She narrowed her eyes on his. She said:
“I wasn’t thinking much about the concert. I dislike music. It was an affair, of course. I go often to the Bowl and think about other things. My work, mostly. It’s relaxation, you know.”
She smiled at Jardinn; he smiled back.
“Of course,” he agreed. “And publicity.”
She nodded. “And publicity,” she agreed. “But that isn’t as important as the relaxation.”
He laughed at her. “After all, Miss Rand,” he suggested, “you’ve worked under greater strain, with less chance for relaxation.”
She set her teacup on the tray near her and kept her dark eyes on his. She said:
“You’re getting at something. You are not direct.”
He shrugged. “Neither are you,” he replied. “After all, it’s nice to hear you talk. You have a lovely voice. I like Hollywood—because it’s pleasant to look at beautiful women. I’d like to know, though, some truths. Why did you go to the Bowl for Hans Reiner’s concert?”
She smiled. “Publicity,” she said.
He made a little bow. “Now, that’s nice,” he told her. “The seats out there are pretty hard for relaxation. There was almost a snap in the air. You don’t like music. The orchestra was playing—what next?”
She said mockingly: “If I do The Affair at Vendome you must play Lernier. I think you’d screen well, and you could just live the part.”
He nodded. “It’s something for me to look forward to,” he said. “That would be because I’d be working with you. Actually, I don’t like pictures.”
She said, as though the subject had not been changed:
“I was wondering what Ernst must be thinking—with his brother rather the whole show. Then I heard a plane engine. It grew louder. Everyone seemed to be looking up. I couldn’t see the plane. Mr. Durling—he was with us, you know—was disturbed.… I think he swore. The plane engine noise was growing very loud. Then the shell lights went out. When they came on again Hans Reiner was swaying—his hands were groping toward his back—”
She stopped. There had been no emotion in her voice. She said, with a faint tremor:
“It was—terrible.”
Jardinn said: “What next?”
She shrugged. “There was a great deal of excitement. I didn’t rise—the others did. I remember Ernst; his body was very tense. He was staring toward the shell. He cried out something—I think it was ‘Hans.’ I’m not sure. The lights went out again. Mr. Durling said something about Hans Reiner fainting—overwork, perhaps. He stayed with me. Mr. Harris stayed, too. Ernst went down toward the shell. I think we were all standing by this time.”
Jardinn nodded. “Did you look around the Bowl, after the lights came on again?” he asked.
She nodded. “I was quite excited,” she said. “I had an idea there might be a panic, a stampede. Even though we all were outside, right in the hills.”
Jardinn smiled. “When you looked around, did you see Howard Frey?” he asked.
Her eyes widened. She shook her head.
“No,” she said. “Should I have seen him?”
He said slowly: “It would have been just chance. He was present, you know.”
She said, carefully: “I’ve heard that he was. I believe there was a party—several men with him. I didn’t see him—not at all. Not before, or after. Does it matter?”
Jardinn shrugged. “It might,” he told her. “So many things seem unimportant now—later they assume importance.”
She leaned toward him. “What you mean is that you want to learn whether I’m lying to you or not,” she said quietly. “I’m not.”
Jardinn said: “Without trying to frighten you, it wouldn’t be wise to lie. It never is. But I don’t think you are. I was trying to determine how observant you are. Or perhaps testing your memory.”
George Hillard came over. The assistant director was a slow moving, handsome man of about thirty-five. He had a nicely waxed mustache and a pleasant voice. He said:
“Pardon—it’ll be about ten minutes, Maya. Hank is doing things with the spots. Are you all right for that time?”
She nodded. “I’ll look like hell in a close-up,” she stated calmly. “Better not, George.”
He said: “You look like a million. The front office is yelling for it. Ernst may be busted up for a few days. Got to, Maya.”
He moved off, calling for the boss electrician. Some bit players in evening clothes moved across the set languidly. A tall, good-looking boy said in a rather high-pitched tone:
“I think she’s a lovely lady.”
