Death Out of Focus

by William Campbell Gault

  “Because I knew you and I knew his reputation, and I felt that in a showdown, he’d win. I overlooked one of your less obvious attributes.”

  “What’s that, John?”

  “You’re a con man. You’re glib and occasionally tricky.”

  “Thanks,” Steve said wryly. “Well, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe. Yup, I guess. At times. When I have to be.” He held up his empty glass.

  “Mix your own,” Abbot said mildly. “You don’t scare me.”

  They had lunch together, and the reminiscences of John Abbot were not boring today. They were the background of a continuing industry, the colorful, impressive, illuminating history of a giant now sick but far from dead.

  Steve left at two-thirty and drove toward home. But as he drove along Wilshire, an impulse moved him and he turned toward Brentwood. Mitchell Morton’s Plymouth was parked in front of his apartment building. Steve sat in his own car for seconds before going up to turn the mechanical chime.

  Morton came to the door in T-shirt and polished cotton Ivy League trousers. He stared at Steve without speaking.

  “We’ll shoot your bit tomorrow,” Steve told him. “We want to get it into the can before you go to jail.”

  “I don’t think I’m going to jail,” Morton said calmly. “I had to tell some kind of story, didn’t I?”

  “Who’s paying for Leon Spangler? Not you, working at minimum.”

  Morton didn’t answer.

  Steve said, “Patience, that’s all you needed. The talent you have. You had to work a short cut. You’re young. What was your hurry?”

  “I don’t understand you, Mr. Leander.”

  “You understand me. That lie about the MG, was that malice?”

  Morton colored.

  Steve asked, “How much did Tomkevic pay you to stooge for him?”

  “That’s enough, Mr. Leander. I don’t need you.”

  “Don’t you? I’ll bet you’ll show up for that part tomorrow, though. Show me some integrity; spit in my face.”

  Morton asked quietly, “Why? I don’t have to prove anything. I know you’re as scared as I am. I’ve known that for a week.”

  The redness came to Steve again, and his hands clenched. The vision of Mitchell Morton wavered — and the door closed. He held onto the guard rail as he went down the steps.

  At home Marcia was in the kitchen with Mrs. Burke. She told him, “Dave called. He wants you to phone him back.”

  “Is he home or at Bergdahl’s?”

  “I imagine he’s home or he would have mentioned he wasn’t. His phone number’s in that little black book attached to the telephone book.”

  Dave, too, had an unlisted number. For a moment that casual thought stirred something in Steve’s unconscious mind but brought forth nothing tangible. He dialed the number.

  Dave said, “I have a visitor, a young actor. He’s a friend of mine. He was on a double date with Pat Cullum last Wednesday night. He came to me for advice.”

  “Why? He knows his duty, doesn’t he?”

  A pause. “He doesn’t want to make any enemies.”

  “Then he’s in the wrong business. In this business, a man’s reputation is established by making the right enemies. You’re not personally afraid of what he might tell the police, are you, Dave?”

  “Of course not. All right, I’ll tell him to go directly to Sergeant Morrow. That’s the man to see, isn’t it?”

  “Right. And tell him not to talk to Tomkevic at all.”

  “That’s for sure.” Dave lowered his voice. “Steve, when did you develop this new faith in Uncle Harry?”

  Steve laughed. “When I learned we were brothers.”

  “Okay, Uncle Steve. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Early,” Steve reminded him. “That scene of Morton’s needs some polishing.” He hung up before Dave could protest.

  Outside, the sun was breaking through the overcast. In the kitchen Marcia asked, “More shenanigans?”

  Steve glanced openly and meaningly at the kitchen extension.

  “No, no,” Marcia protested. “I could hear you from the living room. I heard you mention the police.”

  He told her about his conversation with Dave.

  She sighed. “Harry Bergdahl and Steven Leander, that’s a pair you can draw to, as Tom Duggan would say.”

  “It’s a winning pair,” Steve said. “With Dave, it makes a very potent three-of-a-kind.”

  “That I’ll buy,” she agreed. “Three egocentric monsters.”

