Death in a Bowl

by Raoul Whitfield

  “Hello, Ben.” Phaley grinned and moved past him. “Come on, Ed. What’s all the rumpus, Ben? Hello, Frey—hit by a truck?”

  Jardinn closed the apartment door and moved into the room behind the officer in uniform. Frey stood with his right forehead covered by a red-stained handkerchief. He said:

  “What the hell’s this?”

  Phaley was a big man with a dark, drooping mustache. His coat was rain soaked and his hat brim dripped rain. He had a cheerful grin on his face. He looked at Jardinn.

  “Interrupt something?” he asked.

  Jardinn shook his head. The phone had stopped ringing; it started again. Frey answered it. He said in a shaken voice:

  “All right—they’ve come up.”

  He hung up and Phaley grinned at him. He said pleasantly:

  “We didn’t wait for the boy to get a rise. We figured you’d be up.”

  Jardinn said steadily: “Why, Phaley?”

  The big plainclothesman shrugged. He grinned at Jardinn:

  “Heard you were working for Reiner, Ben. But hell—you shouldn’t slam a guy around like this.”

  Jardinn said: “Sorry—but I just got here. Frey had a fall, if you’re talking about that eye.”

  Phaley said: “What happened—you fall on top of him? Got some red on your knuckles.”

  Jardinn smiled. He didn’t say anything. Frey said in a hard tone:

  “That’s a lie—a dirty lie. I’ve retained Jardinn. I paid him five hundred dollars and he took it. Then Reiner came along and he double-crossed me. He got five thousand from Reiner. He’s been out to get me, ever since. He came in here and attacked me. He knocked me down. I want to bring charges against him—he can’t get away with that. He’s trying to frame me—for Reiner.”

  Phaley whistled softly. His eyes went from Frey to Jardinn. He said:

  “Well, well, well!”

  Jardinn just smiled. The uniformed officer got out a notebook. Phaley took off his hat and sent a spray of water across the carpet. Frey spoke in a grim voice.

  “It’s been a put-up job from the beginning. Jardinn’s never tried to work the murder. He’s been playing around studios, sitting in his office. He’s been at stars’ houses. He didn’t get anything from Carren—but Carren got killed right away. It’s damned funny—I’m going to do some talking.”

  Phaley said: “Well, well!”

  The uniformed officer started to scribble on the pages of his notebook. Jardinn said quietly:

  “Go ahead, Frey—get rid of it.”

  Frey stared at him. “I told you I’d get you for what you did tonight,” he said.

  Jardinn chuckled. Phaley grinned. The uniformed copper said:

  “Guess I’ll write that down, too.”

  Jardinn nodded: “Sure,” he said. “But now that we’ve listened to the bedtime story, I’ll tell you what happened. I got word that Frey was mixed up in a scrap—came over. The elevator man said he’d just come up and he looked pretty bad. Said his eye was all cut. I said that was too bad and came along. Frey didn’t want to let me in. In the fooling around he tripped on a rug or something, and when I put up my right hand to catch him—his right eye touched the knuckles. I came on in—and you fellows came along.”

  Phaley said, grinning: “I don’t see any rugs—and you should have opened your hand when you tried to catch him, Ben.”

  Jardinn nodded. “It all happened so suddenly,” he said cheerfully.

  Frey took the handkerchief away from his eyes and said:

  “That’s a lie.”

  Jardinn looked hurt. “It’s the hard words in this business that keep me awake nights,” he said slowly.

  Phaley narrowed his brown eyes on the face of Frey. He said:

  “We got a complaint from a guy named Terris. Makeup man over at Warner’s. Party at his place and the furniture was wrecked. Seems Frey, here, was thrown out. A fellow named Loomis is at the hospital, still unconscious. He went out of the Terris place with Frey. Just came over to see what it was all about, Frey. Got anything to say?”

  Frey shook his head. Jardinn said:

  “What time did Frey and Loomis leave the Terris apartment, Phaley? Know?”

  The plainclothesman nodded. “Clock stopped at three-thirty,” he replied. “That guy Terris says someone threw it at him, just before Frey and Loomis went out.”

  Jardinn grinned. “Just a nice, sociable affair,” he said. “Well—I’m going home and hit the hay.”

