Death Out of Focus

by William Campbell Gault

  “So a record, anyway. Tie that up with this insurance policy Harry took out on him. And some drunken bragging Jameson did at a party a few nights ago to a friend of mine. Hart said he might just possibly have a little accident in his Jaguar, something that might injure his back.”

  “Kid talk,” Steve scoffed. “I hope he doesn’t think a faked back injury would fool those insurance doctors.”

  “Maybe he does. And maybe Harry does, too.” Laura paused. “You knew that one of Harry’s angels backed out, didn’t you?”

  “No.” Steve slowed the car. “Laura, you’re not looking for trouble, are you?”

  She shook her head slowly. “I’ve had enough trouble to last me the rest of my life. All I want is to keep working.”

  “We both have to keep working,” Steve said quietly. “I think we had better forget we ever had this conversation.”

  “I’ve already forgotten it,” she said. “And my friend told nobody but me. She claims. Don’t you think you should have a talk with Harry Bergdahl, though?”

  “I intend to, tonight,” Steve said. “We can’t continue to shoot around Jameson indefinitely.”

  The financial shenanigans of Harry Bergdahl were not his business, Steve tried to tell himself. His job was to direct a picture and make it the best picture that could be made with the people and money committed to it. Finance was the producer’s realm and the producer’s problem.

  He dropped Laura off in Brentwood and reminded her, “Forget about Jameson’s drunken bragging. Let’s concentrate on the problems we have on the set.”

  She nodded. She patted his hand before stepping from the car.

  It was the housekeeper’s half-day, and Marcia was in the kitchen preparing dinner when Steve came home.

  “Your drink’s in the refrigerator,” she said. “How did it go today?”

  “Fine. That Laura’s a real pro. I’m glad I cast her.”

  “There’s something else on your mind. I can tell.”

  “Nothing,” he said irritably. He went to the refrigerator. “It’s been hot up there in Santa Barbara.”

  “It’s been hot here, too. I see in the Times that your star got into a bar brawl last night.”

  He turned from the refrigerator. “Jameson?”

  She nodded. “The paper’s in the living room. It’s on the front page. The picture was mentioned.”

  He didn’t go to the living room. He sat at the kitchen table and sipped his drink.

  Marcia asked casually, “How is David Louis Sidney doing?”

  “Well. I enjoy working with Dave. We understand each other.”

  “And he’s good for your ego,” Marcia added. “You haven’t kissed me yet, big man.”

  “I’m too tired to get up,” he told her. “Come over here and I’ll kiss you.”

  She came over to kiss him. She stroked his hair and said, “There’s a letter from the kids. I think they miss us. Could we go up there Sunday?”

  He nodded.

  She massaged the back of his neck. “Do you want to tell me what’s bothering you, now?”

  “Nothing serious. I’m in a complicated business and it has a million tedious problems and a million minor decisions every day. I’m bushed, that’s all.”

  “Has Harry been giving you trouble?”

  “He hasn’t opened his mouth. He’s giving me less trouble than I imagined in my rosiest dreams.”

  She leaned over to kiss him again. “All right, working man, I’ll get off your back. Let’s eat outside like the Corn Belt refugees.”

  He stayed in the shower a long time, letting the warm spray relax his neck and shoulder muscles, trying to dissolve his problems and his doubts in the soapy water that gurgled through the drain at his feet.

  He had always tried to divorce himself from the gossip, the rumors, the angle shooting that was the sustenance of so many in the industry. Perhaps it was not wise to stay too aloof from the machinations of his contemporaries.

  Marcia was setting the table on the sundeck when he came out from the dressing room. He went into the study and dialed Hart Jameson’s number.

  Jameson’s voice was faintly blurred and annoyingly jovial. “I’ll bet you’re worried about me. Don’t be. The bum didn’t lay a hand on me.”

  “I’m worried about the picture,” Steve said.

  Over the wire came a muffled, feminine giggle and a less muffled, feminine “Stop that!”

  Steve said stiffly, “I hope I’m not interrupting anything. Would it be possible for me to see you tonight?”

