Cohn puckered his lips and whistled. A streetcar made a lot of noise on Hollywood Boulevard.
“She studied in Paris and London. All right. Hans Reiner was conducting in both cities. He ran into her. And he fell pretty hard. Maybe the kid did have a sweet voice. But she wanted to come back to Hollywood. She kept writing Maya that, and Maya kept writing back that her voice was too good. Not very many people in this town know about Ollie. Maya took care of that. But Ernst Reiner knows. And he knows that Maya is over the peak and slipping, see? And then the talkies come in with a rush. And Ernst thinks about Ollie. He thinks about the picture he’s seen of her—and the voice. So he digs up an excuse about looking for material—and heads for Paris. It’s between pictures. Ernst Reiner makes big money—but he’s got to produce the goods. His idea is that Ollie is the goods. He catches up with her in Paris. Hans Reiner is sore as hell—he hands out a line that’s something like the one Maya has been handing out. The voice—too good for Hollywood microphones. Backstage, in a Paris theater where Ollie is singing some highbrow stuff in a class musical comedy, Hans and Ernst get in an argument. Hans doesn’t want to lose her. Maybe he’s hit hard—I’ve got to guess at some of this. If she comes to Hollywood he’ll probably lose her. And he wins out. Ernst comes back without her. She doesn’t sign up.”
Jardinn tapped cigarette ashes into a tray. Cohn nodded and watched him closely. Pat Phaley looked at the floor and swore.
“But before Ernst left he tried to convince his brother that he didn’t just want the girl for money purposes. He said it was for art. He told Hans that Maya didn’t love the girl—Maya didn’t care about her voice. Maya wanted to keep her sister away. He said that he’d have a tough fight with Olive, here in Hollywood, but he’d take the chance. He really wanted her. I don’t know what happened in London, but Maya has a last letter from her sister. Perhaps Olive changed her mind, after Ernst left. She decided to come to this country. Hans Reiner was losing her. So, that last evening he was with her, he told her what Ernst had told him. He told her that Maya really hated her, was selfishly keeping her away. He gave her the truth.”
Phaley stroked his mustache and said: “Goddam squealer!”
Jardinn shrugged. “It broke up the girl. It finished her. Maybe she took the overdose of veronal by mistake, maybe not. But she did write Maya one final letter, and in it she let Maya know that she knew the truth. And she wrote that Hans Reiner had told her. Maya started to hate. She hated Ernst for telling his brother, but Hans Reiner was the man she wanted to smash. He came over as guest conductor. And Maya got an idea. She’d hurt him, destroy his prestige. She’d break him, get at his nerves. She’d hire a pilot to wing low over the Bowl. Not one night, but every night. Every night he conducted. He was temperamental—and she’d get at him that way.”
Cohn grunted. Phaley sat up a little. Jardinn smiled.
“It was just a woman’s way of hurting. It was damn foolishness. But it might have been effective, at that. It failed, because another human saw a chance. A big chance. If Hans Reiner were murdered as the plane flew over the Bowl—this human had Maya where he wanted her. He could bleed her, again and again. Blackmail her. He could threaten to expose the fact that she had put up money for the ship Carren flew. And if the police knew that, God help Maya Rand. They’d laugh at her truth. They’d believe that she wanted to kill.”
Phaley swore grimly. “He had her right,” he breathed.
Jardinn nodded slowly. “Maya gave money for the plane pilot—to Howard Frey. He used a third party, to reach Carren. The third party squealed to the one who saw his chance, and took it. Carren didn’t know what he was doing. He was trapped. He thought he was just winging a ship low over the Bowl. Spite work. When he realized how completely he was trapped, he nearly went mad. The police were hounding him—I was after him. He made a break for the ship—a plane that was grounded and had only two engines in working order. He crashed and was killed.”
Phaley said slowly: “And that was a break for the Rand woman.”
Jardinn looked at the ceiling. “But she was pretty worried. She had to know what was going on in the agency. She worked that dumb Crissy brat inside. And the baby-faced kid was so scared she gave things away. Ernst Reiner and Frey had fought. They were afraid of each other. The kill gave Reiner a chance to get at Frey. He didn’t lose any bets. Or maybe he really thought Frey did the job.”