Jardinn tapped fingers against the wood of the chair. Maya Rand smiled and said:
“My memory is just fair. I haven’t a too bad past, but sometimes I forget portions of it. I was merely acquainted with Hans Reiner—just the usual entertaining one would do for one’s director’s brother, a stranger in town. I doubt if we were ever alone in a room together.”
Jardinn nodded. “You haven’t any idea regarding the murder?” he asked.
She shook her head. “It seems an incredible thing to me,” she replied. “Such a sort of stupendous way to do—such a thing. I don’t think anyone knew Hans Reiner out here, with the exception of his brother. That is, really knew him. And Ernst loved him deeply.”
Jardinn rose from the chair. He said very quietly:
“Perhaps you knew Howard Frey better?”
She rose also. But there was no change of her expression. She smiled at him.
“I know Howard quite well. He tells me the police are bothering him. That is all very silly. He couldn’t control his feelings—and Ernst has been working very hard. That affair had nothing to do with the Bowl—knocking down Ernst—”
She checked herself. Jardinn said in a low tone:
“You don’t want to be dragged into this. You aren’t big enough to beat it. I’ll want to talk to you—not here.”
She stood quite stiffly. There was a faint contempt in her eyes.
“I can’t be dragged into it,” she said emphatically. “I’m not afraid, and I don’t care to talk with you.”
He smiled. “I’m easier to get along with than the police,” he said. “On the surface I may not pretend to be so impressed with your importance as they will. But I’ll be fair.”
She said coldly: “I don’t know what you’re getting at. What more would we have to talk about?”
Jardinn looked toward the group of bit players near the edge of the set. He said in an easy tone:
“We might talk about the night Frey was introduced to Hans Reiner, at your home. We might talk about Reiner insulting him. And just to be out in the California air while we talk, we might wander out to your palmy patio—”
Her eyes showed fear—but only a flash of it. Then she was shaking her head.
“I’ve a rather difficult scene to do,” she said steadily. “I must have a little quiet.”
He nodded. “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” he told her. “When shall I come to your house?”
She glanced toward her white slippers. She said very quietly:
“Tonight—if you wish. But you don’t think—”
Fear caught at her words, gave them an uncertainty of tone. He touched her right wrist with his fingers.
“I think you’re a very lovely lady,” he said quietly, and went slowly toward the thick door of the soundproof stage.
In the studio street he lighted a cigarette and gazed toward the stars’ bungalows. He said softly:
“A very lovely lady—but a liar, just the same.”
2
Brenniger came in the Hotel Christie as Jardinn was buying two-for-a-quarters at the cigar counter. Brenniger was a short, heavyset man. He had a cherub-like face. He looked not unlike a Y.M.C.A. secretary with sufficient income to eat well. He slapped Jardinn on the back.
“Didn’t know you used cigars, Ben,” he greeted.
Jardinn grinned at him, and passed one over. He bought two m
ore.
“Don’t,” he said simply. “How’s business?”
Brenniger coughed heavily. “It’s way over my head,” he replied. “The rotten part is I’ve got to work just as hard as you—only no one slips me five grand for it.”
Jardinn said. “You’ve been reading the papers. My client did a wise thing when he slipped me the five grand—but he wasn’t so wise when he talked about it, afterward.”
The police detective grunted. “It’s a tough one, eh, Bennie? How’s Max and that swell kid, Miss Torney?”
Jardinn struck a match and held it near the tip of Brenniger’s cigar. He lighted a cigarette.
“They’re both fine,” he replied. “Carol isn’t with me anymore. Max is working hard, though.”
He watched the police detective closely. Brenniger was intelligent, even though he didn’t look that way. He inhaled with satisfaction.
“What happened to the kid?” he asked. “I thought she liked her work.”
Jardinn grinned. “Her uncle’s been sick,” he said. “She’s sticking close to him.”
Brenniger grunted. “He didn’t look sick, when I saw him down in Los Angeles this morning,” he observed. “Say, this is a good smoke.”
Jardinn nodded. “Just a nice one,” he replied. “It isn’t anything fatal—the uncle has spells.”
