She kept her back to him. “I’m not. Who was that man?”
“An insurance investigator.”
She turned around. “If this marriage means as much to you as it does to me, I think I’ve a right to know what you and Dave were talking about last night.”
“We were talking about Hart Jameson. There’s a suspicion afloat that he may have been murdered. Now, do you think either Dave or I could murder?”
“No. But I do think you know something about Jameson’s death that you’re not telling me. Or the police.” She inhaled heavily. “And I think you’ve made a very bad moral decision.”
“Only the nonparticipants,” he said, “can afford this flawless morality.”
Her voice was high. “Now what in hell did that mean? How am I a nonparticipant in anything that happens to you?”
“You’re a nonparticipant in the frightened, scrambling, conniving world I work in. That’s what I meant.”
“I see. And you’ve decided to be a frightened, scrambling conniver. Is that it?”
He held his tongue for seconds and then said quietly, “You didn’t mean that.”
“They were your words,” she answered. “Steve, this picture has become so important to you, you’re letting Harry Bergdahl destroy you.”
“That is absurd,” he said. “Harry hasn’t interfered once. I’m shooting this picture exactly the way I want to.” He finished his drink. “And making the best picture I’m capable of is the only kind of morality I’m concerned about.”
“Oh, God …!” she said. “Do you realize how pretentious you just sounded?”
“You tell me,” he answered evenly. “You’re good at it.”
She glared, and tears came to her eyes. She set her untasted drink on a table and walked quickly into the house.
He sat there, trying to blank his mind. He couldn’t get emotionally involved in a domestic crisis now. He needed every ounce of energy and serenity he could find to make this picture successful.
He was eating dinner alone when Marcia went out. He called after her and though he knew she had heard him, she didn’t pause. The front door slammed with a force that shook the floor.
He finished his meal and took the percolator of coffee with him into the study. He was well into the script when the phone rang.
He picked it up and a doubtful masculine voice asked, “Mr. Leander?”
“Yes.”
A pause, and then hesitantly, “This is a — a friend of a friend of Hart Jameson’s. I wonder if I could see you tonight?”
“I’m very busy,” Steve said. “Could I have your name, please?”
“Not unless I can see you,” the man said. “This friend of Jameson’s that I know, she was — over at his apartment last night.”
Steve said steadily, “The police are looking for her. If she’s a friend of yours, you’d be doing her a service by advising her to report to the nearest police station.”
“She doesn’t want to. She’s innocent, see? But she doesn’t want any part of the police.”
“If she’s innocent, why not?”
The man’s voice was lower now and slightly shaky. “Well, it would just cause a lot of trouble. She heard something she wasn’t supposed to hear, I guess, and she doesn’t want to cause anybody any trouble.”
The pressure was building up again in Steve’s chest. He took a deep breath. “Why do you want to see me?”
“I’m an actor. I thought you might have a little something for me in this picture you’re shooting.”
“I see. How did you get my phone number?”
“Hart Jameson had it, and my friend got it from him.”
“He had Mr. Bergdahl’s number, too. He’s the producer. Why didn’t you phone him?”
“To tell you the truth, Mr. Leander, because I’m scared to death of Harry Bergdahl.”
“But not of the police? Do you realize you’re with-holding information from them by not telling them the name of the girl?”
“I’m going to protect her. I wouldn’t want her to get on the wrong side of Harry Bergdahl, not in this town.”
“Oh …? She’s an actress, is she?”
“She likes to call herself one.” A pause. “Am I wasting your time, Mr. Leander?”
“I’m not sure what you’re doing,” Steve said frankly. “And I’m also not sure why I’m listening. Why don’t you want to give me your name?”
There was a silence that lasted for seconds. And then the man asked, “Did you see Dim Thunder?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember that bar scene, where the drunk went loco?”
“I most certainly do.”
“I played that drunk. My name is Mitchell Morton. I wouldn’t ask for a part any bigger than that.”
