Jardinn narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know who in hell you are,” he said tightly, “but I don’t like you. Get the hell out of here!”
Phaley said: “Now, Ben—remember the press. Let’s go down and tell it right, to someone that counts.”
Jardinn shrugged. He said grimly: “All right, but wait a minute.”
He went out and got the liquor, took it to the back of the house. When he reached the living room again Curlew said:
“Was that nice?”
Jardinn smiled. The photographer said:
“How about a picture?”
Jardinn made a sweeping gesture. “Go to it,” he said. “Sorry I can’t produce the knife. If you shoot the house from the outside don’t miss that rosebush back of the patio.”
Bracker said: “You’re hard-boiled, Jardinn.”
Jardinn said: “I don’t like them when they rat it. That brat was trying to cross me.”
Phaley pulled at one end of his mustache and moved toward the door of the house.
“All set, Ben?” he asked.
Jardinn nodded. “Keep your hands off the silver,” he said to the newspaper man he didn’t know. “I know what’s in the place.”
The coroner’s machine pulled up as they reached the curb. Smith, the assistant, and a suntanned youngster climbed down.
“Boss’ll be out pretty quick,” Smith said. “We’ll just wait around.”
Phaley and Bracker went toward their car. Jardinn called after them:
“I’ll follow you in.”
Phaley just nodded his head. The coroner’s assistant lighted a cigarette and said:
“Where’s the body, Jardinn?”
Jardinn moved toward the roadster on the driveway at the left of the house.
“Inside,” he called back grimly. “It’s the one that doesn’t move.”
2
When Jardinn reached the agency office it was after ten o’clock. He’d had breakfast, but he hadn’t had any sleep. He didn’t feel much better. At the desk in the outer room Edith Brown was putting powder on her baby face. Her eyes got wide as he went close to her.
“They told me about—”
“All right,” he interrupted. “It doesn’t affect you in any way. Who’s been in?”
She said shakily: “Mr. Cohn is inside. A messenger brought a package. I signed for it. Mr. Ernst Reiner called and said he would be here at eleven. Miss Rand’s secretary called and wants you to call the house. She says it is very important. Mr. Howard Frey called and said he would call again later. A reporter from the Herald has called twice. Some reporters have been here. That’s about all.”
Jardinn smiled. “Write what you just told me on a slip of paper. Bring it in after a while, in ten minutes, say. Feel better?”
The girl said: “I didn’t sleep much.”
Jardinn said: “I didn’t sleep at all. It’s part of the game. If you sleep too much—you miss things.”
He went into the inner office; Max Cohn was standing near the window. He faced Jardinn as he closed the door back of him. His fat face looked sallow; there were little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He nodded his head in the quick jerky manner that was habitual in him.
“God—it is pretty bad, Ben,” he said thickly.
Jardinn went across the room and dropped heavily into his desk chair. He nodded.
“It’s rotten, Max,” he said. “But I think I can get clear. May need your help—not right away, but later. Irish is dead—and there was a reason for it. I’ve got an idea about the reason. She was crossing us, Max.”
Cohn wet his thick lips with the tip of a gray coated tongue. His little eyes were blinking. He went around the small table and sat in a chair, facing Jardinn. His stubby fingers played with the chain of his watch.
“They thought she had something—to tell you,” he suggested. “Yes?”
Jardinn said: “Something like that. Now, look here—”
He checked himself. The office door opened; Edith came in. She handed him a long envelope; it was sealed. A slip of paper was clipped to it. Jardinn said:
“You’ve got a funny idea of ten minutes, but it’s all right. If anyone comes in—keep them outside and talk to me over the phone.”
She went out. Cohn didn’t pay any attention to her. Jardinn put the slip of paper in a pocket, opened the envelope. There were notes inside—bank notes. He counted ten fifties, put them back in the envelope, tossed it on his desk.
