Death in a Bowl

by Raoul Whitfield

  Cohn groaned. “Oh, God!” he breathed. “Not that?”

  Jardinn stood up and called for Edith Brown. He said to Cohn:

  “These foreigners are hot blooded. You never can tell. Remember, the simple things—

  Cohn swore at him and went out. Edith came in, smiling. The outside door slammed. Jardinn walked past the girl, went into the outer office. He heard Cohn going down the steps. He locked the door, went back into his office. He shut the door behind him, went over and sat down.

  Edith Brown stood before his desk, her brown eyes smiling at him. He motioned for her to take the chair that Cohn had vacated. She sat down gracefully. She slumped a little. He liked her eyes, and the imperfection of her mouth lines. She had one of the most cheerful voices he had ever heard. The huskiness was nice—but not too nice. It didn’t fit in with her baby face and figure; Jardinn liked contrast. He said quietly:

  “I’ve checked you, at the agency. That isn’t sufficient, under ordinary circumstances. These aren’t ordinary. I’m in a tough spot. The office work around here doesn’t amount to a damn. There’s such a thing as a sporting proposition. You said something, a little while ago, about liking this job if you weren’t going to get hurt. That was silly—it gave me the idea that you didn’t know what this was all about. Play fair with me—are you in here for a reason? Or did you just want a job?”

  Her eyes met his squarely. “Just for a job,” she said. “I came here three months ago, from Tampa. I tried to get picture work—my voice doesn’t go with my face. I can’t get it. If I could whine maybe I’d do. I needed the job—any job.”

  He nodded. “Max put one of his girls in here—she sold out on us,” he said. “I had one named Carol Torney. It isn’t generally known—but I kicked her out. I was suspicious. I’d like to use you—maybe outside the office. I don’t want Max Cohn to know that. You won’t get hurt. You won’t have to think. You’ll just have to do what I tell you. Nothing else. No imagination—no police work. I’ll pay you sixty a week—while the job lasts.”

  She said slowly: “You’re sure I won’t get hurt?”

  He grinned. “Unless you walk in front of a truck, or get hit by some falling brick—you won’t get hurt,” he replied.

  She nodded. “I’ll do as you say,” she said simply.

  He leaned back in his chair. “A conductor named Hans Reiner has been murdered, at the Hollywood Bowl,” he said. “He was—”

  “I’ve been reading about—”

  He interrupted her interruption. “Wait—I know you have. I want you to hear it this way. I’m not just anxious to talk. He was shot. We don’t know why. A pilot flew a plane over the Bowl just as Reiner was being shot. His name was Carren. We think maybe he flew the plane over to drown the sound of shots with the engines. He flew very low. He’s dead. He was killed about an hour and a half ago, after he knocked me down while I was questioning him. He got into a plane, got the plane in the air—and then crashed. We don’t know why he crashed. We’re looking for the murderer of Hans Reiner. His murder, and the crashing to death of this pilot, Carren—these are major events. We know they happened. We don’t know anything else of importance. We don’t suspect anyone, and we have no motive for Reiner’s murder.”

  Jardinn smiled pleasantly. He repeated slowly, emphatically:

  “We don’t suspect any person.”

  He waited. The girl’s brown eyes closed. She said very slowly, as she opened them:

  “We don’t suspect any person, even though we know that Howard Frey knocked Hans Reiner’s brother unconscious on a movie control platform—and even though we have been told that Maya Rand has used certain damaging words, in the patio of her home.”

  Jardinn got up, smiling. He looked down at the baby-faced girl. He said:

  “You’re bright as hell, Ede. I don’t know where I stand, with the office crowd wise enough to know the gold is flowing all over the place. I’ve never been sure of Carol—she was too hard inside. I’m sure of you. I’m positive.”

  She said, smiling: “Why?”

  He smiled, too. He opened a drawer at the bottom of his desk, on the right side, and took out a gun. He held it toward her, still smiling.

