Death Out of Focus

by William Campbell Gault

  Tomkevic nodded.

  “I know Don very well,” Steve said.

  Tomkevic’s voice was softer than usual. “Are you trying to frighten me? Or impress me? You’re not making it.”

  “I’ll quit, then,” Steve said. “More coffee?”

  Silence. Tomkevic seemed to be breathing more heavily than usual.

  Steve said, “Personally, I would benefit if the insurance money was never paid. Because Mr. Bergdahl might then be in financial trouble, and I’m in a position to take advantage of that.”

  Tomkevic smiled. “Really? My information doesn’t show your financial position to be that sound.”

  “I’ll be getting the money through a man named John Abbot,” Steve explained. “He’s one of my closest friends. You could check that statement and check Mr. Abbot’s credit at the same time.”

  Tomkevic shook his head slowly. “You fooled me, mister. You’re a real tough son-of-a-bitch, aren’t you?”

  “Basically,” Steve said lightly, “I’m an artist. But in my trade there are times when it’s necessary to be a real tough son-of-a-bitch. I don’t suppose you ever have a need to be anything else.”

  Silence again and Tomkevic finally said, “Maybe. Maybe now would be a good time for me to turn into a diplomat.”

  “Try one of those rolls,” Steve said. “They’re very good.”

  THIRTEEN

  He went back to the beginning, to Wednesday, and told Tomkevic everything but the reason for his trip to Jameson’s apartment. Silence on the rumor was a half-lie he still owed to Harry Bergdahl, and he had no compunction about not repeating it.

  When he had finished, Tomkevic said, “It’s simple enough. I go up against Morton. If he refuses to tell me who the girl is, he’ll have to answer to the police.”

  “He’s a stubborn man.”

  Tomkevic said nothing.

  Steve asked, “Did you check that Brown, from Tucson?”

  “Our Phoenix office is going to check on it today.” He stood up. “Well, I’ll talk to Morton. I’ll take it easy.”

  “Good luck,” Steve said. “You’ll — keep me informed, won’t you?”

  Tomkevic smiled wryly. “Of course, Mr. Leander. I wouldn’t want you to report me to your friend, Don Allison.”

  A good man, Steve thought. An active, perceptive, courageous, efficient man. Earning how much on a job like his? He put in long, tedious hours and probably earned less than a studio electrician.

  He went into his study for a nap. His haven, that study, lined with unread books, overlooking the pool and housing the television set. His base of operations, his refuge. Actually, he thought, it’s all I need, this one room. The rest is for Marcia and the kids, whether they appreciate it or not.

  Honest, self-sacrificing Steven Leander, one of this area’s three great directors, lay on his air-cushioned, soft leather couch, contemplating his essential nobility. It was a fine couch, well worth the fourteen hundred dollars it had cost him. He dozed.

  At three o’clock, the phone rang and he picked it up in time to hear the housekeeper tell Tomkevic he was sleeping.

  Steve said, “I’m awake. I’ll take it, Mrs. Burke.”

  Tomkevic waited for the extension to click before he said, “That Morton’s not home. He’s out at Zuma Beach. I’ll get him tonight. We got word from Phoenix, though.”

  “And …?”

  “This Edward Ambrose Brown in Tucson is a chemist. He came to work in Tucson a year ago. His job application sheet shows his last place of employment as the Dostel Laboratories in Los Angeles.”

  “And I suppose you went over immediately to see Dostel?”

  “Naturally. But he’s not there. The man who runs the delicatessen store across the street told me that Dostel told him he was taking a week or two off, roughing it up in Yosemite.”

  “Isn’t anyone in the laboratory? Hasn’t he any help?”

  “One helper, the delicatessen man told me. But he doesn’t know his name and I’m stymied.” Tomkevic paused. “Unless we involve the police now and break in to get Dostel’s records.”

  “We don’t need the police yet, do we? We can try to get the real customer’s name from Miss Cullum, can’t we?”

  “She isn’t home either.”

  “Let’s wait,” Steve suggested. “Both she and Morton should be home for dinner. It’s only a couple of hours.”

