CHAPTER VIII

"Bringing a strange girl to the table," Ann said, dancing as far away from him as possible. "A pickup!"

"So that s what s the matter," Crane said.

"No, it isn t."

"Then why are you angry?"

"I m not."

It was the last dance before the floor show. Ann had come back with Peter March and Crane had asked her to dance. She hadn t seemed enthusiastic, but she went out on the floor with him.

"I guess I m glad I m not married to you," he said.

"Not half as glad as I am."

"I m not really glad," he said. "I think you re swell. But don t you see I have to work?"

"Do you call drinking and chasing after girls working?"

"Certainly."

"How do you think I feel, having a husband on the loose?"

"But we re not married."

"People think we are." Her voice was cold. "I don t like people thinking they have to be nice to me because you aren t."

"You mean Peter?"

She looked at him scornfully. "He s been very thoughtful."

"I m thoughtful, too. But I have to work."

The orchestra was playing an old piece which Crane remembered Paul Whiteman as having played. It was a fairly fast piece, with lots of work for saxophones and trumpets, and it was hard to dance and talk. He thought the name of it was "You Took Advantage of Me." He caught sight of Delia Young s red hair in a corner of the room. She was talking to a man in a black suit.

"Would you want me to slight my work?" he asked.

She didn t answer and when he looked at her he was surprised to see moisture in her green eyes. He felt a tingling sensation in his stomach. He supposed it was sympathy. He felt a desire to hold her tight against his chest. That was sympathy, too.

"I ll quit work," he said. "I ll be nice."

"It s nothing to me what you do," she said.

She pushed his arms away and stopped dancing and left him. She held herself very stiff in walking.

He wondered why she had done that. It made him a little mad.

He went into the taproom and had a double scotch and soda. He saw Williams at the end of the red bar, in conversation with the tough barman, but he ignored him. Presently Peter March came in and sat on the next stool.

"Have a drink?" Crane said. "Sure."

Crane ordered two more double scotch and sodas. "Aren t you drinking quite a lot?" Peter March said. "Not so much."

"Ann… your wife doesn t like it very well."

"So I gathered."

"She s a nice girl."

"So am I," Crane said. "I m a nice girl."

"Sure. But I just thought…"

"Don t. Don t ever think."

"Maybe you re right," Peter March said reflectively. "It s none of my business. But there is something that is." He paused and eyed Crane. "There was a bullet in my car."

"Sure," said Crane. "I told you."

"But how did it get there?"

"I don t know."

There was authority in Peter March s voice. "I think you d better tell me."

"All right," Crane said. "Ann tried to kill me. She wants my millions. But my steel vest deflected the bullet."

Peter s brows were straight lines above his eyes. He looked as though he would like to hit Crane. Then he saw Dr Woodrin coming toward them. "O.K.," he said. He got up and left him.

"Have a drink?" Crane asked Dr Woodrin when he came up.

The doctor had a scotch and soda, too.

"Say!" Crane said when the bartender had left them. "I ve just heard something strange from Carmel. I think I d better tell you since you re involved."

"What is it?"

Crane told him Carmel s story of John s suicide. "Was there really a note?" he asked.

Dr Woodrin s pink-and-white face was serious. "Gosh! I hoped that wouldn t get out." His blue eyes searched Crane s face. "How d she happen to tell you?"

"She was angry at Talmadge March."

"I don t blame her… I don t know what he was driving at yesterday."

"I guess he doesn t like her," Crane said.

"That s Alice s work." The doctor shook his head. "Alice hates Carmel."

"Because of Richard?"

"Partly, and partly just because they re different breeds of cats."

"And there was a note?" Crane persisted.

"Yes." The doctor drained his glass. "Her story s true." He slid off his stool. "I hope you won t say anything about it, though."

"I won t," Crane said.

"I d be in trouble if the police found out. I helped to make it look accidental," Dr Woodrin said. "And it would kill Simeon March." He walked away.

After a time Crane went back to the table. The show had started and six girls in blue silk panties and glass-encrusted brassieres were dancing. They were very bad. Crane recognized Dolly Wilson at the left end. She waved at him. Ann was back at the table with the others, and he sat beside her. She paid no attention to him.

He felt a little bit lonely. Nobody liked him except Dolly Wilson. It was tough, being a detective and having nobody but Dolly Wilson like you. He felt possibly he was a little drunk. That was good, but he wished he had someone around who liked him and who… and whom he liked. That was good grammar. Damn good grammar! He liked Ann, but she didn t like him. He didn t like the floor show, and he didn t care whether the floor show liked him or not. That was immaterial. Absolutely. He didn t like Peter March. He tried to look at Dr Woodrin to see if he liked him, but his chair overbalanced and Carmel March had to catch him.

"Thank you," he said to Carmel. "You have saved my life."

"I didn t do anything," Carmel said. "You saved my life." Ann said, "Be quiet."

A moment later he didn t have to be urged to be quiet. The lights went out, the orchestra began to moan, a circle of chalk light sought out Delia Young by the magenta curtains. She moved slowly, exaggerating the swing of her curved hips, to the center of the floor. Her skin was as white as bathroom tile.

