Death in a Bowl

by Raoul Whitfield

  “You’d better quit the game,” she advised. “It’s got you using bad English.”

  Jardinn nodded. His face held a peculiar, grim expression.

  “I’m giving you that raise, Irish,” he said, “only it’s a different kind of one. I’m kicking you out of the agency. How much have you got coming?”

  Max Cohn sucked in his breath sharply. He stared at Jardinn.

  “For God’s sake, Ben—” he commenced, but Carol cut in.

  “Let him alone, Max—he’s been working hard. Why the kick-out, Bennie?”

  Jardinn seated himself in the chair back of the center table, near his desk. He said in an easy tone:

  “I didn’t like the gentleman you seated on my right, at the Bowl tonight. The one with the shaggy eyebrows and the nice, long fingers. And it isn’t decent of you to fool with a fellow’s wristwatch.”

  He heard Cohn mutter something that wasn’t distinct. When he looked at Carol she was staring at him with wide, dark eyes.

  “You’re ’way over my head,” she told him.

  He relaxed in the chair. Cohn had come away from the window and was standing near him. Carol stood near the opened door that led into the other office. She was pale, and her eyes looked frightened.

  “You got hold of my watch when I was washing up this evening,” Jardinn said slowly. “You set it twelve minutes fast. I think I know why. You got my seat, and you got another one at the same time. That bird followed me down the aisle, when I was trying to get to the path. He took a swing at me—missed my head and got me on the right shoulder.”

  Jardinn pressed fingers against the coat cloth over the shoulder, winced. Carol said:

  “You’re running wild, Bennie—if you’re trying to joke—”

  Jardinn got up from the chair and started toward the girl. Max Cohn grabbed him by the right arm, and the detective shook him off.

  “You went and got yourself bought off, Irish,” he said. “I’ve checked you on the seats—you bought two. My wristwatch doesn’t run fast. I could keep you around the office, but it’s too much trouble for what I’d get out of it. I can choke the truth out of you. Who bought you off?”

  The fear went out of her eyes. She threw back her head and laughed.

  “You’re walking in your sleep, Bennie,” she mocked. “If you think I—”

  His fingers closed over the material of her dark dress, just below her throat. He pulled her up close to him.

  “If you can rat it with me—you can do it with the other fellow!” he snapped. “Who’d you sell out to, Irish?”

  Cohn cut in sharply: “Take it easy, Ben—you may be wrong—”

  Jardinn twisted his head and swore at Max. Then he got his eyes on Carol Torney’s again.

  “There was money in this kill,” he said slowly. “You like money. Come on, talk!”

  She tried to twist away from him. He shoved her around, up against the wall of the office. Her fingers were trying to twist his loose from the material of her dress. Max Cohn called out.

  “She’s a woman, Ben—for God’s sake—”

  Jardinn pulled her toward him, then snapped her head back. Her dark hair broke the force of the wall blow, but it hurt her. He gritted at her:

  “I hate a rat—male or female! I’ll break your damned, white neck—”

  She cried, with terror in her voice:

  “Let me go, Ben—let me go!”

  He spread his fingers a little. His eyes were narrowed on hers.

  “Well?” he demanded. “Give me the name!”

  She twisted sideways, threw up her arms and started to sob. Cohn said slowly and with feeling:

  “Oh, hell, Ben—that’s no way to maul a woman.”

  Jardinn laughed harshly. He reached out and caught the material of her dress again. He snapped her head back against the wall.

  “Come through!” he gritted at her. “I’ll knock it out of—”

  She twisted loose, putting all her strength in the effort. There was a swift movement of her right arm—the fingers of her right hand held the gun muzzled toward him. She said bitterly:

  “Now you—get back! Now you get away from me, Ben Jardinn. I’ll shoot your goddam heart out! You—get away—”

  Ben Jardinn moved back from her. He said without turning his head toward Cohn:

  “You see what a—rat she is!”

  Carol Tomey stood with her back against the wall, near the door. She was breathing heavily.

  “I didn’t—touch your damned watch!” she breathed fiercely. “I only got one seat—you’re framing me. You’re sore because you can’t run—my private life. I go out with the man—I want to go out with—and you can’t stop me from—”

  The phone bell rang. Jardinn looked at the girl and shrugged. He reached into a pocket and pulled out some bills. He tossed her a twenty.