  A second’s silence. Then Tomkevic said, “All right. I’ll want you along tonight. In the meantime, I’ll try to get the name of Dostel’s current employee from the unemployment people.”

  Steve hung up and went back to sit on the couch. There was nothing unusual about Pat Cullum and Morton not being home, but Dostel’s sudden vacation was suspicious. It seemed logical he would have left someone in charge of the business.

  He had lied last night. That would indicate he had been forewarned. But who had known that Steve had recognized the perfume? He had told Dave he would remember it and he had accused Pat of wearing it. Pat was the only person who knew Steve had learned the name of the perfume’s maker.

  Had she warned Dostel? That seemed unlikely. She had called Dostel a liar when Steve had told her about the fictitious customer. Dostel could be trying blackmail. It had been a mistake to mention murder last night. He had gone at Dostel badly. He had blundered in his approach to the man.

  He was sunning himself next to the pool when Marcia came home at five o’clock. She stood on the sundeck above, looking down at him, and he sensed that she had something on her mind.

  Then she called down, “Shall I mix you a drink?”

  He looked up, startled at the change. “Please,” he said.

  Five minutes later she came down the steps with a pitcher of martinis and two glasses. She poured a pair on the rocks and sat near him in an aluminum and plastic chair.

  “I had lunch with Ellen,” she said.

  Here we go, he thought, here we go … He said mildly, “That’s nice. How is she?”

  “The same. She — asked me to ask you if you knew a Pat Cullum.”

  Steve smiled. “And how! You’ll have to meet her. She’s quite a girl.”

  Marcia stared at him perplexedly. “Ellen doesn’t make remarks like that to be sociable. What did she mean?”

  “I have no idea,” he answered. “I could never understand Ellen. Pat Cullum is a girl who wears the same kind of perfume as the girl I smelled but didn’t see in Hart Jameson’s apartment the night he was murdered. It’s a perfume called Dostel Number 263. Have you ever heard of the Dostel perfumes?”

  She nodded. “Individualized, aren’t they?”

  “Exclusively, according to Mr. Dostel. I went to see him about it last night, and Tomkevic and I have reason to believe he lied to me about who bought that number from him.”

  “Tomkevic and you …?”

  “That’s right, the insurance investigator. You remember him, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but what is your connection with him?”

  “He and I,” Steve said evenly, “have been working very hard on the strange death of Hart Jameson. Together. There are people who will talk to me who won’t talk to Mr. Tomkevic. So he asked me to help him. What did you think I’ve been doing the last few nights?”

  “Steve,” she asked, “is that the absolute truth?”

  He sipped his drink and looked resigned. “In my wallet, up in my lonely bedroom, is Mr. Tomkevic’s card. I would be happy if you would phone him and check my story. And then ask Mrs. Burke who I talked with on the phone two hours ago.”

  “I believe you,” she said. “And where did you happen to meet this Pat Cullum?”

  “At Harry’s party. She was with Dave Sidney. That doesn’t automatically make Dave a suspect, because Dave is investigating this strange death, too.”

  “For heaven’s sake, why?”

  “Because he wants to know if Harry was in any way responsible. And so do I.”

  “And you thought it was necessary to keep that informa
tion from me. That’s what you and Dave have been so secretive about?”

  He nodded. “It wasn’t a part of my life where I wanted you and the children involved.”

  She looked at him searchingly. “I know you’re a con man when you need to be. You won’t be too hurt, I hope, if I don’t fall immediately into your arms?”

  “I can wait,” he said. “It’s only been three weeks.”

  “Two and a half,” she corrected him. “And that’s another thing that made me suspicious, this apparent sex-discipline of yours.”

  “Apparent …?” He frowned at her. “Suspicious? Of what?”

  “Don’t be naïve, Steven Leander. Where did you go this morning?”

  “To Bergdahl’s. Harry had an idea we didn’t need any more film from Santa Barbara. He wanted to fake some shots. We fought that out to a compromise. I get one day up there. I wanted two and he didn’t want me to go at all. I’ll make it a long day, so don’t expect me home early tomorrow night.”

