Death in a Bowl

by Raoul Whitfield

  Maya Rand walked a few feet and placed her left hand against the fan-backed chair arm. Her face was turned toward his. She said thickly:

  “Carren—the plane pilot?”

  Jardinn nodded. “Know him?” he asked.

  She was breathing heavily. She shook her head. It was as though the movement had been an effort, a great effort.

  “See tonight’s papers?” Jardinn asked.

  She didn’t speak. She shook her head again.

  “What—” she commenced, and stopped.

  Jardinn said carelessly. “He had an accident. His plane crashed.”

  Her eyes closed. She opened them. He waited while her lips framed the words. Her voice was very weak.

  “He’s—hurt?”

  Jardinn nodded. “A little,” he said. “He’s dead.”

  Her body swayed, but he wasn’t prepared for the utterness of her collapse. His rough grip prevented her head from striking the tiles of the patio. She was light; he carried her easily toward the door that led to the living room. The Jap butler met him just inside; his eyes became saucers.

  “Madam—she sick?”

  Jardinn nodded. “Sure,” he replied. “We can’t all be strong—like you. Where does she sleep?”

  The Jap moved quickly toward the stairs. Jardinn followed him. The Jap said, in a frightened tone:

  “Madam—she very sick?”

  Jardinn grunted. “Sick as hell,” he replied. “She had a shock.”

  8

  NOT JEALOUS

  It was eleven-fifteen before Carol Torney reached the beach speakeasy designated by Ben Jardinn; he had been in the place a half hour, sipping two old-fashioned cocktails, smoking a half pack of cigarettes and watching the door that led to the narrow street. In the distance an amusement park concession shrilled stupid music; at intervals there was the rush of a scenic railway car. Carol came in quickly; her eyes caught the lift of his hand. She moved over the wooden floor, reached the booth. A weary-eyed waiter followed her.

  “Beer,” Carol said. “Hello, Bennie. Got a start?”

  He shook his head. He rose, strolled past the booth next in line, turned and came back. The booth was empty. There was none on the other side—he’d picked the last one in the line. A radio suddenly got into action, but no couples were using the small dance floor. There was only the faint murmur of voices, at the far end of the room.

  Jardinn slid along the bench across from Carol. He smiled at her.

  “No start—not drinking much,” he said. “Sure you weren’t tagged?”

  She leaned back a little and narrowed her eyes.

  “Killed ten minutes, making sure,” she replied. “But I spotted Max standing on a curb, as I drove through Hollywood. Came around the block—passed the place again. He wasn’t there. Drove all over the place getting here. Maybe he followed—maybe not. Sure thing he didn’t follow all the way.”

  Jardinn said: “Where’d you spot him, Irish?”

  She was looking in a mirror and fooling with her lipstick.

  “He’s in this,” she said. “You better watch him, Bennie.”

  Jardinn sipped his drink. “Where’d you spot him, Irish?” he repeated.

  “Down near the Montmartre,” she said. “Between the entrance and the corner of Highland. On Hollywood. Just lolling around, but he wasn’t there when I turned the block.”

  She finished with her lips, lifted the glass of beer. She made a face that wasn’t pretty, set the glass down.

  “Rotten,” she said.

  Jardinn nodded. “Get something else,” he suggested. “Listen, Irish—you keep away from the office, see?”

  He signaled the waiter. Carol looked at him, then at the beer.

  “Take it away,” she told the waiter. “Whisky sour, and don’t make it too sweet.”

  The waiter wanted to know what was the matter with the beer. Carol said:

  “It’s rotten.”

  He took the glass away, muttering to himself. She kept her eyes on Jardinn.

  “You don’t look so good, Bennie,” she said. “Maybe we’re going to get licked.”

  Jardinn said grimly: “Maybe we are. Did you hear what I said about keeping away from the office?”

  Carol Torney looked around the place curiously.

  “It’s a dead spot, eh?” she breathed and shivered.

  Jardinn lifted his right hand, clenched his fist and pounded it on the surface of the wooden table. His glass danced—things vibrated. Carol’s black eyes got wide. He said angrily:

  “Goddam it—you stop doing that, Irish! When I ask you questions—you answer them. Remember, I can fight women just the way I fight men. I’ll do it—”

  “Easy, Bennie,” she interrupted. “You’ve been losing sleep. What makes you think I’ve been around the office?”

