Red Gardenias (16 page)

Judge Dornbush had his gun in his hands. "Let's start," he said. "It's nearly seven." The gun had silver on it, and the butt was carved.

Halfway down the knoll, the judge and Peter, with two of Johnson's boys following them, turned to the right, went away on a winding path through a patch of hardwood trees.

Peter called, "Good luck."

"Thanks," Crane said.

Ahead, for miles, he could see woods and meadows and black patches of soil, and further a ridge similar to the one they were descending. Blue haze hung over the river valley; softened the reds and golds of the autumn leaves. Occasionally, a silver eye of water winked in the early sun.

"Lots of pools down there," Karl said. "Every spring the river fills 'em up."

Crane was surprised to find there was no marshland. The earth, even in the low places, was firm underfoot. It was very black and smelled of moldering leaves.

"Should be catfish in those pools," he said.

Karl shook his head."The water gets oily. It kills 'em."

They came to a small lake. A shallow stream flowed like a tail from one end, gave it the shape of a tadpole. Grass grew near the shore and ten yards out there were weeds. The color of the water was strange; it was iridescent with blues and violets and greens.

Karl pulled a brown canoe from some bushes. Startled, three crows left a golden maple, flew off" with protesting caws. The black-and-tan hound appeared from somewhere and tried to get in the canoe, but Karl drove him off with the paddle.

The wind was cold and gusty by the blind on the other side of Coon Lake. Karl steadied the canoe while they got out, handed them their shotguns and three boxes of shells.

"I'll go for Mr March." Karl shoved the canoe away with his paddle. "Be back as soon as he comes."

The blind was the most elaborate one Crane had ever seen, built of cement and lined with pine. There were two stools in it, and Crane discovered his head was just even with the reeds when he sat down. In front of the blind two dozen wooden decoys floated patiently.

Dr Woodrin glanced at his wrist watch. "Two minutes to seven."

Crane shoved two shells in his gun and looked around. In back, about half a mile away, rose the bridge, covered with trees ranging in color from squash-yellow to tomato-red. A gust of wind made him turn up his flannel shirt.

"We'll alternate shots," Dr Woodrin said. "You take the first one."

"At what?" Crane asked.

"There'll be something coming in pretty soon."

They waited patiently for ten minutes. Crane was glad he had thought to put on wool socks. He heard two shots in rapid succession to the right.

"Peter March," Dr Woodrin said, and added quickly, "Look out?"

Two mallards, flying about two hundred feet in the air, came down the stream. They warily circled the lake, cocking bright black eyes at the decoys. They went down wind, then came slowly in for a landing. Crane stood up and nailed the drake.

The hen banked and started for the left, but the doctor caught her just as she appeared to be out of range. She tumbled head over heels into some reeds.

"Good shot," Crane said.

The doctor said, "Thanks," and put another shell in his gun.

There seemed to be plenty of wild fowl around. Crane could hear frequent shots from the right and an occasional double from further away. He assumed this was Judge Dornbush at Woods' Hole.

A flight of teal, coming hell for leather into the lake, startled him and he missed two shots. Dr Woodrin got one and missed his second. The teal were gone in a fraction of a second.

"They're like greased lightning," Crane said.

He did fairly well on further shooting, and in twenty minutes he had four mallards. Dr Woodrin had two teal and six mallards. They both had fired two shots at a flock of seven spoonbills without result.

Crane began to feel familiar with mallard and teal.

The mallard, he decided, was a smart guy. His eyes were always bright with suspicion, and more often than not he'd pass over a place that didn't look exactly right. He seemed to like the land, and often appeared from a cluster of trees.

The teal, on the other hand, had nothing on the ball but speed. He was prone to snap judgments, and would race for an inviting piece of water without any misgivings. He could clear out in a hurry, though, when the shooting began.

Five spoonbills appeared from the other side of the lake, circled overhead. Crane got ready to shoot. Two of the birds came down toward the decoys, but Crane held off, hoping all five would come in so Dr Woodrin would have a shot.

"Go ahead," Dr Woodrin said.

