CHAPTER XVII
Ann had been gone five hours, and now even Williams was terribly upset. With serious black eyes, he watched Crane walk a frustrated diamond-shaped figure on the blue-and-white Aubusson. They knew for certain Ann was in trouble. Unexpressed, but strong within them, was a fear she had been murdered. They had searched Marchton for her and now they were trying to think of something more to do.
They had entered the Crimson Cat together, had walked into the taproom. The barman s face was held together by gauze. He saw them, reached under the bar.
'No,' Williams said, producing a revolver.
The bartender s hands rose; he looked as though he intended to chin himself on an imaginary bar above his head. 'When Slats comes back to the city,' he said, 'he ll handle you guys.'
'Too bad he ain t here now, pal,' Williams said.
Crane asked, 'Where is he, pal?'
'I don t know,' the bartender said sullenly.
'Do you know where Dolly Wilson is?'
'What s that to you?'
Williams leaned over the bar, grasped a bottle of Canadian rye. 'Do we have to open up your head again, pal?' he asked.
The bartender said, 'She lives at Elm and Fourth, in a boardinghouse.'
Perspiration made half-moons under the armholes of Mrs Grady s brown dress. 'You just missed her, boys,' she said. 'She left for New York at one-thirty.' She was a massive woman.
A blonde girl had talked to Dolly, Mrs Grady admitted. No, the blonde hadn t gone with her.
Miss Wilson had left no forwarding address, but she was going to write as soon as she was located in New York. She d better, too, Mrs Grady added, because there was that little matter of nine dollars. Maybe the gentlemen…?
On a sofa under a peach-colored quilt, Alice March was eating bonbons and reading a paper-backed French novel by somebody named Vercel. She didn t seem especially upset over Talmadge s death, or Simeon March s condition.
'Carmel and Peter just left for the hospital,' she said. 'Won t you sit down?'
Crane refused. 'I just dropped in to see how you were.'
He and Williams agreed it didn t seem likely she was holding Ann.
Gloom filled the interior of Simeon March s big garage. The German gardener showed them where the millionaire s body had been found on the cement floor beside the open left front door of his favorite sedan.
'He warms the engine and the gas comes,' the gardener explained. 'Then he falls the door out.'
Crane thought this was possible. He found, as usual, rubber on the exhaust pipe. As they left the garage, he told Williams the hose could have been stuck through a back window, as it had been in Richard s and Talmadge s death.
Williams disagreed. 'You d smell the gas.'
'Why didn t the others smell it?'
'Richard was drunk,' Williams said. 'And Talmadge had a bad cold.'
This was something to think about.
Before returning home they dispatched a telegram to the agency in New York, suggesting Dolly Wilson be met by an operative at the station and asked what she had told Ann.
And now Crane was wearing the diamond-shaped trail in the Aubusson.
'We can t call in the police,' he said, 'because it would tip off the murderer that we re working on the case.' He halted in the middle of a step. 'And a big search would probably frighten the guy into killing her, if he hasn t…'
Williams said, 'I don t like not doing anything.'
Crane walked around the imaginary diamond. 'Our agency d be the laughingstock of the world if we had to ask the police to find one of our operatives.'
'That s better than having Ann dead.'
'When she went to work she took her chances.' He looked at Williams. 'A detective takes the risk of being knocked off.'
Williams said, 'We ought to do something.'
Crane walked twice around the diamond, then telephoned City Hospital and found there was no change in Simeon March s condition.
Williams said, 'If he recovers the murderer ll probably take another crack at him.'
Crane s brown eyes narrowed; he stared at Williams.
'In fact, a smart murderer would find a way to crack him before he recovers,' Williams said. 'In case he should talk.'
Crane said, 'By God!' He telephoned the Marchton Globe, got the city editor on the wire. 'This is Doctor Amos Crane of Chicago,' he lied. 'I have some news for you.'
'What is it?'
'I have just completed an examination of Simeon March-my special field is gas poisoning-and I am confident he will recover. He should be conscious by morning.'
'That s great!' The city editor was excited. 'What hospital are you connected with, Doctor Crane?'
'The Presbyterian,' Crane lied. 'But I shouldn t like to be quoted. Ethics, you know. In fact, I wish you wouldn t mention my call to the local physicians. I prefer to co-operate with the newspapers in an anonymous mariner.'
'Well, that s very decent of you, Doctor Crane. You ll tip us off if anything new develops?'
'I should be glad to. If you wish to reach me I am staying at the Richard March residence; with my cousin, William Crane. Good-by.'
Crane felt pleased with this last invention. The fact that he was staying at Richard March s house would put the seal of truth on his story in the eyes of the Globe. Moreover the newspaper could check back on him if it wanted to. And it would certainly preserve the anonymity of a good tipster. He got his hat and coat.
Williams had been watching him beetle eyed. 'Where are you going?'
'To March amp; Company… to get some guards for the hospital.'
'And then…?'
'I m going to sit up all night with Simeon March.'
'I ll go with you.'
'No.' Crane walked to the door. 'You sit here until the first edition of the Globe comes out. And remember, until then you re Doc Crane, the specialist from Chicago.'
CHAPTER XVIII
Only the night lamp, a wan bulb with a meager supply of honey-pale electricity, provided illumination for the room. A circular puddle of light at the lamp s base showed a white table top, a glass half filled with water, a green thermos bottle. Gloom blurred the outlines of the room s other furniture, gave a fourth dimensional quality to Simeon March s bed, two chairs, a dresser. Cold air seeped through a half-open window.
Crane, on a chair back of the screen in the corner of the room, waited for the murderer.
He had been waiting for six hours and he was not happy. His neck ached from the rigidity with which he had held himself in his chair. He wanted a drink to quiet nerves that fluttered with every unusual sound. He wanted someone to talk to. He was worried like hell about Ann.
It was after midnight. Quiet, more nerve racking than the early evening bustle, had descended upon City Hospital. There were no calls for doctors over the loudspeaker system. Few used the corridors; occasionally a nurse would pass his door on tiptoe. At long intervals he could hear the whine of the elevator s electric motor.
