Death in a Bowl

by Raoul Whitfield

  Jardinn smiled grimly. “Just an idea,” he said. “But it’s beginning to look good.”

  Phaley looked disappointed. “I’ve had a couple like that—but look what happens to ’em.”

  Jardinn said: “I can do this job alone, Pat. I won’t feel hurt.”

  Phaley grunted as they swung around a corner and pulled up in front of the Frey apartment.

  “Like hell you can!” he gritted. “How long has it taken us?”

  The wristwatch showed it was six-twenty-five. Jardinn said:

  “Eleven. He could have made better time, at that hour in the morning. He’d have just about got inside the apartment, when I came along.”

  Phaley swore. “Funny as hell,” he muttered. “He tells a nice lie and goes out. The lady he loved comes along and smashes his story all over the place. Is that right?”

  Jardinn said grimly: “The way I’m thinking now—it just might be right, Pat. It just might be.”

  Phaley said: “Yeah—-it just might be, Ben. You get that rifle. We’ve got to do a fast job. But we can rig the silencer on it. Can we handle this job all right—just the two of us?”

  Jardinn narrowed his eyes. “It’s not a pinch,” he replied. “I just want to show you something.”

  Phaley frowned. “I’d like to have a talk with Ernst Reiner,” he muttered.

  Jardinn looked through the windshield of the roadster and sighed. Phaley said:

  “He might be feeling good now—with Frey dead.”

  Jardinn said tonelessly: “Sure—good and worried, maybe.”

  16

  CRESCENDO

  Max Cohn was reading a paper in the outer office of the agency, when Jardinn walked in after eating. It was seven-thirty; Jardinn sat on the desk and dug knuckles into his tired eyes. Cohn said:

  “You look all in, Ben—get anywhere?”

  Jardinn shook his head. “Hear about Frey making a confession?” he asked.

  Cohn grunted. “Yeah, and it sounds fishy to me,” he replied. “But it might be right, at that.”

  Jardinn said: “You get anything—on the Carren end?”

  Cohn shook his head. “It’s tight as a drum out that way,” he said. “But I’ve got a line on a fellow I may be able to see at eight-thirty, out at the field. A pilot who knew Carren.”

  Jardinn said: “Good—can you get back here around nine?”

  Cohn grinned. “Maybe a little late,” he replied. “Should make it by nine-thirty, anyway. Something due to break?”

  Jardinn swore softly: “There’s just a chance. But I’m all in, Max. And I want to tell you some things before I head for the bungalow and a long nap.”

  Cohn said: “Well, I’ll be back at nine-thirty.”

  Jardinn looked around the office. He smiled with a hurt expression in his eyes.

  “That damn blonde of yours, Irish—and the baby-faced brat. None of them on the level, Max. You can’t trust a woman.”

  Cohn said: “Not when other men get a chance to work on them.”

  Jardinn shrugged. “Irish knew something, Max,” he said. “I went through her place after I got away from the Christie and that bum rap. Had to work fast. And the bulls had been there, too. But they missed something.”

  Conn’s eyes got wide. But he waited for Jardinn to finish.

  “Irish knew music,” Jardinn went on. “She had a score of that tone poem—the number they were playing when Hans Reiner got hit.”

  Cohn said: “Jeez—trying to figure time, eh? Put someone wise.”

  Jardinn nodded. “Or maybe she wanted to know what the piece was all about,” he said. “It’s got a lot of noisy music in it. Plenty of horn and tympani stuff. Crescendo after crescendo.”

  Cohn said: “Jeez!”

  Jardinn half closed his eyes and looked at the desk. He shook his head slowly.

  “She knew things, Max,” he repeated. “She wasn’t a bad kid. She sort of liked me—but she had an idea I didn’t think much of her. I think maybe she wanted to hurt me. She put a fellow next to me that tried to slug me down. Then, after Reiner was out, I think she got scared.”

  Cohn screwed up his face and swore. He slapped his foot against the base of the desk.

  “It might have been Ernst Reiner,” he muttered.

  Jardinn said “God knows—but I’ve got an idea we may get licked, Max. The agency is due for a flop, anyway. We’ve had luck—good luck. This job needs more than luck.”

