Jardinn took a long, thin cigar from a leather case, lighted it. An elderly woman had the seat on his left. The one on his right was as yet unoccupied. He had no program of the concert; he wanted none. Several times he turned, glanced back toward Box 22. Ernst Reiner had not arrived. Jardinn breathed to himself:
“In the shell—with his brother, I suppose. Wonder how he likes—playing second fiddle?”
He smiled at the thought. Somewhere he had heard that Ernst Reiner idolized his brother. But it was difficult, in Hollywood, to distinguish truth from publicity.
A voice reached him from the aisle that cut across the Bowl behind the first tier of boxes. It was Howard Frey, moving toward Box 7.
“Hello, Jardinn! Great evening, eh? Nice crowd.”
Jardinn smiled, nodded. Frey was in evening dress; he carried a dark stick in his right-hand. He waved it carelessly toward someone seated back of Jardinn. His face held a drawn expression, but his eyes were smiling. He called out again:
“Oh, Eddie—give me a ring tomorrow, will you?”
Then he was entering the box, with three companions, all men. They were all in evening clothes; Jardinn recognized none of them. He knew many people in Hollywood; it was a part of his business. It struck him as a strange thing that he should not know any of Frey’s companions. Rising, he looked back at Box 22. The short, heavyset figure of Ernst Reiner had entered. The director was bowing before Maya Rand; he raised her white fingers to his lips as Jardinn watched. The tuning of the orchestra suddenly stilled.
Conversation died gradually. Jardinn seated himself again. A man was taking the seat next to him. He was dressed in dark clothes, wore a dark hat. He had coarse features and bushy eyebrows. Jardinn’s eyes went to the fingers that held a program; they were long, tapering. They were almost girlish. Such fingers were strange; they contrasted the head, the face of the man.
Silence came suddenly as the lights at the side of the Bowl died. The shell lights flared brightly. A woman in a trailing, black gown came from the left wing and made a speech about Hans Reiner. It annoyed Jardinn. He cursed her under his breath, and kept his eyes on the fingers of the man beside him.
Humans were still pouring into the bowl. Ushers were holding them on the wide path at the right. They could only seek their seats between numbers. The woman in black finished her speech in something that was supposed to be a graceful tribute to a famous maestro. She gestured toward the left wing—Hans Reiner came into the white light of the shell.
The applause was good; first and second violinists tapped their instrument wood with bows. There were cries from some of the foreigners, hoarse calls of bravo and hoch. Hans Reiner bowed shortly as he moved toward the platform from which he would conduct. He was tall, slender, rather graceful. There was nothing in his body or head that suggested he was related to Ernst Reiner. Seated more than a hundred feet from the shell, Jardinn could not distinguish the maestro’s features. His hair was dark and slightly waved; he had an erect bearing. Reaching the platform, he faced the Bowl audience, bowed. There was a storm of applause.
Jardinn turned, looked back toward Box 22. Ernst Reiner was standing. He held his fat hands above his head; he was applauding vigorously. The others in the box were applauding, but with less enthusiasm. Jardinn turned his head to the front again, glanced toward Box 7. Frey was seated in the front, on the right. He was not applauding, but was talking to the man beside him. In the reflected light from the shell Jardinn could see that he was smiling.
There was a hush as Hans Reiner faced the ninety-odd musicians, raised his baton. A woman sitting behind Jardinn said in a low tone: “They’re beginning just three minutes late.” The baton was tapped sharply against the music rack. The cello section droned sound into the silence. Jardinn relaxed in the seat, narrowed his eyes. The man beside him was breathing slowly, regularly. His program covered the long tapered fingers. His eyes were closed.
The second violins were coming in. A French horn sang countermelody as the first violins came in, sweeping over the deeper tone of the seconds. The music died; it was a tone poem that Jardinn had not heard played before. There was too much sentiment for him. He thought of Howard Frey, watching the brother of the man he hated, and smiled faintly. He wondered what Frey’s feelings must be. He wondered why the writer had come at all.