  He sat back and smiled nastily at her.

  “You’re curious as hell,” he replied. “You’d like to know who’s doing the stenographic work.”

  She smiled. The waiter brought the whisky sour. He said in a hoarse voice:

  “If it’s too sweet I’ll get you a lemon.”

  Carol nodded. The waiter moved away. Carol sipped the drink, smiled.

  “It’s all right, Bennie,” she said. “It’s pretty all right. Who is doing the office work?”

  Jardinn looked at her strong fingers. He said slowly:

  “A baby-faced kid named Brown. She’s dumb, and I want her to stay that way. After she got the job she started getting scared. Afraid she’ll be hurt. I want her to stay that way, too. I got her from an employment agency.”

  Carol chuckled. “Max Cohn’s the only one that’ll hurt her,” she said. “Any special reason for throwing this party, Bennie?”

  He said: “Just a chat. What happened while you were out at the Bowl?”

  She shrugged. “Walked around and tried to figure distances, things like that. Had a talk with Mrs. Winfred-Neeley. Asked her about how she’d happened to sign up Hans Reiner. She said she’d been trying to get him to conduct in the Bowl, for three years.”

  Jardinn said: “You want to be a little careful. Max thinks you’ve been kicked out. If he picked up the idea that you’ve been out asking questions—”

  “Newspaper woman,” she interrupted. “I told her my name was Briggs. No one out there from the police. It was all right, Bennie.”

  “All right.” His voice was very low. “The night of the murder you were down here—that is, at the beach somewhere. You wanted to be. What happened?”

  She shook her head. “Abe didn’t show,” she replied. “You know I’d tell you anything that had happened, if it were worthwhile. I met this Montelli somewhere. Think it was at the Cocoanut Grove. Someone said that his brother was a big guy. Some picture boy, I think. Anyway, I heard his brother was Frey’s bootlegger. Thought maybe I’d get a line on why Frey had rushed to you. But Abe didn’t show. I came down to my aunt’s—you know, the red headed one.”

  Jardinn nodded. Carol Torney kept her eyes on his face. She said:

  “Carren hit you—before he killed himself, eh? I’m sorry, Benny.”

  Jardinn smiled, touched the hurt spots and finished his drinks.

  “What makes you think he killed himself?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “They were closing in. You went at him too roughly.”

  Jardinn frowned at her. “How do you know how I went at him?” he asked.

  She said: “For God’s sake, what is this? A thirder? I’ve been reading the papers, and I know how you work.”

  He passed the cigarettes, lighted the two. They were silent for a while. Then Jardinn leaned across the table’s surface and spoke in a low voice.

  “They’re afraid of us, Carol—afraid as the devil. I’ve got an idea that the D.A.’s office will slow things up, just as soon as it can be done. And the police are slowing up already. Max Cohn’s been bought. They came right inside the office—right into us, Irish. It makes me sore.”

  Carol frowned.
“Got anything?” she asked.

  He smiled at her. “I’ve got a job for you,” he said. “But we’ve got to be careful. Max figures he’s sitting nice. He’s doing the routine stuff I give him—and watching me. I’m not sure he knows who did the job on Hans Reiner, but he knows that it’s his job to worry me, keep me away from the real stuff. They bought him out, Irish.”

  She nodded. “Why don’t you get him in a cellar and make him talk?” she asked.

  Jardinn shook his head. “That would mess it up. But I’ve got a job for you. It’s a woman job. I’ll keep Max away from you. Carren knew what a lot of this was about. Find out where he lived and who he knew. Work it that way. It’ll give me some leads. I’m wasting too much time around the office.”

  Carol nodded. “I can try that,” she said. “But it may be slow.”

  Jardinn smiled. “It may be,” he agreed. “Don’t make a mess of it. What did you want to put that Gunsted woman on Cohn for?”

  Her eyes widened, but she chuckled. She said:

  “I thought it would be a nice stunt. Then I remembered that he knew her pretty well. So I called it off.”

