Red Gardenias by Jonathan Latimer Read Free Book Online Page A

to work. He thought it was a fine thing when a man had to work hard to keep ahead of a woman. Especially one as pretty as Ann.
    The old man handed back the photograph. "That's him."
    "Well, thanks," Crane said.
    "One more thing," said the old man, "though I don't know as it's much of a clue..."
    "It might be," Ann said. "What is it?"
    "Well, twice I borrowed matches from Mr Maxwell. An' both times he gave me a package from the Crimson Cat. That's a night club near here."
    A middle-aged man with spectacles and dandruff flakes on his blue serge suit came into the office. He turned out to be the old man's son, Charles, who operated the realty business. The old man told him Crane was an insurance investigator, looking up the Maxwells.
    "Been a lot of interest in them today," the younger Mr Jameson said.
    "How's that?" Crane asked.
    "A fellow came a couple of hours ago to collect the Maxwell things. He had a note from Mrs Maxwell." Ann said excitedly, "He wouldn't still be there?"
    "I don't know."
    Crane said, "How do we get there?"
    Following the younger Mr Jameson's directions, it took them three minutes to reach February Lane. The house was a Cape Cod cottage, white, with a high roof and a screened porch on the side. In the driveway was a big sedan with a woman in the driver's seat.
    As Ann brought their car to a stop the woman hooped the horn. Crane couldn't see her very well, but he got an idea she was young.
    A hollow, metallic voice called from the rear of the house, "What's wrong?"
    Ann exclaimed, "Our burglar!"
    The woman hit the horn again, pushed the starter. Arms bearing a cardboard box, the man came around the house, turned his face toward Crane and Ann, broke into an unsteady run. He jerked open the sedan's door, jumped in as it started. The door swung crazily. He reached out and closed it. The woman gave the motor gas.
    "Hey!" Crane called. "Wait a minute."
    The car swayed as it entered the street, swung wide around their sedan. Crane caught a vivid impression of the woman. She was handsome with milk-white skin and carrot hair, and her large mouth looked as though it had been lipsticked with a vermilion squirt gun. The man kept his face turned away.
    Ann pulled Crane back into the sedan. "Come on."
    They got around in a wide sweep which carried them over the curb and onto the soft lawn of a Spanish cottage across the lane. The other car was still in sight. Ann shoved the sedan to fifty-five before she shifted into high. Motor and tires began to scream.
    Crane clutched desperately at the dashboard. "Do you think this is a good idea?"
    Ann didn't answer. She watched the road, her foot holding the accelerator against the rubber floor mat. Her eyes gleamed and her face was determined. She held the wheel so firmly her knuckles showed white through her skin.
    She was a beautiful girl, Crane thought, but he wondered if she didn't have just a shade too much character. She seemed to take the detective business too seriously. She didn't act like a blonde at all. He wondered if she'd been a redhead, too, and had bleached her hair.
    With a wail of tires, the sedan rounded a turn. He looked at the speedometer, saw with horror they were going eighty miles an hour. The other car, swaying violently from one side of the clay road to the other, was about two hundred yards ahead. He hoped his car was more stable, but he suspected it was not. They seemed to be gaining on the other car.
    He had to shout to be heard. "What do we do when we catch them?"
    "Arrest him. He's a burglar."
    "What if he resists?"
    "Knock him down."
    They were passing through a long valley, and the light was dim. Ann switched on the headlights, but they didn't do much good. The road undulated slightly, and every time they raced over a crest and dropped into the following hollow Crane felt his stomach turn over. It didn't seem to be the road they had come over from Marchton.
    Crane shouted, "What if he has a gun?"
    "Shoot him."
    "With what?"
    "In my purse... a