There was a cymbal crash; the tympani fought with the brass in a sudden, fierce crescendo of sound. All instruments were playing now; Reiner was conducting well, assuredly. The orchestra was playing with vigor. The violins held the motive strongly, sweepingly.
Jardinn kept his eyes on the conductor. Hans Reiner was graceful. His body was motionless; only his rather long arms moved. He stood with feet close together—the right was slightly advanced. He turned his body at the hips, when he worked with one section or another. Jardinn nodded his head slowly.
“If he can. play music,” he breathed, “they’ll like him here.”
Cymbals were crashing again—brass was sending strident, staccato notes out over the crowd. As the greater fury died away there was a drone from above. It grew louder; the man beside him swore softly, shifted and tilted his head. Jardinn smiled.
Planes had disturbed more than one concert at the Bowl, this season. The location for the symphony was a scooped-out spot in the hills. Exhaust roar was picked up easily. Valencia, playing a piano concerto, had been drowned out for almost a minute. Protests had been made by the Bowl authorities, but the planes still flew close enough to be annoying.
Jardinn raised his head, looked up at the stars. They were not so bright tonight; there were clouds hanging over the Sierra Madre Range. The drone of the plane was becoming louder. Jardinn decided that it was a trimotor ship. The man on his right swore again, in a half whisper.
“Damned planes!”
The music was swelling again. Brass and tympani could compete against the ship’s engines; the strings reached Jardinn only faintly. All about him people were stirring, muttering. The drone was becoming almost a roar now. Jardinn frowned; he had never heard engine beats so loud. The plane seemed to be coming from behind, and very low.
Hans Reiner was working with the orchestra. His body was swaying; the baton moved in greater and lesser arcs. The tone poem was rising to a climax; brass dominated, with the strings singing a rising melody, and steadily the beat of the plane’s engine increased. It was a roar now. Only the crash of cymbals—the brassy flare of massed cornets and French horns sounded above the exhausts.
And then, flying less than five hundred feet above the Bowl, the ship flashed into sight. She was a big monoplane, but Jardinn could see no markings on her underwing surfaces or fuselage. She was a tri-motor plane, and her roar completely drowned the orchestra now. The man beside Jardinn cried hoarsely.
“It’s a—damned shame!”
The Bowl was suddenly in darkness. Jardinn was tense in the seat, staring toward the faint outline of the shell. The musicians were lost in the blackness—not a light shone. The roar of the plane’s engines filled the bowl of humans, beat down upon it.
The shell lights flared again. Jardinn stared toward the orchestra, toward Hans Reiner. He caught a glimpse of first violin bows, moving in unison. He could not hear the music. Then his eyes were on the maestro. Reiner was not leading now. He was swaying on the platform, before the white pages of music on his rack. His baton slipped from his fingers—he was twisting now. His legs were giving away—his right-hand fingers were clutching toward the small of his back!
His slender body was slumping as Jardinn rose in his seat. The roar of the tri-motor plane was becoming a drone again; he could hear the first violins; they were playing raggedly, off tempo. Hans Reiner was pitching from the platform to the floor of the shell. His body struck heavily. Somewhere across the Bowl a woman screamed.
For a second Jardinn stared. Music had died now. Members of the orchestra were on their feet. Two of them were moving toward Reiner’s body. Jardinn turned, looked toward the box behind and above. In th
e reflected light of the shell he could see Ernst Reiner. The director was standing, staring toward the maestro’s platform. His lips were apart; his heavy lower jaw was sagging.
A confusion of sound was rising. Jardinn swung around; he had almost forgotten Howard Frey. His eyes swept the box to the left, below his seat. He said grimly:
“Frey—not there!”
And then, for the second time, the shell lights were extinguished. Blackness hung over the Bowl. A voice, coming from a spot near the sloping path, reached Jardinn.
“Jardinn—this way. Hurry!”
It was Frey’s voice. Jardinn moved past the man on his right. Frey had got into action, left the box as he had seen Hans Reiner pitch forward. He was trying to get down to the shell.
Jardinn reached an aisle and moved along it toward the path. He called out sharply:
“Coming, Frey!”
