She said: “I was angry with him, because of the fool he had made of himself—knocking Ernst Reiner down. He came to me for money—I refused him. I think he was trying to frighten me—he knew I could explain the lines in the script—but he thought it would frighten me. I would give him money.”
Jardinn said slowly: “You’re telling the truth this time, Maya—and by God you’ve got to tell it.”
She said: “I’m finished—in pictures. This will finish me.”
Jardinn said grimly: “It might do more than finish you in pictures. I’m going to see Frey.”
She said weakly: “I’ve told you—the whole truth, Ben. If you get me out of this—”
Jardinn moved toward the door that led to the driveway.
“If I get you out of this,” he interrupted, “You’d better start saying your prayers again each night. It’ll be something like a miracle.”
15
TOUGH ONE
Pat Phaley was chewing on a sandwich when Jardinn walked into the anteroom of the Vine Street Emergency Hospital. He was alone. He grinned at Jardinn.
“Hello, Ben,” he greeted. “Thought you’d be along.”
He took another chew of the sandwich. Jardinn said: “Anything new?”
Phaley finished the sandwich, wiped his lips with a handkerchief and stroked the ends of his drooping mustache. He said:
“Yeah—Frey’s dying. Doc gives him an hour or so. Digitalis isn’t helping much. He got excited about fifteen minutes ago.”
Jardinn smiled grimly. “You mean you got him excited,” he said. “Well?”
Phaley said calmly, using a toothpick between words:
“Frey knifed Irish—goddam his soul. He got drunk, ran into her after he left the party. Ran into her coming out of his apartment house. She got away. He called her up and said he was coming over. She hung up—and he went over to her place. She was using the telephone—he kicked in a window screen and got inside. She let go of the phone and ran to the back of the house. He used a kitchen knife on her, when she tried to get clear. The reason—he’d heard she had been going to Ernst Reiner’s place. He says she was framing him. And he was pretty drunk. He says if he’d run into you he’d have done the same thing.”
Jardinn said slowly: “He’s lying.”
Phaley shook his head. “I don’t figure it that way,” he said. “He knows he’s dying. He says he left the house right away. Carol Torney was lying on her back in the kitchen. There hadn’t been much racket. He walked around a while—she’d hit him a few times. Then he went to his apartment and you came along.”
Jardinn said: “How’d Irish get out to my place? walk?”
Phaley shrugged. “That’s something else again,” he said. “I don’t think Frey took her there. I do think he killed her. He swears he didn’t do the job in the Bowl, and he swears you and Reiner were framing him for it.”
Jardinn said coldly: “Come through, Pat. You’re lying or holding back on me. He didn’t knife Irish just because he was drunk and she was working in the agency.”
The plainclothesman said: “I thought you’d fired her, Ben?”
Jardinn smiled a little. “You didn’t think anything of the kind, Pat,” he said. “And Frey wasn’t supposed to have known it.”
Phaley went over and sat down on a bench. He spoke with his eyes on the waiting room ceiling.
“I sort of figured you were lying about firing her, Ben. Frey said he caught her hanging around Maya Rand’s place twice. Once she was coming out of the house. The Rand woman told him she hadn’t seen her, talked with her. Frey figured the two of them were framing him.”
Jardinn said: “Why?”
Phaley swore. “Maya Rand was trying to make a fool of this Hans Reiner—to spoil his concerts with a plane. She gave Frey money to get the pilot. He used a third party to make the deal with Carren, and he figured Irish got wise. He said he was drunk and he was hating you and Max Cohn—and Irish. He accused Irish of knowing that he had only handed over the money to have the plane spoil the concert. He says she told him he was insane—she didn’t know what he was talking about. He thought she was stalling—and that the agency was going to see that he got rope, make a reputation and clear up the murder. He was half crazy—and he grabbed the knife and did it.”
Jardinn said: “How’d the body get out to my place?”
Phaley shook his head. “Just the same,” he replied, “I think Frey was talking straight. He knows he’s going out.”
A short man in a gray suit came out through a doorway and said:
“He’s dead, Phaley. Want to see him?”