  Mrs. Burke said, “You shouldn’t talk like that, Mrs. Leander. I don’t know this Mr. Bergdahl, but Mr. Sidney and your husband are as fine a pair of men as it has ever been my privilege to meet.”

  Steve smiled smugly. “Mrs. Burke, you have just earned yourself a free trip to the early show at the Bay. Mrs. Leander and I are going out for dinner this evening.”

  Marcia said sadly, “And then to a movie, I suppose? Couldn’t we think of some better entertainment for a change?”

  “There is no better entertainment,” Steve said, “anywhere in the world.”

  And Mrs. Burke nodded in complete agreement.

  EIGHTEEN

  Mitchell Morton was an actor. Despite the turmoil of his recent publicity and aware that the man directing him hated him, it would have been logical to expect some garbled lines and wooden gestures from him Friday morning. Nothing of the sort happened. He moved through the scene with a touch reminiscent of Tom Leslie and, like Tom, he brought the others in the scene up to his dramatic level. He finished faultlessly in one take.

  Dave said quietly to Steve, “Hard man to hate, isn’t he?”

  Steve nodded. “A damned fool, a talented damned fool.”

  “Maybe he’s not so foolish,” Dave pointed out. “Somebody with money is certainly paying for his lawyer.”

  Morton came over to ask, “All right, Mr. Leander?”

  “Excellent, Mr. Morton.” Steve nodded a dismissal and turned away.

  Morton stood there stubbornly. “You don’t give a man any breaks, do you?”

  Steve looked at him coldly. “Don’t I? You worked this morning, didn’t you? I overlooked your first disreputable approach to me, didn’t I? Exactly how many breaks do you think you’re entitled to, Morton?”

  They stood there silently a moment, staring at each other. Then Dave said, “Let’s go to lunch, Steve. It’s time for lunch.”

  Something stirred in Steve’s unconscious mind again, and this time it came to the surface. He watched Morton walk away and he said to Dave, “Something just occurred to me.”

  “What?”

  “When Morton phoned me, he said he got my telephone number from Hart Jameson. He couldn’t have. Jameson didn’t have it.”

  Dave said, “There are people who make a business of selling unlisted phone numbers. He probably bought it.”

  Steve nodded absently and began to enumerate in his mind those people who had his phone number. Dave, Harry, Laura. If Morton had bought his number, there would be no reason for him not to admit it. A man attempting blackmail wouldn’t be reluctant to admit he bought an unlisted telephone number.

  Harry joined them in the commissary for lunch. “How did the bastard do?” he asked.

  Steve smiled. “I’ve got bad news for you, Harry. He was great.”

  Harry sighed. He looked at the tablecloth. “I — that film you shot Wednesday, Steve, it was — well …” He shook his head.

  Dave supplied “Spectacular? Sensational? Superb? A producer shouldn’t run out of superlatives, Uncle Harry.”

  Harry frowned. “So I’ve been wrong before. You know somebody who hasn’t? You young snots …”

  Steve asked, “Did you ever give Hart Jameson my telephone number, Harry?”

  Bergdahl stared. “I don’t remember. No, I’m sure I didn’t. Are we on that kick again? The picture, the picture, the picture — let’s think about the picture. Okay?”

  Steve winked. “Okay, boss.”
<
br />   Across the table from them, Dave said, “And I didn’t give it to him. So that leaves who, Steve?”

  “Only Laura,” Steve answered.

  “The picture,” Harry said ominously.

  “The picture and Laura,” Steve said. “She’s doing well, isn’t she, Harry?”

  Bergdahl nodded. “And we know why, don’t we? You almost got her an Academy Award the first time you directed her.”

  “How sweet of you to remember,” Steve said. “I’ll remind you of it next time we tangle.” He buttered a roll carefully. “Harry, I’ve been thinking of that money John Abbot was talking about.”

  Harry looked up suspiciously. “So …?”

  “Johnson Water’s the man with the money,” Steve went on. “I was thinking if we didn’t need it for this picture, it would be a shame to let it go to waste, wouldn’t it?”