Steve stared at his desk top and then at the script. Finally he said, “There’s a part that small and that good in this picture. Why don’t you come over here and we’ll talk about it?”
After he had hung up, he went over to the bookcase and pulled two books from a shelf. There was a .32 there which he kept because the house was so isolated.
After a few moments, he replaced the books without touching the gun. What did he have to fear from an actor?
SEVEN
Had he been blackmailed? Not yet, of course. He had not promised Morton a part. He had agreed to talk with him about it but he had promised nothing. He went out onto the front lawn to wait.
The santana was blowing, and the evening was unusually warm and dry. To his right the shoreline of Santa Monica Bay was clear from Point Dume to Palos Verdes.
He hadn’t come out to enjoy the view. He kept his eyes on the glistening traffic of Sunset Boulevard, far below.
A car turned off from the artery, and he felt a flutter in his stomach. It turned again at a driveway halfway up the hill. He waited.
Now, another car turned off from the main road, and this one was coming all the way up. He went out to the curb to wait. It was a three-year-old, two-door Plymouth sedan.
He had seen Mitchell Morton only in that memorable bit in Dim Thunder, but he recognized him as he stepped from the car.
He had a brush haircut and impressive shoulders. He was young and his youth was apparent in the present situation. Steve sensed that beneath the true actor’s cultivated poise, young Morton was uncertain and frightened.
He came over to stand squarely in front of Steve and he managed to smile. “Call me a son-of-a-bitch and send me packing. I’m sure that’s what I deserve.”
Some of Steve’s apprehension disappeared, and his own poise returned. He smiled. “Nobody’s perfect. I’m not sure whether I’m being blackmailed or not. I’ve been trying to decide.”
“It’s certainly not blackmail,” Morton said quietly. “My friend isn’t about to go to the police, no matter what happens to the career of Mitchell Morton.” His chin lifted. “I used that line so you wouldn’t hang up on me. Slimy, right?”
Steve shrugged. “You’re in a rough profession.”
They stood silently a moment. He’s scared, Steve thought. He’s young and desperate and gutty, but he’s scared.
It was growing dark now, and the lights were beginning to dot the hills. Steve said, “You must be very hungry and you’re only asking for a crumb. Come on into the house. I have an extra copy of the script I can give you.”
Morton made no move. He said hoarsely, “Why don’t you tell me to beat it?”
“Forget how you got here,” Steve advised him gently. “You’re something new, an actor with a conscience. Come on.”
In Steve’s study they talked for about ten minutes, and Steve learned that Mitchell Morton had studied with Jameson in New York. They hadn’t been exactly friends, Morton was quick to explain, but when he had come out here, Jameson’s had been the only familiar face.
“And through Jameson you met this girl?”
Morton said, “I’d rather not talk about the girl, Mr. Leander.”
“I’d like to, a little. For inst
ance, can you be sure she’s not connected with Jameson’s death in some way?”
“I’m positive,” Morton answered.
“And you weren’t, by any chance, the unidentified man who was seen in the area on top of the bluff there, were you?”
Morton shook his head. “I don’t know anything about him and neither does my friend. I asked her about that when I read it in the paper.”
Steve looked at the young man levelly. “Do you think Jameson’s death was an accident?”
Morton nodded.
Steve smiled. “It’s easier to lie with a nod than with words, isn’t it? You don’t really think his death was an accident.”
“Maybe not. But I swear to you that I don’t know it was anything else.”
Steve stood up and handed Morton the script. “Okay. I’ll tell Mr. Bergdahl you’ve been promised that bit. Phone me the early part of next week. We’ll probably shoot that Thursday or Friday.”
“Thank you,” Morton said warmly. “Thank you for treating me better than I deserve.”
It was, Steve reflected, the first time in his life he had been accused of that. He went out to the car with Morton and stood there long after Morton was out of sight, hoping that another car would turn up from the road. Where could Marcia have gone? To John Abbot?
