Death Out of Focus

by William Campbell Gault

  “It’s possible Hart Jameson was murdered.”

  “And one of my perfumes is involved, somehow?”

  Steve nodded.

  Dostel continued to frown. “Then why haven’t the police contacted me? You’re not working for the police, are you?”

  “Not officially,” Steve said. He stood up. “Well, I suppose you’re right. This is their business, not mine. I’ll tell them about the perfume.” He half turned toward the door.

  “One moment, Mr. Leander,” Dostel said thoughtfully.

  Steve waited.

  Dostel said slowly, “I can’t afford to court any unpleasant publicity. Would you mind telling me where you learned about my fragrance 263?”

  “I’d mind,” Steve answered shortly. “I’m not looking for scandal and I certainly don’t intend to spread it.”

  Dostel took a deep breath. “You realize, I hope, that you are forcing me to violate an important professional principle for the first time?”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Dostel rose. “The information is downstairs in the office. I’ll be right back.”

  Steve was almost sure the other man would come back with a fraudulent name. But if he did, that, too, would be a straw.

  He came back with a small file card in his hand. He read aloud: “Edward Ambrose Brown, 730 South Plumer Street, Tucson, Arizona.” He looked at Steve blandly. “Is that any help, Mr. Leander?”

  Steve shook his head. “It has no meaning for me. But perhaps it will have for the police. Isn’t there some other local customer that fragrance could have been sold to?”

  Dostel shook his head. “One client to a fragrance, that’s my guarantee. Of course, I have no way of knowing who Mr. Brown bought the perfume for.”

  “I thought you said you like to know the backgrounds of the people who use your perfume?”

  “I did say that. And I do like to. But it’s not always possible.”

  “I see. What is the price of that Number 263?”

  “Fifty dollars a dram, four hundred dollars an ounce.”

  Steve thanked him and left. He was only about two blocks from the Hotel Beauchamp. He walked over.

  And there, in a Tucson telephone book, he looked up Edward Ambrose Brown and found a man by the name of Edward A. Brown at 730 South Plumer. If Dostel was lying, it had been a careful lie.

  He went back to his car and drove north. On a slope north of Hollywood, he parked in front of a fairly new apartment building and stared at the light in a second-floor window.

  He had left there hurriedly Sunday morning, and he wondered if Miss Pat Cullum was inclined to nurse a grudge. It seemed reasonable to guess she wouldn’t relish his coming back with questions.

  Well, he had gone this far … He got out of the car and went up to the second floor to ring her bell.

  She was wearing a white knit dress tonight and her hair was up. She stared at him and said, “Migawd, you’re not gutless, are you?”

  He smiled. “I came with an apology, an offer and a question. Should I leave?”

  She studied him. “Come in.”

  “If you’ll promise not to throw any crockery.”

  “I promise. You can forget the apology. What kind of offer did you have in mind?” She held the door wide.

  Steve came in. “A nothing, really. A very small bit in this picture we’re making. It involves wearing a swimming suit and posing on a diving board. A few lines might be written in.”

  “I’ll take it,” she said. “Now, what was the question?”

  “Do you know a man named Edward Ambrose Brown?”

  She looked at him blankly. “So help me, I’ve never even heard the name. Am I supposed to know him?”

  “Mr. Dostel told me half an hour ago that Edward Ambrose Brown is the only purchaser of Number 263.”

  “You can tell Mr. Dostel from me that he’s a goddamned liar. And if you want to know where I was Wednesday night from nine o’clock until way past midnight, I can give you the names of three people who were with me.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” Steve said. “I’m not a detective.”

  “Even if you were,” she said, “you wouldn’t learn from me who gave me the perfume. But I can guarantee you it didn’t come from Jameson.”

  “I didn’t assume it did,” Steve told her. “Well, perhaps the person who gave you the perfume is a friend of this Brown. That can be checked, I suppose.”

  She shrugged.

