Death in a Bowl

by Raoul Whitfield

  She moved her head on the silk of a pillow, said bitterly:

  “What has this all to do with me, anyway? The police do not bother me. Yet you come here—”

  Jardinn chuckled. “You’re so lovely, Maya,” he said. “I’d like to keep you out of San Quentin, if I can.”

  She sat up, bracing herself with fists buried clenched in the silk coverlet on which she was lying. Her eyes were narrowed on Jardinn’s.

  “Don’t be a fool!” she said sharply. “I don’t have to listen to you.”

  He shrugged. Maya called sharply:

  “Carrie—my milk! Be sure it is cool, but not cold.”

  The dark-colored maid yes-madamed her and moved from the spot almost the length of the patio from them. Her shoes made a slight shuffling sound. Jardinn said:

  “Better make it a stiffer drink. I’m going to tell you some bad news.”

  Maya Rand lowered her head and shoulders to the pillows again. She shrugged.

  “Yes?” She said. “I will not need a strong drink. I will not allow you to worry me. I will not be temperamental.”

  Jardinn said: “Fine. I admire a picture actress who can come down to the level of ordinary folk. You’re big, Maya. Christ—but you’re big.”

  Her eyes shot little rages at him, but there was a smile on her lips.

  “Christ, but you’re hard, Jardinn,” she mimicked. “You are so hard with women.”

  Jardinn let a grim smile stay around his lips. He said:

  “Yeah, that’s right, of course. Well, I see by the papers that the police say you are not involved in the Bowl murder. And that glass gazer you had over from Pasadena says the murderers are many miles away, seeking to return to the old country.”

  Maya Rand shrugged again. “I never read the papers,” she replied.

  Jardinn grinned. “I thought maybe one of your clipping bureaus might have made a mistake and sent you something important about yourself,” he said.

  Maya laughed nastily. Jardinn said, after a little pause:

  “Something like: ‘Maya Rand, star of many films, does not believe Howard Frey guilty of murder in the Hollywood Bowl.’”

  She sat up, rearranged the pillows, narrowed her eyes on Jardinn’s. She said slowly:

  “You think Howard Frey did murder Hans Reiner?”

  Jardinn smiled. “It begins to look a lot like it,” he replied. “Maybe he didn’t turn loose the bullets—but he might have bossed the job.”

  Maya said thoughtfully: “After all, I do not know Frey very well.”

  The maid came with the cool glass of milk. Maya said:

  “Mr. Jardinn will need something. He is giving me a third degree. What will make it easier, Jardinn?”

  Jardinn said: “Nothing, thanks.”

  Maya dismissed the maid with a graceful gesture of her right hand. She sat up and sipped the milk. She was wearing a black something that had a wide trouser effect and a waist that fit her body tightly.

  Jardinn smiled sympathetically. “You’re lowering the boat, eh, Maya? Getting clear of the sinking ship. By night it will be doubtful if you remember having met Howard Frey, except in a business way.”

  She smiled. “Yes, I have met him on the lot,” she said. “Writer, isn’t he?”

  Jardinn nodded. “Did the script of Death Dance,” he reminded mockingly. “Perhaps you remember those lines: ‘He’s no good—but he can’t pull me down. I’ll get to him—before he gets—’”

  She set down her glass of milk with shaking fingers. She said fiercely:

  “Yes—I remember them. They’re part of the picture story.”

  Jardinn said slowly: “Yeah, I know that. Not a bad story, either.”

  She kept her eyes on his, with her lips pressed tightly together. After a few seconds she commenced to hum. Jardinn sat back, smiling, and listened. She stopped, said in a tone that was intended to be light and wasn’t:

  “That’s the theme song of the picture. ‘If It Means You—It Means Love.’”

  Jardinn said: “Very catchy, too. Like the rope up in the death house at San Quentin.”

  He saw her underlip tremble, but she was still smiling.

  “If it means you—it means life,” he said slowly. “You’re too damned good-looking to hang.”

  She swung her legs to the side of the wicker divan, leaned forward and said huskily:

  “I’ve played too many trial scenes to let you frighten me, Jardinn. For God’s sake cut it out!”

