Jonathan Latimer - Red Gardenias

"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."

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?"