The pair made caustic comments from time to time, but Steve rested, too well aware of the medium’s limits to expect the perfection only the young demanded.
At ten-thirty Dave and Jean left, and the house seemed lonely. Steve went out to the front yard. It was a clear, cold night, and he could see the lights flashing along Sunset Boulevard.
It was then he remembered he had promised Marcia they would go up together today. She had gone to the camp alone, but he wondered if she had expected him to drive up to join her.
A car turned up from the highway below, and from a driveway a quarter of the way up the hill another car turned down, its headlights illuminating the car coming up.
It was the Buick, it was Marcia. He went over to the driveway to wait for her.
She had no greeting for him. Her face was grim, she avoided his eyes. He followed her from the garage to the kitchen, and she refused to look at him or answer his questions.
She was opening the refrigerator door when he went into his study. He sat there, smoking and staring at nothing, his thoughts black, his temper boiling. Who in hell did she think she was?
He heard her walking around in the kitchen and later he heard water running in the bathroom. But it was the guest bathroom. He heard a door close and there was silence.
In a few minutes he rose and went to their bedroom. She was not there. A nightgown and robe and pair of slippers were missing from her closet.
He went to the guest room. The door was closed. He opened it and turned on the bright overhead light. She was lying with her back to the doorway.
He said, “Marcia, I’ve a right to know why you’re acting like this.”
“You promised to come up,” she said. “And I told the kids you had promised. And they waited for you. They waited and waited and waited.”
“I’m very sorry about that. I went to a party at Bergdahl’s last night and I didn’t get home until late. I didn’t wake up until this afternoon.”
“Explain that to the children. Write them a letter and explain that, if you think you can.”
He took a deep breath. “And how long do you intend to sleep in here?”
“Forever, probably.”
With fine, unconscious hypocrisy, he said, “It’s been over two weeks, you might remember. And I’m not made of stone.”
She said quietly and coldly, “It’s been over two weeks for me. I’m not sure it has for you.”
His stomach churned and his hands trembled. He looked at her back doubtfully. “God damn it,” he said, “turn around!”
She turned over to glare at him.
He asked, “Just exactly what did you mean by that last crack?”
Her voice was even and calm and cold. “You’ve been going downhill morally so fast lately it wouldn’t surprise me to learn you had tried anything. And one of Harry Bergdahl’s parties would be a logical place to start off on an adultery kick.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I mean that.”
He said hoarsely, “I’m thinking of the kids. That’s all that’s keeping me home tonight.”
She turned over again. She said wearily, “Turn out the light and get out of here. Don’t threaten me — not until you’re ready to do it in court.”
The fever of unrighteous indignation burned in him, and he said harshly, “I’ll be glad to go into court any time you’re ready.”
“I’m ready now,” she said. “Good night.”
He stared at her familiar back, and the sickness welled in him again and his knees trembled. A life without Marcia would be worse than death. A life without Marcia and the kids would be …
He couldn’t imagine it. He said softly, “I hope you’ll be more reasonable tomorrow.” He turned out the light and closed the door gently.
TEN
He sat for an hour in his unlighted study, thinking back on it all from Laura’s first bit of gossip. That had been Wednesday, as they drove home from Santa Barbara.
And after he had gone to see Jameson that same evening, a few new facts had been revealed to him. He could see no pattern in them but if he gave them to Tomkevic, perhaps the detective could.
What then was preventing him from phoning Tomkevic? The unadmitted fear that Bergdahl was the murderer? If Harry wasn’t, the insurance money was safe. If Harry was, did he want him revealed?
Harry’s own nephew wanted to know; he wasn’t afraid of the truth. But Harry’s own nephew wasn’t thirty-seven years old and he wasn’t carrying the financial load Steve was. He could afford his militant morality.
He thought back on John Abbot’s phrase: “the sanctity of solvency.” John could afford morality, too. He had been active in a seller’s market before the days of confiscatory taxation.
Your job is making pictures, Steven Leander, not moral judgments. That would be the pragmatic view. If he had sinned, they had been sins of omission. Overlooking, of course, one small sin of commission on Pat Cullum’s wide, low bed.
Tomkevic was not concerned with sin; he was concerned with crime. Though the crime that concerned him now was also a sin, the sin of murder.
I am innocent of murder. So far as I know there has been no murder.
That was the thought that he took to bed with him — so far as he knew, there had been no murder. It helped to bolster the righteousness of his anger over the deportment of his unreasonable wife.
It didn’t help him to sleep. But there were pills for that, and he took them after the first restless hour, falling asleep to dream of his personal Javert, the brush-haired, brown-eyed, soft-voiced Tomkevic.
Marcia didn’t join him at breakfast. Mrs. Burke served him with a minimum of dialogue, and Steve wondered if she had overheard last night’s quarrel. He had finished eating by the time Dave came, and they left immediately to pick up Laura.
Steve had always managed to divorce his personal troubles from his professional problems. Today he didn’t achieve this. He was short-tempered and sarcastic. He had a hopelessly disrupted cast halfway through the morning’s shooting.