  Harry looked less suspicious. “So …?”

  “We ought to get it for our next picture.”

  Surprise wiped out the remnants of suspicion on Harry’s face. “We …? Our next picture? Why am I in?”

  “Because I’m not a producer, yet. I’ve a few hard facts to learn about economy and audience acceptance before I take that jump. You’re a good producer.”

  Bergdahl said nothing. A variety of emotions seemed to play over his broad face.

  Dave said lightly, “I know an available screenwriter.”

  Bergdahl smiled. “A cheap available screenwriter?”

  The afternoon moved less smoothly than the morning had, but it was far from wasted. It had been another good day.

  Steve drove home with an unreasonable sense of premonition. Things were going too well; he had an adolescent uneasiness about smooth sailing.

  It was a hot day and Marcia was in the pool. He put on his trunks and went down to join her. He dived deeply and stayed under, swimming toward her legs.

  They had a few drinks on the sundeck after their swim and it was eight o’clock before they sat down to dinner. At eight-twenty Dave phoned.

  He said, “You’d better get that lawyer you were bragging about. Sergeant Morrow has just come out here and picked up Uncle Harry.”

  “Why? What happened now?”

  “They located that perfume man. Uncle Harry is the real customer for that Number 263.”

  “What does that prove? They must have something else.”

  “Probably. Morrow looked confident. Could you run over here after you phone the lawyer? Dotty’s — unnerved. I’m going down to Headquarters.”

  In the background Dotty said, “Stop that, Dave. I don’t need anyone to hold my hand.”

  The words triggered an incident in Steve’s memory. He said, “I’ll get right over there. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll leave now then,” Dave said.

  Steve hung up and stood by the phone, thinking back.

  From the dining room Marcia called, “What’s the matter, Steve? What’s happened?”

  He came back to the dining room. “I’ve been stupid. I overlooked the obvious. The police have just picked up Harry Bergdahl.”

  “That isn’t what you meant by overlooking the obvious. What did you mean by that?”

  “I meant I’ve been as blind as Tomkevic. I want you to phone my lawyer, Craig Medoff, and tell him Harry’s been picked up. I’m going over to Bergdahl’s.”

  She stood up. “All right. But what did you overlook?”

  “The girl in Hart’s apartment. You stay here; Harry may phone. And call Medoff right now.” He went out to the car.

  • • •

  Dotty opened the door to Steve’s ring. She seemed to be swaying and her voice was thick. “I appreciate your coming.”

  He grinned at her. “That isn’t what you told Dave.”

  “I didn’t think it was necessary,” she enunciated very carefully. “There was no point in disrupting your evening. Harry’s not in serious trouble anyway, is he?”

  Steve followed her into the living room. “Of course not. Morrow was probably egged on by Tomkevic to make a grandstand play. There’ll be some red faces in the morning, I guarantee you.”

  Dotty nodded. “I thought so. Would you like a drink?”

  “I could use one. Bourbon and water.”

  She mixed a pair. She was ludicrously careful as she poured the whiskey, added water, and slowly walked to the davenport with both of them. She handed him one and sat a few feet from him.

  Steve chuckled. “I can see Harry now, giving them all hell. There’ll be a false arrest suit filed, I’ll bet.”

  Dotty said nothing. Her smile was labored.

  Steve said, “I had a weird idea this afternoon. Are you superstitious?”

  She shook her head. She sipped her drink and stared at him.

  Steve said, “Pat Cullum had a small part in this picture we’re making. Why don’t you take it?”

  “I’m not an actress,” she said heavily. “I gave up my career.”

  “Because you don’t need the money now, married to Harry. But just for fun? As a gag?” She shook her head stubbornly. “It’s only a line,” Steve explained. “You’re supposed to be a little tipsy, see? And this fellow is talking on the phone, but he’s well — fondling you at the same time. And you giggle and say ‘Stop that!’ You’d have fun doing it and …”

  “Shut up,” Dotty said. She glared at him.

  Steve shrugged and sipped his drink. Dotty finished hers and went over to pour another.