Cohn said thickly: “It wasn’t Frey, Bennie?”
Jardinn shook his head. “It wasn’t Frey,” he replied. “But the murderer of Reiner and Carol Torney—” Jardinn’s voice was suddenly hard—“wanted me to think it was Frey. It was important to keep the chase away from Maya Rand. She could be suspected, questioned—but not too much. She mustn’t come through with the truth. That was the thing he would use for blackmail. She hired the plane that flew over the Bowl as Hans Reiner died.”
Jardinn got up and went over to the window. He faced Cohn and Phaley, lowered his voice a little.
“Frey wouldn’t talk—the killer was sure of that. At first he was. Frey loved Maya. But then, something happened. There was a leak in the agency and the killer learned that Frey had said something that dragged Maya into the case. And I knew that things weren’t going right in the agency. Reiner had tried to bribe Irish. My wristwatch had been fixed, I pretended to kick Carol out, but she wasn’t out. We met, away from the office. The killer got scared—and then Irish got scared. And then the killer closed in and knifed her. She was getting too close. And if he could get her to my place, mix me up in a murder—”
Jardinn stopped. Cohn’s sallow face was turned toward him. There was a stupid expression in his little eyes. Moisture glittered on his thick lips.
“You had—Irish working—all the time—”
His voice was strained, husky. Jardinn said quietly:
“Hans Reiner was shot to death from that radio storehouse box, Max. One man did the job. With a Maxim silenced rifle. He had the score of that tone poem. He knew it had fireworks in it, noise. He knew that Reiner would work over the orchestra, swing from side to side. He used the gun—got clear. It was for money, Max—big money. Maya has it. He could bleed her again and again. Maybe he could get a hundred thousand, before he was through.”
Max Cohn swore hoarsely. Phaley got up, stroking his mustache, and went toward the door that led to the outer office. He closed it, stood with his back to it.
“Christ—it’s getting cold in here,” he said in a strange voice. “Getting slimy like.”
Jardinn looked down at Cohn and spoke with lips almost pressed together.
“You dirty bastard—we’ve got you, Cohn!”
Cohn’s little eyes got big. His tongue came out and flicked an upper lip. He got a smile on his face.
“Cut the goddam—kidding, Bennie,” he said. “It’s a hell of a time—”
Jardinn said: “You planted a man next to me, at the concert, to knock me out. You wanted to get rid of that rifle and reach the platform before me. It didn’t work. You’re a short man, Cohn—and you’re a killer. You killed two men. You can shoot. Inside that radio box you had room. You don’t make a lot of money in the agency—and you’ve got a shrewd brain. It was a sweet chance—and you took it. You figured the police would give the theory of two rifles a play—and that might mean a mob. And there was Frey. And Reiner. The two of them at each other’s throat. Irish got in the way—and you finished her. You had to—you were in deep. Frey went out, but before he died you got to him. I’ve talked to Barrett, the copper you bribed to get inside the hospital room. He thought it was just an agency job, and he let you in. I don’t know what you told Frey, but I can guess. You told him they were giving Maya Rand the works. He knew he was finished. You said that Maya had gone crazy and knifed Carol Torney, because Carol was wise to the plane hiring. You said if he confessed to that murder the police would lay off. You said she’d told you where the knife had been thrown—”
Cohn cut in grimly: “That’s a lie—they�
��re all lies! All of them!”
Phaley said softly: “Jeez—my hands are starting to get nervous.”
Jardinn said grimly, looking down at Max Cohn:
“Frey was too sick to figure how Irish’s body got out to my place. He thought you were all right. He loved Maya. He came through with the confession—and right away Maya smashed it all to hell with a perfect alibi for him. You slipped up there, Cohn. You slipped up in other ways. You fixed my wristwatch—not Irish. I fed stuff into the wastepaper basket—and you grabbed it. I’ve suspected you from the start, Cohn—but I told you things. I played ball with you. You weren’t in sight of anybody when Hans Reiner died—and you weren’t in sight of anybody when Carol Torney got knifed. You had a damn good reason to get her to my place. Then you’d run the agency, with me fighting for a murder charge. But you called up twice before I found her lying on the divan. You didn’t want me to suspect, so you talked as though she was alive. You dirty, woman-killing—rat!”
