Jardinn turned slowly from the window. Marie Gunsted said in a flat tone:
“Is there anything I can do, Mr. Jardinn?”
Ben Jardinn shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but there was a mistake. There was a person I wanted you to sort of watch, but she knows you. I wasn’t aware that she did.”
He saw the questioning glance in her eyes. He said quietly:
“It was Carol Torney. She left us, and I had an idea you might keep track of her.”
Marie Gunsted showed him something that was meant for a smile. She said:
“Carol Torney wanted me to keep track of Mr. Cohn. She changed her mind. Odd, wasn’t it?”
She went quietly from the office. Jardinn sat down and stared at the faded carpet. The only conclusion he could reach was that it was about as odd as hell.
2
The girl had a baby face and figure and a husky voice. She was dressed in a blue sport outfit that fitted nicely. She had brown hair and eyes and she looked right at Jardinn when she talked. She didn’t seem too bright; he liked her. After she’d got through explaining he said:
“All right—what do you know about this agency, or me?”
She didn’t smile. “You’re the Ben Jardinn who went after the bunch that framed Clara Sarrell,” she said. “You got her out of jail. I don’t think much of detectives—but that was a nice job. I don’t know much about the office. I’m a fair stenographer, and I can keep quiet.”
Jardinn nodded. “We’ll take you on,” he said. “The last girl we had in the outer office couldn’t keep quiet. It’s hard sometimes—when you want a fur coat or something.”
The girl said: “I’ve got a fur coat and a Chevy that gets me around. All I want is a job. If I change my idea about men I may marry one next year.”
Jardinn grinned: “Don’t change your idea,” he advised. “Thirty a week. Your name is Edith Brown. We’ll call you Ede around here. Familiarity is said to breed contempt—and that’s one of the funny things we like. Howard Frey, the writer, will be here soon. Show him a chair—and come in and tell me he’s outside. Call the agency that sent you and tell them you’ll do. I’ll go out and show you how the buttons work.”
He went out into the other office with her. When he got back at his desk he took a slip of paper from a drawer and started to scribble. His head felt better than his stomach. He wrote: “Ask Frey about his brother serving ten year stretch. Ask him if he’s got in touch with that cop cousin, Bracker. Talk about his yelping for me at concert. Are the bulls working on him? Call off any appointment that Max may have made with Maya Rand. Get out to Mines Field and see this bird Carren. Important. Check on those in the box with Frey. Find out why in hell Carol went into Reiner’s place, if she went in. Carol and Max—watch. Find out who gets Hans Reiner’s money. Ask Frey why he tried to buy Hillard off. Also about his play with Maya. Get dope on Abe Montelli, Frey’s bootlegger. Frey’s bootlegger’s brother—correct. Check on where Carol was night of concert. Look up Ronnie White. See if—”
He stopped scribbling as the new stenographer came in and told him that Howard Frey was outside. He nodded, folded the slip of paper, got it carefully in a small, inside pocket of his vest. He tilted his chair back, got his shoe leather on the small table and hunched down a little.
“Start him this way,” he said. “Can you do shorthand?”
She frowned. “Not so good, but a little,” she replied.
He smiled more broadly. “It isn’t important, but try it,” he said. “Snap that green button the right of your desk and use the headset that’s hanging near it. Take down as much as you can—it’ll come through to you clearly. But don’t let it bother you any.”
She nodded, went out. Howard Frey came in. He looked as though he’d missed some sleep. There were circles under his eyes. His lips were pressed tightly together. He was dressed very carefully, perfectly. He took a chair across the table on which Jardinn had his feet. He said:
“This is pretty bad, Jardinn.”
Jardinn offered the writer a cigarette; he refused it. After he had lighted up the detective said:
“Anyone working on you?”
Frey nodded. “Some plainclothesmen from the D.A.’s office have been around to the apartment. They joke a lot and drink my liquor, but they’re damned persistent. It’s got around that I knocked Ernst Reiner down, on the control platform. That’s the thing.”