Brenniger said: “Sure, we all have spells. Know anything I can use without hurting your graft too much?”
Jardinn rolled his cigarette around and appeared to think the answer over. Brenniger swore and said:
“Anything that isn’t too funny, Bennie.”
Jardinn nodded. “Lay off Frey a little,” he suggested. “He’s all right. His nerves were just a little shaky, that’s all.”
“That’s what I told the chief,” Brenniger said slowly. He had a peculiar smile playing around his thick lips. “But he said a guy that hates another guy is kind of likely to hate another guy’s brother.”
Jardinn groaned. “With that kind of reasoning my spot isn’t so tough,” he said. “I won’t have too much competition.”
The city detective smiled good-humoredly. He inspected the ash on his cigar with narrowed eyes.
“I hear this Rand gal is calling Madame Wakun in from Pasadena,” he said. “She’s going to put on a show and look in the glass. She’s naming the gent that put the guns in the Bowl—and then the Rand gal is going to put us wise. All we have to do is to go out and grab off the gent she names.”
Jardinn nodded. “Bonsall’s a good publicity man, but if he spreads that stuff around he’s a damn fool. He’ll pull her into the case—and it may not be so funny.”
Brenniger grunted. “I’m going out to the Bowl and wander around,” he said. “I’m a sociable chap—come along?”
Jardinn shook his head. “You won’t find ejected shells, footprints that are worth anything much, or bloodstains,” he said. “I was out there when they let things loose. It was smooth, Brenny.”
The city detective nodded. “It’s all nice, so far,” he agreed. “Still, there are a few guys sitting on the edges of cots up in San Quentin that got along all right for a week or so after they shoved other guys out.”
Jardinn grinned. “You didn’t send them there,” he said.
They moved toward the street. Jardinn said:
“I’m going down to the beach and take a swim. It stimulates me.”
Brenniger let his eyes show what he thought about that. He pulled on his cigar.
“Sure you are,” he agreed. “And I’ll give you a tip—Carren’s hard to get along with. We’ve been talking things over. He’s got guts, but he’s nervous as hell.”
Jardinn said; “You think he just happened to wing that plane over there, Brenny?”
The city detective shrugged. “He’s had ships flying over Bowl concerts before. He was warned twice by the Department of Commerce. They got complaints from the Bowl committee. He admits he never flew so low. Says he must have misjudged the distance.”
Jardinn swore softly. “Maybe he did,” he said.
Brenniger nodded. He gestured with his chin toward Jardinn’s roadster.
“When you get through with this job you can go buy yourself a nice shiny one,” he said.
“Or sell this one,” Jardinn replied. “If you did a human in, Brenny, and had a hundred thousand in cash, you’d use it to keep out of stir—yes?”
Brenniger said: “I’m ahead of you—I wouldn’t have any trouble in finding a lot of humans ready to take it and help me keep out.”
Jardinn went toward the roadster. The city detective called after him:
“If you see Miss Torney tell her I hope her uncle gets rid of the spells.”
Jardinn grinned back at him. “She’ll like the thought,” he said.
But he wasn’t smiling as he climbed back of the wheel. He drove out Vine to Wilshire Boulevard, turned westward toward the ocean. He decided that Jerry Bonsall was too good a publicity man to send out Maya Rand’s name tied up with a fake crystal gazing stunt. He decided that Howard Frey had told him the truth about finding Maya in the patio alone—using words that she didn’t want to be repeated now. Her eyes had showed him fear.
He decided that Brenniger, who was one of the best men the city had on the force, wasn’t convinced that Carren was telling the truth. And Brenniger was suspicious about Carol having left the agency. The thoughts came to him separately—they didn’t exactly tie up. The thing was—he had to go slowly. There was the matter of Max Cohn telling him he had seen Carol go into Ernst Reiner’s house. He had to go at that carefully, very carefully. There was the matter of the wristwatch. He couldn’t be sure there—he could only play the girl against Max—and wait for a break.