  Cohn said: “We may fool them yet, Bennie. If I can get a lead on Carren—”

  Jardinn went toward the office door. He said:

  “You’d better get started. I’ll be in around nine or nine-thirty. See you then.”

  Cohn nodded. His chubby face showed a half grin.

  “We’re ahead of the bulls, anyway, Bennie,” he said. “They’re running around in circles.”

  Jardinn said: “Being ahead of them doesn’t mean anything,” and went outside and down the stairs.

  2

  It was eight-twenty when Phaley and Jardinn went through the gates of the Bowl. Under the light coat Jardinn was wearing he carried the sawed-off repeating rifle. There was a good crowd in attendance, though the night was cold. Jardinn wore a soft hat pulled low over his eyes, and Phaley kept his head bent forward.

  The usher took their tickets and led the way toward the center of the Bowl. The orchestra was tuning as they turned down an aisle, passed the first tier of boxes. The usher stood aside, and pointed out the seats.

  “All the way over—next to the rail,” he said.

  Jardinn nodded, went in first. He took the seat next to the rail. There was no one directly in front of them—behind was a box. It was unoccupied. Phaley leaned forward and looked to the left, beyond the rail. Jardinn said:

  “That’s the box they use for the radio stuff—Saturday night.”

  Phaley nodded. “They don’t store it there,” he said. “It’s just in case of rain.”

  Jardinn smiled a little. They were almost directly in the center of the Bowl, in the eighth row. The rows sloped upward, tier after tier. But the radio box was only slightly raised. Wood planks sloped up from dirt. The box was perhaps five feet above the shell level.

  It was as though a section had been cut from the rising tiers of seats, directly in the center. For five feet on either side of the box there were no seats. The roof was almost level with the tier on which their chairs rested. Jardinn said:

  “When the lights dim—I’ll get up, slide over the rail, drop to the dirt around the box, and get inside. You wait until the maestro comes out—then do the same. Don’t hurry.”

  He saw Phaley’s eyes go wide. The plainclothesman started to speak, but checked himself. Jardinn said:

  “We’ll be crowded, inside the box. It’s open at the front end. Just jam in—and don’t move around.”

  The orchestra had hushed—the Bowl lights dimmed as the shell lights grew brighter. Jardinn rose, turned slowly. There was no usher near. He got a leg over the low iron railing on his left, lifted the other. He dropped several feet to the earth, walked around to the front of the box and bent down. He got inside.

  There was applause as the local conductor came from the side of the shell. Jardinn moved his body to the left of the box, which was perhaps five feet wide. The maestro mounted the platform and turned the pages of his score. He tapped sharply with his baton. There was the thud of feet striking dirt—the first notes of the piece were crashing, tympanic.

  Phaley, breathing hard, was bending over, crawling in beside him. He muttered thickly:

  “What in hell’s—all this about? I looked this box over—the next day.”

  Jardinn curved his body and grinned. He said:

  “Yeah—so did I.”

  Minutes passed. The orchestra sent sound into the box; there was an earthy odor inside. It was damp and they were cramped. Jardinn got his head close to Phaley’s.

  “Two of us got in here—so far it doesn’t seem to make any difference. If we were
seen—someone thought we had the right to be here. Or they didn’t care. Maybe we weren’t seen. The Bowl’s in a state of confusion, anticipation—when the lights dim.”

  Phaley said grimly: “All right—we’re here. It’s damn uncomfortable.”

  Jardinn grinned. He said: “Light from the shell doesn’t hit us directly. The musicians can’t see us.”

  Phaley muttered something he didn’t get. The orchestra was working into a crescendo of tone. Jardinn moved his body, unbuttoned his coat. He got the sawed-off thirty-thirty on the earth beside him.

  Phaley said: “What the hell—”

  Jardinn used an elbow on the plainclothesman’s ribs. He gritted:

  “This is—my show. Get over against the side, the wood.”

  Phaley grunted and cramped his body against the right side of the box-like structure. Jardinn rolled on his stomach, raised his legs high from the knee to the foot, shoved back away from the opening. He said in a whisper that reached Phaley above the beat of the symphony:

  “This box is well built. It’s thick. Any sound that gets out—beats toward the shell. It rolls into the music coming out.”