Jardinn grinned. “Knocking down the brother of a murdered man can’t put you in San Quentin,” he said slowly.
Frey shrugged. “They’re after me, just the same,” he muttered. “They always have to find a goat—when a name gets smeared out, around here. I hear Ernst Reiner has offered ten thousand reward. That counts, too.”
Jardinn took his shoes from the table, got to his feet.
“You’re a name, yourself,” he reminded. “They can’t railroad you so easily.”
Frey made an impatient gesture. “Oh, they’re decent enough about it. But they’re working on me. One of these dicks said he’d heard that I got drunk at one of Maya’s parties, and said I was fed up on hearing Ernst talk about his love for his brother. Said I wished he’d do a flop overboard, on the way across. This was weeks ago.”
Jardinn said: “Did you talk like that?”
Frey groaned. “Why not?” he asked. “We were trying to get the story in some sort of shape. That was tough enough. And every half hour or so Ernst Reiner would yap about how much he loved his brother. It got on my nerves.”
Jardinn nodded. “Don’t let it get on them now,” he said. “Got any ideas?”
Howard Frey’s sensitive face was twisted. His dark eyes stared at Jardinn, then narrowed. His face was passive again. He shrugged.
“You’re working for Reiner,” he said. “I know that.”
Jardinn smiled. “I don’t think you killed Hans Reiner,” he said quietly. “Does that help any?”
Frey swore fiercely. “You don’t think I did!” he said bitterly. “You know goddam well I didn’t! I called to you, up there in the Bowl—
Jardinn interrupted. “Take it easy, Frey. You can help us both, maybe. You got out of that box in a hurry—what was the idea?”
The writer said bitterly: “You’re suspicious, too. Figure I was trying to alibi myself by calling to you, showing you where I was. You’re taking Ernst Reiner’s money and—
“I’ve taken some of yours, too,” Jardinn reminded. “We have a wonderful organization here, Frey.” He smiled ironically. “We can handle two angles at one and the same time. By God, but we’re efficient!”
Howard Frey was staring at Jardinn; his eyes were puzzled. The detective leaned back in his chair.
“I know you didn’t use a thirty-thirty, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he said. “I just wondered why you happened to be trying to get down toward the musicians’ shell in such a hurry. Most of the crowd weren’t sure what it was all about.”
Frey got up and walked around near the wall. He stood still, frowned down at the carpet.
“You hadn’t met Hans Reiner, had you?” he asked abruptly.
Jardinn said. “I didn’t have that honor.”
Frey laughed bitterly. “I had it,” he said grimly. “It was a hell of an honor. I met him at Maya’s place. Maybe it was her idea of a joke. She’s funny that way. Anyway, he bowed and said: ‘The pugilist, I believe?’ I could have taken him by the throat—he used that nasty, Continental superiority that gets me. But I didn’t take him by the throat. He took Maya by the arm, and they went into the music room. I went downstairs and got tight. Not too tight—just nice. About an hour later I went up to say good-night to Maya. She was out on the patio, walking around alone and talking to herself. She was sore as the devil.”
Jardinn asked: “What night was this, Frey?”
The writer said: “Two nights before the concert. Ernst Reiner wasn’t there. They were shooting some night stuff without Maya.”
Jardinn nodded. “What wa
s she sore about?” he asked quietly.
Howard Frey sat down again. He leaned toward Jardinn, said in a steady voice:
“I’m in a tough spot—and I’m going to be in a tougher one, Jardinn. I can see it coming. Are you going to be square with me?”
Ben Jardinn smiled with his lips. “It depends on what you mean by square, Frey,” he said.
Frey said: “I’m slated to be the goat. I’m almost broke, Jardinn. I’ve made money, but I’ve never saved it. I made a play for Maya—and you know what that means. If they frame me I won’t be able to get Cummings, or Jallett. I need help—and I need it now. Those big lawyers will be too expensive for me.”
Jardinn tapped ashes from his cigarette to the tray. He said quietly:
“My job is to get the man who brought the guns in for the sharpshooting deal. If I get the man—we’ll get the boys who worked the rifles. I know you didn’t work a rifle, Frey.”
