'Only two miles,' Peter said.
Carmel s face, faintly illuminated by the light from the dash, looked sad. Her cheeks were hollow and her red lips had a tragic downward curve. 'That s good,' she said. 'I need a drink.'
'Me, too,' Crane said.
He had, at that, done one thing during the day. Or rather, Williams had. He d located both Richard s and John s cars. It would be interesting to examine them, to see if they had been tampered with. That might show…
A swerve of the car interrupted him again. They had turned into the driveway leading to the night club. The white cement building was large and had a Spanish appearance. There was a row of small balconies in front of the upstairs windows. A big red cat, with an arched back and a fuzzy tail, was formed by neon lights over the entrance.
'They ve a hot band here,' Dr Woodrin said.
There was no doorman. Crane helped the women out. Carmel s hand, in his for an instant, was hot. He let the others start into the club.
Williams eyed Carmel s ankles, slender and seductive, under her mink coat. 'I d like to get trapped in an elevator with that dame,' he said.
Crane said, 'You do and the newspapers ll have a story headed: New Carbon-Monoxide Victim.'
'You think she s the one?'
Crane shrugged his shoulders. He went into the building and checked his coat and hat. He started for the main room, but went by mistake into a taproom with modern tables made of chromium and glass, red leather chairs and a bright red bar. He paused for a double scotch and soda.
'Doing a good business?' he asked the bartender.
The bartender had two gold teeth. 'Wouldn t you like to know, pal?' he said.
Crane let the matter drop and found the main room. He could see Peter March and Dr Woodrin at a table by the dance floor. He felt better because of the whisky. He stood and watched the Negro orchestra come through a door in back of the stand. He wondered if he ought to go back and sock the bartender. He guessed not.
A pretty blonde in a cheap evening gown stopped him on his way to the table. 'Alone?' She looked about seventeen years old.
'Practically,' he said, 'except for a wife.'
'Oh, excuse me.'
He took her arm. 'Come on.' If Ann was going to be nasty he d give her something to be nasty about. 'We ve got an extra man.' He grinned at her. 'He ll take care of my wife.'
'All right.' A closer inspection showed she was more mature than he thought. 'At least for a while. Later I got to dance.'
'I ll dance with you.'
'No. I mean in the floor show. I do a specialty.'
'Every woman should have a specialty,' he said. 'I tap-dance,' she said.
'I think that s nice. And here are our friends.' He bowed to Peter March and Dr Woodrin. 'This little lady is going to sit with us for a short time and partake of champagne.'
'If it s champagne I may sit for a long time.' She sat down by Dr Woodrin. 'My name s Dolly Wilson.'
'Mine s Bill Crane.' Crane waved for a waiter. 'These are Mr March and Doctor Woodrin.'
Miss Wilson gaped at Peter March. 'Say!' she exclaimed. 'I thought you was dead.'
'I m not, though,' Peter said.
'Well, that s funny. You were out here a couple of times a year or so ago, and then I heard you were dead.'
'That was my brother. We looked very much alike.'
'Oh, say!' She reached over and squeezed his hand. 'I m awful sorry, Mister March.'
'That s all right.'
Carmel and Ann came to the table. All over the room people stared at them; the women looking at their clothes, the men at their faces. From even a few feet away Carmel was much the more striking, with dead-white skin, tomato-red lips and jet-black hair.
But Ann, Crane thought, was best quite near. Her tan skin was flawless; her eyes had interesting green depths. Her hair was the color of sun-dried bamboo. She was pretty even when she was angry.
He tried to hold her chair for her, but Peter March got to it first. He introduced Dolly Wilson to the women.
Dr Woodrin, his eyes twinkling, said, 'An old friend of Crane s.'
Crane said, 'She nursed me back to health after the battle of Gettysburg.'
This set Miss Wilson to giggling. It was awfully funny because how could she have nursed him after the battle of Gettysburg? She was only nineteen and she must have been a little girl then. It was awfully funny.
Peter had already ordered champagne, and the waiter poured it into hollow-stemmed glasses. 'Here s how,' Crane said.
They drank. Ann pointedly ignored Crane, carried on a quiet conversation with Peter March. They seemed to like each other, Crane thought. Well, all right. The orchestra started a slow fox trot and he asked Miss Wilson if she would like to dance.
'And how!' she said.
She danced very well. For a time she was wary, watching for a false move of one kind or another on his part, but she soon came closer to him, closed her eyes, put a cheek against his.
'You re not bad,' she said.
'I m wonderful.'
She had to giggle at this. Imagine his saying he was wonderful! He was awfully funny. She wondered which one was his wife. She hoped it wasn t the haughty-looking brunette. She was swell looking, all right, but she looked as though she d be tough to live with. The blonde looked nice.
'Who runs this joint?' Crane asked.
'Frenchy Duval,' she said. 'But he doesn t own it. It s one of Slats places.'
He recalled the 'Slats' of Delia s letter to Richard. 'Slats who?'
'Slats Donovan.'
'Who s he?'
'Oh, you ve heard of him.'
'No, I haven t.'
'You must have. He runs the gambling in this district. You ve heard of him.'
'I ve heard of Al Capone.'
'Oh, you!'
The orchestra, according to a bass drum lit with red bulbs, was Sammy Parson s Swing Seven, but the members didn t work very hard at whatever they were playing. They had a good sense of time, though, and the music was good, if a little brassy.
'They don t jam until after the last show,' Dolly explained.
Crane caught sight of a woman who had just come out from behind magenta drapes at the orchestra end of the room. She was wearing a black velvet evening gown which clung to her body as tightly as a wet bathing suit. She had fine curves but she wasn t fat. She had carrot-red hair.
Crane danced in her direction. 'Who s that dame?'
'Which one? Oh! Delia Young.'
Crane s stomach tingled. It was the Delia of the letters. And the redhead of the chase. And Slats was Slats. He wondered if she would recognize him, and danced closer. Her eyes passed over him casually, went to other couples on the floor.
'What s she do?' he asked.
'She sings. She s good. They say she makes two hundred dollars a week.'
Crane showed great surprise for Dolly s benefit.
'I d like to meet her.' Dolly was alarmed. 'No, you wouldn t.'
'Why?'
'She s Slats girl.'