Phaley nodded and rose. Jardinn followed the two men into a small room with a narrow bed. Howard Frey lay on his back with his eyes opened. The doctor said:
“He didn’t speak again, and he went out quietly. I’d say he’s had a rotten heart for years.”
Phaley turned away. Jardinn looked down at the wide eyes. His voice was low and hard.
“He didn’t fix the Reiner kill, Phaley.”
The plainclothesman said: “I don’t think he did—but if it gets too tough, he’ll be good enough for the records.”
Jardinn said bitterly: “By God, they put him in a tough spot. But he didn’t use too much brains. He got scared—and drunk.”
Phaley stood in the doorway. “Come on,” he said to Jardinn. “This looks tough for that Rand lady.”
Jardinn closed his right fist and half raised the arm. He said grimly:
“Even if he is dead—I’d like to smash him in the face. Dirty woman-knifing bastard!”
Phaley came back and took Jardinn by the raised arm.
“Cut it out,” he growled. “They’ll raise hell if he’s cut up—they always do. We treated him nice. You can’t hurt a dead guy.”
They went outside and a harness cop came in and handed Phaley something wrapped up in a piece of paper.
“We found it in the lot—like he said,” the cop stated. “But without knowing the place it would have been safe for months. A lot of saw grass around—and dead palm stuff.”
Phaley unwrapped the knife and stared down at it.
“Jeez,” he breathed. “That’s the baby, all right.”
He wrapped it up again. He got his eyes on Jardinn’s.
“I think maybe he got the body out to your place, at that, Ben. If he worked fast, could he have done it?”
Jardinn said: “There’s a chance—but he would have had to drive both ways like hell. I came in the shortest way, and I didn’t pass any other cars. Someone had to fix the kitchen right again—the house wasn’t mussed a bit. He could have done that—but he couldn’t have done it and got out to my place and then back to his again—before I got there.”
Phaley swore. “The Rand woman is the best bet,” he said. “To hell with this using a plane to spoil the concerts—and to get Hans Reiner sore. That’s kid stuff.”
Jardinn said: “Yeah, but that’s on the level. I’ve just come from Maya’s place. The deal got away from her, Pat.”
Phaley grunted. “Somebody saw a nice chance to step in and do a neat job,” he said grimly. “And they had a couple of goats, eh?”
Jardinn nodded. “That’s the way I figure it, Pat,” he said. “But who stepped in?”
The plainclothesman swore again. “Well,” he said slowly, “there’s Reiner’s brother. This dope about the Rand woman’s sister lets him in. And Maya Rand isn’t clear, Bennie. Not by a damn sight.”
Jardinn said: “And Howard Frey isn’t clear.”
Phaley stroked his mustache. “We got something to work on,” he muttered.
Jardinn blinked tired eyes and swore toward the hallway that led to the room in which the dead man lay.
“Did Frey give you the name of the man he used—when he passed the coin to Carren?” he asked.
Phaley nodded. “Got two boys looking him up,” he said. “Got his address—but if he’s wise he won’t be there. His name’s Cordova, and he hasn’t got a record
.”
Jardinn said: “What did he tell Carren?”
Phaley grinned. “If you keep asking questions I’ll want a split on the five grand Reiner’s paying you. Frey said he was to tell Carren that a certain picture outfit had it in for the conductor because it was known he was turning down their bid for him—and intended to sign up with another studio. They wanted to make him blow up—on the platform. They wanted to drown the orchestra out, every night.”
Jardinn rolled a cigarette between his lips and swore.
“Poor devil Carren,” he said. “He fell for it, and he had brains enough to see what a weak story he’d have for the police. Just a guy passing him some money and a bum story.”
Phaley said: “He had a crash two months ago—and the field bunch say he was just getting over it. He was planning a transatlantic flight, but he needed coin. The coin he got helped. He probably figured he’d get caught after the second or third night, but he wasn’t worried much. He could hand out a line and pay a fine. He was framed right.”
The harness copper said: “How about this guy Frey? Is anyone staying with him?”
Phaley shook his head. “We’ll take a chance on him sticking around,” he said grimly.
2
Maya Rand, her eyes wide with excitement, stood close to Pat Phaley and shook her head from side to side.
