Death in a Bowl

by Raoul Whitfield

  Jardinn whistled softly. He grinned at Howard Frey.

  “Cohn took her on,” he said. “I figured he had a reason but I wasn’t sure. I’ll fire her tomorrow, and kick Max in the rear end. You got a transcription of Reiner’s statement, eh?”

  Frey took it out of an inside pocket and handed it to Jardinn.

  “I’m through with it,” he said. “He quoted me correctly. I did say: ‘I could have killed him—for that.’ But I’m through. I’m square with Reiner, and I’m sorry I knocked him down. He doesn’t have to worry about me.”

  Jardinn said: “You’re going out of your way to play safe. You know something. You’ve made this same statement somewhere else.”

  “Naturally.” Frey chuckled. “You are working for Reiner. Perhaps for me, too. But I am playing safe. I’ve a cousin on the police force. Lieutenant Charles Bracker. In Los Angeles. He and I—and a notary got together. I told them what I’ve told you.”

  Jardinn’s dark eyes narrowed. He sucked in cigarette smoke, let it issue from between his lips in a thin stream.

  “It isn’t worth a damn, your statement,” he said. “Neither is Reiner’s.”

  Howard Frey swore softly. “Mine’s worth as much as his,” he reminded. “That makes mine worth something. While he’s alive he tells you that if he’s murdered I did the job. That’s it, in effect. And while he’s alive I tell you that if he’s murdered, I didn’t do the job.”

  “And you are willing to pay me five hundred dollars to listen to the statement, after you’ve already placed it in a nicer spot,” Jardinn said.

  Frey took a wallet from his inner pocket and counted out five hundred-dollar bills. He placed them on the table.

  “Your agency has always been fair,” he said. “I don’t know how much Reiner has paid you. A lot more than this, I can guess. He’s going to be finished, and he knows it. I’m not going to be the goat. I’m in a tough spot, and I know it. When it happens—I’ll work with you. Will you work with me?”

  Jardinn said: “Yes—but get this straight. A statement and a retainer doesn’t clear the way for you. Because you come to a man who has listened to Reiner tell him that he feels you will try to hurt him—and deny it—that doesn’t mean so much. Because you tell me that if anything happens to him you will be suspected but you won’t be guilty—that doesn’t mean you won’t be guilty.”

  Frey smiled with his lips. “I wouldn’t want your agency hounding me,” he said. “I want you to have to worry just as much about my statement as Reiner’s. I think you will.”

  Ben Jardinn narrowed his eyes on the writer. He nodded.

  “Why don’t you come through, and let us help Reiner?” he asked.

  Howard Frey rose from his chair. He laughed bitterly.

  “I couldn’t help him if I wanted to,” he said quietly. “And I don’t want to help him. Why should I? Hasn’t he tried to fix it with you so that I’ll be suspected?”

  Jardinn sighed. “It all sounds like two picture people getting dramatic over nothing much,” he said.

  Frey went toward the door, followed by Jardinn. When it was unlocked the writer spoke.

  “When I’m dramatic I don’t spend five hundred dollars,” he said steadily. “You know damned well I’m not going to murder Reiner. Yet he’s afraid. You know that. He hates me—and he doesn’t know—”

  The writer checked himself. He swore softly. Jardinn said with mockery in his voice:

  “When does the killing come off?”

  Howard Frey smiled. “If I knew that I’d be eating dinner with three people at just that second,” he replied grimly. “My idea is—to hell with Ernst Reiner—but give me an airtight alibi!”

  He went out and down the stairs. Jardinn, frowning with his dark eyes, moved back into his office. He was tapping on the surface of his desk with his right-hand knuckles, and whistling softly, when Max Cohn came noisily in.

  “Fire that blue-eyed woman of yours in the morning,” he said. “She sold out on us—gave Frey the stuff Reiner dictated.”

  Cohn grunted, dropped into the chair that Frey had vacated.

  “The dirty brat!” he breathed. “Does it hurt us much?”

  Jardinn grinned. “Not a damn bit,” he said cheerfully. “But when you fire her—it’ll hurt you.”

  “She isn’t a businesswoman,” Cohn replied. “Her place is in the home.”

  Jardinn nodded. “Ger her a single apartment up along Franklin Avenue,” he suggested. “Keep her in the home.”