Jardinn took a step forward, reached out his left hand and dragged Cohn from the chair. He hit with his right. Cohn fell heavily, near Phaley. Phaley kicked him savagely.
Cohn pulled himself to his knees. He said thickly, twistedly:
“It’s all a—goddam lie!”
Jardinn stood swaying a little. After a few seconds he stopped swaying and smiled. The knuckles of his right hand stood out redly.
He spoke in a flat, unemotional tone. “Tell me this is a lie: You’ve always said you don’t know anything about music. You had Irish believing it. She used to joke about your low taste. But a half dozen times I’ve had reports that you were at the Bowl. You stayed high up—in the highest tiers. You didn’t want to be seen, but you were seen. Two weeks ago Billy Long came in and said he’d seen you, spoken to you. You hadn’t answered him. He wanted to know what the hell was wrong. And you could get at the office files, Cohn. You knew the reports I got from abroad. You knew about Maya’s sister. You knew about the quarrel between Hans and Ernst Reiner.”
Cohn was on his feet, leaning heavily against the office wall, pressing a shaking palm against the left side of his face. Phaley took a step toward him, but Jardinn said sharply: “No, Pat—wait.”
Cohn said in a hoarse tone: “You’ve got it wrong—I’m telling you—”
Jardinn nodded to Phaley. The big plainclothesman stepped in close to Cohn, smothered his protecting, up-flung hand. He drew his right fist back and struck three times. Cohn made no sound, but when Phaley stepped away he slipped to the floor of the office, covered his face with stubby fingers.
Jardinn said: “What in hell’s the use, Pat? We’ve got him. We’re up here alone. He isn’t yellow, like a cheap crook. He’s a dirty killer. But, by God—he’s got guts. We can’t beat it out of him.”
Phaley swore. “Irish was—a good kid,” he said bitterly.
Jardinn closed his eyes, swayed again. When he opened them Cohn was propped up against the wall, his face a half-red mask.
Jardinn said: “You had that blonde on the outside, Cohn. The one I kicked out. She was costing you money. You don’t make too much in here. Maybe she was after you all the time, like a lot of women. They’ve got to have things. You saw a chance to pick up a lot of money, Cohn. You took it.”
Cohn stared at him dully, shook his head. Jardinn opened the drawer of his desk and took out an automatic. He said softly:
“Get his gun, Pat. We’ll save the state some trouble. The way I told you.”
Phaley reached down and got Cohn’s gun. Jardinn spoke in a toneless voice.
“He confessed, Pat—and then he made a break for it. You pulled your rod, and you both let loose at the same time. He missed you. You got him. I let go and got two hunks of lead inside. He was trying to make a break for it—and we stopped him.”
Phaley said grimly: “Sure—that was the way it went, Ben. I’ll put a bullet over there—from his gun.”
He gestured toward the wall opposite from Cohn. He walked a few feet away.
“Then we’ll just—let him have it,” he said quietly.
Jardinn nodded. He said: “Start it right, Pat—knock over a chair.”
Phaley raised Conn’s gun a little, reached for the nearest chair with his left hand. Cohn said in a flat, dead voice:
“That goddam—woman. Wait—I’ll talk.”
Phaley dropped his left hand. Jardinn stood motionless. Cohn wiped red from his swollen lips, spoke slowly in a thick, dull tone.
“That blonde—she had me licked, Ben. She was always wanting something. Once in a while I got a little graft money. But that wasn’t enough. She had me licked a lot of ways. I owed money. She was always—going to leave me. And I—didn’t want—that.”
Jardinn said slowly: “Reiner—and Irish—all for a rotten woman—”
Cohn cut in bitterly. “Hans Reiner—he wasn’t any good. I could read between the lines—in those reports. He drove Olive Rand—to suicide—”
Jardinn said: “You’re looking for an out, now. You don’t know what he did. Never mind that—what did you do?”
