Death in a Bowl

by Raoul Whitfield

  The pilot swung around, faced him. He said hoarsely:

  “The ship just happened—to be there! Do I look like a killer?”

  “I never saw a man who looked like one,” Jardinn said more quietly. “You look like a liar to me—I’ve seen them before.”

  A mechanic came up. He grinned at the pilot.

  “Phone call from Detective Headquarters, Hen,” he said. “A guy named Bonner wants you to wait out here until he gets here. He says it’s nothing important—he just wants to talk with you.”

  Carren nodded. Jardinn smiled grimly. He said nothing. The pilot asked the question.

  “Who’s Bonner?”

  Jardinn shrugged. “You’ll like him,” he said with irony. “He has technique—with a hunk of rubber hose.”

  “They haven’t got anything on me,” the pilot muttered. The rumble of the two throttled-down engines almost drowned his words. “It was just a passenger joyride. I didn’t think I was so low.”

  Jardinn said: “You didn’t circle the Bowl. You didn’t come back. You didn’t give your passengers much of a show. You just got there—winged over very low—and kept on going. And while you were over the Bowl—Hans Reiner was murdered.”

  Carren kept his clenched hands at his side. His face was white, twisted. His eyes stared at Jardinn’s.

  “It was just—luck!” he cried. “Just damn, rotten luck!”

  Jardinn stepped in close to him. He said sharply:

  “You know Frey pretty well—you’d better talk first. It’ll be easier—”

  Carren struck with his left hand. The blow caught Jardinn over the right temple—it battered him backward, rocked him on his heels. The second blow caught him under the left ear—he went down heavily. He didn’t lose consciousness. His body was numb, almost helpless. He pulled himself to his knees, fumbled for the weapon in his pocket. It had slipped from his relaxed grip as he had gone down.

  He got it from the pocket—his head was clearing. He swayed to his feet. There was a roaring in his ears; it seemed to be increasing in tone. The great tri-motor shape was moving, rolling forward. Jardinn saw it as a blur as he swayed on the turf. Wind whipped at his body; he bent forward against the force of it. Raising the gun, he fired once. His hand wasn’t steady enough, his grip strong enough, to prevent even the recoil. He didn’t fire again.

  His vision was better now—in the distance he saw the big plane getting into the air. Men were running toward him from the deadline. A voice said:

  “Carren’s grounded—he shouldn’t have done that!”

  A middle-aged man, with a gray mustache, was staring at the gun Jardinn held loosely at his right side. He said:

  “What’s the matter—you got a gun there—”

  Jardinn slipped the gun in a pocket. He said thickly:

  “He knocked—me down. He’s got—that ship for a—”

  A voice, hoarse and strained, broke in on Jardinn’s weak tone.

  “She’s—slipping off—it’s a crash!”

  Jardinn stared desperately in the direction he’d seen the tri-motor ship take off. Two hundred feet above the earth, he saw her. She was in a bank—headed back toward them. But she was slipping—the scream of wind through her rigging reached him as she came down.

  Someone cried out: “She’s only got—two engines—”

  Jardinn stood motionless. The nose of the big plane seemed to whip downward in the last fifty feet. She was plunging almost straight toward the field surface when she struck. There was the terrible, vibrating roar of a big plane crashed to earth. Then only a distant hissing, drowned by the wail of the field siren and the shouts of running men.

  Jardinn raised his right-hand fingers to a cut beneath his left ear. The pilot had worn a ring. He walked unsteadily toward the wreckage of the big plane. He muttered to himself:

  “I didn’t think—he’d do—that.”

  When he reached the wreckage they had carried Carren from the ship. It had taken time for Jardinn to get to the spot. Every foot of the distance hurt. The man with the gray mustache walked toward him, shaking his head. There was no color in his face.

  Jardinn said: “Dead?”

  The man nodded. “Everything came back on him,” he muttered. “She slipped off on a wing.”

  Jardinn moved around the wreckage. He didn’t go near the body of the pilot. A tall man with rounded shoulders and thick lensed glasses came over and stood beside him. He said in a stunned voice:

  “Something must have happened—to Carren. I designed that big girl. She was a—tested plane. Something went wrong—”

  He broke off, moved away shaking his head from side to side.

