Red Gardenias (10 page)

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."

The room had nothing in it but a double bed. There were bars on the window and the door was locked. The floor was bare and there was only one light, on the ceiling. Crane sat on the bed and sucked his knuckles. He wondered what was going to happen next.

He didn't understand about Delia. The singer didn't care about him; why had she brought him to her room? Why had she called him "darling" when Slats appeared? Was she trying to get him shot because of his interest in Richard? Did she think in that way she could keep a secret of her affair with Richard?

Of course, Slats wouldn't dare shoot him. That was too cold blooded. But he was in a bad spot, anyway. Slats might beat him up, or have him beaten. That wouldn't be so good. He felt a little frightened. He wished he had a gun.

The door opened and two of the men came into the room. One of them was the bartender with the gold teeth. "How do you feel, pal?" he asked.

"I'd like a drink of water."

"Sure, pal."

He went away. The other man was younger. He had slick black hair and a green suit. "Can we do something else for you, pal?"

"Could I have a cigarette?"

"Anything you say, pal."

He gave Crane a cigarette. He lit a match and held it for Crane. The bartender returned with a glass of water. He gave it to Crane. They both watched him drink.

"You feel all right?" the young man in green asked.

"I guess so," Crane said.

"That's fine, pal," the bartender said.

"Yeah, most of 'em don't," the other said.

"Can we do anything else?" the bartender asked.

"I don't think so."

"Anything you say, pal," the man in green said.

They went out. Crane felt scared. If they had cuffed him around a little he wouldn't be scared. But they were nice to him. That was unnatural. That was what scared him. Of course, Slats wouldn't dare shoot him.

He had no watch but he knew it was very late. There wasn't any sound of music. The Crimson Cat was quiet. Everyone had gone. It wouldn't be any use calling for help. He looked around the room. The window was the only way out, but it would be necessary to break the glass to get at the bars. That would warn the guards. There wasn't a chance of escaping. He got off the bed and knocked on the door and went back to the bed.

The bartender opened the door.

"When can I see Slats?" Crane asked him.

"Soon enough."

"I'd like to see him now."

"Pal, you don't know what you're saying."

The young man was in the doorway. "Don't you like the cigarette?"

"Sure. But..."

The young man said, "Pal, you want to make the most of that cigarette."

Crane sat on the bed for perhaps ten minutes. Somewhere down the hall a woman was sobbing. He wondered if it was Delia Young. He regretted having ever seen her. He nursed his broken knuckle and wished he had a pistol. He was badly frightened.

Slats Donovan came into the room with the two men. The men looked very solemn. "Scram," Slats told them.

They went out and Slats sat across the bed from Crane. "Let's talk."

"About what?"

"About what you were doing with my girl."

"I was talking with her."

Donovan's manner was very solemn. "Delia says you had something else in mind."

"If that's her story I'm stuck with it."

"That's no lie," Donovan said seriously.

"What if I did have something else in mind?" Crane asked.

"I'd have to kill you."

The gambler was serious. He was really thinking of having him murdered, but he wanted to be sure it was the right thing to do. He was like a judge, stern and implacable, but fair. No appeal to his emotions would be any good. He just wanted the truth. It was different from anything Crane had ever encountered. He felt helpless and scared.

"The truth is — " He had to stop to moisten his lips. His mouth was dry with terror. "I wanted to ask Delia about Richard March."

Donovan had a long, lantern-jawed face. The rough skin was so deeply pock-marked it almost looked as if he had encountered a burst of shrapnel. But the remarkable feature was his eyes. They were the blue-white of watered milk. They were like the glass eyes of a cheap doll. They watched Crane without blinking at all.

"Delia did say you told her Richard March was murdered," he said.

"Yes. Somebody hosed carbon monoxide in his car."

"How do you know that?" Crane didn't answer.

"Why were you asking Delia about Richard March?"

"Why don't you ask her?"

"Boys!" Slats called.

The young man with the smooth skin and the bartender were waiting in the hall. Donovan spoke to the bartender.

"Pete, this gentleman won't talk."

"That's very bad," Pete said.

"Maybe you can persuade him."

The young man said, "You want us to exercise him a little, Slats?"

Pete said, "This one is mine."

The young man said, "But you just got to exercise Lefty."

"He don't count," Pete said. "Lefty don't count." Slats said, "Hurry up, boys." He found a cigar in his pocket, cut off the end with a pearl penknife.

"Come on, pal," Pete said to Crane. "Stand up, pal."

"Never mind," Crane said. "I'll tell you about it."

"All right, boys," Donovan said. "Scram."

Crane told him of his job with March & Company and how he had moved into Richard March's house. He described Lefty's theft of the letters.

"That aroused my curiosity," he said. "So I put the torn letters together."

He went on to his discovery of the house on February Lane and to his pursuit of Delia and Lefty. He said their anxiety to evade him had made him suspicious, and lying, added that as a result he had examined Richard's car.

It was impossible to tell from Donovan's blue-and-white eyes whether he knew this was the truth or not. It was impossible to tell if he had known of Delia's affair with Richard, or if he had just learned of it and was angry about it.

Crane went on with the lie. "I found a hose had been fastened to the car's exhaust pipe. That meant Richard was murdered."

Donovan said, "I don't get it."

"The hose is run into the car with the windows closed. The driver doesn't see it; he starts the motor, and in a couple of minutes he's dead. You see, the gas is odorless."