She was being unreasonable, but that was a failing of her sex. He had worked with enough temperamental women to be able to cope with their absurdities. With Marcia, because of the emotional attachment, it was more difficult. But she’d come back to reason eventually, he assured himself.
He phoned Bergdahl and found him at home. He said, “I promised a lad named Mitchell Morton a piece in that lake cottage scene. Know him?”
“The name only … Wait, did I see it on a list? Was he listed in Red Channels?”
“I have no idea,” Steve answered.
“Or did some broad mention his name? It sticks in my mind, for some reason.”
“If you saw Dim Thunder, he played that pathological bit in the bar scene.”
“I didn’t see it,” Harry said. “Well, I’ll check; I’ve got all the lists. That Tomkevic was here right after dinner. The son-of-a-bitch is going to wind up with a bloody nose if he don’t get out of my hair.”
Steve said nothing.
“I talked to Sergeant Morrow,” Harry went on, “and the law’s about convinced it was an accident. So what’s bothering the Polack? Jesus, it ain’t his money!”
“He’ll give up after a while,” Steve said soothingly. “Remember your ulcer, Harry.”
“Yeh, yeh. Mitchell Morton, Mitchell Morton — damn it, I’ll bet he’s a Commie.”
“Check it,” Steve said. “Is Dave coming over here in the morning or does he want me to pick him up?”
“He’ll come there. Look, we’re planning a cast party for Saturday night. You and Marcia going to be free?”
“I’m sure we are. I’ll let you know. Marcia’s not home right now.”
Harry chuckled. “If she’s out on the town, tell me where. That’s some doll you got, mister.”
“Thank you. I’ll tell her you said that. I’ll warn her. Now don’t fret, Harry. Everything is going to work out well.”
Bergdahl chuckled again. “That’s a switch, you telling me not to fret. Be seein’ you, kid.”
Steve went back to the script, searching for soft spots he could discuss with Dave Sidney tomorrow.
At eleven he went out to the front again, and it was still warm for a California night. He stayed out until midnight, looking at the lights and waiting for Marcia. Finally he went in and to bed. He was asleep when she came home.
In the morning Times he read that an autopsy had discovered nothing beyond an exorbitant amount of alcohol in the body of Hart Jameson. The police, however, were still not ready to write off the death as accidental. No reason was given for this attitude, but Steve could guess that a man named Tomkevic might be mainly responsible for it.
The signing of Tom Leslie for Jameson’s part was given a fat two paragraphs in Hedda’s column, and the local columnist gave that and the Jameson tragedy his entire column. Harry would be happy about the free ink.
Steve was drinking his coffee when Dave Sidney came. Dave looked haggard.
“Sit down and have some coffee,” Steve suggested. “Hung over?”
Dave shook his head as he sat down at the far end of the table from Steve. “I’ve been playing amateur detective. I was up until three this morning.”
“Now, Dave, what can you learn that a police department and a private detective can’t?”
“Well, to begin with, I know a couple of Hart’s girl friends. To my mind, that floozie who was with Hart Wednesday night could be the big key.”
“I’ll know her if I ever meet her,” Steve said. “That is, unless she changes her brand of perfume. I’ll never forget that odor.”
“It could be a common perfume,” Dave suggested.
Steve shook his head. “I’ve worked with women at all income levels, and I never smelled anything like this before.” He poured Dave a cup of coffee. “Run into my study and get the script, will you? There are some shots I’ve marked for sharpening.”
It was the start of a rewarding day. Tom Leslie, unlike Jameson, was a trained and disciplined talent. He would be another plus for the picture. And Laura moved through her scenes with competence and grace. There were moments when she seemed almost like an actress.
At the first break, Dave Sidney told Steve, “I don’t know what’s happening, but it’s coming alive, isn’t it?”
Steve nodded and smiled. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what’s happening either, but I think this Leslie is a boy who pulls the best out of all the others.”
There was a silence and Steve wondered if his shameful, fleeting thought had been shared by Dave. The death of Hart Jameson had not been a completely ill wind.