  Jardinn said, smiling: “They knifed Carol Torney. You know that, of course. I’d kicked her out of the agency because she’d been bought over. But they got worried. Maybe they didn’t believe she was really out. So they knifed her. Not so long before that she spoke to me about you.”

  Maya Rand widened her eyes a little. She was very pale. She said shakily:

  “I’m sorry—about her.”

  Jardinn nodded. “Don’t be,” he replied. “She said you wouldn’t look so pretty with a rope around your neck.”

  She rose to her feet, stared down at him, turned away. Almost immediately she faced him again. She said in a tone that was strangely quiet:

  “You are lying, Jardinn.”

  He shrugged. “I might be,” he admitted, “but as it happens—I’m not. That’s what Irish said. A few hours later she was dead.”

  Maya dropped on the divan again. She leaned toward him, framing her face in her white hands. She pressed perfect teeth together, smiled.

  “Why are you here, Jardinn?” she asked.

  He said simply: “I caught that baby-faced brat you got inside the office, Maya. Doll Crissy.”

  Maya closed her eyes, and swayed a little on the edge of the divan. Jardinn said:

  “It was a lucky break. I happened to see handwriting that looked like hers, on the back of a picture at the Casting Bureau. And she was acting scared. She came through, Maya—and that puts it up to you. You paid money to that employment agency, with someone else handling that end, and I took this Crissy kid on. But I was suspicious from the start. I’ve been having trouble in the agency since the Reiner murder—even before that. You put her inside with me—you wanted to know how we were working things.”

  He stopped. Maya opened her eyes and looked toward the goldfish pool beyond him. She said, very faintly:

  “It isn’t true.”

  Jardinn swore. “You wanted to know how we were working things,” he repeated. “Why?”

  She shook her head, without speaking. Jardinn turned and called:

  “Carrie—there’s a Miss Crissy sitting in that roadster, out on the driveway. Ask her to come in, please.”

  Maya started to rise and to speak. She changed her mind, sat down again. She said:

  “Carrie has good ears—you should be careful.”

  Jardinn smiled grimly. “You should,” he corrected. “Anything I tell you can’t hurt me—but it may hurt you. You’re lying, Maya—and I haven’t time to play that sort of game. The police are working one way—I’m working another. Murder’s come right into the agency. Why were you using this Crissy kid?”

  The actress shook her head. “I never heard of her,” she said.

  Jardinn stood up and sighed. “I’ll tell you, then,” he said. “You wanted to put up a fight for Frey—but not too much of a fight. You didn’t want to get into the thing all the way. Doll Crissy was inside to let you know when we had Frey in a tough spot. Things didn’t break so she could help you much. But she got you the stuff about a woman out in Glendale having something on Ernst Reiner.”

  He caught the flicker of surprise in Maya’s eyes. He said:

  “That was all wrong. I had a woman call in—from Glendale. I framed the story with one of my men—and we handed it to Reiner stiff. He came through and told the truth. I’m giving him the five hundred back in an hour or so. It was a play on Reiner—and Doll didn’t give you anything that counted.”

  He watched the actress closely. She kept her eyes half closed and her face was poker
ed. She wasn’t showing a thing.

  There was the sound of footfalls; Doll Crissy came up and stood close to Jardinn. She looked frightened. Jardinn tapped her on a shoulder gently, and grinned into her blue eyes. He said:

  “Miss Rand—let me present Miss Crissy.”

  He offered cigarettes to both women—both refused. Maya said coldly, looking Doll Crissy in the eyes:

  “You say that you know me—that I hired you to get me information regarding Jardinn’s agency?”

  Doll nodded her head. Jardinn motioned toward one fan-backed chair, sat in the other. Doll wet her lips, got tears in her eyes and said unsteadily:

  “I didn’t—want to do it, Maya—”

  Jardinn inhaled. “How much did she give you, Doll?” he asked.

  The baby-faced girl said in a voice that was very faint:

  “One thousand—dollars.”

  Jardinn smiled. “It would have been cheap at that price,” he mused.

  Maya Rand said contemptuously: “You little liar!”

  Jardinn sighed again. “All right, Doll,” he said. “You can go out and sit in the Rolls again. I just wanted to hear you say that—and to hear Maya answer it. Don’t run away.”