  Cohn looked hurt. He lighted a narrow, black cigar.

  “What about Howard Frey?” he asked.

  Jardinn looked out of the window, toward Hollywood Boulevard.

  “Reiner’s spotted to go out,” he replied. “Frey thinks he’s been picked for the goat—by Reiner. He came in to retain us. He wants us to play fair. Someone’s going to do for Reiner, and they’re going to get after Frey. Planted evidence against him. We’re to be nice—and get him clear.”

  Cohn grunted and pulled on his cigar.

  “Maybe he knows things, this Frey,” he suggested nasally.

  Jardinn ran long fingers over the pallid skin of his lean face.

  “It’s a queer layout,” he breathed. “Ernst Reiner comes in and says if anything quick happens to him—look up Howard Frey. Then Frey comes in and says that Reiner can’t get away with that. If anything happens to Reiner—don’t bother with Frey.”

  Cohn said, without humor. “Maybe it’ll be two other fellows.”

  “They’re both paying money—and neither of them is dumb,” Jardinn said. “Reiner isn’t asking for protection. He’s pretty cool about it. Frey acts half amused. He pays five hundred. Reiner gives me fifty for getting his statement down—and there’s five thousand coming if he gets the dose.”

  Cohn cocked his head to one side. He whistled cheerfully.

  “We’ve got to wait for a murder,” Jardinn said slowly.

  Cohn grunted. “Wait, hell!” he breathed. “We’ve got to pray for it.”

  2

  DEATH IN A BOWL

  The next afternoon, at four o’clock, Max Cohn called the agency. Carol put him through to Jardinn, who had just come in.

  “Did my little girl get packed up?” Cohn asked. “I’ve got another one for the office.”

  Jardinn swore at him. “One woman in here is enough,” he said. “Carol can do the stenographic work and we’ll give her a raise. Your blue-eyed brat has gone, and it’ll take us two days to get the odor of cheap perfume out of the office.”

  Cohn said: “Ernst Reiner has a brother. Know anything about music?”

  Jardinn groaned. “You mean Hans Reiner has a brother,” he corrected. “He’s conducting tonight at the Bowl. What about it?”

  Cohn’s voice held a disappointed note. He spoke slowly.

  “It’s a big doing,” he said. “All the picture crowd will be there. Ernst has Box Twenty-two. That’s in the second tier of boxes, just about in the center. Maya Rand will be in the party. And that Maskey son-in-law. And Durling, the guy that’s supervising Death Dance. Some others, not so important.”

  Jardinn said: “Good enough—how about Howard Frey?”

  “Box Seven,” Cohn replied. “That’s in the first tier, off to the right as you face the shell. I checked up at the Bowl. It’ll be a big crowd, some twenty thousand or so. It’s Hans Reiner’s premiere in the west. Getting a lot of publicity—and Ernst shares it, of course.”

  “Sure,” Jardinn replied. “All right, you needn’t come back here. If you can get away from that woman of yours for an hour or so, better go out and take in the concert. Maybe you can snare a seat somewhere near Reiner’s box. I’d like to know just who sits with him. Might help. Stick through the racket.”

  Cohn made clicking sounds. “Will I see you out there?” he asked.

  Jardinn said: “It’s a social event I wouldn’t miss. But don’t bother with me unless I give you an opening. One has to be careful at these sort of affairs.”
>
  Cohn called him a bad name, and Jardinn hung up. He called out loudly: “Carol, you bum!”

  His secretary came in. She was good-looking in a substantial sort of way. She had dark eyes and hair, and though her features were rather large they were also well formed. Her mouth was firm, and she had nice, even teeth.

  “Thanks for the raise, Bennie,” she said, smiling. “How much is it?”

  She only called him Bennie when she was pleased, and it always annoyed Jardinn. He said savagely:

  “Ten a week—and you won’t be worth it. For God’s sake learn how to punctuate, anyway.”

  She chuckled like a man. “I can use a better brand of face cream,” she said. “Maybe it’ll get me a man.”

  Jardinn grunted. “Hollywood’s a hell of a spot for a homely woman,” he said, “but I wish you luck. Got my ticket?”

  She laid the ticket on the desk before him. She had nice fingers. Long and not too pointed. They were strong fingers. He could tell that by the way she crushed things in them. She wasn’t afraid to use them.