She looked as though she were half asleep. Her eyes were almost closed. The piano hit a few chords. She sang:

"I m not much to look at;

Nothing to see…"

Cold shivers coursed along Crane s back. Her voice was like no other voice he had ever heard. It was husky-hoarse, but in a feminine way; it was as though she had a cold, as though she had tuberculosis of the larynx. But the voice had range and control, rising to an icy vibrancy which made Crane s ears shudder, then falling to a dry whisper that people held their breath to hear.

The piece was a very sad one. The tempo was slow; the accompaniment of drum, piano and violin subdued. Delia Young sang:

"I got a fellow crazy for me,

He s funny that way…"

She finished the verse, stood in the spotlight with closed eyes. Back of her the orchestra swung it with trumpets, clarinet and saxophones. It made a hell of a contrast; it was a very fine effect. Then the piano took the break again, very slow, and the husky, magic voice poured from Delia Young s lips.

Her face was expressionless, sleepy, bored; her breast hardly moved; it was as if she, through no volition of her own, simply opened her mouth and let the melancholy song come out.

There was no clapping immediately after she finished. Then there was a lot, but she wouldn t sing again. She glided behind the curtains; the lights went on; Dolly Wilson began to tap-dance with more energy than skill.

Carmel smiled at Crane. "Sings well, doesn t she?"

"My God!" Crane said.

After a while he saw Delia Young seated alone at a table diagonally across the dance floor. He had the waiter bring a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, tied to the bottle a card on which he had written: "If you want help with this I am ready."

The waiter hesitated. "I m not sure Miss Young will appreciate this. You know she s…"

"So I ve heard." Crane gave him a five-dollar bill. "Don t let it worry you."

Ann was also looking at Delia. She turned to Crane, "If you re not too tight will you tell me something?"

"Darling, I m not a bit tight."

"Is that our Delia?"

He nodded his head. The floor show ended and the orchestra began to play dance music. Ann smiled at Peter March and he took her onto the floor. She didn t look at Crane. The waiter brought a note. It read: "Bring your own bottle."

He was genuinely amused. That was a smart one. He d sent her a bottle, but apparently he had no interest in it. "Send Miss Young another battle," he told the waiter. He thought he was going to like Delia.

He got up and said to Carmel and Dr Woodrin, "Please forgive me."

"Why?" Carmel asked.

"I ve been invited to a small reception… a very small reception in honor of Miss Young."

Carmel drawled. "She s said to be the gal of the toughest guy in these parts."

"Please forgive me," Crane said.

He had trouble crossing the dance floor. There seemed to be a great many people on the floor, and all of them had to bump into him. Some of them had to bump into him twice. The thing was that if the floor hadn t been tilted up in the direction of Delia Young s table he wouldn t have had to walk bent over and consequently could have avoided the couples who bumped him. But he couldn t avoid them, and for a time he considered getting on hands and knees and crawling under the couples and up the incline. Suddenly he found himself by her table.

Her eyes were purple and amused. "The sea rough?"

He sat opposite her. "Would you care to dance?"

"Do you think you can, mister?"

He stood up, bowed, caught his balance by clutching the table. "Excuse!" He bowed, caught his balance by clutching a chair. He gave up trying to bow. "Madam, please meet the greatest little dancer of them all."

Delia Young slid back her chair. "Remember, Arthur Murray, I leave you where you fall."

They walked to the floor and danced, and it was quite a surprise to everybody.

It surprised Delia Young because he danced very well, and it surprised Crane because he hadn t expected her to dance with him. It surprised Frenchy Duval, watching from the door and thinking it was a good thing Slats Donovan was not there, because ordinarily when Delia had a snootful she didn t exactly dance that way. It surprised Dolly Wilson, who had taken off her tap shoes expecting to dance with Crane. And it surprised Ann, though not very much.

When the orchestra stopped, Crane walked fairly steadily back to the table, held the chair for Delia Young. She looked at him curiously as he sat down. "You re not bad, Arthur."

"No, I m not."

The waiter poured champagne. He filled Delia s glass only halfway, but she called him back. "What s the idea? Frenchy trying to taper me off?" He filled it to the brim.

They drank and then danced. Then they drank. Crane thought she was a splendid woman. "I think you are a splendid woman," he said.

"I m high, wide and handsome," she said. "I m tall."

"Tall?"

"High. Tight. Crocked. Drunk."

"Oh, tall?" Crane had never before heard this word. It was a good one. He said, "Champagne always makes me tall."

"Did you ever try gin and laudanum?"

"Gin and laudanum always makes me tall."

"Did you ever try champagne and laudanum?"

"No."

"Never champagne and laudanum, Arthur?"

"No. Did you?"

"No."

Her black dress was cut in such a way that when she stood up only about one half of her breast was exposed, but when she bent over the table he could see she wasn t wearing a brassiere. She noticed his eyes, but she didn t bother to sit upright.

"You know whose girl I am, Arthur?"