  “It’s loaded,” he said. “It’s got ten bullets. It’s got a Maxim silencer that’ll work well killing the racket of one shot. You walked in here and took a job. You’ve got a baby face and brains. I can use both—and I’m going to use both. You won’t get hurt, Ede—not unless you get clever.”

  She looked frightened. She shivered a little. He laughed nastily.

  “I’ve got to have help. It’s all right being crossed—just so long as I know who are crossing me. But I won’t be able to know about you. I won’t have time. If it happens—I’ll just get the idea suddenly.”

  She started to shake her head, stopped. She said:

  “I don’t have to stay on here.”

  He nodded. “You have to stay on here,” he contradicted. “You came in—and you looked around. You heard a few things. You’re going to stick—and you’re going to do what I tell you. Either that or—”

  He slipped the weapon back in the drawer, closed it. He sat down and lighted a cigarette. There were tears in the girl’s eyes.

  “You said I wouldn’t get hurt,” she said shakily. “You said—”

  “You won’t,” he cut in. “You won’t even come close to getting hurt. It’ll be the easiest job you’ve ever had. But I’ve got to get things right, here in the office.”

  She said shakily: “Then why’d you show me the—gun?”

  He smiled. “Figure it out for yourself,” he replied. “I can’t shoot worth a damn—but at two feet it’s hard to miss.”

  She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. She tried to smile. Her baby face was pale.

  “I’m not tricking you,” she said in an uncertain tone. “And you said—I wouldn’t get—”

  “Christ!” he cut in harshly. “A lot of people don’t get hurt. But they get dead.”

  She got up from her chair suddenly. There was courage in her eyes. Her baby figure was tense.

  “You think I came into this agency for a reason!” she flared. “It isn’t true. I came just for a job! That was all!”

  Ben Jardinn leaned back in his chair, grinned at her cheerfully.

  “All right—all right,” he said in a soothing voice. “You’ve got it, haven’t you?”

  2

  Jardinn finished scrawling on the fourth sheet of paper, struck a match under the white stuff, let the flames eat upward. He took the ashes over and dropped them into the wastepaper basket. One sheet wasn’t completely destroyed; he could distinguish the words “Carren” and “Bonner” and a few broken sentences of unimportance. There wasn’t much else in the wastepaper basket. He smiled.

  “Twice,” he said softly. “Make sure, this time. Think someone’s trying to read this stuff.”

  Edith Brown came in. Her face was still pale, and her eyes were red. But she smiled.

  “The woman who cleans the office is outside,” she said.

  He nodded. “Let her come in, Ede,” he told her. “Feel better?”

  She nodded, went out. A heavy-bosomed German woman came in. She turned weary eyes toward Jardinn.

  “Don’t do anything in here tonight,” he said. “Just stay outside. Don’t come in at all.”

  She nodded. Jardinn folded a dollar bill, gave it to her. She went out. He followed her into the outer office, watched Edith Brown putting powder on her nose. He said:

  “Getting late. Run along, Ede. Give me a number that I can call. I won’t call it tonight. Better go over to the Egyptian and hear Garbo talk. Come down around nine tomorrow.”

  She scrawled a phone number on a slip of paper, handed it to him. He held her fingers in a grip that was almost gentle.

  “Not sore at me, Ede?” he asked. “You’ve got to be right.”

  She said in her husky tone: “There was no reason to think I wouldn’t be. You didn’t have to
be brutal.”

  He frowned. “I was just honest with you, Ede,” he said.

  She got ready for the street slowly, carefully. At the outer door she stopped, looked at him. She spoke in a hesitating voice.

  “You look—very tired. It would be better if you got some sleep.”

  “Better than—what?” he asked her, his eyes amused.

  She shrugged. “Better than going out to Maya—”

  “Careful!” he cut in sharply. “You know—”

  She laughed at him. It was a hard, husky laugh. It wasn’t pretty. Her little, perfect figure was erect. Jardinn kept his eyes on hers; his right-hand fingers were twisting near the material of his suiting. He watched fear come into her eyes. But her voice was steady enough.