Cohn stared at Jardinn. His voice was low and husky.
“It looked like—a perfect kill. And I could get the money I needed. Maya Rand has plenty—and with Hans Reiner dead as the ship flew over the Bowl—I had her nice. I could bleed her. More than once. I got him from the radio box. The rifle’s buried—on the hillside, at the left.”
He paused, wiped his lips again. Pat Phaley was staring at him, breathing heavily. Jardinn stood motionless, his face expressionless.
“Things didn’t break right, after the kill. The goddam blonde—she was wise. I got afraid of Irish. I couldn’t be sure of her. I was afraid she’d get to—”
He checked himself. Jardinn said:
“Yeah—your woman. You were afraid she’d rat it and squeal, to save herself. So you—finished Irish.”
Cohn said hoarsely: “Christ—I was in a tough spot. I went to Irish’s place. We started to talk—and her eyes looked wise. I grabbed her. I got a gun out and made her call you, Ben—and use Frey’s name. She did it—she was scared: Then she ran for the kitchen. I was afraid to shoot. I caught her, near the door. She didn’t yell. There was—a knife—on a table—”
Jardinn said: “God—what a deal!”
Cohn said grimly: “I drove her—out to your place—went back home.”
Phaley’s big fingers were twisting. He didn’t speak. Cohn said:
“You had it right—about the way I got to Howard Frey. It was Carren who put me wise. He wanted to know what sort of a dose he’d get, if they caught him winging low over the Bowl. He didn’t know what it was all about. Frey used a man named Cordova as a go-between. But Cordova described Frey to Carren. The pilot gave me the description. And I knew it was Maya Rand’s game. I was watching Frey. And he didn’t have money—not enough money. Maya Rand wanted to hurt Hans Reiner. I saw—the big chance.”
Cohn’s thickset body shivered a little. Jardinn said slowly:
“Ernst Reiner and Frey were hating each other. You thought that would be a cover-up. You wanted the police to get Frey. You knew he wouldn’t squeal on Maya. But when he weakened a little—you got scared.”
Cohn didn’t speak. Jardinn said bitterly:
“I wasn’t sure—until I crawled into that radio box. You’re a short man, Cohn—you would fit in there nice. I didn’t. And you’ve—killed before. You’re greedy. That blond woman—”
Cohn said bitterly: “Goddam her.”
Phaley drew a deep breath. “Cordova—where’s he? Who worked with you—on the lights?”
Cohn said harshly: “I don’t squeal. They’ve both skipped. They didn’t know it was to be a kill—just a concert smash. A dirty, Hollywood trick.”
Jardinn turned away, went over and looked down on Hollywood Boulevard. He said softly:
“That poor, damn kid—Irish—”
Phaley said: “I’ll take Cohn down to the station, Ben. You coming?”
Jardin
n didn’t reply. Phaley said slowly:
“Come down later, Ben.”
Jardinn said: “Yeah—later.”
He heard them moving toward the door. He turned, and said in a hard, low voice:
“I’m going to put you—on the trap for this, Cohn. I’ll watch it sprung—”
Conn’s eyes seemed to be looking beyond him. He turned away, stared out of the window again. He could hear their footfalls on the stairs beyond the office. After a while the janitress came in. She smiled at him.
“Can I clean up, mister?” she asked.
Jardinn said heavily: “If there’s anything left—to clean up.”
When he reached the street a kid with eyes that were so much like Carol Torney’s they hurt shoved a paper in front of him.
“Latest, Mister!” he said. “All about the Bowl murder!”
Jardinn said: “Sure.” He took the paper, gave the kid a quarter. He didn’t look at it. A half square away he tossed it into a refuse can. When he reached the police station Brenniger grabbed him by an arm and said grimly:
“Hell, Ben—you did it again.”
Jardinn squeezed his tired eyes closed. He said in a bitter tone:
“Yeah—swell, isn’t it?”
He went slowly toward the sergeant’s desk.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Death in a Bowl Page 23