There were hoarse shouts in several sections of the Bowl. A voice down near the shell reached Jardinn clearly.
“Lights—lights!”
But there were no lights. Figures loomed ahead of Jardinn, indistinctly. He moved around them. He was out on the sloping path at the right side of the Bowl now. He called sharply:
“Frey!”
There was no answer. A woman’s voice, from somewhere behind, reached him. It was pitched high, shaken:
“He fell—he went down—”
Jardinn swore softly, moved down the path. Still there were no Bowl lights. Men’s voices called hoarsely for them; there was the tiny beam of a flashlight, below Jardinn’s position and toward the center of the Bowl. Matches flared here and there—a figure suddenly was beside Jardinn. He was knocked off balance. A voice said thickly:
“Sorry.”
It was a half whisper. Jardinn turned his head, muttered.
“That’s—all right.”
Something flicked downward, scraped his right ear. There was a battering blow on his right shoulder. He groaned, let his body pitch downward. He went to his knees—no one was near him as he turned his head. Bushes of the hill beyond the path crackled. He got to his feet. He called out:
“Hold up—or I’ll—”
His words died. That was no good. He wanted to get down to the shell—someone had not wanted him to do that. Pain stabbed through his body. A blackjack or a gun had been used. It hadn’t worked so well. But it hurt.
It would have hurt more if the blow had struck his head. He went on down the path. The lights flashed on again as he neared the huge Grecian vase at the right of the shell. Humans were surging toward the grass before the shell; a few uniformed police were trying to keep the crowd back. A group of musicians were bending over the figure that was motionless on the floor, near the platform.
Jardinn went around back, went in through the right wing, out on the platform. He groaned as a white faced musician turned suddenly, struck against his right shoulder. Then he was close to the motionless figure. As he looked down at the face of Hans Reiner he realized that Brendt was straightening up. The doctor said slowly:
“He’s dead—shot in the back—four times.”
Jardinn knew Brendt. He was one of the best medical men in Hollywood. He said in a steady voice:
“Rifle bullet wounds?”
Brendt shrugged. “Nasty wounds,” he said. “Good sized bullets. Two low—two high. One of the high ones almost between the shoulder blades. In at different angles.”
Jardinn said slowly, “We can get that—in the autopsy. That plane went over—the lights were out—”
Brendt said: “Let’s pick him up, get him into the conductor’s room.”
Several musicians lifted the body. Police were keeping the crowd from the platform. Ernst Reiner broke through, calling hoarsely, brokenly:
“Hans—Hans—what have they done—to you—”
Brendt caught the dead maestro’s brother by the arm, spoke to him in a low, sharp voice. Jardinn saw that the director’s body was trembling; he went slowly to the edge of the Bowl shell. He looked at his wristwatch, frowned. It was eight-fifty-five. Max Cohn came up to him, said nasally:
“Can’t spot anyone in the crowd who heard shots or saw the flashes. What got him—rifle fire?”
Jardinn shrugged. “A human on each side path, sweet with a rifle—they could have done it,” he said in a low tone. “The plane had the crowd looking up and the exhaust would take out most of the rifle sound. You can use a Maxim silencer on a rifle—there wouldn’t be any flash, and the silencer might dull the sound some. But they had to shoot in the dark. The thing is, why did—”
He checked himself, turned his back to the tiers of seats. He lifted his left wrist.
“What time have you got, Max?” he asked.
Cohn got his watch from a vest pocket. They compared faces; Cohn whistled softly.
“You’re twelve minutes fast,” he said. “We checked to the minute, this morning. That watch of yours has always been accurate. Ben—it’s a damned good make.”
Jardinn nodded. “Hans Reiner was a good conductor, until four bullets dug into him,” he said. “Things come along—and change things.”
Cohn stared at him. Then he narrowed his eyes on the detective’s lean face.
“I don’t get you,” he said softly.
Jardinn shrugged. “Supposing you want to kill a guy, Max,” he said in a low tone. “How do you do it?”