  “Row B, second tier,” she said. “About four seats to the right of Box Seven—and two rows behind it, above it. Too far to the side for the best music. You’ll get too much brass and not enough of the strings.”

  Jardinn smiled mockingly. “Hans Reiner does not play the brass,” he said. “He likes fugues in string, and some of the Debussy music.”

  Carol laughed at him. “He’s playing ‘Afternoon of a Faun,” she said. “You won’t get the French horns right.”

  Jardinn swore at her. “If you weren’t so damned stubborn I’d marry you,” he told her. “Where are you sitting?”

  She laughed at him again. “I’m not,” she replied. “I’m going down to the beach and dance at the Ship, with a wop named Abe Montelli.”

  Jardinn got up, slipped the ticket in a vest pocket and reached for his hat.

  “Carol Torney,” he said slowly, rolling the r’s, “and Abe Montelli. What in hell you going to call the kids?”

  She straightened up some papers on his desk.

  “He isn’t that kind of a wop,” she said quietly. “His brother is Frey’s bootlegger.”

  Jardinn stopped moving toward the door and stared at her. He started to say something, changed his mind. He went over to her and gripped her right arm just above the elbow. He said harshly:

  “Don’t mix up in this, Carol. It’s going to be nasty. A lot of loose ends. Max and I can take care of it. Stay away from this Montelli bird.”

  She smiled at him. “All right,” she replied. “I’ll stay home and catch up on my knitting. With the back door locked and Uncle Laurie to keep an eye on—”

  Jardinn swung her around “Max and I can handle this,” he repeated. “Stay clear, Carol.”

  She looked at him with her dark eyes half closed.

  “A girl’s got to have fun,” she said tritely.

  He took his fingers away from her arm. He grinned at her.

  “Go home tonight,” he said. “I’ll buy the drinks tomorrow night.”

  She kept smiling at him through her narrowed dark eyes.

  “Maybe,” she agreed. “But if you do, it’ll be to forget what a job you’ve got on your hands.”

  She started for the door of his office, but he got in the way. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard her make half stabs at future events.

  “Listen, Irish,” he said, “did Frey’s bootlegger tip someone off that Howard was going a-gunning tonight?”

  His mockery didn’t bother her. She looked him in the eyes.

  “Max doesn’t know an oboe note from a first violin A,” she stated. “You tell him to pick a good, center spot tonight. You know music—you pick a bum location. How come?”

  He stepped aside. “It’s just a funny idea of mine,” he replied.

  She nodded. “Sure,” she agreed. “It’s funny as hell.”

  And her voice held a hard, brittle note. He’d never heard her get that sort of feeling into her words before.

  2

  It was ten after eight when Jardinn turned off Hollywood Boulevard to the right, moved up Highland toward the Bowl. There was a jam of machines; experience had taught him that it was simpler to walk to the symphonies under the stars. He kept on the right side of Highland, walked with his head bent slightly forward.

  Jardinn loved music without knowing too much about it. He had a natural ear for massed tones; it pleased him to note the varied effects of visiting conductors, maestros—upon the Los Angeles orchestra. There had been, this season, the Spanish maestro. He had used the baton during two concerts. The men had played raggedly, without feeling. The audience had liked Bandosa, but that had been because he had waved his arms a good deal. Spanish music had lift, even if badly played. The critics had sneered, and that had pleased Jardinn because he had sneered. The season lasted six weeks. Luigo Crusant and Browkowski had each conducted, but they were established symphonic leaders. You did not attempt to criticize them, except in their interpretation of individual composers. They were always musicians, where Bandosa had often been a showman.

  Hans Reiner was famous, very famous. He was on from Berlin, to conduct at the Bowl for the remaining nights of the season. Jardinn sympathized with him; his brother’s position would mean, in Hollywood, much running about. After Berlin, Rome and London, Jardinn felt that the maestro would be puzzled, if not slightly bewildered, with Hollywood. It amused him to think of Hans Reiner at, say, one of Maya Rand’s affairs. But then, Maya had absorbed some culture.

  “A foot, perhaps—of the five-foot shelf,” he muttered.

  A voice behind him said: “Hello, Jardinn—going to the circus?”