“That is a lie!” she kept repeating. “He did not do that—terrible thing. He did not.”
Phaley twisted his soft hat in the fingers of his right hand and said in a quiet voice:
“It won’t do any good to say that, Miss Rand—we got it all down in writing. Frey admitted the kill, all right.”
Maya’s eyes went to Jardinn’s. She said in a voice that was suddenly grim and calm:
“Ben—is this a trap? I told you the truth—is this a trap?”
Jardinn shook his head. “Phaley’s a good fellow, Maya,” he said. “What he just told you he told me when I reached the hospital. A cop came in with the knife—said they’d found it where Frey told them to look.”
Maya Rand smiled. She said: “You’re lying—you’re both lying. I’ve told you everything I know. Howard Frey did not kill the girl. I know that!”
Phaley said: “How do you know it?”
Her eyes sought Jardinn’s again. He nodded.
“Better come through, if you know something, Maya,” he said. “It’s a tough spot. If they fasten Irish’s knifing on Frey, and don’t clear up the Bowl kill, they’ll hang that on him, sure as hell. That’s the way it’s done. And if they get Frey for that—they’ll drag you into it with him, Maya.”
She said bitterly: “All because I wanted to hurt Hans Reiner! All because I wanted to humiliate him—in the Bowl.”
Phaley twisted his head and spoke in a quiet voice:
“The reason we give you a break on this, Miss Rand, is that Frey didn’t get the girl’s body out to Jardinn’s place. We’re pretty sure he didn’t, anyway. I’m giving it to you straight—he said he knifed Carol Torney.”
Maya Rand rose from the divan and stood very straight. Her slender arms were at her sides.
“If he said that—he lied,” she said very quietly. “Howard went to a party. You know that. He got in a quarrel and was thrown out. He fell—and he walked the streets for some time after that. But he didn’t kill the girl. He was here—with me!”
Phaley swore under his breath. Ben Jardinn said quietly:
“When did he get here, Maya?”
She spoke in a steady voice. “He came here at about twenty minutes of four. I was ill—and Doctor Francis had been called. The doctor was with me. He was instructing Carrie at what hour to give me the next sleeping tablet—when Howard got into the patio. He called my name—and Doctor Francis went to the window.”
Jardinn said: “What happened next?”
Maya smiled twistedly, grotesquely. She kept her eyes on Jardinn’s.
“Doctor Francis wanted to take him out when he left. He was cut, and the doctor wanted to treat him. But Howard was in a terrible mood. He wouldn’t allow the doctor to touch him, and he wouldn’t leave. I was very nervous, and Doctor Francis argued with Howard until about ten minutes after four. Then I got him to leave—he went down to the patio and walked around, smoking.”
Phaley said: “And Frey stayed with you?”
Maya Rand nodded her head. “For about ten minutes,” she said. “He was growing calmer, but he was in a terrible mood. He left very suddenly. It was perhaps a little after four-twenty, because I remember my clock striking the quarter hour—quarter after four—and he swore at it. He kept talking about being framed. He was terribly angry with me, because of my idea of humiliating Hans Reiner. Then he left suddenly.”
She sat on the divan and watched Jardinn’s face. Phaley said:
“Was Doctor Francis still on the patio?”
Maya nodded. “After Howard had gone—he came up and talked with me,” she said.
Phaley said: “What’s his phone number, Miss Rand?”
She gave it to him. Phaley went to the phone and called the number. Jardinn said grimly:
“If he left here at about four-twenty, he could have reached his apartment just ahead of me. If he was here all of the time between twenty minutes of four and twenty after—he didn’t knife Irish. She talked with me a few minutes after four.”
Phaley said: “Francis has been your doctor for a long time, Miss Rand?”
Maya smiled coldly. “Yes, but he is a very prominent California physician. He is worth a great deal of money. I could not bribe him.”
Phaley nodded, smiled. He got the doctor’s secretary, said:
“Phaley, Hollywood police. Very important that I talk with the doctor.”