  Jameson chuckled. “It all depends. This one may take some time to get to. She’s the coy type. Does Harry want to talk to me, too?”

  “I don’t know,” Steve answered. “I — heard a rumor and I want your version of it. But not over a phone.”

  Silence for a few moments, and then Jameson said, “Why not drop over here? It’s not far. I can always send the — company out for another bottle or some cigarettes.”

  Steve carefully kept the indignation from his voice. “Would eight-thirty be all right?”

  “Dandy,” Jameson said. “Don’t forget to knock.”

  Steve sat by the phone a few minutes before going out to the deck. He told Marcia, “I’m going over to see Jameson tonight. I’ll only be gone for about an hour.”

  “That’s what’s been bothering you,” she declared. “I knew there was something.”

  He didn’t argue with her. He sat quietly in the shade of the overhang, looking down at his neighbors. Beyond the house immediately below, the canyon wound, dry and gray, lined with stunted chaparral. In the flood season the canyon would run high with water, and the hills would be green.

  Marcia must have been reading his thoughts. She said, “All this country really needs is summer rain.”

  “Summer rain,” he agreed, “and a tenth as many people and some New England thrift.”

  She made a face. “I could start using oleomargarine.”

  “Bring me another drink,” he said. “I’m beginning to feel almost human.”

  • • •

  The apartment of Hart Jameson was on the second floor of a stucco building in a less desirable section of Brentwood. Mr. Jameson’s success was recent, and his address obviously had not caught up with it.

  Steve heard voices before he turned the mechanical chime in the door. Silence followed the chime and then Jameson called, “Just a minute.”

  It seemed longer than that before the door opened and the bright brown eyes of Hart Jameson considered Steve genially. “Eight-thirty on the dot. I’m not used to punctual people.” He stood aside. “Come in.”

  Steve came into a small living room smelling of gin, perfume and cigarette smoke. A short hall to the right served the bedroom and bath. The bedroom door was closed.

  Steve said meaningly, “I’d hoped to catch you alone.”

  “You did,” Jameson said. “I’m all by my lonesome.”

  Steve hesitated and then headed for a studio couch at the far end of the room from the small hall. He sat down and looked around the room and up at Jameson.

  “Speak freely,” the youth assured him. “We’re alone.”

  Steve kept his voice low. “I heard a very silly rumor at a party the other night. I heard you were planning a back injury.”

  Jameson’s blunt-featured face twisted in a grin. “You hear the damnedest things at parties, don’t you? I was figuring it even heavier than that. I figured to roll the Jag once over lightly to give it some realism. No risk. I used to roll my souped flivver all the time.”

  “Don’t,” Steve warned quietly. “You’d never get away with it. Those insurance investigators are extremely able men, Hart.”

  Jameson chuckled. “So we had another idea. I could run her off a cliff and then go down on foot, tear up my clothes a little and scuff around in the dirt. I don’t worry about the Jag. She’s insured to the hilt.”

  Steve almost whispered, “You said ‘we.’ Who else is involved in this abs
urd idea?”

  Jameson smiled. “Now, who would be? Who’s kept me out of the shooting all along?”

  “Harry. Is this his idea?”

  “I’m not going to say it,” Jameson answered. “Look, what’s all this to you? You’re the great artist. The money isn’t your department.”

  “It’s not as simple as a question of raising money,” Steve answered. “It’s a question of morality.”

  Jameson shrugged. “Oh, come on …! Morality, where a billion-dollar insurance company is involved? That’s cutting it real thin, man.”

  “Their morality isn’t involved,” Steve explained. “Yours is. And something that might be more important to you — your future. What you plan is already a rumor. If you go through with it, the rumor will be substantiated. Your career could be finished.”

  Jameson shook his head. “You know, I got a couple of real cornball opinions left over from my kid days. And one of them is that talent will always make out. I may not be any Brando, but I sure as hell got more on the ball than most of the slobs that are coining it today.”

  Steve nodded. “I’ll buy that. And this picture could do a lot for your career.”

