "More coffee for Mr Crane." Pleased, Crane thought it might be nice to have a thoughtful girl like Ann around the house. Particularly one as seductive in a pair of pajamas. He wondered if she had slept with her bedroom door locked.

  Ann continued, "They both seemed awfully nervous." Crane said, "They seemed pretty interested in each other, too."

  "Do you think so?" she asked coldly, as if she didn't like the idea.

  "When a dame almost weeps over a guy's wound I wonder." Crane put sugar in his coffee. "You notice, she didn't worry whether I had a wound or not."