  The baby-faced girl looked at Maya Rand and said bitterly:

  “I didn’t want to go there. I was afraid. If you hadn’t made me—”

  Jardinn waved a hand. “All right—all right,” he cut in. “We know all that.”

  Maya Rand said: “You little liar! I didn’t want you to go anywhere!”

  Jardinn waved a hand again. Doll Crissy went across the patio tiles and vanished into the living room of the house. Jardinn relaxed in the fan-backed chair and smiled at Maya Rand.

  “The last time I came in here,” he said slowly, “we both used nice words. But they didn’t mean much. This time things are tighter. We forget the words and get across ideas—yes? The first one is this—you put that brat inside my office to see what I was doing. How close I was getting. The girl isn’t lying. Carol Torney worked in the office. Now she’s dead. If I go to the police with Doll Crissy, money or looks or Maskey or Ernst Reiner won’t save you. I can raise so much howl—”

  She lifted a hand weakly. He stopped talking and waited. She lay back on the pillows and closed her eyes. She looked very beautiful and very fragile. She said, after a while:

  “Ben—Sokolsky’s a good publicity man, but I think he’s letting me down a little. I pay him ten thousand. You know tricks. I could double that—and it wouldn’t take all of your time.”

  She opened her eyes and Jardinn laughed into them with his.

  “God, but you’re dumb, Maya,” he said placidly. His voice got hard. “To hell with Hans Reiner. That’s a job. But—they got Irish. Some dirty, knife sticking, son of—”

  He got up from the chair, walked a few feet away from it and watched the fish in the pool. He lighted one cigarette from the stub of the other. Maya’s voice reached him. It had almost a bored quality.

  “I do believe I have seen that girl somewhere. But then I see so many people. Frightened thing, isn’t she? Would she make a good witness in court, I wonder?”

  Jardinn forgot about Carol Torney, went close to Maya Rand and stood looking down at her. He smiled, looked away from her with his dark eyes and said softly:

  “She’d make a sweet witness, Maya—with a good prosecuting attorney to handle her. The best kind. She’s young, and she isn’t hard. She’s dumb—and she hasn’t much of a complicated past. There isn’t anything for your defense lawyers to tear down.”

  Maya kept her eyes closed. Jardinn said in a harsher tone:

  “But that’s not it. I’m not worrying about that. She’s just a good girl to have around.”

  There was a long silence. Maya broke it. She spoke lazily, huskily.

  “I think you could break me, Ben. I think you could.”

  He said brutally: “You know goddam well I could.”

  After a few seconds he said: “Don’t do that, Maya—it’s no good. You’re not a child. You’ve been through a lot. Don’t make me smash the decent thing you’ve done—because you love Frey. Don’t—”

  He stopped, shrugged his shoulders. She moved her slender body a little, tapped the silk coverlet beside her breasts with fingertips. She called out:

  “Carrie—go away, please!”

  Jardinn said: “You know something about that pilot, Carren. You know something about the Reiners, both of them. And there’s Frey. I don’t want to hurt you. By God, I don’t, Maya.”

  She tapped the silk coverlet again. There was exquisite grace in her fingers. Her jet eyes were sleepily watching his; she seemed to be hardly breathing. Her lips, barely bowed, were slightly parted. He thought:

  Of them all she is the most beautiful. The most desirable—perhaps the fairest.

  She said softly, tapping the coverlet once more:

  “Sit here—Ben.”

  He leaned down, sat on the tiles beside the divan. The sun was on her face. It was a bright, warm sun. He said:

  “God, Maya—you can stand light. When you’re not acting—”

  She kept her eyes on his. She said very slowly:

  “Ben—you’ve got me. With that girl you can pull me down. I know it. And I never talked with her before.”

  Jardinn spoke grimly. “It doesn’t matter. With that girl—I’ve got you. I know Hollywood, the part of it that’s real. I know the rotten, yellow press. You’re at the peak, Maya—but you’ve got years in the game yet. If you throw them away to protect a killer—killers—”

  She shut her eyes. Her lips met in a line that showed hardness. She parted them again.