  Phaley nodded. “Guess we’ll go along down to the station, Frey,” he said. “If you want to get a complaint against Ben there—why, that’s all right with me.”

  Jardinn kept grinning. “You’re in favor of it, Phaley,” he said. “But I’ll tell you now, it won’t be worth a damn.”

  Howard Frey smiled bitterly at Jardinn. He said slowly:

  “This is just another frame-up. Reiner’s back of it all.”

  Jardinn moved toward the door. Phaley said with interest:

  “Well!”

  The uniformed cop was still scribbling in his notebook. Phaley looked at Jardinn, grinned.

  “Anything new on the Reiner murder, Ben?” he asked pleasantly.

  Jardinn let his eyes meet those of Howard Frey. Then he grinned at Phaley.

  “Not a thing, Pat,” he said. “But I hear you guys have a clue.”

  Phaley looked serious. “Sure,” he said. “We’ve got to have a clue, haven’t we?”

  Jardinn said to Frey: “If you need bail money—I haven’t used all of that five hundred. I’ll look you up today, after I get some sleep.”

  The writer said: “To hell with you, Jardinn—I’m through with you!”

  Phaley sprayed more water getting his hat on. He said cheerfully:

  “How’s that bright kid, Carol Torney, Ben? Always liked her. Getting married?”

  Jardinn let his eyes meet Frey’s again. Frey was smiling. Jardinn smiled, too.

  “Something like that,” he replied. “She’s fine, Pat. See you again.”

  “Sure,” the plainclothesman replied. “Even if I do see you first.”

  2

  It was still dark when Jardinn turned the roadster in at the driveway to the left of his Laurel Canyon bungalow. The rain was letting up, but it was wet enough. He got the car in the garage, but left the doors open. He was very tired. His key turned in the lock of the rear door. He went inside. He passed through the kitchen, went along the hall and got his coat off in the bedroom. When he got in his pajamas he remembered there was a light on in the living room.

  He smoked a cigarette, sitting with his legs over the side of the bed. He decided that Howard Frey knew more than he was willing to tell. He rose, snubbed his cigarette. The phone beside his bed tinkled—then the bell rang. He waited a few seconds, got the receiver to his ear.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Jardinn.”

  Max Cohn’s voice reached him. It sounded distant. The line wasn’t clear.

  “They got Howard Frey down at the Hollywood station, Ben—figured you might want to know. Allers tipped me. He had some sort of a scrap, wrecked an apartment. He’s cut up some. Don’t know what the charge is—disorderly conduct, I suppose. Thought you ought to know, Ben.”

  Jardinn got his lips close to the mouthpiece and said:

  “I know about it, Max. I’ve been outside, moving around. Just got in. Did you stay out late tonight?”

  Cohn said: “Not so late. In around two. What are they doing, framing Frey?”

  Jardinn waited a few seconds, and didn’t answer the question.

  “See Irish around anywhere?” he asked. “After you left the office?”

  Cohn said that he hadn’t. He asked some more questions, and Jardinn answered one of them. He told Cohn he’d be at the office around ten. After some more talk he hung up, went into the living room, moved toward the light switch. The lights had been left burning when he had hurried out, after Irish had called. His eyes went toward the divan—his hand came away from the switch.
He said in a whisper:

  “Irish!”

  She was lying on the divan; her brown dress hung slightly over the front of the piece of furniture. Her hat was on the floor near the divan—her dark hair was loose. She was lying on her left side—her head was turned away from him. He grinned, thought:

  When the hell did she get here? How’d she—get in?

  He said softly: “Carol—Irish.”

  She didn’t move. He chuckled, spoke in a sharp tone.

  “Hey, bum—come out of it!”

  He started toward her—the phone in his bedroom sent sound into the living room. Jardinn grinned, picked Carol’s hat from the floor and placed it on a chair. He went to the bedroom.

  It was Cohn again. He spoke in a cheerful tone.

  “Just happened to think, Ben—you were asking about Irish. She’s got an aunt down at the beach. Santa Monica, I think. She might be down there, if you can’t get her uncle at the house.”

  Jardinn said: “What made you think I wanted to get in touch with her? I just asked you if you’d seen her. That all helps. We’ve got to keep track of her, Max.”