The agency had been lucky. They had got inside of a few things. That had meant a reputation. Someone was afraid. It was the money that would stop him from getting anywhere. Certainly there had been leaks—where none had existed before. It wasn’t a pleasant situation.
It took him forty-five minutes to reach the field. He parked the car near the line of hangars, went into the Administration Building. A red-haired clerk scribbled him a pass, when he asked for Pilot Carren. He said in a tired voice:
“He’ll be around the tri-motor ship hangar. It’s up to the right when you get on the deadline. Someone can point him out. You’re a reporter or a cop, I suppose?”
“Whichever annoys you the least,” Jardinn replied, and went out to the deadline.
He walked along past the propellers of little cabin and open cockpit ships, reached the big hangar where the trimotor planes rested. Two were inside—one was on the deadline, two of the propellers whirling at idling speed. The third propeller was not turning. A mechanic in overalls came near him; Jardinn said:
“I’m looking for Carren. He around here someplace?”
The mechanic pointed toward the far side of the big ship. Jardinn went around. Two men were talking to a third. The two had slips of paper in their hands and were using pencils. One of them walked away as Jardinn came up—the other smiled at the man who stood with his back against a wing tip of the big monoplane.
“Just a tough bit of luck, Carren,” he said, and went away slowly, writing stuff on the slip of paper.
The pilot regarded Jardinn with narrowed, weary eyes. He was dressed in a gray suit and wore no hat. He had a rather long face and a stubble of beard. His arms hung loosely at his sides, but fingers clenched and unclenched nervously. Except for his fingers there was no movement of the pilot’s body.
Jardinn said loudly, against the rumble of the two engines:
“My name’s Jardinn. Ernst Reiner has asked me to do some looking around for him. I haven’t rushed out here because I figured you just blundered into the killing.”
He paused. Carren said, in a voice that was flat:
“Too bad the rest don’t figure that way. It’s tough—for me.”
Jardinn nodded. Carren had brown eyes, and they held a lifeless expression. They didn�
�t seem to meet Jardinn’s—they appeared to focus on some spot beyond him.
“I was in the Bowl, the night Hans Reiner was murdered,” Jardinn said steadily. “You were flying pretty low.”
The pilot wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. He said:
“I thought I’d do it right. There was a girl aboard who wanted to get down low—maybe I sort of fell pretty hard for her.”
Jardinn stepped up close and said sharply:
“You’re a goddam liar! You’re too good a pilot to do a stunt like that for a girl.”
Carren’s face was white. He said in a hoarse voice:
“You can’t talk like that to me! I know who you are! You haven’t got anything on me. You won’t get anything on me—”
Jardinn laughed at him. It was a nasty, mocking laugh.
“I’m getting enough on you!” he snapped. “Every time you pull one like that last—I get something on you. Better be right with me.”
Carren stood with his body hunched forward a little. He was breathing heavily—both hands were clenched at his sides. Jardinn let his eyes drop, slipped his right hand into a side pocket of his coat. He said:
“I know you’re nervous as hell. But don’t get too nervous. I’m holding something that quiets any kind of nerves. Don’t try to pull one of Frey’s tricks on me.”
Carren sucked in his breath sharply. His body was tense, his eyes wide. Then his facial muscles relaxed. He ran the fingers of his right hand over his face. He said hoarsely:
“There was a party made up—they wanted to see the Bowl. I took them over. There were two girls aboard. I don’t know where any of the people live. I take lots of them up. They’ve all been asking me where the passengers are—I don’t know. Why should I?”
Jardinn said: “I’ll tell you why—most of them sign a release slip. Most fields get addresses. There might be an accident.”
The pilot shook his head. “There wasn’t enough time—they got here late.”
Jardinn smiled narrowly. “You got over the Bowl just after the concert started—you had plenty of time,” he said.
Carren walked a few feet away from the wing tip of the big plane. Jardinn said:
“You’re lying, Carren—and you’ll catch plenty of punishment for it. If they get you downtown—”
Death in a Bowl Page 9