Jardinn offered Maya a cigarette, lighted it for her. He said:
“I believe you, Maya. The story Frey told was weak. There wasn’t a reason for him knifing Carol Torney. The body got out to my place—and Frey didn’t take it there.”
Maya said: “But why—why didn’t he tell the truth? Doctor Francis, Carrie—myself—we all knew he was here.”
Jardinn frowned. Phaley talked into the mouthpiece in a low voice. After a few minutes he hung up. He said to Maya Rand:
“Francis verifies your time, Miss Rand. He says he would be willing to testify to such a statement on the witness stand.”
Jardinn smiled grimly: “Francis, Maya and the maid, Carrie. We couldn’t beat that combination if we wanted to. Frey lied, just before he went out, Phaley. Why?”
The plainclothesman frowned. “He knew about the knife,” he said slowly. “He knew the man who murdered Irish, Ben.”
Jardinn looked at Maya Rand. He said very quietly:
“We’re getting in close, Maya. Have you told us everything?”
She said firmly: “Howard’s dead. Hans Reiner is dead. My sister is—”
She stopped, closed her eyes. She said in a low, hard voice:
“I’ve told you everything—and I’ve told you the truth.”
Phaley twisted his hat and asked Jardinn for a cigarette. When he had lighted up he said:
“Don’t take a sudden trip anywhere, Miss Rand. We don’t want anything embarrassing to happen.”
There was scorn in Maya’s eyes. She said with the same quality in her voice:
“I shall not run away.”
Jardinn said suddenly, in a strange voice:
“By God—by God! He could think that way—”
He checked himself. Phaley said:
“What’s eating you, Ben?”
Jardinn’s eyes were little dark slits. He looked at a wall of the living room and didn’t reply. Phaley spoke again.
“That’s right, Miss Rand—don’t run away.”
He went toward the door. Jardinn walked over to Maya and touched her gently on the shoulder. She was gazing straight ahead; she didn’t appear to feel his touch. He said:
“It’s all right, Maya. You just sit tight.”
She said with
grimness creeping into her words.
“Yes—sit tight—for a long time, Ben.”
He smiled down at her, turned and followed Pat Phaley from the house. They got into Jardinn’s roadster, and Phaley said:
“I’ll go back and see if they grabbed this Cordova bird. Hell—it’s a tough one, Ben.”
Jardinn nodded. He looked at his wristwatch.
“It’s six-fourteen,” he said. “We’ll ride fast—the way you’d ride around four in the morning. In to the apartment house where Frey lived.”
Phaley said: “Sure—no use slipping on a thing. But why did he lie, Ben? And how did he know about the knife?”
Jardinn said: “He was through, and he knew it. If he confessed the murder of Irish—that stopped something.”
Phaley grunted. The roadster was rolling fast toward Hollywood. The speedometer showed forty-five. Phaley said:
“If he wanted to protect someone—why in hell didn’t he swear he’d done the Bowl job, too?”
Jardinn grunted. “Your brain’s not working, Pat. That would have let Maya in for a dose, as an accomplice, maybe. Frey loved her—yes and no like. Loved her and hated her. He went out leaving the Bowl kill up in the air. Maybe he knew you could think he ran the job—and the public could think that way, too. But it left Maya Rand pretty safe.”
The plainclothesman pulled at his mustache.
“How about the knife?” he asked.
Jardinn missed a slow-moving truck by a foot and took a street crossing at forty. A cop in uniform blew a whistle—and Phaley waved at him. The cop grinned. Jardinn said:
“By God—you’ve got influence. The knife—that’s a tough one.”
Phaley grunted. Jardinn said, above the clatter of the ancient roadster’s engine:
“You’re a good dick, Pat—I’m going to let you in on something. I’ve got a sawed-off thirty-thirty at the house. Can you get someone at headquarters to rig a Maxim silencer on it?”
Phaley widened his eyes. “Hell, yes,” he replied.
Jardinn said: “Good. There’s a concert at the Bowl tonight. You and me—we’ll go out there. I’ll get you the rifle—you have it fixed right. Meet you at the station at eight. Keep it quiet.”
Phaley whistled softly: “You’ve got something, you bum!” he muttered.
Death in a Bowl Page 21