  “If you hurt me, Jardinn—”

  Her voice broke. She went out quickly, slamming the door behind her. Jardinn swore bitterly; he went over and sat at the stenographer’s desk. He fingered a cigarette, but did not light it. He looked at his wristwatch, spoke as though he were not alone.

  “Concert at the Bowl tonight—think I’ll go out there. Can make Maya Rand’s place by nine-thirty. Early enough.”

  There were powder marks on the stenographer’s desk. He looked down at them, lighted the cigarette, and frowned.

  “Damned little fool,” he said placidly, “She walked right into it.”

  3

  It was ten minutes after eight when Jardinn walked up the winding path that led toward the gates of the Hollywood Bowl. Early arrivals were strolling along; the program girls, in their gay colored uniforms, were listlessly calling attention to their printed sheets. Jardinn turned to the right, did not go through the gates. He moved around by the hill-cut parking places, approached the shell near the musicians’ entrance.

  On his left he could see the lighted, semi-natural theater. Tier after tier rose from the level of the grass that stretched between the shell and the first rows of seats. Only a small portion of the Bowl was filled; he could see the early comers moving up the aisles, the side paths. The brakes of cars squealed on the dirt road that wound from Highland Avenue to the parking spaces. Jardinn said softly:

  “Get through with this—get up above for the first number. Move around; see how things look, even if the police have done all that.”

  He moved among the musicians, into the anteroom at the left of the shell. The brass sections were tuning; he saw the tall, gray-haired concert master standing near the door that led to the shell platform, moved toward him. Brusset smiled as he approached; there was a sadness in the man’s eyes. He had a lean, cadaverous face; he spoke with an accent.

  “You have—learned something, Mr. Jardinn?”

  Ben Jardinn shook hands with the concert master, said quietly:

  “Very little. I have come to you to learn something, perhaps.”

  Brusset spread his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.

  “It seems difficult,” he said. “But if I may help, in any way—”

  They moved from the anteroom, went out along a narrow path that circled around toward the grass that fronted the shell platform. Among palms they found a secluded spot. Jardinn said in a low voice:

  “You were in the shell—when the lights went out?”

  Brusset nodded. “I was with Madame Volten, the soloist who was to sing during the second half. We were talking. When the airplane came over we both complained rather bitterly—there has been so much of it this season. The other maestros had complained, and I was worried about Herr Reiner. Then the lights went out. It startled me—I looked toward the shell platform. We were in the anteroom across the platform from the one in which you met me. The switch that operates the lights was across the platform from us. As I looked—the lights came on. Herr Reiner was falling. I think he had one hand at his back. The lights went out again—and I started toward the platform. There was much confusion. Finally one of the tympani men reached the switch and turned the shell lights on. The Bowl lights came on very soon—perhaps ten seconds after that—”

  Emil Brusset’s voice died; he stood looking toward the outline of the shell, the great curve of it, frowning. Jardinn said:

  “When this tympani player found the switch there was no one near it?”

  The concert master shook his head. “Not a soul,” he stated. “The electrician had been outside smoking—he knew the time the piece would take. He had been struck down, and as he has said—he did not recognize the one who assaulted him. But I do not understand why the lights flashed on—then off again.”

  Jardinn said: “The police theory seems to be that Hans Reiner was shot from the two paths of the Bowl. The shots were fired in the darkness. But the lights were needed—it was necessary to see if there had been hits. When Reiner fell—they were not needed. Darkness was better. So the switch was thrown again.”

  The concert master frowned. “That was remarkable shooting,” he said softly.

  Jardinn smiled a little. “That is the police theory,” he repeated. “For the present I am accepting it. As a matter of fact, the shooting was not so remarkable. Two hundred yards or so, with perfect sights and perhaps much practice at a similar angle. If the men with the rifles were well screened by friends, they could easily have raised their weapons and sighted—just before the lights went out. It is only a matter of ten feet across the paths—these men could have fired from the growth beyond. The bushes are tall enough to hide a human.”

  The concert master said quietly: “It was a horrible thing, Mr. Jardinn.”