  Jardinn nodded slowly. “I’m running the agency,” he reminded grimly. “Don’t start things without talking to me.”

  She shrugged. “I was trying to help you, Bennie,” she said. “I can do more than that baby-faced—”

  “Don’t get that way,” he cut in. “There are too many women in this deal, right now. When things clear up I’m going to kick all the women out—put a man in the office.”

  She swore at him. “Sure—Max is so damn faithful, Bennie.”

  They sat in silence. Carol broke it by staring out at the dance floor and speaking against the beat of the Biltmore orchestra, and the voices of the trio.

  “Frey could have done it, Bennie. Or Ernst Reiner. Or that picture actress—”

  She checked her words. Jardinn beckoned for the waiter, asked for the bill. He said to Carol Torney:

  “What picture actress?”

  His eyes held a hard expression, and the tone of his voice had changed. Carol looked hurt.

  “We’re not going—so soon?” she asked. “Listen, Bennie, I don’t get to see you—”

  “What picture actress?” he cut in again. “Come on, Irish—open up.”

  She laughed at him. “The English actress—the one he had the affair with, in London. She’s been in Hollywood for three months.”

  Jardinn leaned back and smiled. “If you got something why in hell didn’t you get to me with it?” he said. “Now listen, Irish—you come through with this.”

  She kept her eyes on his; her face was flushed. She said:

  “You’ve got to be good with me, Bennie. Never mind the bill. If you want to be nice—”

  He stood up. “You just made a mistake, Irish,” he said. “Hans Reiner didn’t have any affair in London—not that you know about. There wasn’t any English actress. You just made a mistake. You’re thinking about some actress like—”

  He stopped, grinned at her. She said savagely:

  “You’re playing around with Maya Rand. I know that. You didn’t just pretend to kick me out of the office, Ben. You did kick me out. You were getting tired—

  “Shut up,” he said wearily. The waiter came with the slip of paper; Jardinn paid him. But he didn’t sit down. “You’re holding back on me, Irish. You’d better come through. A jealous woman can’t muss around in this deal.”

  She got up. “She won’t look so pretty with a rope around her neck,” she said bitterly.

  Jardinn stared at her. He shook his head slowly.

  “It beats me,” he said. “You’re getting too curious, Irish. I don’t want you sitting too close on this job. You’re supposed to be out of it, and if Max—”

  “To hell with Cohn!” she snapped. “You never worked a job like this, Ben. You never played around the way you are. Maya Rand saved her money. She’s got plenty. You don’t care about Howard Frey. Or Ernst Reiner. If Maya Rand wants to buy you—why not. She’s got looks—”

  “My God,” Jardinn muttered, and sat down on the bench.

  Carol Torney laughed wildly. Then, suddenly, she was very calm. She stepped to the side of the table.

  “I’m not putting up a yell, Ben,” she said quietly. “I’m not jealous.”

  He motioned toward the bench opposite him. He said very quietly:

  “Sit down, Carol. For just a few minutes. I’ve got to tell you something.”

  She kept her eyes on his, shrugged. She went over and sat down. Jardinn said:

  “Hans Reiner has been murdered. Howard Frey is under suspicion, and unless the D.A.’s office can kill the case he’ll stand trial. I can see it coming. He’s a good goat. We’ve had pretty good luck in the agency, Carol—and maybe it’ll keep up. But it won’t if you get selfish. Or jealous. You know things you shouldn’t know. You chased me out to the Rand house tonight, I think. Or maybe you had some friend tail me. Cut it out, Irish. It’s no good.”

  She started to cry. Jardinn swore softly.

  “Either you’re working for me, or you’re not,” he said. “Keep me a fair break. If you don’t—you can hurt me. Work the Carren angle and never mind what I do—or quit. Tell me now.”

  Carol Torney twisted her handkerchief in her strong fingers. She kept her face turned away from his. She said thickly:

  “Bennie—I’m not jealous. I swear I’m not. I was trying to make you think so, but I couldn’t go through with it. Bennie—I’m scared.”

  Jardinn narrowed his eyes on Carol’s, said in a low tone:

  “Scared of—what?”