  Jameson laughed. “Come on! Man, I read that miserable script. This is going to be a dog to end all dogs. Level with me. It stinks, right?”

  “No,” Steve said firmly. “Originally, it was an unrealized story. It’s been fixed now, and the rushes have been impressive.”

  Silence. Jameson stared at him in doubt. To Steve’s nostrils came the odor of that unusual perfume again, stronger than the gin or cigarette smoke.

  Jameson said, “You’re leveling? I got a lot of regard for your opinion, man. I saw every picture you ever directed. That’s why I couldn’t figure you on this dog.”

  “It’s not going to be a great picture,” Steve said quietly, “but it’s going to be a good one. And more important to you at this stage in your career, it’s going to be financially successful.”

  Jameson sat down at the other end of the studio couch and lighted a cigarette. Belatedly he offered one to Steve.

  Steve shook his head.

  Jameson said softly, “I could have been conned, you know? It happens all the time in this town, right?”

  Steve nodded.

  After a moment Jameson said, “I promise nothing. And for the record, I admit nothing, either. But I’m going to do some thinking. I’ll call you tomorrow night, right?”

  Steve stood up. “Do that.” He smiled. “And Mr. Self-Admitted Talent, I’ll tell you something else. You have enough on the ball, but also a big fat need for good direction.”

  Jameson grinned. “From maybe three people in this phony town, I’d take that remark. You’re one of ‘em. Go home and rest easy now. And this little visit stays a secret between us, huh?”

  Steve nodded and then looked again at the closed bedroom door.

  “Rest easy,” Jameson repeated. “Leave the finagling to the guys that live by it.”

  It wasn’t bad advice, Steve reflected, but it had come a little late. If Jameson had a change of heart now and appeared for the picture, perhaps there would be no picture. The involved financial shenanigans of Harry Bergdahl were too complicated for an amateur to tamper with.

  But he felt better for having made the trip. Laura’s rumor had proved to be factual, and it was possible he had saved a talented young man from committing a disastrous act. He smiled at his own pomposity. What he had probably done was to jam the financial machinery that would have kept him solvent.

  At home Marcia said, “You look smug. What happened?”

  “I did my good deed for the day. Why don’t we go to a movie? Movies are better than ever, I heard.”

  “I thought you were bushed.”

  “Not any more. Let’s go. I’m restless.” It was a long show and well after midnight before they left the theatre. Then Marcia developed a gnawing urge for a hamburger, so they stopped at a drive-in.

  Consequently, it was after one o’clock when they drove up the long and winding road that led to their hilltop home.

  The lights of the Bentley illuminated a little MG as they swung around the last curve, and Marcia said, “Isn’t that Dave Sidney’s car? What would he be doing here this time of the night?”

  “This town is full of MG’s,” Steve answered. “It must be someone visiting a neighbor.”

  “It’s Dave,” Marcia insisted. “See? He’s getting out of the car.”

  She was right. Dave Sidney stood next to his car now, watching their headlights. Then, as Steve swung into the driveway, Dave came across the lawn toward them.

  Steve killed the engine and got out. “What’s the matter, Dave? Trouble?”

  “Plenty,” Dave answered. “Uncle Harry sent me over. He’s been phoning you for an hour. Hart Jameson’s had an accident.”

  Steve stood rigidly, staring through the darkness at Dave’s face, barely visible in the reflection from the headlights. “My God! I talked with him earlier this evening.” He paused. “Was he injured seriously?”

  “His car went over the bluff above the Coast Highway in the Palisades,” Dave said softly. “He was killed.”

  FIVE

  For seconds Steve stood there quietly, unable to speak. Then he said, “Let’s go into the house. Let’s not stand out here.”

  Marcia put the car away as Steve and Dave walked toward the front door.

  Dave asked, “Was Hart sober when you talked with him?”

  “He’d been drinking, I’m sure,” Steve said hesitantly. “Dave, I’m trying to decide whether or not I should tell you why I went to see Jameson tonight.”