  Jardinn nodded. “This is confidential, of course,” he stated. “I would like you to take me to one or two musicians in each of the sections. First violins, second violins, brass, cellos, tympani. I would like to have you show me on the score of the tone poem Hans Reiner was conducting—the approximate note sounding when the lights went out.”

  Emil Brusset whistled softly. “You mean, of course, on the maestro’s scoring,” he said. “The sections would be all in variance. There was a crescendo, I think—”

  Jardinn said: “Yes, on Reiner’s score. I want to get his exact position—which section he was facing as the lights were extinguished. There are one hundred and ten musicians—surely some of them must have seen his exact position.”

  Brusset said, smiling sadly: “They would have sensed it, of course. He was working with them. He was a brilliant conductor, Mr. Jardinn, and was getting everything from them. Yes, I think we can learn these things.”

  Jardinn said: “Good, but it is to be done in a casual manner. You do not feel there was hatred between Hans Reiner and any of the musicians. You, as a musician—”

  Emil Brusset said emphatically: “I am very certain Herr Reiner was only loved. He was admired very much. He was gentle with the men. In the rehearsals he was much liked.”

  Jardinn nodded, smiled at the concert master. He said slowly:

  “We haven’t much time—I’d like to question the musicians.”

  Brusset nodded. “The first piece is scored for a limited number of strings,” he said. “Many of the musicians will not be on the platform.”

  Jardinn said: “Well, let’s get at it, anyway. None of them spoke of seeing anything, out in the audience, that looked like a flash—a streak of red?”

  Brusset shook his head. “It was a crescendo,” he explained. “Almost all were working hard. The men seldom are aware of the audience, in any case.”

  Jardinn nodded. They moved along the path toward the shell. Brusset spoke in a low, puzzled voice:

  “It was such a spectacular, daring way to shoot down—” He broke off, then said grimly: “It was almost like a gesture. The supreme indifference of the method—”

  Jardinn said: “Sure—it looked like all that at first. But it begins to look like something else now. It wasn’t so daring and it wasn’t worked indifferently. Certainly it was no gesture.”

  Brusset made a clicking sound. “It was a very terrible thing,” he reiterated.

  Jardinn said grimly:
“It was a damn, smooth job.”

  Thirty minutes later, as he moved slowly along the right path of the Bowl slope, he was repeating the words. The orchestra was playing the second number; Bern, the local conductor, was wielding the baton. There was only a fair crowd in attendance. Near the spot where he had been knocked down, Jardinn paused, stood looking down at the musicians. The music reached him; it was a jest in tone. There was a quality of mockery in the string sounds; the brass section superimposed gay notes against the motif of the violins.

  Jardinn stood motionlessly for several minutes. His eyes, half narrowed, searched the whole slope of the Bowl, rested on the conductor’s platform, on the squat, ungraceful form of the maestro. The strings died, brass was subdued to the thin tones of a reed.

  Above him, in the upper rows that rimmed the crest of the hill, there was muffled laughter. Lovers occupied the upper rows—it was an ideal spot. He looked in that direction, said softly:

  “Too far—even for rifles, back there.”

  A feminine voice reached him faintly. It was protesting, half jokingly.

  “Charlie—stop! If you hurt me—”

  It died suddenly. Jardinn glanced back toward the shell again, smiling grimly. He muttered to himself:

  “Yeah, but that Brown kid isn’t afraid of being hurt that way. It isn’t hugging that worries her. And there was Ernst Reiner, pretty worried about something—and Frey—”

  He stopped muttering as the music ceased, the Bowl lights flared. He said slowly, in a half whisper:

  “Damn—D’Este might be the man—”

  He moved suddenly down the sloping path and toward the Bowl entrance.

  7

  PATIO SCENE

  Leon D’Este twisted the ends of his waxed mustache, smiled at Jardinn with his dark eyes, and spoke with the voice of a roughneck.

  “Hell—I been with the Central Casting Bureau for two years, Ben. She sounds like an extra type to me. Hundreds of these would-be Gish brats think crossing a street in a mob scene is a bit. How’s this one?”