  Steve said, “I don’t want to crowd you, but do you think you’re acting in your own best interest? There’s a possibility Mr. Jameson was murdered. I’m sure you’re not equipped to protect yourself against a murderer, Pat.”

  “Possibly not,” she agreed. “But if I wanted protection, wouldn’t the Police Department be the logical place to go for it?”

  He nodded.

  She smiled. “You wouldn’t want me to go there, would you?”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know why not. But knowing what you do about the perfume, why didn’t you go to the police?”

  He looked at her candidly. “Because I think you’re innocent of murder or involvement in murder. And, thinking that, I certainly wouldn’t want to involve you in an embarrassing investigation.”

  “I’ve been told that any kind of publicity is good publicity.”

  “Not today. However, I’m not your father, am I? And you’re of age.”

  Her smile was mocking. “I’m of age. And I hope you’re not my father. You know, Steve, I think you might be a nice guy if you could ever forget how important you are.”

  “Thank you,” he said coolly. “I’ll have somebody get in touch with you about that bit. Good night, Miss Cullum.”

  “Good night, Steve,” she said lightly. “Drop in any time.”

  ELEVEN

  A faint resentment flickered in him as he went down the steps to the street and over to his car. He climbed in behind the wheel and looked at the lighted street ahead. Where next, Dick Tracy?

  A green Pontiac came up from behind and parked in front of his car. Steve waited.

  Tomkevic got out on the street side and walked behind his car, heading for the apartment building.

  Steve leaned over and called, “Mr. Tomkevic!”

  The investigator turned, frowned and then walked toward the Bentley as Steve opened the door.

  He stood there without getting in. “I’m not here to see you.”

  “I didn’t think you were. Would you sit in the car for a few minutes?”

  Tomkevic looked up at the lighted window and then stepped into the car. “Decided to turn honest, Leander?”

  “A little. What interest do you have in Miss Cullum?”

  “Frankly, only a suspicion because of your interest in her. You’re still my key to this puzzle.”

  “This much I’ll tell you about her,” Steve said. “She wears the same perfume as the girl who was in Jameson’s apartment the night he died. And the man who makes the perfume told me an hour ago each individual fragrance is sold to only one customer.”

  “Oh …? What’s the man’s name?”

  Steve told him and gave him a full account of his conversation with Dostel. And he told him about the Brown he’d found at the right address in the Tucson phone book.

  Tomkevic took out a card and handed it to Steve. Then he wrote Brown’s name and address in a notebook. “I can check that easily enough. He could be a friend of this Dostel, you know.”

  “I suppose it’s more than possible. You’re not going to tell Miss Cullum I gave you this information, are you?”

  “No. I’ll tell her I’m checking her because she was a friend of Hart Jameson’s.”

  “Was she?”

  “Yes. And young Sidney brought her to the party, didn’t he? And he’s a nephew of Harry Bergdahl’s. Now, what excuse could I have for giving up on this case?”

  Steve didn’t answer.

  Tomkevic asked, “Is that why you came ho
me with the Cullum girl Saturday night, because you were trying to learn something?”

  “Partly.”

  Tomkevic looked out at the street. Finally, “I was going to be a real son-of-a-bitch, Leander. I was going to tell your wife you brought that bomb up there home Saturday night.”

  “Why …?”

  “To stir up some action. Quite often truth comes out of turbulence.”

  “What made you think I hadn’t told my wife I brought this — bomb home Saturday night?”

  Tomkevic said dryly, “I’m a married man. I know I wouldn’t have told my wife, not if she’d ever seen the girl.”

  “My wife has never seen Miss Cullum.”

  There was a silence, which Steve broke. “I’ve given you some help. Now give me this — if Jameson was murdered, who is your favorite suspect?”

  “Until five minutes ago,” Tomkevic said candidly, “you were.”

  “I was …? I was at a movie with my wife. You knew that.”

  “How could I be sure? I have a long list of wives who lied to protect their husbands. And that’s why I was going to — create this domestic turbulence.”

