have a word with Mr Crane." She glanced at Ann. "That is, if Mrs Crane doesn't mind?"
"Of course I don't," Ann said.
"Well, I'll be off," Peter said.
Ann followed him out.
Crane asked, "How do you know he killed himself?"
"He left a note."
"He did!" Crane didn't have to act; he was really surprised. "What did it say?"
"I can remember it exactly." Carmel's fingers pulled at the diamond-and-ruby bracelet. "It was written to me. It said: 'I can't go on... I've got to see Richard... explain to him... good-by, darling.. forgive me as I've forgiven you.'"
"My gosh!" Crane's mind sifted the implication of the note. "Was it signed?"
"Yes. With a J. That's the way John signed all his private letters."
"But why wasn't the note brought out at the inquest?"
"I destroyed it." Her words came out jerkily, as though she had been running and was out of breath. "I wanted it to look like an accident."
"Insurance?"
She glared at him, really angry for the first time. "Do you think that would make any difference? What kind of a woman do you suppose I am?" Her breath made a rushing noise in her throat. "It was his father.... It would have killed him to know John was a suicide."
Crane, surprised, asked, " You worried about Simeon March?"
"Oh, I know he hates me." She laughed briefly, without humor. "He wanted John to bury himself in work, to live for March & Company. I... I had other ideas." For a moment her face was tragic. "Simeon March keeps a shell of rage and hate and hard words about him, but he can be hurt inside. He loved John. I didn't want to make him suffer. God knows there's been enough already."
She was either acting beautifully, or her emotion was genuine. Her slender fingers plucked at the rubies on the bracelet. Her face was still masklike, but her glistening, red lower lip trembled.
He asked, "What gave you the idea of destroying the note?"
"After I'd found John, I called Paul... Dr Woodrin. He thought, at first, it was an accident." She had turned her face away from him, was talking in a low voice. "That gave me the idea."
"Did you show him the note?"
She hesitated. "Yes. He agreed that it should be destroyed, to avoid a scandal and to save Simeon March. He helped me fix the tools... close the garage doors to make it look accidental."
Crane thought of the bizarre twist her story gave the case. Carmel, risking a great deal to protect Simeon March from the knowledge that his favorite son had killed himself. And Simeon, convinced she had murdered John.
He said, "What did John's note mean, 'I've got to see Richard... explain to him'?"
A tiny blue vein fluttered at the base of her throat with each beat of her heart. She took a long time, then said in a flat expressionless voice, " John killed Richard."
Crane got off the couch and put a chunk of pine on the fire. Sparks flew up the chimney, tongues of flame licked the fresh wood. He went back to the couch.
"Why?" he asked. "He was jealous of Richard."
"Yes, but a man doesn't"—he hesitated over the next word—"murder because he's jealous."
"No."
"Then what — "
"He saw me with Richard in his car."
"At the Country Club? On the night of Richard's death?"
She nodded, her face still turned away from him. He understood, then, the smell of gardenia on the dead man's coat, the lipstick on his face.
She went on, speaking slowly, "John must have come up to the car very quietly. I don't know how long he'd been there." Her low voice sounded as though she had not come to the end of a sentence, had only paused.
Crane waited, but she didn't go on. He asked, "He overheard you talking?"
"Richard was begging me to go away with him."
"Was John terribly angry? Did he make any threats?"
She was facing him on the couch now, her face completely unguarded. Her lips were soft and moist and red.
"He was very quiet... I couldn't see his face. He asked me to go into the clubhouse. I should have been afraid, his voice was so strange, but I went in... left him there with
"Of course I don't," Ann said.
"Well, I'll be off," Peter said.
Ann followed him out.
Crane asked, "How do you know he killed himself?"
"He left a note."
"He did!" Crane didn't have to act; he was really surprised. "What did it say?"
"I can remember it exactly." Carmel's fingers pulled at the diamond-and-ruby bracelet. "It was written to me. It said: 'I can't go on... I've got to see Richard... explain to him... good-by, darling.. forgive me as I've forgiven you.'"
"My gosh!" Crane's mind sifted the implication of the note. "Was it signed?"
"Yes. With a J. That's the way John signed all his private letters."
"But why wasn't the note brought out at the inquest?"
"I destroyed it." Her words came out jerkily, as though she had been running and was out of breath. "I wanted it to look like an accident."
"Insurance?"
She glared at him, really angry for the first time. "Do you think that would make any difference? What kind of a woman do you suppose I am?" Her breath made a rushing noise in her throat. "It was his father.... It would have killed him to know John was a suicide."
Crane, surprised, asked, " You worried about Simeon March?"
"Oh, I know he hates me." She laughed briefly, without humor. "He wanted John to bury himself in work, to live for March & Company. I... I had other ideas." For a moment her face was tragic. "Simeon March keeps a shell of rage and hate and hard words about him, but he can be hurt inside. He loved John. I didn't want to make him suffer. God knows there's been enough already."
She was either acting beautifully, or her emotion was genuine. Her slender fingers plucked at the rubies on the bracelet. Her face was still masklike, but her glistening, red lower lip trembled.
He asked, "What gave you the idea of destroying the note?"
"After I'd found John, I called Paul... Dr Woodrin. He thought, at first, it was an accident." She had turned her face away from him, was talking in a low voice. "That gave me the idea."
"Did you show him the note?"
She hesitated. "Yes. He agreed that it should be destroyed, to avoid a scandal and to save Simeon March. He helped me fix the tools... close the garage doors to make it look accidental."
Crane thought of the bizarre twist her story gave the case. Carmel, risking a great deal to protect Simeon March from the knowledge that his favorite son had killed himself. And Simeon, convinced she had murdered John.
He said, "What did John's note mean, 'I've got to see Richard... explain to him'?"
A tiny blue vein fluttered at the base of her throat with each beat of her heart. She took a long time, then said in a flat expressionless voice, " John killed Richard."
Crane got off the couch and put a chunk of pine on the fire. Sparks flew up the chimney, tongues of flame licked the fresh wood. He went back to the couch.
"Why?" he asked. "He was jealous of Richard."
"Yes, but a man doesn't"—he hesitated over the next word—"murder because he's jealous."
"No."
"Then what — "
"He saw me with Richard in his car."
"At the Country Club? On the night of Richard's death?"
She nodded, her face still turned away from him. He understood, then, the smell of gardenia on the dead man's coat, the lipstick on his face.
She went on, speaking slowly, "John must have come up to the car very quietly. I don't know how long he'd been there." Her low voice sounded as though she had not come to the end of a sentence, had only paused.
Crane waited, but she didn't go on. He asked, "He overheard you talking?"
"Richard was begging me to go away with him."
"Was John terribly angry? Did he make any threats?"
She was facing him on the couch now, her face completely unguarded. Her lips were soft and moist and red.
"He was very quiet... I couldn't see his face. He asked me to go into the clubhouse. I should have been afraid, his voice was so strange, but I went in... left him there with
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