'I wanted to clean out Richard s correspondence,' the young man said. 'He had a number of feminine friends — ' As black, as straight as penny licorice sticks, his eyebrows nearly met over his nose. 'You know-there might be something compromising-a note or something.'
'To Richard or the ladies?'
'Oh, Richard.' His eyes were on the ice cubes. 'You know-the family name.' The water made dark circles on the rug.
'You didn t think the name would be safe with me?'
'I didn t know.'
The sofa gave under Crane s neck. 'Well, that s all right.' A spring pinged in the sofa. 'But you might have rung the bell.'
'As I said, I didn t know you were here.'
'That s so.' Crane pushed against the sofa, let the rebound help him to his feet. 'I guess it s all right.' He waved at the papers. 'Take em. But one thing… a favor?'
'Sure.'
'Where did you get that drink?'
The white-enameled butler s pantry proved to have a liquor cabinet. Crane selected a bottle of scotch, asked, 'Have one with me?' March nodded and they took glasses and the bottle back to the living room. Ann Fortune was there.
'I thought maybe the burglar had killed you,' she said.
Crane knew this was a lie because she had put on lipstick. The Nile-green robe went well with her rope- colored hair. He said, 'This is our burglar, Ann.'
Ann smiled. 'It looks as though you d joined the union.'
'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