Frey said: “And you know Ernst Reiner didn’t work a rifle.”
Jardinn whistled softly. “Come out in the open,” he said. “You think Ernst Reiner did a murder job on his brother?”
Frey smiled coldly. “Talk straight,” he replied. “You think I didn’t work a rifle—but maybe I put the boys there?”
Jardinn said: “I know you didn’t work a rifle. And I just told you I thought you didn’t murder Hans Reiner.”
Frey relaxed. He was silent for several seconds. His voice was very calm, when he spoke.
“Ernst Reiner insults me on the set. He then comes to you and makes a statement with a basis that he fears harm from me, after I’ve knocked him down. Does that make sense?”
Jardinn said quietly: “Not the way you tell it, Frey. He insulted you. You knocked him down. He got you fired. Then he came to me and said he was afraid of trouble. That makes better sense.”
Howard Frey smiled. “I came to you and told you that if anything happened to Ernst Reiner, I wouldn’t be guilty. That gave you a laugh, didn’t it?”
Jardinn shook his head. “Just a smile,” he corrected. “What you’re trying to tell me is that Ernst Reiner is going to frame you for the murder of his brother. All right—what about it?”
Frey said: “You’re cold as hell—but I think you’re honest.”
Jardinn bowed. “You were saying that you found Maya Rand, two nights before the concert during which Hans Reiner was killed, out in her patio, sore as the devil.”
Frey nodded. “She didn’t hear me come up—I was behind her. She was talking to herself, as I said. Gritting words out. She can use them, when she’s being herself. She played burlesque in Philly for two years before she got money enough to come out here and take the pies for Sennett, as a start. Well, she was using words. I caught a few.”
Jardinn said: “For God’s sake be right with me, Frey. Don’t make any mistakes. They’ll count like hell. I don’t mastermind to get a killer. I go out and fight for a break. I’ll fight Maya Rand just as quick as anybody else. But be right with me.”
Frey’s face was white—almost as pale as the natural color of the detective’s skin. He said slowly:
“I could go to some other agency, Jardinn. I’ve come to you. From the very beginning, I’ve got to have a chance—and you can give it to me. Even if you are taking Reiner’s dirty money.”
Jardinn said: “What was Maya Rand saying?”
The writer spoke very quietly. His voice was almost toneless.
“She said: ‘I got up here alone—I’ll stay here. He’s rotten, but he can’t pull me down. I can get to him—before he gets to me—use his brother—’ That was all, Jardinn.”
Jardinn said: “You’re not making any mistake?”
Frey swore bitterly. “It’s a rotten time for me to make mistakes,” he replied. “That’s what she said, Jardinn. Only she gritted out some nasty words in between. Just the regular words one human uses on another—when there’s hate.”
Jardinn nodded. He relaxed in his chair. Frey had been leaning forward; he got up, rubbed the palm of his right hand across his face. He said:
“Maya’s mixed up in this—I’m a dirty rat for telling it! But I’m not going to be framed! I’m not—”
His voice was pitched high. Jardinn said sharply:
“Steady! It’s all right, Frey. Want to tell me something else?”
Frey faced him. He shook his head. His eyes had a strained expression.
“That’s the biggest thing I know,” he replied. “Doesn’t it mean a damn thing to you?”
Jardinn smiled faintly. “It’s a nice thing to know,” he replied. “Someone was trying to kick the star rating from under Maya Rand, for some reason. That someone had a brother. Maya figured she could keep on shining if she could ‘use’ someone’s brother. It might mean something.”
Frey said: “If you don’t go after her I’m going to the D.A. with—”
Jardinn got up and swore at the writer. He said grimly:
“You keep away from the D.A.’s office. A lot of people use words and don’t mean them. You did that, with Ernst Reiner unconscious at your feet. You should know. When you’ve got anything to say—come and say it. I’m after a killer—man or woman. It’s my business. I’ll take your money and Ernst Reiner’s money. I’ll take anyone’s money, if I can give something for it. This isn’t a hobby with me. I don’t work in a library, or go into trances. I don’t dope out involved codes. And I don’t bother too much with the D.A.’s office or the harness bulls. Your brother did ten years in stir, down South. What for?”