Dave said quietly, “I hope Uncle Harry gets the rest of his money.”
Steve said confidently, “With stuff like this to show angels, he’s got sound collateral.” And he reflected that neither of them had used the word “insurance.”
Laura got a ride home with Leslie that evening. Steve and Dave were the only occupants of Steve’s car. Dave dozed as they drove along the Coast Highway, and Steve thought back on the day with satisfaction.
This picture had to be finished. Harry would have to get the money any damned way he could. This picture had to be done right. There were some expenses ahead. There were some sets they couldn’t cheat on without damaging the picture.
Dave mumbled something and Steve glanced his way, but Dave’s eyes were closed. This picture could do a lot for Dave’s reputation, and Dave was Harry’s nephew. This picture would be financed. Harry would see to that.
As he got out of the car in Steve’s driveway, Dave asked, “Are you and Marcia going to the party tomorrow night?”
“Probably,” Steve answered. “Though I can’t vouch for Marcia. She’s not talking to me.”
“She’s not still angry because of Wednesday night, is she? I mean — when you and I talked outside?”
Steve nodded. “I’ll probably go, either way. I could use a real Bergdahl wingding about now.”
“Don’t forget the funeral is tomorrow,” Dave reminded him. “Uncle Harry would like to see us all there.”
“I’d forgotten,” Steve said slowly. “Yes, we’d better all go.”
It wasn’t anything he was looking forward to, and he was sure Harry wanted them there only for the promotional effect. But it was no time to flaunt tradition.
And the party — he hoped Marcia would agree to go. A Bergdahl party would do them both a lot of good. If they drank enough.
Marcia wasn’t home. She had left a note: “I decided to spend a long week end with the children. I’ll be home Monday.”
In the kitchen the housekeeper told him, “Mrs. Leander won’t be home until Monday. Did you get her note?”
Steve nodded.
<
br /> The woman hesitated. Then, “Is there something wrong, Mr. Leander? I know it’s none of my business, but you two always got along so fine …” Her voice trailed off and she looked uncomfortable.
“There’s nothing wrong, Mrs. Burke,” Steve said placidly. “She simply went up to camp to see the children.” He smiled. “I think I’ll eat at the club tonight. That way you can make the early movie at the Bay.”
He felt lethargic after his shower. He lay on the bed in his robe and tried to nap. Usually he could doze off in a few minutes, but not tonight.
Both John Abbot and Laura had warned him against Harry Bergdahl, and they were a pair of old pros. Of course, neither of them had been proved right so far. He had had no interference from Harry on the picture, and he would not have been involved in the death of Hart Jameson if he hadn’t listened to Laura’s gossip. And he wouldn’t have been in a position to listen to Laura’s gossip if she hadn’t begged him for a part in the picture.
No, that wasn’t fair. He had gone to see Jameson of his own volition, and he had lied to the police about the conversation they had had. He couldn’t blame Laura for any of that. If Harry Bergdahl was not a murderer, what harm had been done by his lie? A lie is a lie is a lie …
He thought of Marcia, and desire swelled in him. He got up irritatedly and dressed.
In the grill of the Canyon Country Club, Dow Allen and Jack Delahunt waved to him from a table overlooking the eighteenth green. Steve went over.
Dow said, “You have the look of a man with a free evening. How about some poker?”
Steve sat down. “Maybe. My wife’s out of town for the week end.”
“Great,” Dow said. “That was too bad about Jameson. Harry was ready, though, wasn’t he?”
Jack laughed and Steve looked between them grimly. “I hope that was a gag, though it was a bad one. Am I getting that kind of reputation?”
Dow smiled. “Not you, buddy. Harry’s always had that kind of reputation.”
“As a murderer? Not quite.”
Jack said seriously, “As anything he needs to be to stay in business. I wouldn’t put murder past him, Steve.”
“Nonsense,” Steve said angrily. “Let’s talk about something else.”
Death Out of Focus Page 5