  Phaley said: “You goddam fool—those bullets had a penetration from a two hundred yard carry. They went in from opposite sides. One of ’em mushroomed—”

  The music was dying—the violins were singing a soft motif. A harp belled an obbligato. Jardinn said softly:

  “You goddam dumb dick—you can mark a cross on the nose of the lead and make it mushroom. You can cut down the powder in the load and get the same penetration at fifty yards that you can at two hundred.”

  Phaley was breathing heavily. He said grimly, as the orchestra worked into a movement that brought in section after section:

  “We’re fifty yards away—and in dead center. You can’t put bullets in that conductor at different angles—not from here.”

  Jardinn said: “You watch his back—when you hear these shots. We haven’t got a plane overhead—and we’ve got lights. You watch—”

  His voice rose as the orchestra sent a fury of sound into the Bowl. The violins were working in unison; the horn sections sent a blare of brass noise over the tiers of seats. Heinrich Bern was moving his body from side to side; his baton was flashing in the shell light. Jardinn gritted:

  “He’s—a target, Pat.”

  The conductor swung suddenly to the left. There was a crash of cymbals—a staccato wail from the first violins. Jardinn said:“Now!”

  The box was filled with sound, dulled but still loud. There was no flame from the rifle—the Maxim silencer killed it. Bern’s body was swinging to the right. He brought down his baton as the cymbals crashed again. Jardinn’s second “Now!” was almost lost in the tympanic beat. The rifle spoke again—and a short flame streaked from the barrel.

  A wisp of smoke drifted from the opening of the radio box. Phaley spoke hoarsely.

  “God—one man—in here! The bullets caught Reiner as he pivoted to get the first violins—and got him at the other angle—when he swung to the right!”

  Jardinn jerked his head in a half nod. He got the rifle under his coat again. The music was battering, roaring up to them. He waited until it quieted. Then he turned his lips toward Phaley, spoke softly.

  “One man—murdered Reiner, Phaley. He had the plane engines, to kill all sound from his rifle. He might have had a better silencer than the one I used. What little flame got loose on the second shot didn’t hurt anything. The audience was watching the ship—he was concealed. The musicians were all working hard. He caught Reiner in a swifter pivot than the one Bern just made. Reiner was a more dynamic maestro. A cut-down powder load would have stopped the bullets from tearing through Reiner. If he had been bending forward a little—that would have made a trajectory guess impossible.”

  Phaley swore. “Sure as hell—he got the dose from right here!”

  The music was rising to a finale now. Jardinn spoke in a louder tone.

  “When the lights went out the second time he got the rifle under his coat and cleared out. He got his aim while the lights were on, and Reiner made a sweet target on that platform, Pat. A target at fifty yards.”

  Phaley said grimly: “He had him right.”

  Jardinn changed his cramped posititon, said: “After the number—we’ll get out. Ten to one we’ll be seen. But that don’t count. We’ve got light on us.”

  Phaley said grimly: “That smoke—a cigar would let loose that much. They’re smoking all over—the place.”

  Jardinn nodded. “We didn’t have a tri-motored plane, or anyone to work lights,” he said. “Reiner got it—from right here.”

  The orchestra crashed into the final bars of the number. The music ended in a barbaric, discordant note. Heinrich Bern stood motionless, then faced the tiers of seats. Applause crackled over the Bowl.

  Jardinn rose, bent low, walked out in front of the box. Phaley was behind him. He turned to the left, followed a dirt path to a sloping aisle, went up the aisle. A few persons looked at him curiously. An usher came down the aisle and said:

  “You can’t—cross down there. You should have come up the other way.”

  Jardinn grinned. “Sorry,” he replied. “This looked easier.”

  The usher frowned at him. They reached an aisle that ran the width of the Bowl, went out through the gates and stood near the big bowl used for coin contributions. Phaley passed the cigarettes and lighted one for Jardinn.

  “Christ!” he breathed. “Reiner got it—from that damned box!”

  Jardinn kept a hand on the rifle under his coat. He said:

  “By God—I thought that sound would get out, without plane engines to drown it. Just luck—hit right on the cymbal crack.”

  They moved slowly down the sloping path, toward Highland Avenue. Machines were coming up—late for the concert. Phaley said:

  “You were sure about that kill from the box. Why?”