  There was another silence, and this time Tomkevic broke it. “Why are you getting interested in Jameson’s death?”

  “I’m trying to resolve a moral dilemma I found myself in.”

  “I figured you would, eventually. And there’s a possibility you could learn things I couldn’t. You already have. Do you want to work with me? I mean unofficially, informally, of course.”

  “And possibly cost poor Harry Bergdahl a quarter of a million dollars? And put myself out of work? Do you realize what you’re asking?”

  “I do. And you were well aware of all those potentials when you decided to investigate for yourself.”

  Steve pointed out, “I was looking for innocence. You’re asking me to help you establish guilt.”

  “I don’t think you were looking for innocence. I think you were merely looking for information. To forestall a decision on your moral dilemma. But the decision would have to be made eventually if you learned what you didn’t want to learn. Am I right?”

  “I don’t know. It all sounds very logical, but I can’t seem to establish my motives as clearly as that.”

  Tomkevic smiled. “I’m heartened to find a man wrestling with a moral problem. It isn’t a situation I’ve come upon recently.”

  Steve said lightly, “I’ll give you a moral problem of your very own to ponder — you could be stopping production on a worth-while motion picture. And when was the last time you saw one of those?”

  Tomkevic chuckled. “That’s not a moral problem. That’s an aesthetic problem. And what would a dumb Polack like me know about aesthetics? Carry on, Leander, keep in touch. I’ve got to run up and see that bomb before her date gets here.”

  “Who’s her date? Someone I know?”

  “A man named Mitchell Morton,” Tomkevic answered. “Small damned world, isn’t it?”

  Small, damned, tight world. Revolving around a sun named Harry Bergdahl. Steve started the engine and turned back toward Sunset. He drove over to Laura’s.

  In her flush days Laura had owned one of the most impressive estates in Beverly Hills. The apartment she lived in now was not cheap, but it was a number of plateaus below her former eminence.

  She opened her door and said with surprise, “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

  Clichés for all occasions, Steve thought, and smiled. “I was going by, so I thought I’d stop in to apologize.”

  “Going by alone or is Marcia in the car?”

  “Alone,” Steve answered. “I was a beast today, wasn’t I?”

  “Come in,” she said.

  He came into a small living room crowded with massive furniture, undoubtedly remnants from her former home.

  “Drink?” she asked.

  He sat down on a carved walnut davenport upholstered in mohair. “No, thanks. Tom Leslie complained to Harry about my treatment of him.”

  Laura sighed and looked at the floor. “Tom’s — young and temperamental.”

  Steve nodded. “And not completely trustworthy, I’m beginning to suspect. Are you going to Santa Barbara with him tomorrow, or shall I pick you up as usual?”

  She stared at him blankly. “Tomorrow …? I was notified that we weren’t working tomorrow.”

  “When?”

  “About an hour ago. Are we working?”

  “Not if you were notified. Harry must have had a brainstorm. He’s probably been trying to get me. May I use your phone?”

  She inclined her head toward the dinette. “It’s in there.”

  Harry answered the phone and Steve asked, “What’s this I hear about not working tomorrow?”

  “That’s right. I’ve been trying to call you. I’ve had a chance to look over the film, and we don’t need any more from up there. We can fake the rest.”

  “No, Harry.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We can’t fake the rest. We can’t fake anything. I’ve got this picture firmly in mind now, and we have to go up there for at least two more days.”

  “Oh …? You got the picture in mind? You got the money, too?”

  “No. Haven’t you?”

  A silence. Then, “Look, Steve, don’t go off half cocked. Don’t say anything you’ll be sorry for later.”

  “I’m trying not to. May I come over and see you now?”

  “Not tonight, Steve. I’ve got an important engagement in twenty minutes and I’m leaving right now. We can talk it over tomorrow.”

  “When tomorrow? Could we make the date now?”

  “Stevie, Stevie boy, what kind of talk is this — make the date? Do we have to be formal? Tomorrow. I’ll call you or you call me, whoever gets up first.”