  Steve said, “Somebody told me that Harry met Jameson through you. Is that right?”

  She nodded and sat down on the davenport again with a full glass.

  “You knew Morton, too? Through Jameson?”

  She said nothing.

  Steve sipped his drink. “Tomkevic was sure Harry knew Morton, but it was you who knew him. Did you give him my phone number?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said warily.

  “Morton told me yesterday that he didn’t need me. Was that because he thought he could get to Harry through you? Are you paying for his attorney?”

  She stared at the fireplace.

  He asked gently, “Don’t you want to talk, Dotty?” She shook her head. “Do you mind if I do?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Steve leaned back. “What Morrow overlooked is that when a man buys perfume, he buys the kind he likes, quite often. He likes to smell it on his women, on all of his women. Do you wear Dostel Number 263, Dotty?”

  She shook her head.

  “Harry bought you some. Didn’t you ever wear it?” She stared at the fireplace.

  “What I overlooked,” Steve went on, “was the obvious fact that Jameson was no gentleman. There would be no point in his hiding a woman just because I came to visit him. Not unless I knew the woman, and she wanted to hide.”

  Dotty turned her head. “What are you trying to prove, Steve? What can you prove?”

  “I’m just expounding a theory. Does it bore you?”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “And another thing,” he continued, “Jameson didn’t worry about the girl overhearing the accident gimmick. That could indicate the girl already knew it. Through her husband?”

  Dotty turned to face him again.

  “What beats me,” Steve said thoughtfully, “is why the girl would want to kill him.”

  Dotty said carefully, “Maybe she didn’t. Maybe they were both crazy drunk and Jameson bragged about how easy it would be to ride on the edge of the bluff and the girl got scared and jumped out of the car and ran away.”

  “And was picked up by Mitchell Morton,” Steve went on, “and taken home. And Mitchell tried to blackmail her. He didn’t want much, just a part in the picture. And the girl said it would look suspicious coming through her. She suggested he phone Steven Leander and tell him that he knew something the police should. And the girl gave Morton my number.”

  “And what difference does it make?” Dotty asked hoarsely. �
��It’s still an accident, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Steve agreed, “it certainly is. Can I mix you another drink?”

  “I’ve had too many already,” she said. “Why don’t you leave?”

  “All right.” He finished his drink and stood up. “What you forget is that Morton is an actor and an ambitious one. His allegiance is going to go to the person who can do him the most good. Unfortunately, you’re not a producer.”

  She stared at him. “No, but with Pat Cullum dead, Harry has only his little Dotty, hasn’t he? With Pat Cullum dead, Dotty is again queen; and if I tell Harry I want Mitchell Morton out of the business, what do you think will happen?”

  Steve said softly, “Is that why you killed her? Don’t you think there will be other Pat Cullums? Don’t you think this town is loaded with them?”

  “There’ll never be another Pat Cullum,” Dotty said. “I can guarantee you that. Harry and I have talked it over very carefully, and there will never be another Pat Cullum. She was the first infidelity in our marriage and now she’s dead. I don’t know who killed her, but I’m glad she’s dead. Harry’s mine now, all mine.”

  “You know who killed her, Dotty. You did. And it was senseless. Because you can’t control Harry forever. He’s just not that kind of man. He has to dominate.”

  Dotty smiled blearily and shook her head.

  Steve asked, “Was Morton working for you when he took out Pat Cullum? Did you send him over to find out how she’d learned the mystery girl was wearing your perfume?”

  “I know how she found that out,” Dotty said thickly. “You told her. She was going to tell the police about that, too, about the perfume. She threatened me with that.”

  “And then you killed her?”

  “I didn’t kill her. I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t …” Her voice rose hysterically and her head shook savagely. “You can’t prove I killed her. Nobody can prove that!”

  “I can prove you had reason to. Do you want to tell me about it?”

  Dotty’s impressive bosom rose and fell. “Hart Jameson’s death was an accident. That’s God’s gospel truth. When you told Pat Cullum about the perfume, she knew I must have been the girl with Hart that night, the mysterious missing woman.”