  Marcia stared at him. He smiled at her.

  “You and your light touch,” she said finally. “The guiltier you’ve been, the lighter your touch.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” he said. “I’m sorry, Judge.” He held out his glass. “Will you pour me a little more?”

  “If I didn’t have a case,” she went on doggedly, “you’d be furious now, you’d be lividly indignant.”

  “Never mind another olive,” he said amiably. “I saved this one. I’m starting to economize.”

  She poured him another drink. “I’ll find out. Ellen will know.”

  “If you don’t mind a vulgarism,” he said, “your friend Ellen doesn’t know her ass from third base. Did I ask you where you stormed to Thursday night? Did I check to see if you really spent the week end with the kids? Am I going to ask my friend Harry if he knows something evil about you?”

  “Your friend Harry, that’s a good one.”

  He smiled tolerantly. “You’re pressing. Have another drink.”

  She shook her head. “I had two at lunch with Ellen.”

  He leaned back and stretched. “Still on the booze, old Ellen, eh? Harry told me it runs in her family.”

  She stood up and looked down at him musingly. “You know, when you try to be, you can be the most insufferable creature alive. You haven’t heard the last word on this.”

  He nodded sadly. “That’s always the trouble. The last word can always be yours and it can so easily be no. That’s your sword.”

  “Perhaps,” she suggested acidly, “this Pat Cullum would be more — available.”

  “Perhaps,” he agreed. “I’ll probably be seeing her tonight. Of course, Tomkevic will be along, but maybe he’ll go out for a sandwich or something.”

  “One thing is certain,” Marcia said thoughtfully, “the girl must have money if she buys her own perfume.”

  “She doesn’t. Tomkevic and I are trying to learn who buys it for her. Dostel lied about it, as I told you.”

  From the deck above, Mrs. Burke called down, “It’s Mr. Tomkevic again, Mr. Leander. He wants to know if he can pick you up here after dinner.”

  “Tell him I’ll be waiting,” Steve said.

  Mrs. Burke went back into the house and Marcia looked doubtfully at Steve. Then she said quietly, “Be careful tonight, won’t you? Promise?”

  “I promise,” he said solemnly.

  • • •

  As he steered the green Pontiac along Sunset, Tomkevic said, “I figured you could run in and hit that Morton first. You’ve got a wedge with him; he’s in your picture.”

  “So is Miss Cullum,” Steve told him, “since last night. Do you know that they’re both home?”

  “No.”

  Steve asked, “Did you find out the name of Dostel’s helper?”

  “I did. And he’s out of town, too. Real strange, isn’t it?”

  “Everybody’s running,” Steve said. “I knew the minute I got on this case the action would start.”

  Tomkevic chuckled and shook his head. “Man, you certainly have changed attitudes since last week. Come into some money or something?”

  “I made a moral decision,” Steve said smugly.

  “To stay out of that Cullum girl’s bed?”

  “There’s no need to be vulgar, Mr. Tomkevic.”

  The Pontiac turned right, heading into Brentwood, toward the same section of Brentwood where Hart Jameson had lived. In front of a two-story, weathered-stucco apartment building, Tomkevic parked behind Morton’s Plymouth.

  “Jameson lived only a block from here,” Steve said.

  “That’s right. Coincidence?”

  Steve didn’t answer.

  Tomkevic said, “Explain to him that if this thing can’t be handled quietly, the police will be called in. Well, I guess you’ll know what to say.”

  Steve shrugged and stepped from the car. In the open lobby the mailboxes informed him that Mitchell Morton occupied apartment 6B. That was on the second floor, and Steve walked up the outside staircase.

  There was the same kind of mechanical door chime there had been on Jameson’s door, and he turned it.

  Mitchell Morton came to the door in swimming trunks and terry-cloth jacket. He stared at Steve in surprise.

  Steve asked, “May I come in?”

  “Of course. I’m sorry …” He stepped aside. “Something about the picture?”

  Steve came into a small, cluttered living room. “No. About the girl you’re protecting. Is it Pat Cullum?”