Crane brought down the first bird. Immediately after his shot, as the spoonbill tumbled toward the water, he heard a pinging noise and a sound like somebody driving a small nail with a hammer. Dr Woodrin, taking his time, got another bird.

Crane felt, the hair rise on his neck. He felt alarmed about something, but he couldn't imagine what it was. He sat on his stool.

"Coming in fast," Dr Woodrin observed.

A moment later a good flock of teal slanted down at them. The doctor got one and Crane caught another with his second shot. He thought teal would be easier to hit if they were bigger. He heard the pinging noise and saw water spurt up almost directly in front of him. He blinked his eyes at the bubbles and sat down.

The doctor was seated, too. "That's my limit." He lit a cigarette. "Now you shoot."

Crane examined the wood on the front of the blind, found a hole near the top edge. It was a new hole, about large enough to admit his little finger. He got off his stool and sat on the floor of the blind.

"What's the matter?" Dr Woodrin asked.

"You better join me," Crane said.

"Why?"

"I think somebody's shooting at us."

The doctor obviously thought he'd gone crazy. Crane showed him the hole. The doctor stood up to look at it. Crane pulled him down on the stool. The pinging noise came a quarter second later.

"Hear that?" Crane asked.

"You're imagining things."

"But the hole!"

"An insect."

"Listen!" Crane took off his sweater, draped it over the shotgun, put his hat on top. He held the gun above the blind. There was a ping, a tap. He lowered the gun, but he couldn't find a hole in either the hat or the sweater. "He's a lousy shot," he said.

"My God!" Dr Woodrin got on the floor with Crane. "Why would anybody shoot at us? And where's the report of the gun?"

"A silencer."

"What'll we do?"

"I stay right here," Crane said.

"What a hell of a trick!" The doctor's pink-and-white face was angry. "Do you think it's a madman?"

"I don't know."

"We can't lie here all day."

"I can," Crane said.

After several minutes of silence they heard two shots from the direction of Mallard Lane. A moment later there was a faint whistling noise in the air. Crane crouched as close to the bottom of the blind as he could. He wondered if the guy could be using shrapnel.

"A couple of teal," Dr Woodrin said.

"Oh," Crane relaxed a little. "What if he comes off the ridge and rushes us?"

"We could nail him with bird shot when he got close enough."

They both looked to see if their shotguns were loaded, then waited in silence. Some mallard had settled among the decoys. They made efforts to talk with the wooden lures, quacking interrogatively. One of the mallards was within ten feet of the blind.

Crane thought they'd have very little chance if the man did attack. He could pick them off from a tree on the shore, or he could come out in a boat. Crane didn't suppose a shotgun loaded with bird shot could stop a man at more than fifty feet.

He didn't feel good. It was not a pleasant feeling to know you were likely to get a bullet in any part of your body you exposed. It was not a pleasant feeling to be shot at anywhere, but it was particularly unpleasant to be trapped. He looked at his watch. It was seven thirty-five.

"Listen!" Dr Woodrin said. "I hear a boat."

The mallards had gone away. Wind shook the dry leaves of trees on shore. A shotgun boomed in the distance. Not far away there was a faint splashing noise.

Dr Woodrin had his mouth close to Crane's ear. "We'll both come up together. He'll get one of us, but the other'll get him."

Crane nodded, flicked the safety catch off his gun.

He got to his feet, his knees under him so that he could rise in one motion. He felt a little sick to his stomach.

Water gurgled almost beside the blind. Dr Woodrin said, "Now!"

The old house in the country didn't look occupied. In the gray light of early morning it didn't look as though anybody had lived in it for a long time. It looked gaunt and lonely, and yet there was a sinister quality of silence about it, as though the house was waiting for something to happen, something abrupt and violent and tragic. Ann felt a little afraid, and she wondered what she ought to do. Was Delia Young asleep? Was she alone? Ann's watch read thirty-five minutes past seven. She had to do something soon.

She had found the house through Dolly Wilson. At first, when Ann woke her in the tiny third-floor room at Fourth and Elm, Dolly hadn't wanted to tell where Delia was. She was frightened. But Ann soothed her, assured her nothing was going to happen to Delia.

"I just want to ask her something," she said.