"Sure. Mine."

Her laughter was mocking, throaty. It came from way down in her chest. It was deep. It sounded as though it would bring up phlegm.

"I wish I was," she said.

"Don t you like Slats?"

"He s all right, but he don t know what a woman wants."

"I thought he gave you plenty of do-re-me."

"Don t be smart."

"I m not."

"I m not talking about cash."

He nodded his head wisely. People were dancing near their table. A jigaboo was singing, " I ll always hear that melody…" The orchestra was finishing "Star Dust." A waiter filled their glasses. What was she talking about? Oh yes. She was talking about not talking about cash.

"Any dame, even one like me, wants love," Delia Young said seriously.

"Have you ever been in love?" Crane asked. She nodded her carrot-red head. "That s nice."

"Like hell." She leaned toward him, and he modestly averted his eyes. "It hurts."

"You picked the wrong guy?"

"I d pick him again if I had the chance."

"Why haven t you?"

"He s dead."

"Oh. What was his name?"

Her purple eyes studied his face. Her skin had the color, the smooth appearance of very rich milk: it was the kind of skin that went out of favor with the Gibson Girl. She had large, beautiful shoulders.

"If it s any of your Goddamn business," she said, "it was Richard March."

Crane put a great deal of disbelief in his voice. "You knew him?" Here was his chance to learn something.

"You don t think I did, Arthur?"

"Who am I to doubt a lady?"

"Get this." Her crimson mouth was grim. "I m no lady, but I knew Richard, all right."

He tried to get further revelations from her. "I bet you wrote him mash notes."

"Would you like to have your throat cut, Arthur?"

"No," he said. "I d rather dance."

The orchestra was playing "Sugar" and the trombone player was having a jam for himself. The other black boys in the orchestra showed white teeth and eyeballs in appreciation. The dancers moved about the floor rapidly, and they smiled, too.

Crane said, "That s the tonic."

Delia said, "Wasn t you with that party over there?" Crane looked, but all he could see was a vacant table. "What party over there?"

"The one that left a half-hour ago."

"If they left I am not aware." He tried again. "If they have left I was not aware. I am not aware they have…"

"I get the idea, Arthur," Delia said.

"They ve ditched me," Crane said.

"Well, it s four o clock."

The music stopped with a dum-titi-dum-dum on the piano; there was a crackle of applause; and the boys went out for an intermission. They went back to their table. Crane signaled the headwaiter.

"How much s the bill for that table over there?"

"Mr March paid it, sir."

Delia Young s hand closed on Crane s wrist, hurt the bone. When the waiter had gone she said huskily, "What March is that?"

"Peter March."

"Richard s cousin?"

"Unhand me, madam."

"Richard s cousin?"

"Yes."

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"I don t think so."

This apparently satisfied her. She let his wrist go, took a drink of champagne. She poured some more in her glass.

"What do you do in your spare time?" he asked. "Work in a blacksmith shop?"

She said, "I m tall." She seemed surprised.

"My wrist ll never be the same."

"I feel as though my guts had been shot out," she said to nobody in particular. "I feel hollow inside."

Crane said, "I think the bone s broken." He gave his arm a tentative shake.

"Richard March," she said. "The only mug I ever loved."

Crane saw this was his opportunity to inquire further about Richard March. He said. "I m tired of hearing about Richard March."

Her eyes were angry. "You don t think he d look at me, Arthur?" She took hold of his wrist again. "You think I was the one who wrote letters? I ll show you. Come on."*

"Where?"

"Up to my apartment."

"What ll people think?"

"Listen…" She scowled at him, then laughed. "You re going to be the first guy I ve had to drag upstairs."

Crane said, "I ll come quietly, madam."

He followed her through a door behind the magenta curtain, into a dim hall with a bare floor. Another door, with a red bulb burning over it, and a flight of wooden stairs were at the end of the hall. Two Negroes from the band were smoking reefers under the light. Their eyes showed yellow-white as Delia passed. A man lurked by the stairs.

"Hello, Lefty," Delia said.

He blocked her way. "What d you think you re doing, Dee?"

The voice was the unearthly, metallic, whistling voice of the burglar. Crane kept in the pit of shadow beside the stairs.

Delia said, "You came back, did you?"

"Just in time, too," Lefty said. She started to push past him, but he caught her arm. "What s Slats going to say?" he croaked. "I don t give a damn."

"Yes, you do." His voice sounded like voices of persons supposed to be making telephone calls in plays on the radio. "You re not going upstairs with anybody."

"No?"

"No."

She hit him. It was a fine punch, right on the neck, right on the Adam s apple. Lefty s head flew back, he caught the banister with his right hand. She moved up a step and hit him again. He fell down.

"Come on," she said.

Crane bent over Lefty. He was on his back, face to the red bulb, one arm twisted under him. He looked at Crane through wide-open eyes, but he didn t move. His neck looked curiously bent; blood trickled from his mouth.

One of the Negroes said, "Wham!"

The other corrected him. "Wham! And Wham!"

"Are you coming?" Delia Young asked.