He knew he was dealing with temperamental people and he knew he was handling them badly. But some perversity in him persisted. His temper grew shorter and his tongue sharper.
They stopped for a break at ten-thirty, and Laura came over to tell him quietly, “You’ll have a mutiny on your hands any minute. What’s wrong, Steve?”
“Everything,” he said curtly. “You know you’re not delivering, don’t you?”
She flushed. “No, I didn’t. But I’ll take your word for it.” Her voice was bitter. “Possibly the role is too big for me.”
He almost said possibly but stopped in time. He said, “It seems to be too much for you this morning. It wasn’t Friday.”
She started to say something, paused, and turned away. He watched her walk over to the table where Dave sat and take a seat next to him. Dave glanced guiltily at Steve before he and Laura started to talk.
Tom Leslie came over to ask genially, “Am I really that lousy, Steve, or are you having a bad morning?”
Steve said evenly, “You weren’t lousy. You were just barely — adequate, to use the critics’ cliché. I expect something better than that.”
Leslie continued to smile. “I think we’re all trying to give you something better than that.” He paused. “We — could stand a little patience.”
Steve stared at him for seconds. “Mr. Leslie, you haven’t been in this business very long, but I’m sure you’ve been in it long enough to learn the director is never argued with.”
Leslie’s smile turned cold. “I’ve learned that, Mr. Leander. I’ll remember it from now on.”
Steve watched him walk over to join Laura and Dave at the table. And he knew this would be a lost day. And he knew it was his fault. Or Marcia’s? Or Bergdahl’s? Or Tomkevic’s?
Laura rode home with Tom Leslie. Dave came back with Steve. Dave was unusually quiet.
After about twenty minutes of silent driving, Steve said, “Okay, speak
up. Who’s leading the mutiny?”
Dave smiled weakly. “Boy, you were edgy today. Were they that bad?”
“Probably not. But they were so great Friday, and I suppose my own — state of mind magnified the letdown.”
“Are you still thinking about Hart Jameson?”
Steve nodded without taking his eyes from the road. “Aren’t you?”
“Mmmm-hmmm. But it looks more like an accident every day.”
“Did you learn anything, Dave, that the police don’t know?”
Dave paused before saying too casually, “Nothing important.”
“Anything I should know?”
“Nothing,” Dave said definitely. “Can’t we talk about something else?”
“All right. Let’s talk about the picture. Are we going to be able to finish it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t see why not. Uncle Harry is very good at raising money and he has over half of it.”
There was a long and uncomfortable silence. Finally Dave said, “Ever since Jameson’s death you’ve been — different. It’s none of my business, but is it because of the quarrel with Marcia?”
“Partly, I suppose,” Steve admitted. “Though I was never an easy man to get along with while working. I — expect too much from people.”
“And too much from yourself, maybe? And at the moment, you might be hating yourself?”
Steve said slowly, “That could be. Since I lied to the police about why I went to see Jameson, I’ve been — unhappy.”
“That’s easily corrected, Steve. Go to them and tell them you lied. Tell them the real reason you went to see Jameson.”
“That would involve your uncle. Do you want me to do that?”
“No.”
“So …?”
Dave said earnestly, “I wouldn’t want my uncle involved, but do you always do what others want you to do? I’d rather see Uncle Harry involved than see you do a bad job on the picture.”
Steve said gently, “Don’t worry, I’ll come to terms with myself. We had a good day Friday, and there’ll be more of them.”
There had been, he reflected, a funeral and a party since Friday, and both had added to his general despondency. There might be more revelations in store, though he hadn’t actively sought any.
Would it help, he wondered, if he could prove to himself that Harry wasn’t a murderer? And how could he prove it to himself? Perhaps by coöperating with Tomkevic or the police, by telling them all he knew that they didn’t.
Though they had a gardener three times a week, Marcia was out in front feeding the roses when Steve drove up. Marcia liked to work when she was emotionally disturbed.
She smiled at Dave and ignored Steve. She didn’t speak to either of them.
Dave said quietly, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He went directly to his car.
Steve started to walk over toward Marcia and then decided against it. He went into the house through the garage.
In his study he looked up Dostel in the western phone book. There were four in his end of town, and one of them was Dostel Laboratories, Inc. This had the same address as a Paul Dostel. He dialed the residence number.
A pleasant voice answered, “Dostel Laboratories, Paul Dostel speaking,” and Steve asked, “Are you the Dostel who makes those individualized perfumes?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Leander. Would it be possible for me to see you this evening?”
“Steven Leander, the director?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll be here all evening, Mr. Leander.”
Steve thanked him and hung up. If he should learn that Jameson had bought the perfume Pat Cullum used, it would seem to indicate she had been the girl in Hart’s apartment.
And if she was? What did he do with the knowledge? Take it to the police? Or Tomkevic?
He could decide that when he learned more. He didn’t mix a drink this evening. He went directly in for his shower.
Dinner was quiet. Marcia spoke when spoken to, maintaining a rigid formality. He stopped speaking to her after the first few minutes.
He was on his coffee when Bergdahl phoned.