Dolly thought she wanted to ask about her husband. She thought it was too bad a fellow with as pretty a wife as Ann would go chasing after a dame like Delia. She told Ann where Delia was.

"Thanks," Ann said. "And don't forget there's a job for you in New York, Dolly." She hurried down to the limousine.

Now the problem was how to reach Delia in the house. Ann didn't dare to call her; it might arouse someone else. She pushed through some half-dead gooseberry bushes and went around to the back. Rusty tin cans, discarded kitchen utensils, rags, pieces of cardboard, littered the yard. Torn wire marked a coop that had once held chickens. The kitchen steps were warped and some of the planks were loose; she climbed gingerly and tried the door. It was fastened. She wished Bill Crane, incompetent as he was, was with her. She supposed he was having a fine time shooting ducks.

The thought made her angry. She'd find a way into the house to Delia Young and she'd ask her about Slats Donovan. She knew with the singer's help she could prove Donovan was the murderer. That would show Bill Crane!

Near the kitchen steps was an old-fashioned cellar entrance, with slanting doors. The wood on the doors was rotten and gray-brown with age; she was able to pry off the hasp with a piece of wood. It didn't make much noise, but she felt a nervous tension within her, as though someone was watching her. She looked at the house, but green shutters masked the windows.

It took all her strength to lift the long, right-hand cellar door. Oblique light bared moss-covered steps leading down under the house. She was terribly scared, but she made herself go down the steps. It was very dark in the cellar, very damp and chill. The air smelled a little bit like the bank of a river, earthy and green, but there was something in it that choked her, made it impossible for her to get a full breath. Gradually her eyes became used to darkness; she saw the dim outlines of wooden boxes, two carpenter's horses, a broken rocking chair, a shelf of mason jars.

Black and bulky, a crude flight of stairs rose mysteriously across the cellar. Walking on tiptoe, she made her way toward them. She could hear her heart pound, could feel blood in her ears. She couldn't catch her breath; the damp, earthy air made goose flesh rise on her body; she had trouble keeping her balance on her high-heeled shoes.

Something rustled. She halted, lost for an instant in terror, and the noise ceased. She took a single step. There was no noise. She took another step, then another, and another... Something soft squashed under her foot, uttered a faint sigh. She would have screamed, but her throat was stiff with terror. It felt as though she had crushed some plump, small animal. She was afraid to move her foot. Her fingers fumbled with a match; finally she got it lit and bent over.

She had stepped on a mushroom. The whole floor of the cellar was dotted with the tan hoods of mushrooms. Their white, dead-flesh stalks gleamed in the light of the match. It was like a grotesque stunted forest. The match flickered, and at the same moment something rustled behind her. She turned and saw, just as the match went out, a big rat watching her.

She went on across the cellar to the stairs. Twice mushrooms oozed horribly under a foot, but she didn't stop. She wanted terribly to get on those stairs. Darkness closed in on her at the far end of the cellar; she had to feel her way for fear of falling. Finally, with her left foot, she found the bottom step and started upward.

At the top she felt for the knob to the door, but her hands recoiled from spider webs. She lit a match, found the knob, blew out the match. The door opened with a faint squeak, and she peered into the kitchen.

Blue shades, heavy outside shutters made the room's furnishings obscure. Two paintless chairs and a table occupied the center of the kitchen. On the table were dishes and a metal pot over which swarmed flies. An iron hand pump stood at the end of a large sink. She opened the door a little further and stepped into the room. A plank creaked under her foot. Eggs had been eaten from two of the unwashed plates, and a spider had spun a web between one of them and the pot.

Ann thought the web meant no one had eaten in the kitchen for some time. She wondered if Delia had gone. The house did feel empty. It suddenly seemed to her that Delia was dead; that her body was lying somewhere in the house. She felt a terror even greater than before. The dirty kitchen, bathed in blue light, suddenly became as ominous as the cellar.

She took a deep breath and stepped forward and then screamed madly. Hands clutched her from behind, bruised her breasts, finally found her mouth. The hands were strong and smelled of tobacco. She struggled, trying to catch her breath, but she couldn't free herself. She couldn't get air. The blue room became dimmer and dimmer...