  A glass crashed to the dance floor, near the front of the speakeasy. Carol sucked in her breath sharply; her body was tense. Jardinn said:

  “Good God, Irish! You’ve never had a case of nerves. What you scared of—what’s happened to make you scared?”

  She shook her head. “It’s different,” she said shakily. “All the other jobs we’ve had—they’ve been different. It wasn’t so close, Bennie. But this one—it’s all around us. I’m afraid—for you.”

  Jardinn grunted. “Never mind about me. If you feel up to it, work the Carren end. And try to get a line on any love interest. See if he played around with—well, maybe a picture kid. Extra or bit player.”

  He was watching her narrowly, but when she looked at him his eyes went across the room. A couple were dancing—the radio music had a nice beat. Jardinn kept time with his right foot.

  “Just because Max goes back on us—that don’t mean you’ve got to stampede, Irish,” he said. “Reiner’s the only one who got killed from a gun. Maybe that Carren crash was an accident.”

  Carol smiled at him. There were tears in her eyes, but she blinked them away. She said slowly:

  “You’ve worked blackmail cases, Bennie. You’re not too well liked. This might be another one of them—Ernst Reiner may be holding back. And the others—they’d get you if there was a chance to do it right. You know they would.”

  “Sure,” he said, smiling. “You’d better get started, Irish. You’re all right, only you don’t feel good. You work the Carren end. Keep under cover and away from the office. Don’t phone in. I’ll keep in touch with you.”

  She leaned across the table; her fingertips touched his. She said flatly:

  “You’re not sure, Bennie. You’re not sure of me. Or anything much. Max or Frey—or Ernst Reiner. There isn’t a trace—”

  She stopped. Her fingertips felt cold against his. He said quietly:

  “Hell—you can’t expect everything. Go home and get some sleep. Of course I’m sure of you. Frey and Ernst Reiner are all right, but I’ve got to prove it, maybe.”

  She got up slowly. “Maybe Carren did the kill, from the plane—some way. Maybe one of the passengers—”

  Jardinn said as he rose: “Yeah, maybe that was it. Going to work that end for me?”

  She nodded. “I’ll try. But you’re shoving me out of the way, Benni
e. I know that. You’re playing safe.”

  He started to deny it; her arms went around him; her lips were pressed against his half parted ones. She turned, went out. Jardinn stood looking down at the dance floor. His lips hurt. He wiped the rouge from them, sat down, called the waiter and ordered Scotch.

  He thought: She’s wise to something. She’s scared, wishes to God we were out of this thing.

  When the drink came he downed it, paid up and went toward the door. A man’s voice sounded from one of the almost enclosed booths on his left. It had a high-pitched, expressionless quality—it was the voice of a pervert.

  “Sure she got it—sure she did. Right in the stomach. Six chunks of lead. And do you know what she did? She kept right on goin’—kept right on her feet. Picked up a meat cleaver and knocked that hunky’s brains all over the place. Sure she did. Then she went over and put a record on the phonograph. They found her in front of it, sort of leanin’ against it. She was holdin’ her stomach and grinnin’. An’ she says: ‘He was a louse—an’ he got what was comin’.’ Then she walked over and got on a bed—and died. Sure she did. She should’ve been a man—that big baby!”

  Jardinn opened the door and went outside. He was smiling.

  “So many humans like to tell lies,” he said almost gently. “It’s hell finding out what really happens.”

  He thought about Irish and frowned. She was either jealous, scared—or lying. He shrugged, stared up and down the narrow, alley-like street that ran north and south the length of the beach towns of Venice and Santa Monica, a square from the sand and boardwalk.

  “Not jealous,” he said, as though answering a question, and looked for Carol’s machine.

  It was not in sight; he walked to the northward, but failed to see it. Then he went back to his own car. He drove back toward Beverly Hills, using Wilshire Boulevard. The fog was steadily growing thicker. It was cold.

  He parked a half block from Henry’s, went inside and had coffee and a sandwich. Al Burr was talking to Chaplin and Kennedy, at a table across from the food counters. He came over to Jardinn’s table, grinning.

  “What you got for me?” he asked. “The sheet’s lousy with everything but news. Anything new on the Reiner kill?”