'Morning or evening?'
'Evening. You ve been asleep fifteen hours.'
Williams grinned at him. 'You re sure you re alive?' he asked.
'You can tell I m not a corpse,' Crane said. 'A corpse is livelier.'
He carried the pickup to the blue couch and lay down with his head toward the flames so the light wouldn t get in his eyes. He pushed a satin pillow under his head.
Williams said, 'Ann was saying that night-club gal.
Dolly, mistook Peter for John March.'
'I guess they were a lot alike,' Crane said. 'Brothers often are.'
'I wonder if their voices were alike,' Williams said.
'I don t know.' Crane got the pickup to his mouth, but the glass shook so it made a tinkling noise against his teeth. 'Is it important?' Some of the red liquid ran down his chin.
'Maybe,' Williams said mysteriously. 'Can you get Peter over here sometime tonight? I d like to have that Jameson take a look at him.'
Ann asked, 'The Brookfield rental man?'
Williams nodded, and Crane said, 'I ll get hold of Peter. He was coming over anyway.' The edge of the glass banged so hard against his teeth he became alarmed. He didn t want to swallow a lot of broken glass.
'Do you want a straw?' Ann asked.
He shook his head. He put the glass down and took off his necktie.
'How do you figure John was killed?' Williams asked.
Crane fastened the tie around his neck in the manner of a sling. 'I think somebody held him while he got the gas.' He put his right arm through the sling and grasped the pickup.
The other two were torn between interest in what he was saying and what he was doing. 'But how could anybody do that?' Ann asked.
Crane drew the tie away from his neck with his left hand until it pulled against his right wrist. 'I figure the guy threw some kind of a hood over John s head so he couldn t yell, then wrapped him up in canvas or a fish net or something.' He raised the glass to his lips, all the time keeping the tie taut with his left hand.
'What in the world are you doing?' Ann asked.
Williams was nodding. 'Then the guy hosed the gas from the exhaust pipe to the hood.'
Ann objected, ' But why didn t he just hit John over the head and administer the gas while he was unconscious?'
Crane tilted his wrist and drank. The improvised sling kept his hand steady. 'The murderer didn t want any bumps on John s head.' He finished the pickup, let go the sling and put the glass down.
Williams said, 'What s the difference? He might have gotten a bump falling down.'
'No,' said Crane. 'Not if there was blood. A chemist could analyze the blood, find if the wound was made before or after gas had been breathed into the system.'
'I see,' Ann said. 'The murderer wouldn t dare take the chance of an autopsy being made.'
'Of course, this is just a theory, darling.'
'Don t darling me,' Ann said. 'Not in private.'
Williams laughed and went out in the pantry for some scotch.
'You re still angry?' Crane asked.
Her voice was cold. 'No.'
'I m glad. Because that dress is swell. It looks as though you were poured into it. You look… well, sinuous. And the color… just like the peppermints I used to eat when I was a kid.'
She had to smile. 'It s Schiaparelli s. She calls the color shocking pink.'
'Darling, it doesn t shock me a bit.'
Her voice didn t get any friendlier. 'Bill, why aren t you doing something about these people?'
'I m not well. I have a hang-over.'
'That s all you do… drink and have hang-overs,' she said. 'I think it s terrible, with two Marchs dead and maybe more to come.'
'Darling, there re always dead people in a murder case.'
' But these people… they re nice. Not like gangsters.
And it s so cold blooded! It scares me… That strange gas strangling person after person while you…' She halted abruptly. 'All right, smile.'
'I m not smiling.'
Her green eyes were large and serious. 'The murderer scares me, too. I dreamed last night I saw a horrible, pale man fastening a hose to the exhaust pipe of someone s sedan.'
'Ann, you ve seen too many movies.'
'Just the same I m scared. I feel danger all around us. And I can t understand why the Marchs aren t frightened, too.'
'They do seem pretty calm… I suppose because they think the deaths were accidents.'
'You don t think they were accidents, but you re calm.' Her chin was firm, her eyes narrow. 'I think you re a slacker.'
'But, my God, lady!' Crane said. 'I have been working. You don t have to get yourself into a lather to do a little thinking.'
'I suppose you have to get drunk to think, though?' She was really angry. 'Or chase after women?'
Crane said mournfully, 'I get my knuckles busted, nearly killed…'
Beulah came into the room. 'They s waiting for you, Miss Ann.'
Ann seized her black caracul coat, said angrily, 'I wish my uncle had sent somebody beside a drunkard with me.' She started toward the door. 'Where are you going?'
'To do some of the work you re supposed to do.'
He watched her leave the room. Presently he heard the noise of a car leaving the front of the house. After a few more minutes Williams, wearing his black chauffeur s uniform, came into the living room with a bottle of whisky in his hand.
'Have a drink?' he asked.
Crane shook his head. 'Where d Ann go?'
Williams didn t know. He poured himself an entire glassful of scotch. 'She got you upset?'
'No.'
'Like hell!' Williams tossed off half the glass. 'Waaah! Not bad stuff.' He sat on a chair opposite Crane, put his feet on the polished table. 'Well, I think she likes you all right.'
'Sure,' said Crane bitterly.
'After all, you did do a bit of chasing last night.' Williams lit a cigarette, tossed the match under Crane s couch. 'And she came back with me to get you. Not many dames would ve done that.'
'The hell with it,' said Crane.
Discussing the case, they agreed Donovan had the best motive. He might have killed Richard because of his affair with Delia, and John March because he spoiled his first night-club venture. They both thought, though, he would have been far more likely, if he was murdering somebody, to have killed Simeon March, since the old man had frustrated his one attempt to enter legitimate business. Williams didn t think he would use gas, anyway.
'It s pretty subtle for a hoodlum,' Crane agreed. 'And he seemed damn interested in how the gas worked, as though it had never occurred to him before.'
The telephone rang and Crane answered it. A husky voice said, 'You like your Wife?'
'My who?'
'Your wife, dope.'
'Oh yes, my wife.'
'If you want her around you ll scram back to New York.'
Crane felt his skin tingle. 'Why?'
'Never mind why, dope.' The man sounded as though he was talking with a handkerchief in his mouth. 'If you think I m jokin take a gander at your paper.'
Williams hurried out and got a newspaper. He came back very excited, tossed the paper on Crane s chest.