  Jardinn smiled. “Pretty hard to cover up rifles, on the side paths of the Bowl. Pretty hard to keep people from seeing them raised. And for two humans, even if they were sharpshooters, to hit in the dark at two hundred yards—that would be sweet shooting, Pat.”

  Phaley nodded. “I never did like the idea,” he said. “But it was all we had. I couldn’t see the angle shooting from the box, and I missed the cut-down powder charge.”

  Jardinn said mockingly. “You’re one hell of a dick, Pat. But I didn’t get the idea that way. I went to the concert master—found out where Reiner was on his score—when the lights went out. He had just turned to the first violins, on his left. But almost in the same motion he swung to the right—and had his baton up for the cello section. The first bullet helped him to swing—the second mushroomed and battered him down off the platform.”

  Phaley said grimly: “Well, we know how he was killed—and from where he was killed. But how much does that help us?”

  Jardinn said: “I’ll tell you, Pat—I think I’ve got our man.”

  Phaley stopped walking, sucked in his breath sharply. He muttered:

  “The hell you have!”

  Jardinn nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I’ve got him. There are a few things I don’t know—but I think I’ve got him, just the same. I’m taking a chance.”

  Phaley started to walk along beside Jardinn again. He said:

  “Is he going to cave in—or be nasty with us?”

  Jardinn smiled grimly: “I think he’ll be nasty as hell,” he said. “We’re going to have to do a little work on him, Pat.”

  Phaley pulled on his mustache and said:

  “My hands are in good shape.”

  Jardinn let his eyes get narrow on the pavement along which they walked toward Hollywood Boulevard. He said:

  “We’ll go up to the office and get rid of the rifle. The silencer worked nice, Pat.”

  The plainclothesman swore softly. He said:

  “Who’s our man, Ben?”

  Jardinn shook his head. “I’m not making a fool
of myself—give me a chance to handle it my way. But it’s a human you never suspected, Pat.”

  Phaley shot a quick glance at Jardinn, said softly, almost cheerfully:

  “My hands are hard enough.”

  Jardinn said: “Pat—I was cramped, in that box. But if I’d had bullets that counted in this rifle—I think I’d have hit Bern. You don’t have to be too much of a shot, lying in a good position, and using a rifle on a fifty yard target.”

  Phaley grunted. “You’ve got to shoot, just the same,” he said.

  Jardinn tossed aside the butt of his cigarette. He spoke slowly.

  “Either bullet would have finished Reiner. That killer got the breaks, too.”

  Phaley said: “Get me close to him—my hands are getting nervous.”

  Jardinn smiled grimly. “It’s my party—you let me do the talking.”

  Phaley grinned. “Sure,” he said in a mild voice. “You let me do the hitting.”

  3

  Jardinn and Phaley were sitting in the inner office when Max Cohn came in. He smiled at Jardinn, dropped into the one vacant chair and said:

  “Hello, Phaley—you look good. Bennie here—he needs some sleep.”

  Phaley grinned. “The hell he does!” he said.

  Jardinn took his feet off a slide of the desk and said slowly:

  “Do any good with your pilot, Max?”

  Cohn shook his head. “He didn’t show,” he replied. “And I thought I’d better get back here. Had a feeling there might be something doing.”

  Jardinn grinned. “By God, you had it right, Max,” he said. “I think we’ve got our killer.”

  Cohn’s small eyes got wide. His lips parted a little. He sat up straighter in the chair and said:

  “It that right?”

  Jardinn nodded. “It works out something like this, Max,” he said. “Maya Rand had a damn good-looking sister. She had a nice voice. Maya’s got some brains. You know how women are—once in a while they use brains right, and then the next time they mess things up. They get too emotional.”

  Cohn said slowly: “Sure they do.”

  Jardinn lighted a cigarette. Pat Phaley was slumped low in his chair. He grinned.

  “Maya is pretty good at the flicker stuff. She’s got a few years yet. And she doesn’t want to be rushed out of the spotlight. Her sister’s name was Olive, and Maya figured Ollie was about ripe to rush her out. Maybe she could stick, but Ollie could take the play away. So Maya planted the idea that her sister had a wonderful voice. She shipped her away—and she kept her away. She gave her plenty of coin, but she didn’t let her spend it close to Hollywood. She could see what was coming.”