Howard Frey clenched his fists at his sides.
“Manslaughter was what they convicted him on,” he said harshly. “He wasn’t guilty.”
Jardinn said: “What city was he tried in?”
“Atlanta,” Frey replied. “Want me to pay for the wire you’re going to send for a transcript of the court testimony on the case?”
Jardinn went over to a window, turned his head away from Frey and grinned.
“How about this cousin of yours—this cop Bracker?” he asked. “Been talking to him?”
Frey said slowly, steadily: “I’ve come to you. You’re as hard as the thing Maya Rand calls her soul—but I think you’re white.”
Jardinn turned, faced the writer. He said:
“Get some sleep—I’ve got a lot to do. Don’t talk too much.”
The writer moved toward the door. He said grimly:
“I suppose you give Ernst Reiner the same advice.”
Jardinn nodded. “It’s damn good advice,” he stated. “But it’s harder to follow when a couple of dicks have got you in a soundproof room with a length of rubber hose.”
Howard Frey’s eyes were little, dark slits. But there was no fear in them. He said very quietly:
“I didn’t even plan to knock Ernst Reiner down. It was instinct.”
He went out. Jardinn stared at the half closed door, nodded his head, sat down. The outer door slammed. Edith Brown came in with a notebook in her hand. She said:
“I missed some of it. The receivers don’t fit just right over my head. But I got the best part.”
Jardinn regarded her narrowly. “What part was that?” he asked.
She smiled with her brown eyes. She set the notebook on his desk.
“What Maya Rand said, talking to herself,” she answered.
Jardinn got up and stood beside her. He said in a tone that was so hard it was unpleasant:
“I don’t know you well enough to break your neck, Ede. But I’ll break it—if you don’t do just one thing for me. I swear to Christ I will. Do you know what that one thing is?”
She nodded. “To forget what Maya Rand said, talking to herself,” she replied.
“Just that,” he said softly, and got his hat from the dust on top of the cabinet. “Just exactly that!”
5
LOVELY LADY
Maya Rand sat in the chair that was something of a throne at Famous, sipped tea, and nibbled at small crackers with her perfect teeth. She
had a face that was slightly oval in shape—her eyes were very beautiful. Her hair was dark; she had a small but exquisite figure. There was a great deal of confusion on Set Two; the din had no effect on Maya. Her colored maid hovered in the background; she was called Nina, and she had one of the most perfect primitive faces that Jardinn had ever seen.
Maya said in tones that were very precise and clear:
“Things go badly today. The lighting is not good. George does well enough, but he is not Ernst Reiner.”
Jardinn nodded. He was seated on an uncomfortable chair, very close to the star of Death Dance. He said:
“I read somewhere that work on the picture was to be called off until after the funeral.”
Maya Rand lifted her shoulders a little, made a helpless gesture with her white hands. She had slender, tapering fingers.
“We are behind schedule, as it is. There will be retakes. The set is wanted. Or the space for another, rather. There was the fire, you know. The studio is in rather fearful shape. It isn’t that the officials don’t sympathize with Ernst. They do.”
Jardinn leaned back a little in his chair and watched the electricians working with the lights. The set showed a corner of a richly done living room. Maya was in evening dress; her scarlet wrap set off the pallor of her makeup startlingly.
Jardinn said: “You were acquainted with Hans Reiner, Miss Rand?”
She said. “Yes, acquainted.”
She had a peculiar way of clipping off her sentences. He decided that she would be difficult. She had assurance. She wasn’t a wide-eyed child—there was her background. She had come up from a low theater. He wondered how far she had come, and how much fight she had lost on the way up. Or gained.
“You were in the box with Ernst Reiner,” he said. “Do you mind telling me your reactions. I mean, at the time of the murder? It will help.”
Death in a Bowl Page 8
