Death Out of Focus

by William Campbell Gault

  Dave was just getting out of his little black car when Steve drove up in front of Bergdahl’s. He waited on the driveway.

  Steve said, “I’m surprised you’re free after your friend Morton identified the getaway car.”

  “I’ve just come from the station,” Dave explained. “He’s no friend of mine. Or Jean’s either, any more.”

  “Are they holding him?”

  Dave shook his head. “Not with Spangler representing him. And will you tell me where the bum got the money to hire expensive help like Leon Spangler?”

  “That’s a question I should think the police would ask. Do you know if Harry’s awake and sober?”

  Dave shrugged. “We’ll soon know.” They walked to the front door and Dave opened it.

  Somewhere in the house a radio was tuned to a news report, and the commentator was talking about the death of Pat Cullum. Dave led the way to the kitchen.

  It was a huge, beamed, farm kitchen, and the breakfast table had been set near the used-brick fireplace. Harry and Dotty were at the table, reading the morning paper.

  Dotty smiled in greeting, and her glance rested appraisingly on Steve. Harry said sourly, “The detectives, the investigators.”

  Dave laughed. Steve said, “We’re here to comfort you, Harry. We’re here to hold your hand.”

  Dotty said smilingly, “There’s a whole pot of coffee. Get some cups, Dave.”

  Steve sat down as Dave went to the cupboard. Harry said growlingly, “So what’s on your mind?”

  “I wondered if you had phoned your lawyer. Tomkevic seems determined to railroad you, Harry.”

  “That would bother you?”

  Steve nodded solemnly.

  Harry looked away. “I don’t need a lawyer. They rob you blind. What do I need with a lawyer? I’m clean.”

  Steve said nothing. Dave brought a pair of cups and saucers. Dotty smiled at Steve and winked at Dave.

  Harry asked, “Why are you worried? Since when does Steven Leander worry about cornball Harry Bergdahl?”

  “Since you gave me a job when I needed it. Do you want me to go, Harry? It’s your house.”

  Dotty said softly, “Harry doesn’t know who his real friends are. He doesn’t trust anybody.” She poured Steve a cup of coffee.

  “Friends …?” Harry said bitterly. “Some friends, a pair of suspicious associates, nosing into my business. I can live without friends like that.”

  Steve said jestingly, “Why worry? You’re clean.”

  Harry glared. “A hundred percent clean nobody is. Are you?”

  Steve shook his head.

  “Nobody working and me paying rent at the studio,” Harry went on. “And why …? Tell me, why?”

  “I don’t know, Harry. It was your idea.”

  “To start all the trouble it was my idea? Oh, no. You and my loving nephew here, it was your idea.”

  Dave asked, “And whose idea was it to insure Hart Jameson?”

  Harry transferred his glare to his nephew. “Mine.” He gestured impatiently. “The old days are dead. Now a guy’s gotta make pictures with class. That means stepping up publicity about stars, their insurance gimmicks, tough location breaks — all that flapdoodle. You know how the columns like to kick it around.” Then more softly, “But the accident idea — that was his. He thought we had a dog of a script. He thought it would hurt his nothing reputation.”

  Steve said, “I wouldn’t admit all that to Tomkevic, Harry.”

  “Was I born yesterday? I’ll get to him. His time will come.”

  Dave asked, “Could I fry myself a couple of eggs, Dotty? I’m starving.”

  “Ask me,” Harry said. “I pay for the eggs around here.”

  Dotty said sweetly, “I’ll fry them for you, Dave. He can take them out of my allowance.”

  Dave smiled. Steve managed to keep a straight face.

  Harry tapped the newspaper. “Did you read this Morton’s bull? Who’s the big-money interests?”

  Dave said mildly, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he meant you, Uncle Harry.”

  Bergdahl nodded. “I never liked that man. I still think he’s on a list somewhere. He’s a liar. I’ll bet he made a deal with that Polack insurance man.”

  Steve said soothingly, “Harry, let’s not think about anything but the picture. If the insurance money isn’t paid, we’ll get money somewhere else and you’ll still be kingpin. But let’s worry about nothing but the picture.”