  “That’s too much for a rat,” he said. “Take it—and get the hell out of here. Better jump the town. When we grab others we’re liable to get hold of you.”

  He sat down in his chair and lifted the receiver. Cohn was staring at Carol. Jardinn said:

  “She isn’t here. I don’t know when she’ll be in. Who’s calling?”

  There was a sharp click from the other end of the wire. Jardinn swore, hung up, called Central and asked where the call had come from. He swore again, called the Hollywood Police Station and had Evans tell Central it was all right. She told him the call came from a pay station at Ninth and Olive, Los Angeles. Jardinn thanked her and hung up. Carol stood in the doorway, her gun held low. She was smiling nastily. She said:

  “You haven’t got a thing on me. I’ve got plenty on you. I can make it hot—”

  Jardinn cut in. “Get rid of that case of Scotch up at your apartment,” he advised. “I can use that for a starter. I think you’re sitting in with Ronnie White. Better take a trip away—”

  Cohn said: “Listen, Ben—what’s the use of making it rough for her? If she played rat—we know about it.”

  Jardinn smiled grimly. “It would be all right if she’d done it in a big way,” he said. “But she didn’t. Maybe she got a few grand for tinkering with my wristwatch, and buying a seat next to mine. Maybe not that much. Go on, Irish—put the gun up and make a duck.”

  The voice of a newsboy, shouting “extra,” reached the office. Cohn looked at the girl, muttered thickly:

  “I can’t figure her—ratting it, Ben.”

  Jardinn grinned. “That’s what makes it good,” he said grimly.

  Carol Torney stood looking at Jardinn, her body swaying slightly, from the hips up. Her voice was tight.

  “Maybe you’re in on this, you two. Maybe you’re framing me out. You’re sore because I went to the beach with Frey’s bootlegger, Bennie. Max hasn’t got guts enough to do anything but stick with you. I’ve seen it coming. Didn’t he let you fire Belle? Didn’t you try to—”

  Jardinn yawned noisily. There was color in Carol Torney’s face now. She jerked her gun hand up a little.

  “You better not try—” Her voice, pitched high with rage, died suddenly as Jardinn got to his feet, moved around the table and headed for her. He walked in on the gun.

  She cried: “Cut it out, Bennie—cut it out!”

  She didn’t squeeze the trigger. He knocked the gun out of her fingers with a swift, hard blow. He grabbed her by the shoulders, used his knees to boost her into the outer office. She was sobbing incoherent words at him.

  He went back into his office, closed the door, locked it on the inside. Picking up the baby automatic, he slipped it in a pocket of his coat. Then he went over and sat down, lighted a cigarette. Cohn said:

  “God, Ben—you may be wrong. I figured you were strong for her. She’s been with us a long time. Maybe she didn’t rat. Maybe she—”

  Jardinn inhaled, swore out white smoke into a two syllable word.

  “Maybe she didn’t, Max. But she’s running with the wrong crowd. I figured for a while she was just being big hearted, doing it f
or anything she might pick up. But—”

  He stopped. A door slammed. He pointed toward the outer office.

  “Go out and see if she’s gone,” he ordered. “Lock the outside door.”

  Cohn went out. He came back in a few seconds.

  “She’s gone,” he said. “Why in hell would she set your watch ahead?”

  Jardinn smiled. “Someone has brains,” he said. “They might be able to take care of the police. It’s been done. But a private dick is something else again. That plane was mighty important. I might be able to trace it. Supposing she wings along the Valley somewhere and sets down. Then I catch up with her. Twelve minutes is a lot of time in the air. About twenty miles—for a tri-motor ship. That murder occurred at about eight-fifty-two, by my wristwatch. But I’m twelve minutes fast. Maybe that tri-motor ship has been checked down—and checked down honestly—at eight-forty-five. I’d figure that ship out of the deal, wouldn’t I? She was on the ground when Hans Reiner was murdered. I was supposed to count the plane out.”

  Cohn swore softly. “What made you check up with my watch?” he asked.