  It was Billy Long; he was flushed and bright eyed. He wore no hat, -but his overcoat was a heavy one. Jardinn grinned at him.

  “What the hell?” he demanded. “A Tin Pan Alley man going in for better things?”

  Long chuckled. He was in a cheerful mood. He wanted to talk, and as they walked along he did.

  “Got thrown out of Tod Lister’s house,” he said. “Went over for dinner; there was a gang at the place. Tod got talking about a lot of things that he’d read about, only he told them as though they’d really happened. We hissed him down, and he got sore. Threatened to put through a call to Georgie Nathan, and have him tell the crowd over the wire that Tod Lister was a swell actor. I said that was all very nice—but who in hell was this Nathan. Tod kicked me out. So I decided to take in the noise show and grab off a tune for a theme song I’ve been trying to drink out of my system for a week.”

  Jardinn said: “You’re getting too damned highbrow, that’s the trouble. How’d you come with the lady from La Jolla?”

  The songwriter swore with feeling. He pointed toward a highly polished town car that was crawling toward the Bowl entrance under the expert guidance of a well-rigged chauffeur.

  “There goes Bee,” he said. “We used to say that in New York, only she’d be walking out of Childs headed for her boardinghouse on West Fifty-fourth then. Give the little girl a big hand—she did it with her whisky whisper, and two of my songs. Her voice has the studio mikes ginning.”

  Jardinn said: “How’d you come with the lady from La Jolla?”

  Long swore. “Gave her that first lot I bought, up in the hills,” he replied. “She went back to La Jolla a gladder and nicer gal. Nicer because she’d known my pure love—”

  He chattered on, and every once in a while, as they walked up the winding dirt path into the hills, Jardinn picked out something that was funny. He decided that Long and Hollywood were well mated; both were noisy and colorful. And clever.

  Near the entrance he told the songwriter that he was waiting for a friend. Long looked very serious, and shook hands solemnly.

  “I know how it is,” he said. “These things will happen. Be good to her, Jardinn—set yourself up as an example. Don’t let the world know that—”

  A feminine voice squealed “Billy!” in an excited tone. Jardinn turned
, saw two girls in blue rushing toward them. They were twins, apparently. Noisy twins.

  Billy muttered: “My God—a sister act! Get clear, Jardinn—”

  Jardinn walked down the path, bought cigarettes, lighted one and moved toward the entrance again. Long and the twins had disappeared. There was a crowd at the gates; beyond he could see tier after tier of seats. The hills rose darkly beyond the lights that fringed the Bowl. There was no moon as yet.

  The orchestra was tuning as he reached his seat. The shell was dimly lighted—there was a babble of voices over the Bowl. Across Cahuenga Boulevard, set atop a hill, was the white cross that marked the spot, below, where the “Passion Play” was given nightly. There was a chill in the air; it would be almost cold before the concert ended.

  Jardinn stood beside his seat and looked around the Bowl. It was a nice show; he guessed that twelve thousand or so persons were already on hand. And they were still pouring in through the gate, climbing the steps of concrete to their particular tier, or walking up the wide, sloping path on the right. He looked back toward Box 22. Maya Rand was standing; she was wearing an ermine coat. Many eyes, as usual, were turned toward her. An aisle cut along behind her box; people were strolling back and forth, watching her closely.

  It was a four chair box, in the second tier, almost directly in the center of the Bowl. As perfect a spot for the reception of music as there was to be had in the Bowl. Beside Maya stood Charlie Durling, his browned, handsome face turned toward the dimly lighted shell. Durling, who was supervising Death Dance, had a sunburn complex. Maya’s skin was white—very white. They attracted much attention, these two. And Jardinn smiled as he thought that attention was something neither of them disliked. Dave Harris was seated, behind Maya. He was a thin, boyish looking chap—the son-in-law of Lew Maskey. Jardinn had met him while working on the Carroll case; he had found him not too artistic for pictures—and decidedly shrewd. He was studio business manager at Famous.

  There was no fourth party in the box. Jardinn sat down and looked at Box 7, ahead of him and to the left. It was empty. It was, also, a four chair box. The orchestra was tuning up more earnestly now; in less than five minutes the concert was supposed to begin. But concerts at the Bowl were often minutes late in starting.