  Jardinn turned away from the wreckage. He went over and sat down on the grass, lighted a cigarette with shaking fingers. He smiled a little, with his dark eyes narrowed. He said unsteadily:

  “Brenniger was right—Carren knew things. He couldn’t be pushed—too far. Maybe the ship was fixed—maybe he slipped her off—he might have been too shaky—”

  Fifteen minutes later, as Jardinn was getting into his roadster, a Headquarters car drove up beside it. Ed Bonner climbed out of the rear seat and frowned at him.

  “What in hell happened out here?” he demanded.

  Jardinn smiled with his lips. “There was an accident,” he replied.

  Bonner grunted. “Your face looks as though it happened to you,” he returned.

  Jardinn said: “Part of it did,” and got the roadster moving. “But most of it happened to a pilot named Carren.”

  Bonner called after the moving car: “I came out—to see that fellow.”

  Jardinn twisted his head, grinned. “Go ahead,” he called back. “He won’t mind—not now.”

  6

  “IF YOU HURT ME—”

  Edith Brown was frowning over a clipping from a newspaper, when Ben Jardinn shoved open the door of the agency office. She looked up at him, started to work her baby smile, stared. He smiled down at her.

  “I know,” he said. “But I’ll survive. What are you clipping—ads for other jobs?”

  She shook her head. “Stories about the murder in the Bowl,” she replied. “Gun experts are disagreeing—I thought you’d want to see the items.”

  He nodded. “It’s safer to stay in the office and read,” he agreed. “Anything happen?”

  She chuckled at something, looked a little startled, set the shears on the surface of the desk and nodded.

  “A nifty boy came in and said you might want to give him a job as an operative. I said that you might. He tried to make a date with me, but I told him I was broke. A man named Squire called up from Pasadena and said that he could handle that matter himself—that he’d learned who the man was. He said to tell you he was getting sick of his wife, anyway. A woman called and said she’d read you’d been retained by Ernst Reiner—and she had something of interest to tell you. Her name’s Degonné, and she lives in Glendale—the address is on your desk. She sounded Frenchy like. I guess that is about all.”

  Jardinn nodded. “You’re earning your money,” he said. “If you’re broke—”

  He tossed her two tens. She said: “Thanks,” and narrowed her brown eyes on his. He said:

  “I wasn’t hit hard—that is, not very hard. I was a delicate child and I still bruise easily. I’m going down to a barbershop and take a nap under some cold towels. If a little, Jewish looking man comes up here tell him I’ll be a half hour late. He’s Max Cohn, and he’s my assistant. Don’t let him kid you too much.”

  Edith Brown chuckled. She scooped up some of the clippings, offered them to him.

  “How about reading them in the barbershop?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I can’t see through towels,” he reminded. “Put ’em on my desk. How do you like the job?”

  She shrugged. “Just so long as I don’t get hurt it’ll be all right,” she replied.

  Ben Jardinn had got over near the door; he paused, frowned at her.

  “Who’s g
oing to hurt you?” he asked.

  She shrugged again. “I didn’t say anyone was,” she said. “I said so long as—”

  “All right,” he cut in. “I remember the speech. But don’t kid yourself—you won’t get hurt. You may get killed, but it’ll be so sudden there won’t be pain.”

  He went out and down the stairs. In the chair of a barbershop across the street, he decided that Edith Brown would be all right around the office, even if he hadn’t got her by the usual method of running a trick ad in the paper. She seemed smart enough about a lot of things, but she’d been dumb in suggesting that he bring the clippings along. She was better than the blonde Max had brought in, anyway.

  The barber, who thought Jardinn ran an agency for motion picture people, seemed to believe his story of a wild party at the Cotton Club, and agreed that the towels would help his face. While Jardinn tried to think of other matters, the barber advanced his own theories about the murder in the Bowl. It all came down to the point that he figured Hans Reiner had been shot from the plane, by a super-sharpshooter. Jardinn mumbled that he agreed and tried to get the man’s idea of a motive. The barber didn’t have any, but he consumed ten minutes in an effort to make his customer believe otherwise.