  Jardinn said: “It was eight-fifty-five when I looked at my watch, on the platform. It didn’t take me more than three minutes to get down there, from my seat. It wouldn’t have taken me that long if Irish hadn’t planted that bird next to me. A woman seated behind said that the concert was starting just three minutes late. I didn’t look at my watch then—Reiner had his baton raised when she said it. He was shot down at eight-fifty-two, or within a minute either way of that time. That was by my watch. And I knew the orchestra hadn’t played any nineteen minutes. When I checked with you it made me twelve minutes fast. That set the kill time back to eight-forty. And that’s just about right. The concert had been on for about seven minutes.”

  Cohn said grimly: “But the police—they’d get a check on the time. You wouldn’t be the only one in the place—”

  “I might be the only one there who knew that Ernst Reiner was worried about Frey—and that Frey was worried about Ernst Reiner,” Jardinn replied.

  Cohn narrowed his little eyes. His thick lips parted. But Jardinn spoke first.

  “I’d be more apt to be on the job. And it was just a helper, fixing that watch. It was a cinch for Carol to do. It was a cinch for her to put a guy close to me, so that he could try to slam me down. He nearly succeeded.”

  Cohn said: “He took a big chance. What was he stopping you from doing?”

  Jardinn grinned. “Ernst Reiner will be here pretty soon,” he said. “He’ll figure that Howard Frey had his brother done in—motive revenge. If that bird in the Bowl had hit me hard enough I wouldn’t be here to take five grand from Reiner, along with the job of finding his brother’s killer. That’s one thing he would have stopped me from doing.”

  Max Cohn went over and looked down on Hollywood Boulevard. He said with feeling:

  “Carol Torney, crossing us up! It don’t seem right.”

  Jardinn tapped ashes from his half smoked cigarette. He said grimly:

  “It don’t, Max—that’s why I gave her the bum’s rush out of here. She’s gone Hollywood, maybe.”

  Max Cohn groaned. “I liked her, even if she was Irish,” he muttered. “She had brains.”

  Jardinn tilted his chair back and closed his dark eyes. He said in a tired voice:

  “She got careless in the way she used them, Max. I always did like her figure better.”

  Cohn grunted. “I like ’em heavier,” he returned. “Who’s going to tag her—and see what she does next?”

  Jardinn whistled something from Dvořák’s “New World Symphony” badly. He tapped his fingers against the side of his chair.

  “I’ll call someone she can’t buy off,” he said slowly. “Maybe a woman would be the right idea. That Gunsted woman. I’ve seen her a lot and I can’t remember what she looks like. She’s negative enough for a tailing job.”

  Max Cohn frowned at Jardinn. “Torney’s got brains,” he repeated.

  Jardinn nodded. He smiled a little.

  “I get more money for using mine,” he said cheerfully. “Maybe that means something.”

  2

  It was almost two in the morning. Jardinn got up and shoved the window wide. There was nothing on Hollywood Boulevard but streetcar tracks and the sidewalks. The air had a snap to it. Back of him he heard Ernst Reiner’s voice. He’d been hearing it for several hours, and it always got back to the same words.

  “… used to talk to Howard Frey about Hans. He knew I loved Hans. He knew this was the way he could hurt me most. I was instrumental in having Hans conduct in the Bowl. He didn’t want to come. It isn’t exactly a cultural center, out here. I tell you, Jardinn—”

  Jardinn turned away from the window. He raised a hand, said briefly: “Don’t.”

  Reiner shrugged wearily. His eyes looked bad—they were shot with red streaks. His shoulders had a droop. He was a pasty-faced bulk collapsed in the chair. He was emotional, and it annoyed Jardinn to see a man cry. He had wished, more than once in the past few hours, that the director would get up and smash things.

  He looked at the oblong slip of paper lying on his table. He went over, picked it up, folded it, slipped it in a vest pocket. Reiner said:

  “I don’t want publicity. Hans is dead—publicity won’t bring him back.”

  Jardinn swore softly. “It’ll bring back newspaper circulation that hasn’t had a story like this since a certain star sprayed lead all over a director named Naylor,” he said. “You can’t keep this off the front pages. It’s red meat. A famous conductor shot down while he’s leading an orchestra in the Bowl. His brother looking on—”

  Ernst Reiner groaned, raised a protesting hand. Jardinn said quietly:

  “If you want to get your brother’s killer you can’t be sensitive. I know how you feel. But death is just as complete one way as another. Hans Reiner’s dead. We can’t go around whispering about it.”