  “Now you talk like that. After you and Dave mess around for a week with your big noses.”

  “So we’re not messing around any more. I think we should get right back to work tomorrow, and I think Mitchell Morton should still have that part.”

  Harry stared. “Are you crazy? Is he a buddy of yours or something?”

  “I despise him. But he’s the man for the part, and we’ll get him at minimum. Harry, I said we should think only of the picture.”

  Bergdahl studied him thoughtfully. Finally he said, “You’re right. Yeh, you’re right. I hope we can get him before he goes to jail. Because that’s where he’s going to wind up.”

  Dotty brought the eggs over and Dave began to eat.

  Bergdahl was still studying Steve. His chin went up. “You know, I always had the feeling you figured me for a bastard. Maybe I was wrong about that, huh?”

  Steve shook his head and smiled. “It’s only that I’m beginning to realize you’re my kind of bastard, Harry.”

  Bergdahl’s dour face was impassive for a moment and then he also smiled. “We’re going to have a picture, ain’t we? Nobody’s going to stop that.”

  “We’re going to have a picture,” Steve promised.

  The phone rang and Dotty picked it up. She said, “Yes, he’s here.” She looked at Steve. “It’s for you.”

  It was Sergeant Morrow. He said, “We got that statement typed up that you dictated last night. You can drop in at the Hollywood station any time today to sign it.”

  “I’ll do that, Sergeant. How is it you didn’t hold Mitchell Morton? It’s obvious from my statement that his story was fabricated, isn’t it?”

  “It’s obvious either his story was fabricated or your statement is fabricated, Mr. Leander. Or maybe both.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant. Next time I’ll know better than to answer a summons for help.”

  “The summons didn’t come from us, Leander.”

  “You’re right, it didn’t, Morrow. Good-bye.” He replaced the phone on its cradle roughly.

  “Temper, temper …” Dotty said.

  Dave said, “That Morrow can be nasty. If I was twenty pounds heavier, I’d have slugged him this morning.”

  Harry was doing the smiling now. He said nothing.

  Steve said, “I’ll go over and sign the statement. And then I think I’ll go to the studio and see if I can find anyone there to run yesterday’s rushes for me. They should be terrific.”

  “They’d better be,” Harry said. “Because you’ll remember we agreed yesterday was your last day up there.”

  “I remember, skinflint. Now, you call me if Tomkevic sends any law over here. I’ve got the best attorney in town.”

  Dave said, “Not for this kind of trouble. Morton’s got him.”

  At the Hollywood station, the desk sergeant told him, “Sergeant Morrow has the statement. He’s in that first room on the right off the hall.”

  It was the same room Steve had waited in last night. Sergeant Morrow sat behind the small desk in the corner. He looked up without smiling as Steve walked in.

  He nodded at a chair on the other side of the desk. “Sit down, Mr. Leander.”

  Steve sat down and took out a cigarette.

  Morrow asked, “Cool off? I’ve heard about your temper.”

  Steve didn’t answer.

  “You’ve got some reason to hate Mitchell Morton, have you?”

  “He’s a liar. He’s a blackmailer.”

  “Blackmailed you, did he?”

  “Not quite. He
was the man for the part and he got it. He’s still got it, as far as Mr. Bergdahl and I are concerned. That is, if he’s not in jail by the time we get around to shooting it.”

  “Jail …? What has he done?”

  “Withheld information from the police, at the very least.”

  “So did you, and you’re not in jail.”

  “All right,” Steve said vexedly. “You win, Sergeant. It’s your baby, not mine. Where’s the statement?”

  Sergeant Morrow’s smile was slight. “You’re turning in your badge, are you? Getting out of the investigation business?”

  “That’s right. And I here and now apologize for letting Tomkevic talk me into it in the first place.”

  “No need for an apology,” Morrow said. “You helped. And now maybe things are getting too hot?”

  Steve stared at him. “Is that an accusation? If it is, I’d like to phone my attorney.”