  “All right, Harry. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Sure. And cool off, huh? Today’s been a bad one for you.”

  Steve hung up and went back to the living room. “Cut-rate Harry is back in form,” he said bitterly. “We are about to create a turkey.”

  Laura said soothingly, “Easy now, Steve. Harry’s the man who understands money. That’s the first concern in any business, you know, to show a profit.”

  “I’ll match the profits on my five best pictures against the total of any fifteen of his. The intelligent way to make money is to make a good picture.”

  “Always, Steve?”

  “It’s the safest. It’s the surest. Unless you’re making Grade-Z quickies. Christ, why did I ever get tied up with that man?”

  Laura said nothing, staring at the floor.

  Steve said wearily, “Well, I’m going home. Relax tomorrow. If I have to, I’ll settle for one more day in Santa Barbara. But if that happens, it will be a long day and you’ll need all the energy you can store up.”

  She rose. “All right, Steve. And watch your temper.”

  He came over to kiss her forehead. “I’ll try. Lady, you were sensational Friday. And you will be again.”

  He drove home. He sat for some minutes in the car after killing the engine. He thought of the three people he had visited tonight and of Tomkevic. But mostly he thought of Laura, who had come from the estate in Beverly Hills to that apartment.

  Tomorrow he would be going up against Harry Bergdahl for the first time since they were allied. He would be fighting for what he considered a major decision and Harry undoubtedly considered minor. His position would seem unreasonable to Harry, the capricious arrogance of a pretentious man.

  He went into the house and found Marcia reading in the living room. She looked up to say, “John Abbot phoned. He wants you to call him.” She went back to her reading.

  “Thank you,” Steve said formally. He went into the study to phone.

  Abbot said, “I hear there’s a possibility of money trouble on your picture.”

  “It’s possible, John. Harry doesn’t confide in me too much about the financial end, but you’re probably right. Where did you hear th
e rumor?”

  Abbot chuckled. “From one of my stoolies.”

  “Marcia, maybe?”

  “No. What made you ask that, Steve?”

  “I don’t know. We’re having money troubles, John.”

  “Well, that’s why I phoned. I’ve a few contacts left, you know, and I’ve been scouting around. I’m positive I can get you some money if the picture looks promising.”

  “Thanks, John. Of course, the money is really Harry’s department.”

  “But if you had a source, it would be a weapon, wouldn’t it?” A pause. “You could afford to stay honest.”

  “You have been talking to Marcia.”

  “This wasn’t her idea.”

  “I see. Well, thank you very much. Even if we don’t need it, the knowledge that it’s available is a — weapon. How are you feeling, John?”

  “Like an old man. But that’s in character. Steve, I’ve heard some surprising rumors about you around town.”

  “Did you believe them?”

  “Not completely. Are you all right?”

  “Is anybody ever? I’m struggling. I’m not in the ministry, John.”

  Abbot chuckled again. “No, you certainly are not. You call me, now, if it’s necessary, Steve.”

  “I’ll call you even if it isn’t,” Steve answered. “As soon as this picture is finished, we’ll go fishing again, like we used to.”

  “Sure.”

  “And thank you again,” Steve said. “Thank you very much.”

  He went back to the living room. Marcia continued to read. He said, “Harry’s starting to give me trouble.”

  She didn’t lift her eyes from the book. “Is that supposed to be news?”

  “I thought it might be of interest to you,” he said stiffly. He went into the study and turned on the television set.

  Garbage, garbage, garbage … This was the machine that had crippled his industry. And only because his own industry had built up a public hunger for garbage.

  That was what Harry Bergdahl understood, garbage. God damn it, Harry didn’t need him for that. But he had thought he needed him or he never would have hired him. Had something changed his mind?

  He went to bed early but couldn’t fall asleep. He thought about tomorrow and wondered about tonight, wondered if he would hear Marcia’s step in the hall, hear her come into the room.