Read Online Red Gardenias by Jonathan Latimer - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Latimer
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Richard."
"And then — "
"The next thing I knew Richard was dead."
Crane was surprised to see tears rolling in big, slow drops down her cheeks. It was very strange. She didn't sob or move in any way; she just sat there, her face like ivory, talking and letting those big tears roll down her cheeks.
"I never talked to John about it," she went on. "I was never sure... until I found his body."
"How do you suppose he killed Richard?"
"I don't know." Tears made her black eyes luminous. She pulled her mink coat from the back of the couch. "I think Richard must have passed out; he had too much champagne, and John did something to the car." She found a lace handkerchief, held it to her eyes. "I'm sorry."
"I know," he said. "Your husband's death must have been a shock."
"It wasn't as if I'd loved him." She looked at him over the handkerchief. "We hadn't been getting along." Her eyes had changed from black to amber.
"You cared for Richard?"
"I liked him, but I didn't love him."
She spoke so simply that Crane believed her. He believed her entire story. He wondered if he did because she was so beautiful. He thought he would make a hell of a juror if she were on trial. He'd let her go with a vote of confidence.
The tears had stopped; she put the handkerchief back in the mink coat. "You think I'm horrible."
"No, I don't."
"You must."
"I really don't."
She touched his wrist for an instant with the tips of her fingers. "Thanks. I had to tell somebody." He felt goose flesh rise all over him. "There was nobody in town I could talk to." She stood up and he held the mink coat for her.
"You won't..." she began.
"Of course not."
"Say good night to your wife for me."
"I'll take you home."
"Don't bother."
"But..."
"I'd rather go alone."
They were at the front door. "Well, then, good night."
"Good night... and thanks."
CHAPTER VII
The limousine traveled the winding road at a good speed, and without strain climbed a long grade. So bright was the moon that the rays from the headlights looked like spilled milk on the cement. The countryside was gray and black.
Dr Woodrin, between Ann Fortune and Carmel March on the back seat, commented on the car's power.
Crane and Peter March were on small seats facing the other three. Crane lied: "I wrote some advertisements for the company. They gave it to me."
"I should've taken up advertising," Dr Woodrin said.
Carmel said, "You could have a private tennis court then, Paul."
While Peter explained to Ann that Dr Woodrin's chief enthusiasm was tennis Crane thought over the day, decided he had accomplished exactly nothing. The party was bound for the Crimson Cat, with Williams driving, and he hoped he would find something there.
He hadn't even told Simeon March about Carmel's story of Richard's murder and her husband's suicide. He knew the old man wouldn't believe it, and he wasn't sure he did himself, now that he'd thought it over. The tools and the lifted hood on John's car puzzled him. How had she had the courage to set the stage for the police, with her husband's body lying there? The natural thing would be to call for help at once.
Of course her story, if true, did tie everything....
"Do you play tennis, Bill?" Peter March asked him.
"Huh? Oh, a little."
Ann said she did, and Crane returned to his thoughts. If Carmel's story wasn't true it meant that John had been murdered. She wouldn't bother to lie if the death had been accidental. It was either suicide or murder.
He felt his heart beat accelerate. Murder made it a real case, with plenty to worry about. It was a spooky way the victims died, without a struggle or a call for help, just being eased out of life by a gas that left their faces purple and their blood filled with poison. And if it was murder it meant someone wanted to get rid of the March family. It meant there would probably be another attempt on a March. He hoped it wouldn't be Carmel. He felt she was interesting.
"Paul even carries a tennis net in his car,"
"And then — "
"The next thing I knew Richard was dead."
Crane was surprised to see tears rolling in big, slow drops down her cheeks. It was very strange. She didn't sob or move in any way; she just sat there, her face like ivory, talking and letting those big tears roll down her cheeks.
"I never talked to John about it," she went on. "I was never sure... until I found his body."
"How do you suppose he killed Richard?"
"I don't know." Tears made her black eyes luminous. She pulled her mink coat from the back of the couch. "I think Richard must have passed out; he had too much champagne, and John did something to the car." She found a lace handkerchief, held it to her eyes. "I'm sorry."
"I know," he said. "Your husband's death must have been a shock."
"It wasn't as if I'd loved him." She looked at him over the handkerchief. "We hadn't been getting along." Her eyes had changed from black to amber.
"You cared for Richard?"
"I liked him, but I didn't love him."
She spoke so simply that Crane believed her. He believed her entire story. He wondered if he did because she was so beautiful. He thought he would make a hell of a juror if she were on trial. He'd let her go with a vote of confidence.
The tears had stopped; she put the handkerchief back in the mink coat. "You think I'm horrible."
"No, I don't."
"You must."
"I really don't."
She touched his wrist for an instant with the tips of her fingers. "Thanks. I had to tell somebody." He felt goose flesh rise all over him. "There was nobody in town I could talk to." She stood up and he held the mink coat for her.
"You won't..." she began.
"Of course not."
"Say good night to your wife for me."
"I'll take you home."
"Don't bother."
"But..."
"I'd rather go alone."
They were at the front door. "Well, then, good night."
"Good night... and thanks."
CHAPTER VII
The limousine traveled the winding road at a good speed, and without strain climbed a long grade. So bright was the moon that the rays from the headlights looked like spilled milk on the cement. The countryside was gray and black.
Dr Woodrin, between Ann Fortune and Carmel March on the back seat, commented on the car's power.
Crane and Peter March were on small seats facing the other three. Crane lied: "I wrote some advertisements for the company. They gave it to me."
"I should've taken up advertising," Dr Woodrin said.
Carmel said, "You could have a private tennis court then, Paul."
While Peter explained to Ann that Dr Woodrin's chief enthusiasm was tennis Crane thought over the day, decided he had accomplished exactly nothing. The party was bound for the Crimson Cat, with Williams driving, and he hoped he would find something there.
He hadn't even told Simeon March about Carmel's story of Richard's murder and her husband's suicide. He knew the old man wouldn't believe it, and he wasn't sure he did himself, now that he'd thought it over. The tools and the lifted hood on John's car puzzled him. How had she had the courage to set the stage for the police, with her husband's body lying there? The natural thing would be to call for help at once.
Of course her story, if true, did tie everything....
"Do you play tennis, Bill?" Peter March asked him.
"Huh? Oh, a little."
Ann said she did, and Crane returned to his thoughts. If Carmel's story wasn't true it meant that John had been murdered. She wouldn't bother to lie if the death had been accidental. It was either suicide or murder.
He felt his heart beat accelerate. Murder made it a real case, with plenty to worry about. It was a spooky way the victims died, without a struggle or a call for help, just being eased out of life by a gas that left their faces purple and their blood filled with poison. And if it was murder it meant someone wanted to get rid of the March family. It meant there would probably be another attempt on a March. He hoped it wouldn't be Carmel. He felt she was interesting.
"Paul even carries a tennis net in his car,"
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