  Morrow lifted a hand. “Now, take it easy. Nobody’s accusing you of anything. It’s your boss I was thinking of.”

  Steve said patiently, “Only because Tomkevic steered your thinking that way. And I’m sure you know why Tomkevic would want Mr. Bergdahl involved.”

  Morrow nodded. “I considered all that. And I figured Morton for what you called him, a liar and a blackmailer. But a smart liar knows just how much truth to put into his story, and I figure Morton for a smart liar. The parts of his story that check with other stories point directly at Mr. Bergdahl. Right now, we’re running down a pretty solid rumor that this Pat Cullum was Bergdahl’s girl friend.”

  “That could be,” Steve agreed. “His and any other available male’s. At least that was the girl’s reputation.”

  Morrow frowned. “She’s dead. Is that a nice way to talk about the dead?”

  Steve looked at the unlighted cigarette in his hand and put it absently into his pocket. He looked at Morrow and said nothing.

  Morrow said quietly, “I meant Mr. Bergdahl’s special girl friend, special enough for him to pay her rent. That’s the rumor we’re running down. Now, what have you got to say?”

  “I came here to sign a statement. Where is it?”

  “You’re being insolent, Mr. Leander.”

  “I’m trying not to be. Consider this — you and your Department friends wrote off the death of Hart Jameson as an accident. Tomkevic, for financial reasons, and I, for moral reasons, weren’t satisfied with that decision. We nosed around. And probably, because of that, Pat Cullum was killed. If we had let it go as an accident, Pat Cullum would probably still be alive and I wouldn’t have to sit here and listen to you tell me I’m not out of the woods. I was way out of the woods before I turned moral.”

  “Turned moral?”

  “Turned actively instead of passively moral. There’s a distinction there I’m not sure you’re mentally equipped to understand.”

  “There goes that insolence again.”

  Steve nodded. “The trouble with you boys is you think a man has to wear a badge to be insolent.”

  Morrow leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “Jesus, I’d hate to work for you. You must be a real tiger.”

  Steve said nothing. He put his trembling hands in his lap. Morrow shuffled through some papers and picked out a stapled sheaf of three. He pushed it across to Steve. “There’s your statement. Better read it carefully before you sign it.”

  Steve read it and signed it. Morrow gave him two more copies. “These are carbons.”

  Steve signed those. He finished and asked, “Assuming you prove that Pat Cullum was Mr. Bergdahl’s special girl friend. How does that connect him with Jameson’s death?”

  “She was with Jameson, wasn’t she? Maybe working for Bergdahl?”

  “She wasn’t with Jameson when he died. She told me she went on a double date that night and there would be three witnesses to testify she had been with them.”

  “Why haven’t they come forward? If they can read, they should be here, shouldn’t they? And you’re overlooking one thing, Leander.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your boss could be innocent of what happened to Jameson and still be guilty of Miss Cullum’s death. We haven’t been able to prove where he was at the time she died.”

  “Have you asked him?”

  Morrow nodded.

  “I just saw him half an hour ago. He didn’t tell me that.”

  Morrow smiled. “You know, there could be a lot of things he hasn’t told you. Or us. Thanks for coming in, Mr. Leander.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Steve went out into an overcast day and drove to the studio. It was time to concentrate on the important thing, on the picture. He was not a detective and certainly not a lawyer. He had been a writer, was now a director and would one day be a producer. God and TV willing.

  He found a projectionist he knew and they ran yesterday’s film. It was what he had been sure it would be; it was perfect. Laura was getting better and better, and Tom Leslie was superb. The others milked their bits to the ultimate, and the cameraman hadn’t missed a nuance.

  The cameraman had been Harry’s choice, and Steve suddenly remembered Harry had come to prominence through the technical end of the business. Looking back on the pictures of Harry’s he had seen, he remembered now how technically sound they had been.

  But even the best cutter in the business could not have contrived the dramatic impact they had captured in yesterday’s fought-for trip. Harry would be forced to admit that when he saw this film.