  The director got up from his chair. He got up slowly, with an effort. He said:

  “I am convinced that Frey did this terrible thing. It will ruin me—I can’t go on with the picture. Do you not suppose he thought of that? He is clever—a devil to do this to poor Hans. And to me. I could kill him—”

  Jardinn said again: “Don’t.” He looked at his wrist-watch. “It’s getting late—or early. You need sleep.”

  The director stared at him. “You think I can sleep—after this? I shall never be able to sleep again. I can see him, swaying there—”

  Jardinn said brutally: “In six months you’ll hardly remember how things happened. In two years it’ll be an incident you can regard as something rather remote. The sooner you start forgetting—the better.”

  Reiner narrowed his eyes. His face was slightly flushed.

  “Gott—you are like ice!” he breathed. “He was—my brother.”

  Jardinn nodded. “I’ve got your check for five thousand,” he said. “I think it will carry me all the way through. I don’t think it will be easy. Things went rather smoothly. Don’t talk too much. You’re worth considerable money, and if Howard Frey is as clever as you think he might start a suit for defamation of character. I’ll do everything I can.”

  Reiner started to cry again. Jardinn lighted a cigarette. He spoke quietly.

  “I’ll remember what you’ve told me, and I’ll keep in touch with you. I don’t think your life is in danger. If you want to avoid being hurt, don’t read the papers. I’ll want to get inside the studio—there’ll be people to see. You can arrange that. Don’t bother too much about what the police dig up. They’ll get a half dozen humans they think killed your brother—and, most of them will have perfect alibis. They work that way, out here.”

  Reiner said thickly: “So many things—and I can’t think clearly.”

  Jardinn smiled. “If you don’t get sleep—take something,” he suggested.

  The director stuffed his handkerchief back in a pocket.

  “What?” he ask
ed.

  Jardinn shrugged. “Scotch,” he suggested. “Get drunk and sleep it off. Get sick and that’ll give you something else to think about.”

  “Gott!” Reiner muttered. “You are hard.”

  Jardinn went toward the outer office door with the director. Reiner was in bad shape—he leaned heavily against the detective.

  “My car is down below—a block away,” he said. “Can I take you to your home?” he asked.

  Jardinn smiled his thanks. “I’m going to stay in the office a while,” he explained. “I’ve got some notes to go over—and some more to get down.”

  Reiner said: “I must have the one who was responsible. I must!”

  Jardinn nodded. “A killer is a rotten thing,” he replied. “You may have to rip open your inside affairs—in order to get this one. It isn’t pleasant. But it’ll be something done, if we succeed.”

  The director straightened a little. His small brown eyes held momentary hatred.

  “I will do anything—to succeed!” he said harshly.

  Jardinn said: “You may have to do a lot. Start in by getting sleep—one way or another.”

  The director went out of the room and along the corridor. Jardinn listened to his heavy footfalls, went back into the outer office. He closed the door, locked it, went into his own office. He called a number, told Central to keep at it. After about thirty seconds he heard Carol Torney’s voice.

  “Yes?” It had a sleepy note.

  He said: “Listen, Irish—you get too damned much sleep. It’ll make you soggy. Slip a fur coat over your pajamas and come up here right away. Don’t make a parade of it. I want to ask you things.”

  The sleepiness went out of her voice. She said:

  “Okay—I’ll be over. ’Bye.”

  She hung up. Jardinn scribbled words on a pad for fifteen minutes or so. They filled five sheets of paper. He burned four of them—and let the ashes drift over Hollywood Boulevard. The fifth he tore into little pieces, let a match singe a few of the pieces, and slid them from an ashtray into a wastepaper basket near his desk.

  When Carol came in he was leaning back in his pet chair and smiling. He said:

  “I’ll send Max over to your place tomorrow for the keys to the office. We can’t have you running in and out. You can get sore with him, if you want, but give him the keys. When he comes back and points out that you could easily have had some more made, I’ll tell him we’ll change the locks around.”