  Dave stopped walking. “You went to see him? For some reason, I got the impression you talked with him over the phone.”

  Steve shook his head. “I went to his apartment. And I’m going to tell you why. Right here, without Marcia. I don’t want her to know about it.”

  He told Dave about the rumor but not where he had heard it. He told him about the talk with Jameson and about hearing the voices before he went into the apartment and about the perfume.

  When he’d finished, he said, “Except for the girl, I could be the last man to see him alive. I suppose I had better tell the police about it.”

  “And the rumor, too?” Dave asked.

  “I don’t know. I can’t decide about that. It could make your uncle look bad, couldn’t it?”

  “It could easily cost him a quarter of a million dollars,” Dave said. “Uncle Harry is no angel, Steve, but I can’t see him as a murderer. Can you?”

  Steve said no and knew he was lying.

  “What must have happened,” Dave went on, “is that Jameson got stinking drunk and had an actual accident. I don’t see what else it could be. He certainly didn’t commit suicide in order to accommodate Uncle Harry. But if this rumor gets out, the insurance company has a case.”

  “That’s true,” Steve agreed. “I don’t know what good …”

  From the doorway Marcia asked, “Can’t you two talk in the house? Is there something I shouldn’t know?”

  “A number of things,” Dave said lightly. “This is all dull man talk.”

  She looked between them anxiously. “Something’s wrong. Is it about the insurance?”

  Steve said calmly, “No, honey. We’ll be in in a minute. Why don’t you put some coffee on?”

  Again she looked between them. Then, without speaking, she closed the door.

  Steve said, “I should tell the police I talked with Jameson tonight, don’t you think? That girl could tell them I was there, and they might wonder why I didn’t phone them.”

  “If they ask you,” Dave said, “you can tell them. And I’m sure they’ll ask you. I’m too young to be giving you advice, Steve, but if I were in your position, I’d sit tight until somebody else opened.”

  They stood in silence for a moment. The headlights of a car grew brighter as it came up the hill.

  Dave said softly, “I could never understand th
e mechanics or morality of money, and I’m sure it’s a confusion we share, Steve. This much you know, you haven’t done anything wrong.”

  The car turned off at a driveway and they were in darkness again. Steve said, “Let’s go in and have some coffee.”

  Dave nodded. “And I’d better phone Uncle Harry.”

  Marcia had the electric percolator bubbling on the counter in the breakfast room. From the other room they could hear Dave dialing his uncle’s number. Steve stared at the bright chrome of the percolator.

  Marcia said quietly, “It can’t possibly be anything I shouldn’t know about.”

  He transferred his stare to her. “What can’t?”

  “Whatever you’re being so secretive about. Whatever you and Dave were whispering about outside.”

  From the other room Dave called, “Uncle Harry wants to talk with you, Steve.”

  Bergdahl’s voice was worried. “Dave tells me you talked to Jameson tonight.”

  “That’s right, Harry.”

  “What about? Was he despondent or anything? I mean — do you think it could have been suicide?”

  “I doubt it. I went over to his apartment to check a rumor I’d heard.”

  “Oh …? What kind of rumor?”

  “One I’d rather not voice” — he paused — ”over a phone.”

  There was a silence which seemed to stretch. Then Bergdahl said quietly, “It looks bad — him not being in any of the shooting yet. It will look bad to the insurance people.”

  “It looks bad,” Steve agreed. He took a breath. “Though we really didn’t need him this early.”

  Harry sounded relieved. “That’s right. You’ll vouch for that. Well, I can handle ‘em. I wonder what happened …?”

  “I’m wondering, too, Harry. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. I think we both need a good night’s sleep.”

  “You’d better stay up for a while,” Bergdahl told him. “A Sergeant Morrow is on his way over to see you right now.”

  Apprehension moved through Steve. “A policeman?”

  “That’s right. A detective from Homicide, yet. Don’t ask me why.”

  Steve hung up and sat quietly by the phone, and realized with some shame that he wasn’t thinking about the dead Hart Jameson at the moment. He was thinking of the picture.