  An empty day leered at him. He drove over to John Abbot’s. He pulled up behind a green Pontiac and got out of his car as Tomkevic came down the walk from the house.

  Steve stared at him. “Here, too? Are you crazy? Now what in hell are you doing here?”

  Tomkevic’s smile was cool. “It was your idea. You asked me to check the man and check his offer of money.”

  “Oh? And I’m under suspicion again? Or have I always been?”

  “You’re practically a partner of Bergdahl’s, aren’t you? You admitted seeing Jameson earlier that night. How do I know you went to a movie later? How do I know you weren’t the man in the MG?”

  “I don’t have an MG.”

  “Your buddy, young Sidney, has. His car could be one place while he’s establishing an alibi somewhere else, couldn’t it?”

  Steve said coldly, “You’re really reaching now, aren’t you? You’re determined to twist this accident to suit your own purposes, no matter how absurd your theory actually is. Is that why Morton’s free? Did you buy him a phony witness and then con the police into releasing him?”

  “Watch your language, Leander. I can get rough, you know.”

  “Please do. Now and here.” A redness moved through Steve’s mind. “Fool me. Show me the guts I’m sure you lack. Get rough.”

  “Take it easy, Leander. Don’t do anything foolish.”

  Steve took a step toward the investigator.

  And from the lawn the gentle voice of John Abbot said, “That’s right, Steve — don’t do anything foolish.”

  Steve turned to stare at John. Abbot said to Tomkevic, “You’d better go. I think it would be wise if you went quietly and quickly.”

  “He doesn’t scare me,” Tomkevic said.

  Abbot smiled. “Everyone is entitled to an occasional error in judgment. Let me assure you that he’s my best friend, but he scares me at the moment.”

  Tomkevic went away and the redness went with him and Steve stood on the walk trembling.

  John came over to put a hand on his arm. “A drink will help. Lord, you looked — murderous. Aren’t you ever going to learn to discipline that temper, Steve?”

  “I have been disciplining it, John. Believe me, you’d be proud of me if you’d seen it. Ye gods, I’ve been getting along with Harry Bergdahl!”

  Abbot chuckled. “You win. And I’ll have to admit that Mr. Tomkevic even annoyed me for the few minutes he was here. What’s happening that I don’t know about?”

  “Mix me a d
rink and I’ll tell you,” Steve answered. “Gosh, it’s time for lunch, isn’t it? I’d better phone Marcia.”

  “I’ll phone her,” Abbot said. “You sit down and relax. You’re still trembling.”

  Steve had already mixed a drink when Abbot came back from phoning Marcia. Abbot went over to mix one for himself.

  Steve asked, “Who’s your wealthy friend who is willing to put money into a motion picture these days?”

  “A man with money and faith,” Abbot replied. “Johnson Waters.”

  “Money I knew he had,” Steve said, “but not that much faith.”

  “He’s always had faith in you, Steve. He’s been in your fan club since your first picture.”

  Steve looked at his drink. “John, are we going to survive?”

  “The industry, you mean? The present setup? Through exhibitors?”

  “I mean without making pictures for TV.”

  “Of course we’ll survive,” Abbot said. “Forty years ago a supposedly learned man assured me the movies meant the death of the publishing business. And a little later all the bright ones were positive that radio would ruin the record business. I hope you don’t think a commercial-studded wrestling match will ever replace Laurence Olivier.”

  “That’s hardly a fair comparison,” Steve said.

  “I’m not trying to be fair,” Abbot told him smilingly. “It’s my industry I’m defending.”

  “You know who else believes in it?”

  “Harry Bergdahl. Is that who you meant?”

  Steve nodded.

  Abbot said, “There are angles to this business Harry knows very well. And he knows another very important thing — he knows enough not to interfere with a competent subordinate.”

  “That isn’t his reputation. He has a reputation as a meddler.”

  “He’s had to be. He rarely had competent subordinates. He never paid enough to get them. When cheap pictures sold, Harry made cheap pictures. He has never before had any reason to make a good one.”

  Steve smiled. “What a switch … You were the man who warned me against him.”