  Cohn said: “Well, I didn’t figure you were sleeping yet. Just thought I’d let you know that. But she’ll be around—she won’t go far.”

  Jardinn swore at him. “You lay off calling me,” he said. “I’m all in.”

  He hung up and frowned at the phone. It was odd—Max calling him back like that. He thought of Carol, on the divan. And then, suddenly, he felt fear run through his body. She was a light sleeper—he had called sharply. Unless she was exhausted—

  He moved swiftly toward the living room again. The first light of dawn was showing; it was still raining a little. A machine horn sounded twice, from some spot along the canyon road. He went close to the divan. He said softly:

  “Carol.”

  His hands were on her shoulders. He swung her body around, her face toward him. He said, as he closed his eyes:

  “Oh, God!”

  He got his right-hand fingers against the skin over her heart. Then he went over to the window that faced down the canyon and stood staring out. His face was colorless; the tears in his eyes made a blur of the canyon road. Several minutes passed.

  When he went into the small dining room and poured himself a drink from the decanter he was thinking clearly again. Irish had been scared—there had been reason enough for that. He sat on the edge of a chair and downed the liquor. He felt broken up inside. He said in a puzzled tone:

  “Christ—maybe I thought more of her—”

  He got up and went back to the living room. But he didn’t look at Carol Torney. After a few minutes he banged a clenched right fist into the palm of his left and thought bitterly:

  “I’ll have to call the police. I kicked her out of the agency—she’s dead, in my place. By the time I get things fixed—”

  He looked at his watch. It was five-twenty-five. She had talked to him shortly after four. He went over and hated to see the pain in her staring eyes. She’d felt the knife. It would be gone, of course. He had left the house—she had been brought in. He said fiercely:

  “Goddam the luck!”

  Police investigation, inquest, coroner’s jury. Newspaper men.

  He touched her gently on a shoulder with the fingers of his right hand and said very softly:

  “I’m sorry as hell, Irish.”

  Then he went to the phone and called the Hollywood police station. When the desk sergeant’s voice sounded he waited a second or two, spoke slowly.

  “This is Ben Jardinn—at eight six four Laurel Canyon. I got in a few minutes ago and found the body of a woman in my living room. She was dead, apparently stabbed through the heart. Better send someone up here.”

  There was a clicking over the wire. The desk sergeant said:

  “Yeah—will you repeat that now?”

  Jardinn closed his eyes and said: “Goddam it—why don’t you keep a pencil on your ear?”

  He repeated it.

  11

  “POOR, GODDAM KID—”

  Phaley came into the living room, followed by a short, chubby-faced man whose eyes glittered on Jardinn’s. Phaley looked tired; he grunted at Jardinn, lifted his right-hand fingers to his drooping mustache and stroked the ends of it. His eyes went to the figure on the divan. He said:

  “Jardinn—meet Bracker. Cousin of Frey’s. He’s on the force. Came along with me.”

  Jardinn nodded to Bracker. The man had a stupid expression in blue eyes. He said thickly:

  “Frey never done it.”

  Jardinn didn’t say anything. Phaley went over and looked down at Carol Torney’s face. He didn’t touch the body. He said:

  “Boyce is on his way out—got any ideas, Ben?”

  Jardinn lighted a cigarette and shook his head. Phaley went over and sat down on a chair. He faced the body on the divan.

  “Poor, goddam kid,” he muttered. “You always were hard on women, Jardinn.”

  Bracker went over and stood staring stupidly down at the dead figure. After a few seconds he turned away, went over and took a chair near the door. Jardinn said:

  “Got most of Frey’s time accounted for, Phaley? I’d say Irish got that knife about an hour ago. Maybe a little longer back. She talked to me over the phone, just after four.”

  Phaley turned in his chair and whistled softly. He said:

  “Well—she did, eh? Well.”

  Jardinn said: “How about Frey? Is he all right, pretty well covered?”

  Bracker said thickly: “You can’t hang this one on Frey, Jardinn. He didn’t bump Hans Reiner, and he didn’t knife this woman.”

  Jardinn inspected his cigarette critically. He got it between his lips.

  “Cousin of yours, isn’t he?” he asked quietly.