Cohn swore softly. “Get him in a dark alley and give him the whole load from an automatic,” he replied simply.
Jardinn nodded, reached for his cigarettes. His voice was steady when he spoke.
“That’s the way I’d do it,” he said. “Unless I had a damned good reason for being spectacular.”
3
WRIST WATCH
Burkel said, his left eye closed as the right looked through the lens of the watch glass:
“She’s running perfectly. She’s twelve minutes and some thirty seconds fast. She hasn’t gained or lost in the twenty minutes you’ve been in the store, Ben. I couldn’t do much with her to make things better. She’s a beautiful watch.”
Jardinn leaned against the counter and smiled a little.
“I must have set her carelessly, a few days ago, Burkey,” he said. “But I thought you should look her over.”
The watch expert snapped the inner case shut, took the glass from his right eye, snapped the outer case. He handed the wristwatch back to Jardinn.
“Want me to set her back?” he asked.
Jardinn shook his head. He saw the mild surprise in the watch expert’s eyes; he said smilingly:
“I’ll do it, Burkey.”
The watch man said: “It’s just ten-forty. That was a terrible thing, out at the Bowl, eh?”
Jardinn fumbled with the wristwatch. He nodded, said slowly:
“Ten-forty—thanks, Burkey. Yeah, it was pretty bad.”
Burkel narrowed his blue eyes on the dark ones of Jardinn. The detective was strapping the watch on his left wrist.
“Did the police get anyone?” the watch expert asked.
Jardinn grinned. “Sure,” he replied. “Anyone that looked like a good bet. They always do.”
Burkel chuckled, then frowned. “It’s a job for you and Cohn, maybe,” he said.
Jardinn let his left arm drop to his side. He said slowly:
“It’s a job, all right,” he agreed. “A job for anybody that sits in.”
He thanked Burkel, moved toward the door of the little shop. The watch expert lived in the rear—he had come into the shop because Jardinn was a good customer, and a friend.
Ben Jardinn walked over to Hollywood Boulevard and turned up toward the building in which his office was located. A detective’s car, with siren wailing, streaked down Highland and turned down Hollywood toward Los Angeles. Jardinn said softly:
“So much noise—they must have picked up a drunk.”
There was light back of the frosted office door. But the door was locked; Jardinn let himself in with his key. Carol was sit
ting at her desk, putting lipstick on with the little finger of her right hand. She twisted her head, smiled at him.
“How was the concert?” she asked. “Did you hear anything but the brass?”
Jardinn went around and stood near the wall on her right. He took off his wristwatch, wound it. He said slowly:
“There wasn’t any concert, Irish. Just a few tunes. My clock ran down—what’s the hour?”
Her eyes widened. She opened a drawer of her desk, took put a man’s watch. She said in a steady voice:
“It’s just ten minutes of eleven, Bennie. What do you mean, no concert?”
He grinned at her, set the wristwatch back twelve minutes.
“Some guys were busy killing Hans Reiner,” he told her. “They shoved him out just after the start. So the concert was called off. Where’ve you been?”
She stared at him. She spoke slowly, deliberately. There was doubt in her voice.
“You mean—the maestro—was murdered?”
Jardinn swore at her. “Come out of it,” he added. “There’re enough actresses in this hokum town as it is. Get up off that chair and come into my office. I want to ask you some funny questions.”
Her eyes narrowed. She wiped lipstick from her little finger with a tiny handkerchief. Her voice was suddenly amused.
“I didn’t do it, Bennie—I swear to God I didn’t!”
He turned at the door of his office, smiled at her.
“And you didn’t stay at home with Uncle Laurie and your knitting,” he said. “Come on in here, and leave the lies you’re thinking up outside.”
He went into the office. Max Cohn stood near a window, frowning.
“Get anything?” he asked.
Jardinn grunted. “Carol did it,” he said. “She shot him from one side of the Bowl, then ran around to the other—and shot two more times. I’m disappointed in her, Max. Ain’t you?”
Carol Torney stood in the doorway and swore at Jardinn.
Death in a Bowl Page 5