“For the woman in Glendale,” Cohn said, and laughed without mirth. “That was a nice one you pulled, Ben. But hell—if the bulls catch on to it—”
Jardinn relaxed in the chair. He said:
“You got the story across nice, Max. But we’re not grabbing the five hundred. I wanted to see if Reiner would lie. He didn’t. He told the truth about the actress in Paris. When he comes in I’ll tell him we fixed the woman out in Glendale without using the coin, scared her out of it. He gets the money back.”
Cohn frowned. “Don’t go being too damned honest now, Ben,” he said. “Five hundred is five hundred.”
Jardinn said: “I’ve just had a tough session with the police. I’m pretty well fixed with alibis—I was with Phaley at about the time the doc figures Irish was getting knifed. She called me just after four—and she was scared. I tried to get to her place in a hurry, but maybe she didn’t call from there. The police are working on the phone trace now.”
Cohn said. “God—I’m sorry for her, Ben. Even if she was crossing us up. She was a good-looking kid.”
Ben Jardinn nodded. His eyes were narrowed on the wall of the office, beyond Cohn.
“Frey’s in bad,” he said softly. “Damn bad. He got tired sitting in his apartment and answering the dicks’ questions. He went out on a party and got in a brawl. He was thrown out—and there’s about an hour of his time unaccounted for. It’s the hour in which we figure Irish got the knife.”
Cohn sat up straighter in his chair and grunted. He said:
“He came in here in a hurry, after he knocked Ernst Reiner down, to get protection. Maybe you made a mistake taking his money, Ben.”
Jardinn frowned at the wall. “He’s all cut up,” he said. “Like he’d been in a fight. Says he fell down. Says he can’t remember where he went after he and some others were kicked out of the apartment where the party was being held. Says he just wandered around, he guesses.”
Cohn muttered: “He’s a killer—or a damned fool, Ben. He should have stayed at home.”
Ben Jardinn nodded. “I got this call from Irish, Max—and she was scared. I didn’t get very excited about it. She said something about having had a couple of phone calls, gave me the idea that someone was coming after her. I tried to talk her away from being scared, but it didn’t work. Then something went wrong with the phone. She called out a name—as though the guy it belonged to was right in front of her. The connection went bad.”
Cohn’s little eyes were wide. “What name?” he asked.
Jardinn said harshly: “Frey.”
Cohn sucked in his breath, made a wheezing sound with his nose, got to his feet. He said:
“I’ll be goddamned! Frey!”
Jardinn said quietly: “There was no mistake about you seeing her go into Ernst Reiner’s house, the other night?”
Cohn sat down in the chair again. He leaned toward Jardinn and used a stubby finger to accentuate his words.
“Mistake—have I made many since I came into the agency? Don’t I know Irish when I see her?”
Jardinn shrugged. “She was crossing us,” he said. “I’m damn sure of that, Max. They bought her off, and she got careless. But she kept after me, even when I kicked her out of here. She fooled with that wristwatch of mine, trying to stop me from tracing the right plane. That didn’t help things any, because the police grabbed that ship in a hurry. But she was trying—and maybe someone didn’t believe that.”
Cohn said: “Or maybe they believed she was still working for you, Ben—when she sho
uldn’t have been doing that thing.”
Jardinn looked thoughtful. “Yeah,” he said. “I saw her last night, talked to her. Down at the beach.”
Cohn lighted a small cigar. “I saw her, too,” he said. “Tried to tail her, but I couldn’t make it. What was the game, Ben?”
Jardinn shrugged. “She wanted to work for me—or maybe she thought she sort of liked me, Max,” he said. “Anyway, I played along. Told her to work the Carren end. Wanted her to find out why Carren went out of things. Or to try and trace the ship’s passengers. She left first—and next came the phone call. When I got to her place there wasn’t a thing mussed up. The phone was all right. Because she’d used Frey’s name I looked him up. He’d just come in. I tried to give him a third degree, and in the midst of the party Phaley and a copper arrived. I hadn’t got a thing from Frey—and he had been drinking. When I got back to the house—Irish was on the divan, dead. She talked to me at a few minutes after four. I got back to the house at about five-fifteen.”