  Morton shook his head slowly. “What made you think that? She’s no friend of mine.”

  “You had a date with her last night. You went out and got drunk together.”

  Morton opened his mouth — and closed it. He stared at Steve doubtfully.

  Steve said, “She wears the same perfume as the girl you’re protecting. It’s a special perfume and we — and I’m running down the buyer now.”

  Morton took a deep breath. “You started to say ‘we.’ “

  “I made a mistake. Who was the girl, Morton?”

  Morton looked at Steve steadily. “I don’t know. I just used that gimmick to blackmail you. I lied to you.”

  Steve shook his head. “You couldn’t. How would you know Hart Jameson and I talked about something which you claimed the girl overheard, something I wouldn’t want repeated?”

  “Hart told me long before you went to see him that he was planning an accident. Hell, it was no secret.”

  “You still wouldn’t know that was why I went to see him.”

  “I could guess,” Mitchell said, “and I did. And I was lucky.” He swallowed. “I suppose I’m out of the picture now.”

  “This has nothing to do with the picture. But I’ll have to tell the police what you told me that night at your house.”

  “Tell them that I blackmailed you?” Disbelief was apparent on Morton’s face. “How could that do either of us any good? I swear to you that I’ll tell the police exactly what I told you tonight.”

  “Was it Jean D’Arcy?” Steve asked.

  “I don’t know who it was. That’s my story, Mr. Leander. From now until I die.”

  “You’re being very foolish,” Steve said harshly. “You can’t afford this kind of foolishness.”

  Morton met Steve’s gaze. “Yes, I can. I don’t owe anybody in the world a dime.”

  “Do you want to tell me why you took Pat Cullum out last night?”

  Morton shook his head. “No more than you want to tell me why you took her home from Mr. Bergdahl’s party.”

  “I took her home because I recognized her perfume. And also because she asked me to take her home.”

  “You don’t owe me an explanation,” Morton said.

  “How did you know I took her home from the party?”

  “She told me last night.”

  “Did she tell you anything else you want to tell me?”

  “She told me she had a small bit in the picture, and she told me what you said about her perf
ume.”

  “Did she tell you who bought it for her?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t imagine, at four hundred dollars an ounce, she bought it for herself.”

  Morton shrugged. “I know very little about her.”

  “All right,” Steve said. “Good night, Mr. Morton.” He turned irritatedly and went out.

  In the car Tomkevic listened to the story and said, “Maybe somebody got to him. That’s the way it sounds to me. But who?”

  “Have you checked him? Do you know where he was the night that Jameson died?”

  Tomkevic nodded. “He was out with that D’Arcy girl. They went up to Pasadena to see a play.”

  Steve asked, “Do we have to go to the police now? I threatened Morton with that.”

  Tomkevic said dryly, “The Department isn’t anxious to get into it, not yet. Not until I can almost wrap it up for them.” He tapped the steering wheel and stared out at the street. “Have you noticed where all the fingers point in this mess?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I don’t have to. Toward Harry Bergdahl.” He turned to face Steve. “Right?”

  Steve said, “Harry has a reputation for being tricky. But I’m sure he’s no murderer. For that matter, there’s been no evidence of murder established.”

  “Not yet,” Tomkevic admitted. “But I think you’ll agree there has been considerable evidence of trickery established.” He started the engine. “Well, we’ll see what luck you have with the Cullum girl.”

  They had no luck there. Her apartment was dark and there was no answer to Steve’s ring.

  Tomkevic said wearily, “I’ve had enough for today. I’ve been going since eight o’clock this morning. We’ll come here again. Tomorrow morning I’ll see if there’s some way I can get into that laboratory without involving the police.”

  “Some crooked way?” Steve asked.

  “Some way. If I hadn’t promised you I’d be discreet, it would be easy.”

  Steve lighted a cigarette. “Actually, with all your running around, you’re no closer to proving murder than when you started, are you?”

  “Murder? Probably not. But the possibility of collusion grows stronger, doesn’t it? Is murder the only crime that would motivate your helping me?”