“A little birdie told me something,” Harry said coyly. “He told me you had trouble today on the set.”
“A little birdie named Dave?” Steve asked.
“Not him. I’m his dumb uncle, remember? To be frank, Tom Leslie phoned me.”
“I had to put him in his place, that’s true,” Steve said.
“His place …?” A pause. “What’s his place?”
“Subordinate to the director. I’m sure we all agree on that. At least he did.”
A sigh. “Well, when I see the rushes, I’ll know if the day was wasted.” Another pause. “Is something bothering you, Steve?”
“A number of things, all personal. Don’t worry about me, Harry. I’m coming out of it.”
“Good. You got any problems you need help on, old Harry’s here every minute, right?”
“Right. Thanks for calling.”
He hung up, annoyed. Leslie had gone over his head. He had figured the man for more of a trouper than that.
When he went back to the table to finish his coffee, Marcia looked at him inquiringly but said nothing.
“Bergdahl,” Steve said. “I was owly today and Tom Leslie complained to him about it.”
Marcia nodded, saying nothing.
Steve sat down and looked at her. “We’re not children. This is unnatural behavior for us. Shall I tell you why I went to see Hart Jameson that night?”
“It’s not important any more,” she answered.
“Not important …? Why not? If you love me, it’s important.”
“I used to love you and admire you,” she said. “I think I need to do both — or neither.”
He kept his temper from his voice. “That’s — soap opera. You’re too intelligent to talk that way.”
“It’s the way I feel, Steve.”
“All right. I’m sorry about Sunday. If you had stayed home Friday, we both would have gone up to camp Sunday. That was the way we planned it.”
She said nothing.
“I haven’t the best disposition in the world,” he went on, “but you’ve known that for a long time. Why is this last flare-up any more important than the others?”
“I’ve learned to live with your disposition,” she said, “and your childish insecurity. Because you were honest and dedicated, I could take a lot of nonsense. I can’t live with dishonesty.”
“That’s what I’m trying to correct now, a temporary dishonesty. And you told me it wasn’t important any more.”
“Let’s talk about it later,” she said wearily.
“I’d like to talk about it now. You’re failing me, Marcia. I need your moral support now.”
Her smile was cynical. “I’m failing you? Even if it were true, it would be the first time, wouldn’t it?”
Anger grew in him but he maintained a calm voice. “No. You have the impossible code of a person who never had to worry about money. I think it’s fair to say you have never tried to understand the problems of people who weren’t that lucky.”
“I understand your problems,” she argued. “It’s your behavior that I can’t understand. I don’t want to talk about it, Steve.”
Harsh words came to his tongue but he held them back. “All right, Judge,” he said smilingly. “Yes, Your Honor.” He stood up. “I have to see a man this evening. I won’t be late.”
She nodded and said nothing.
Damn her, damn her, damn her … And all her smug and gilt-edged friends. There wasn’t a damned one of them who had the faintest idea of what was going on in the working world.
As he drove over to the address of Paul Dostel, Steve wondered why he had suddenly decided to inquire into the death of Hart Jameson. And the guilty thought came that perhaps it was because of today’s wasted film. The death of Hart Jameson had finally begun to interfere with the successful creation of a m
otion picture. His picture.
Well, there were a number of reasons for morality, not all of them admirable.
Paul Dostel looked like a skinny Yul Brynner, a tall, thin, bright-eyed man with a head as hairless as a cue ball.
His apartment was above and behind the one-story brick laboratory that fronted on the street. It was an elegant apartment, and Mr. Dostel wore a rather ornate lounging robe and alligator slippers.
After Steve was seated in the living room, Dostel said, “I imagine you’re here to see about a fragrance, and I can hope it’s for your wife.” He sighed. “So few of my clients order for their wives.”
“Most of your clients are men?”
“About two-thirds. You’re married to Marcia Bishop, aren’t you, Mr. Leander?”
Steve nodded. “Did you look that up after I phoned?”
Dostel shook his head. “I keep myself informed as well as possible about the histories of our more socially prominent women. Sometimes, you see, an odor that brings back a pleasant memory is all my client is seeking. This is a complicated business, dealing in intangibles, and the more I know about my clients’ backgrounds, the more success I’m likely to have.”
Steve smiled politely. “It sounds like a fascinating business. However, I’m not here to buy. I’m here for information.”
“Oh …?”
The single exclamation had been meant to show surprise. Paul Dostel had voiced it badly, and there had been no surprise on his face.
“Yes,” Steve said. “I’d like to know who your customer, or client, is for Number 176.”
Now there was surprise on the face of Paul Dostel. He asked doubtfully, “One seventy-six …?” before he recovered his composure.
Steve smiled. “Did I say 176? I meant 263.”
A silence while Dostel stared at him. Finally he said, “I never reveal the names of my clients. I think you can understand why. I explained it a few moments ago.”
“I’m not looking for scandal,” Steve said. “I’m looking for information that might uncover a murderer.”
Dostel frowned. “A murderer …? Who has been murdered, Mr. Leander?”
Death Out of Focus Page 8