Cohn said: “If Frey did the work on Irish—it’s ten to one he handled the Reiner kill. Maybe she had something on him. She knew something. He paid enough to stop her at first. She played along with him, and you got wise. You kicked her out—and Frey ran low on money. He was afraid of her, and he got her quiet.”
Jardinn said: “I’ve got a hunch Frey knifed her. He didn’t do it at her place. He didn’t take her out to my place. She knew things, and he got afraid. A couple of sharpshooters finished Hans Reiner, out at the Bowl. Frey didn’t do that job. He took care to alibi himself, to be conspicuous. He called to me, after the Bowl lights went out. He’s got killers working with him. Maybe they were with him when they walked in on poor Irish—but she only recognized him. They brought her body out to my place, just to make things tough. Frey had gone to the party for an alibi, got into a fight. But he got away in time. I reached his place thirty minutes after Irish called me. He had time enough—and he can’t account for that thirty minutes—and another twenty or so, before that.”
Cohn swore. “If they can trace her call to you—” he breathed softly.
Jardinn said: “They haven’t traced it yet—you know how those things are. No record of a call from Irish’s place, and a lot of others went through at just about two minutes after four. No Central listening in—that they’ve found. A lot of phones are dial system and they’re still making switches. I doubt if they’ll trace the call.”
Cohn grunted. “Did you tell the police everything?” he asked.
Jardinn said: “Sure. I’ve got to be free. I can’t be held back. Frey denies everything, of course. But they’re holding him inside. I’ve got a good record, so I can wander around. Within the state limits. But they’re suspicious. And we haven’t got enough on Frey, Max.”
Cohn pulled on the cigar and stared blankly toward the office window. He said suddenly:
“What about this Rand woman? Get anything from her?”
Jardinn shook his head. “Just one thing, and I don’t think it’s worth much. She hadn’t heard that Carren was killed in the plane crash. When I gave her the news she fainted. I took her upstairs and when her doctor chased me away he said it was just a case of nerves.”
Cohn looked at Jardinn. “And you don’t think that faint was worth much,” he said. “The hell you don’t!”
Jardinn smiled a little. “Supposing you find out what it was worth, Max,” he suggested. “You work it from the Carren end.”
Cohn nodded. “All right,” he said. “What’s your play?”
Jardinn tapped on the desk surface with his fingers.
“I think I’ll stick close to Howard Frey,” he said. “But in about a half hour I’m going across to the Christie and catch a few hours’ sleep.”
Max Cohn got up and shook his head. He said heavily:
“I figured you’d take Irish’s going out harder than you are, Ben,” he said. “That poor kid.”
Ben Jardinn stopped tapping on the desk surface and got to his feet.
“She was crossing us,” he said, and there was anger in his voice. “Now you get the hell out of here, Max—you get—”
He saw the surprise in Conn’s eyes, checked himself. Max went toward the door, turned and faced him.
“We’re getting in on Frey,” he said. “We may be right. There’s a motive for the Irish thing—if we can get one for the Bowl death—”
Jardinn sat down again. His lips were twitching.
“You find out about Carren,” he said. “The police can’t. That’ll help. If you should run into Reiner, don’t talk about the Glendale woman frame-up. I’ll handle that.”
Cohn nodded. “You better get some sleep,” he said. “You tough guys get let down quick, when it comes.”
Jardinn said placidly: “Now you go right ahead and get the hell out of here, Max.”
12
BABY-FACED BRAT
Ernst Reiner’s thick, dignified voice reached Jardinn’s left ear, over the phone wire. He said:
“It is very terrible, Mr. Jardinn. I am told that Howard Frey—” He stopped; he had uttered Frey’s name bitterly. Jardinn said grimly:
“Don’t believe half of what you’re told. It is terrible, but it gives us more to work on. I’d prefer not to talk over the phone. Everything is being done, Mr. Reiner, and I should like to see you in about two hours. Where—at the studio?”
Reiner said: “I will be in my bungalow. You will be admitted through the gates. At twelve-thirty, perhaps?”
Jardinn said: “Make it one, please. I will want to talk only with you.”
“I will be alone,” Reiner said.