  “You think I know more than anyone else, Ben. So you got that girl. You don’t care about Hans Reiner. That’s just—a job. But Carol Torney—that hurt you. So badly. And now you’re going to hurt me.”

  He said without looking at her: “The death in the Bowl is the important thing. They’ve hurt Irish. I didn’t love her—but they’ve hurt her. I’ll hurt anyone who stands in the way.”

  She moved her body a little, so that she was lying on her left side. Her head was close to his.

  “And I’m—in the way,” she said in a half whisper.

  He nodded. “You know things,” he said simply.

  She closed her eyes, and there was passion in her words.

  “Beautiful things,” she said. “Beautiful things.”

  Jardinn said with grimness: “All women know those things. I don’t want them—I want the nasty, ugly things.”

  He got suddenly to his feet. She said in a steady voice:

  “You’ll say I tried to bribe you—and then to seduce you. You’ll say I put a girl inside your agency—to watch you. You’ll say I hate one of two brothers, because I was heard to say certain things. You’ll say I love Howard Frey—and that I’m protecting him.”

  Jardinn nodded: “Yes,” he said.

  She rose slowly, stood facing him. She threw back her head and laughed. It was bitter laughter.

  “And I will say—that you lie,” she said fiercely. “I’ll say that, Jardinn. And you know you can’t beat it. You know that!”

  Jardinn smiled. “May I use your phone?” he asked.

  She nodded. Her eyes were filled with fight, dark with suppressed anger. She said:

  “The Hollywood police number is Highland Seven thousand. You can get reporters at—”

  He grinned at her. “Don’t act like a bit player and dramatize everything that happens off the lot,” he said quietly. “I want to call a friend and find a nice safe place for your baby-faced brat.”

  Maya Rand held out a hand, smiling. He took it in both of his.

  “She’s such a lovely person,” she said. “I’m sure she’d be safe—almost anywhere.”

  Jardinn nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Anywhere—almost.”

  13

  VERONAL

  The roadster rolled toward Famous Studios; Jardinn spoke with his eyes on the bouleva
rd. There was a cheerful expression on his face.

  “She’s an actress, Doll—that’s why she can look you over and say she doesn’t know what it’s all about. She’s an actress.”

  Doll Crissy said tearfully: “She’s in love with—Howard Frey. She did it—for him.”

  Jardinn frowned. “Yeah?” he said. “Would you stay in love with a guy that did the thing Frey did—put me after her by giving me the words she’d used, on the patio that night?”

  Doll didn’t answer. Jardinn drove the car across Vine Street. He said quietly:

  “You’re coming in with me—to see Ernst Reiner, Doll. Don’t be surprised at anything I say. Just act bored. If I tell him something and then turn to you and ask if that isn’t so—you just say it is so. Don’t make any mistakes.”

  The baby-faced girl nodded. She said tremulously:

  “Maya may have phoned him.”

  Jardinn grinned. “Sure,” he agreed. “I sort of figured on that. They’re all mixed up together, Doll—that’s what makes it so tough.”

  She said: “You’d better let me go away. I’m afraid—of what they might do.”

  Jardinn swore. “You’re safest with me,” he told her. “Besides, I like you, Doll.”

  She said with some spirit: “You like Maya Rand.”

  He grinned again, pulled the car over near the curb, slid out from behind the wheel. He held her left arm as they crossed to the studio gate.

  “Look pretty,” he said. “Reiner’s an artist first—he may give you a job.”

  When they reached the elaborate bungalow occupied by Ernst Reiner a chunky woman with a flat face and glasses greeted them. Jardinn said:

  “Ben Jardinn—by appointment to his majesty, Herr Reiner.”

  The chunky woman frowned and left them in a small room. She returned with her hat on straight hair, said:

  “Mr. Reiner will see you.”

  She gestured toward a half-closed door, went out. Jardinn moved to the door, stood aside as he shoved it open. Doll Crissy went through first. Reiner was seated back of a period desk, frowning. Jardinn said:

  “Miss Crissy, Mr. Reiner. A valued assistant.”

  Ernst Reiner bowed without rising. He waved a hand toward chairs that faced the desk. Doll Crissy walked to one and seated herself. Jardinn sat in the other. He took the long envelope from his pocket and tossed it on the desk surface.