  Bracker got up and started toward Jardinn. Phaley said sharply:

  “Sit down, Bracker. I’m running this party. There’s a little time of Frey’s where he doesn’t seem to know just what happened. But that can happen to anybody.”

  Jardinn said: “Sure. It might even happen to me, eh?”

  Phaley said: “It might.”

  There was the sound of brakes squealing, in front of the bungalow. Phaley got up and went toward the door. He said, as he moved:

  “Poor kid—that must’ve hurt like hell.”

  His eyes watched Jardinn’s as he said it. Jardinn nodded.

  “The noose’ll hurt, too,” he replied. “I swear to Christ it will.”

  Boyce was a tall, lean man with large, dark eyes and thinning, gray hair. He nodded to Jardinn, smiled at Phaley. He didn’t seem to notice Bracker. Phaley said:

  “She’s on the divan, Doc.”

  He gestured. Boyce went over and looked at the body. Phaley said to Jardinn:

  “You’re pretty hard, Ben—you don’t seem to mind much.”

  Jardinn said: “She was mixed up in the Reiner kill, Pat. I kicked her out of the office. She was doing little things that didn’t help. I think she reached for gold. She tried to frame Max Cohn, and I caught her at it.”

  Phaley widened his eyes. “Well!” he said slowly.

  Boyce came around and asked where he could wash his hands. Jardinn told him. Phaley asked:

  “How long, Doc?”

  Boyce shrugged his narrow shoulders. He didn’t turn his head as he went from the room.

  “Hour or two—hard to say exactly. Long-bladed knife, I’d say. Got the heart—looks like a blow that was driven upward. Take an autopsy to be sure. Very swift death.”

  Phaley said to Jardinn: “Guess we’d better go down to the station and get your story, Ben. She tried to cross you, eh?”

  Jardinn nodded. “I’ll give it to you straight, when we get down at the station,” he said. “God, I’m tired.”

  Phaley said: “How about a drink?”

  Jardinn pointed toward the dining room and the decanter. Phaley moved away and Bracker said:

  “Howard Frey didn’t do it, Jardinn.”
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br />   Jardinn swore. “Who in hell says he did?” he replied. “If you keep on yapping that he didn’t you’ll get him up in the Big House, maybe. You’re the hell of a dick.”

  Phaley said from the dining room: “Now, Ben—now Ben!”

  Bracker muttered something that Jardinn didn’t get. The medical examiner came out rubbing his palms and fingers together. He yawned mostly. Phaley called:

  “How about a drink, Doc?”

  Boyce smiled at Jardinn and went into the dining room. He came out dabbing his lips with a blue handkerchief.

  “That stuff’s good,” he said. “Not cut more than twice, I’d say. Can’t be local.”

  Jardinn shook his head. “Brought it up from Caliente,” he replied. “It’s all right, even if—”

  He stopped as a car halted behind the doctor’s. Phaley said:

  “Coroner’s bus, maybe.”

  Boyce shook his head. “It’s the scribble boys,” he said. “Well, I’d say it doesn’t look like suicide. More like murder.”

  Phaley swore “Jeez—but you think things out, Doc!” he muttered. His eyes met Ben Jardinn’s. “Want to let the boys in?”

  Jardinn nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Maybe it’s a human interest story.”

  He didn’t recognize the first newspaper man to enter the bungalow. Curlew was the second. A photographer came in behind the two.

  The first one grinned at Jardinn, said hello to Phaley. His eyes went around the room, rested on the figure of Carol Torney. He went over and looked down at the girl’s face. Curlew said:

  “Any idea who did the job?”

  Phaley said: “I just got here—with Bracker.”

  The medical examiner said: “Knife wound. Blade reached the heart. Well, so long.”

  He went out. Curlew looked at Jardinn. He said:

  “Miss Torney, wasn’t it?”

  Jardinn nodded. He said in a flat tone:

  “She worked in the agency. I caught her crossing me up. Doing nasty, little things that held me back on the Reiner murder. I kicked her out. She’s called me a couple of times, trying to get her job back. I said no. When I got in this morning she was over there, dead.”

  The reporter that Jardinn didn’t know nodded his head. He needed a haircut badly.

  “Good story,” he said.