Jardinn spoke in an irritated tone, as he pressed the button for the stenographer.
“Miss Rand will not be present, I hope.”
There was surprise in Ernst Reiner’s voice. He replied:
“Miss Rand? She is ill—in her home. She will not be present, of course.”
Jardinn smiled. “Good,” he said. “I regret to hear she is ill. At one.”
He hung up as the baby-faced girl came into the room. He smiled wearily at her.
“I’ve got to go out and have a chat with a friend,” he said. “I’d like you to come along.”
Her eyes showed a little fear. He pointed toward the chair opposite the small table.
“Sit down,” he said. “You and I are going to put on a little show. Ever act in a show?”
She moved slowly to the chair, seated herself. Her face was pale and her slender fingers twisted around. She shook her head.
“I’m afraid I won’t be—very good,” she said.
Jardinn smiled with his lips. “Of course you will,” he contradicted. “You’ll be natural. You’ll just be Miss Brown.”
She said: “If you don’t mind—I’d rather not.”
He tapped on the desk with his fingers. He said very softly:
“Can you imagine Carol Torney saying about the same thing? She was a better sport than that.”
The girl’s eyes were large with fear. She looked away from Jardinn, looked down at her lap. She said:
“It was a terrible thing—”
Jardinn’s voice was sharp—very sharp.
“Maya Rand is ill. I want to be very considerate and gentle with her. She is extremely beautiful. If I were to visit her alone I might forget to be considerate. With you along—there will be a reminder.”
Her hands started toward her throat, but she checked the motion. She said:
“I’d much rather—not go.”
Jardinn got up and stood looking down at her, smiling.
“Just the same,” he said, “you’re going. I’ve been over to see D’Este. Know him?”
The fear in her eyes was clear. Her lips trembled. She said:
“He has charge of the Casting Bureau, I—think.”
Jardinn nodded. “So many pictures of beautiful women he has over there,” he said. “Do you know, there is one that resembles you remarkably?”
She
was staring at him. He stopped being pleasant and said nastily:
“Now listen, Doll Crissy—I’ve got you spotted. You were too frightened when you first came into this office. There was no particular reason for you being frightened, but you were. There was too much ‘if you hurt me’ stuff. You’ve scrawled messages for me—and I saw your handwriting on the back of a picture at the Bureau. I lied about the picture—it was taken a few years ago, and you wore your hair differently. It doesn’t resemble you too much. But the writing did the trick. You came into this office. Maya Rand put you in here. Why?”
The girl pushed back the chair and got to her feet. She held her right hand, spread fingered, across her lips. Her body was tense with fear.
Jardinn said: “Take it easy—sit down. You won’t get hurt. I’ve got a job for you. Come on—sit down. If you run you won’t get beyond the door.”
The girl took her fingers away from her lips. Her face was colorless. She sat down in the chair, looked terrible as she started to cry. Jardinn sat down and smiled. He lighted a cigarette.
“You’re so goddam feminine I’m getting to like you, Doll,” he said. “Now that should make you feel all cheerful again.”
2
Maya Rand reclined on the pillowed, wicker divan that had been placed in the sun of the patio, and smiled wanly at Jardinn. He sat in one of the two fanbacked chairs that faced the divan, smiled back at her. She said:
“It was a shock, you see. Mr. Carren had worked in a picture with me, a few months ago. We were merely acquaintances, but I am very sensitive, temperamental.”
Jardinn said, still smiling: “What picture did he work in, Maya?”
She said: “He was really a nice boy. It was a great shock. I have not been very well since the affair at—”
She stopped. Jardinn tilted his lean, pale face and let his eyes see the blue of the California sky. He said quietly, almost lazily:
“What picture did Carren work on—with you, Maya?”
He watched anger show in her eyes. She said, with it creeping into her tone:
“Does that matter?”
He nodded. “Lies always matter, Maya,” he replied calmly. “Carren never worked in a picture. I’ve checked him at the field. Even if he had worked in one with you, I doubt if you’d have known it. You’re pretty well protected, my dear.”
Death in a Bowl Page 17