  When Jardinn got back to the office Max Cohn was sitting on the edge of Edith Brown’s desk and talking about Tampa, Florida. He grinned at Ben.

  “Miss Brown’s been living in Tampa,” he said. “We got something in common.”

  Jardinn went on toward his office. “I doubt it,” he replied. “Come on in and tell me some things.”

  Cohn followed him in. He looked pretty cheerful. His dark eyes worked on Ben’s face; he spoke in his nasal voice.

  “Where’d you get this Brown kid, Ben?”

  Jardinn frowned and slid into the chair back of his desk.

  “You lay off her,” he warned. “We’ve got a job on—and it might be tough. She’s a nice girl. Did you get the keys?”

  Cohn tossed them on the desk. He kept on grinning.

  “Irish raved a lot, but she gave them to me,” he said. “It’s her idea that I wanted her out of the office. God—women are funny. She thinks I wanted her out because I couldn’t make her.”

  Jardinn put the keys in a pocket. He said slowly:

  “What happened at the paper?”

  Cohn shrugged. “I spent two hours working around the files,” he replied. “There’s damned little on Hans Reiner. Just the usual stuff. He’s conducted all over the Continent. No one ever took a shot at him over there. Or if they did it didn’t get sent over the cable. Maya Rand gets a lot of the usual publicity. Nothing that counts in this thing. Just the regular bunk.”

  Jardinn nodded. Cohn asked: “What’s the matter with your face—it looks hurt?”

  Edith Brown came in with some clippings. She handed them to Jardinn.

  “Busy girl,” Max said. “You’ll get yourself a nervous breakdown around here.”

  She went out without speaking, but she smiled a little. Ben Jardinn said:

  “I want you to cut using a line with this kid. I’m not joking. Lay off.”

  Lines in Cohn’s face wrinkled with surprise. He looked hurt.

  “Relative of yours, Ben?” he asked in a sarcastic tone.

  Jardinn tapped on the desk surface with fingers of his right hand. He looked at the clippings.

  “You didn’t spend all your time on the paper morgue,” he said finally. “Did you see Glenning?”

  Cohn nodded. “My old pal Glenning,” he mused. “He’s got himself a bad throat—doesn’t feel like talking. It got better when I reminded him that I helped get him that experting job down at bull headquarters. He talked a little.”

  Jardinn waited. Cohn lighted a cigarette and sat down.

  “One bullet mushroomed after it got inside Reiner—the other didn’t. Both thirty-thirty in caliber. The one that mushroomed finished him. The other one slapped into some bone, and didn’t do too much damage. It’s Glenning’s idea that the bullets were fired from different guns. He likes the idea of one sharpshooter being on each side of the Bowl, on the paths.”

  Jardinn smiled a little. “What made the bullet mushroom?” he asked. “A cross, cut at the point?”

  Cohn shrugged. “That’s one way of doing it,” he agreed. “Though Glenning didn’t say that. Only one was a soft-nosed bullet. It struck under the left shoulder blade, dug into the right. The other struck his back a little low, and traveled to the left. Glenning’s guess is that they were fired from a distance of about two hundred yards—not much less. Impact force showed that.”

  Jardinn nodded. “That’s nice shooting,” he murmured. “Nice distance—and in the dark. Just the two bullets—none banged around the orchestra after a miss.”

  Cohn nodded. “We poked around there pretty carefully, at the time,” he agreed. “Jeeze—what we need is a motive lead. It would be a sweet stunt to get this fellow Carren talking.”

  Jardinn grinned. “It would be a miracle,” he said grimly. “He’s dead.”

  Max Cohn took the cigarette from between his rather thick lips, muttered a surprised “huh,” and stared at Jardinn.

  “There was an accident,” Ben stated. “I was getting him all worked up calling him a liar and a few other things. He cracked me down, got aboard a tri-motor ship and took off. She crashed over the field. He got killed. Bonner was on the way out—he wanted to talk with him.”

  Cohn kept on staring. He said slowly:

  “Maybe you played him the wrong way. Maybe you should have agreed with him, Ben.”

  Jardinn nodded. “Maybe,” he agreed. “But you’re never around to give me advice when I need it.”

