Jonathan Latimer - Red Gardenias

"No," said March. "He s a very efficient householder. My name is Peter March. Will you have a drink?"

"I think that would be nice."

"Here, darling." Crane gave her his glass, said, "Mr March is the son of Simeon March."

Her brows arched over green eyes. "With all those millions behind him, does he have to housebreak?"

Peter March laughed boyishly. Crane said, "He didn t expect us until tomorrow."

"We didn t expect him, either." She sat on the blue sofa, drew her knees under her. "It was polite of him to call, though." Her slim legs were tan.

"Now, really," Peter March objected with a smile. "I can explain everything."

"He has," said Crane.

"Everything s all right?" Ann asked.

"Certainly."

"Then why don t you put that gun away, darling?" Crane was astonished to find the revolver in his hand. He put it on the desk, beside the pile of papers. Peter March said, "I was hoping someone would think of that."

Crane put two fingers of whisky in a glass. "Here s to bigger burglaries."

They all drank. Ann covered her ankles with a fat pillow. "Is it always as cold as this in November?"

"It gets pretty cold, but we like it," March said. "It brings the ducks down."

"I love duck," Ann said.

"Do you? If he likes, I ll take your husband out to our duck club."

Crane said, "I m not such a shot."

"That s all right."

"I d like to, then."

"Fine. Next Sunday."

Ann asked what wives did while their husbands shot duck.

"It depends upon the kind of wives they are," Peter March said.

Crane said, "She s the worst kind." He grinned at Ann.

"Then she ll have a cocktail party. That s the custom of Marchton s upper-crust wives." Against March s dark skin, his teeth looked very white. "They pretend they drink in protest."

Crane said, "She ll stay home and sew while I m away."

"I ll sew nothing," Ann said, "unless it s wild oats."

Crane saw admiration in Peter March s eyes. He. didn t blame him. Maybe he shouldn t have objected so strenuously to working with Ann. But she was the boss s niece-that was bad. He hadn t wanted a relative of the boss to see how he handled a case. He supposed he would hardly dare take a drink while she was around.

Peter March told them his father had arranged for them to become members of the Country and City clubs.

"That s decent of him," Crane said.

"And this house is lovely," Ann added.

"Dick s wife, Alice, just finished decorating it before they got divorced," Peter March said, his face not quite so pleasant. "She had a man-at least he wore trousers — all the way from New York to do the work." His eyebrows were back in two absolutely straight lines. "It cost Dick close to twenty thousand."

He sounded as though he didn t approve of the expenditure. Crane wondered what had happened to Richard. He thought maybe he was dead.

"It was terribly nice of you to let us have it," Ann said.

Peter March put down his glass, offered her a cigarette. She took one and he lit a match. "Dad was glad to get it rented," he said. "It belongs to the estate." He lit his own cigarette. "It s for sale… no bids."

Crane said, "It is a swell layout. All we had to do was hang up our hats."

"We were pleased to fix it up. It isn t often we can pick up as good an advertising man. Our advertising department needs some life." Peter March raised him glass, held it to his lips, spoke over it. "I ve been after Dad a year to get somebody good."

"Sometimes I m pretty bad," Crane said.

Ann said, "Dear, you re a wonderful copy writer."

Crane scowled at her, drawing his brows down toward his nose, but this apparently had no effect.

"He has what is known as F. A.," she explained to Peter March. "Feminine appeal."

Crane had to laugh. He said, "I m known as Casanova Crane, the Copy-Writing Cad."

"You re good if you can put sex appeal in a washing machine," Peter March said.

He was smiling again, and Crane noticed the difference it made in his appearance. In his age, too. In repose his face looked sullen, mostly because of his utterly straight brows and the downcurve of his lips..It looked middle aged. Smiling, he was boyish, almost handsome. Crane supposed he was about twenty-eight.

"Will you have another drink?" he asked.

Peter March said he d have a small one. They all had a small one. Then March looked at his wrist watch. "I ve got to go." He shook Ann s hand; an unnecessary gesture, Crane thought. "This is the nicest burglary I ve ever committed," he told her.

"Please break in again," Ann said.

Crane said, "Our front door is always locked to you."

"Thank you." March was half a head taller than Ann. He was smiling again. "If you haven t a car we ve plenty. You may want to look the town over tomorrow."

"Why, that s nice…" Ann began, smiling up at him.

Crane broke in, "We ve got one on the way from New York. Williams, our general factotum, is driving it with our belongings."

Peter March said, "But if he doesn t get here — "

"We ll be glad to use yours," Ann said.

March moved toward the table with the parchment-shaded lamp. "I ll get my papers and — "

A hollow, metallic voice from the door said, "No, buddy. No, you won t. Keep your mitts off that desk."

A thin man in a blue overcoat stood by the living-room door. Crane had an idea he had been there for a considerable time. A white handkerchief masked the lower part of his face; a felt hat shadowed his eyes. He had an automatic pistol.

"I ll take them papers," he said.

Crane had never heard a voice like the man s. It had a resonance, as though he was talking through a piece of gas pipe. It sounded as though he had a tin larynx. His breath made a whistling noise, too, when he spoke.

"Get over with them others," he said to Peter March.

Crane said, "This house is about as private as the Grand Central Station."

"Don t get wise," the man whispered. "I don t want to sap anybody, see?" A button was missing off the left sleeve of his overcoat.

Waving Peter March aside with the pistol, he advanced on the table. Ann Fortune watched him through cucumber-green eyes. He put a handful of papers in his overcoat pocket.

"No," said Peter March. "You can t do that."

He started for the man, and for an instant Crane was certain he was about to be shot. The man looked frightened, undecided. Crane held his breath. Then the man hit March on the temple with the barrel of his pistol.

Crane saw his wrist was small. The bone was a blue-white, like the wristbone of a man who has been begging in winter. March fell down, but he wasn t badly hurt. Ann started to scream.

"Now, sister…" the man whispered.

Ann was silent. The man put the rest of the papers in his overcoat pocket. He saw the revolver, put that in his pocket. He pointed his pistol at Crane.

"That all?"

"That s all I know about," Crane said. "What about you, March?"

March sat on the Aubusson, both hands pressed to his temple. "I don t know anything about them," he said sullenly.

"Like hell!" The man s voice, with that metallic quality, sounded Chinese. "I heard you tell our friends why you was here."

"All right," March said.

"Yeah, but it ain t." The man stood over March, but his eyes, the pistol were on Crane. "A certain party don t want anybody nosin around."

"All right," March said.

The man took two quick steps, reached a hand in March s inside coat pocket, pulled out three letters, all the time keeping the pistol pointed at Crane.

He jeered, "So you don t know nothin, Mister March?"

"Listen," March began. "I ll give…"

"Stow it." The man raised the pistol as though he was going to backhand March s face. "They ll be safe where they re going." He bent his body so that his face was near March s. "Safe, see?"