  Cohn got a foolish expression on his heavy face. He said slowly:

  “Carren’s dead—Jeeze, that’s tough. I think he knew something.”

  Jardinn picked up a small slip of paper, read aloud the name “Degonné,” handed the slip to Cohn. He looked toward the window.

  “Trot out that way tonight and see this woman,” he said. “She called here and said she had something of interest to tell me about Ernst Reiner.”

  Cohn grinned. “The name’s French,” he announced. “She probably had some relation killed in the war, and thinks she can tell you something that’ll hurt Ernst.”

  Ben Jardinn picked up a clipping and read it. While he was reading he said:

  “Just as sure as hell this is a cover-up job. We can’t afford to miss anything. Don’t be smart with her. Listen to everything she says.”

  Cohn swore. “It seems to me you took a chance—getting this Brown kid in from an agency.”

  Jardinn went on reading the clipping. He nodded.

  “No doubt about it,” he agreed. “But we were pretty careful when we got the others we’ve had outside—and they went bad. Even Carol.”

  Cohn frowned. “I can’t figure her going inside of Ernst Reiner’s place,” he said slowly. “She should be worked on.”

  Jardinn set down the clipping and smiled nastily. He said slowly:

  “There’s just the two of us, Max—and we’ve got enough to do. The police don’t know what it’s all about. We won’t learn much from them. Never mind Irish. If we want her I’ll take care of that.”

  Cohn shrugged. “She fixed your wristwatch,” he reminded. “Even if that didn’t count, she knows something.”

  Jardinn nodded. “Carol Torney’s stubborn as hell,” he said. “I think she put a bad boy next to me—the one who tried to slug me down. I think she did tricks with the wristwatch. But I don’t think she knew what it was about. Someone just came along at the right time—with plenty of money.”

  Cohn got up and put the slip of paper in his pocket.

  “How about the passengers in that tri-motor plane?” he asked. “Maybe they knew something.”

  Jardinn nodded. “Maybe,” he agreed. “I’ll get back to the field later. The police are working that end. They can’t find any passengers. Things seem to have been worked sloppily
out there. Carren said he didn’t even remember what his passengers looked like. He made up some story about a girl wanting him to fly low—one of those aboard. He was lying. The officials at the field don’t seem to have paid much attention to the night flights. Carren’s dead—and that end is going to be plenty tough.”

  Cohn grunted. “It’s ten to one the passengers didn’t know what it was all about, anyway,” he said. “Carren made a deal—and carried it through. He was getting in a jam, lost his nerve—and finished things. That’s the way I see it.”

  Jardinn leaned back in his chair and smiled. He said quietly:

  “I’ve got a hunch you’re right, Max. And look here, this murder fits in with a theory of mine. It looks like a big, spectacular job. But it’s smooth, Max. After you get through with the woman out in Glendale, say tomorrow, I want you to get after the light end—out in the Bowl. Those lights were turned off—then flashed on, and then turned off again. See what you can get on that. The fellow that was slugged is Murphy. You might talk with him, though the police have been doing most of the obvious things, and the reporters have been sticking close and printing most of the stuff they learn. I’ll look up Carren’s family.”

  Cohn nodded. He kept his dark eyes lazily on Jardinn’s. He said:

  “Sure. You were saying the kill fit in with a theory of yours—but you didn’t mention the theory.”

  Jardinn yawned. “Didn’t I?” he said. “Well, maybe I was just using words. But what I was trying to get at was that it might not have been such a fool stunt to do in a human with twenty thousand other humans around, at that. Not with things right. None of them saw anything—and they were all in the way, after the kill.”

  Max Cohn grunted. “That’s a hell of a theory, Ben,” he muttered. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  Jardinn grinned. “Maybe I’m getting old,” he suggested. “I’ve always tried not to have theories. The first thing I know I’ll be chasing fingerprints.”

  Cohn chuckled. He moved toward the door. Jardinn said:

  “You might go up to the Bowl headquarters tomorrow and talk to Mrs. Winfred-Neeley. She likes to talk. There’s a lot of politics in the Bowl stuff, so they say. Find out if they canceled any other maestro, to let Hans Reiner conduct.”