Jardin shook his head. He was looking at photographs; the table beside which he and D’Este stood held hundreds of them. They had been at the job for thirty minutes, with no luck.
“I don’t think she’s worked in studios out here on the Coast,” Jardinn said. “More likely in New York or Jersey. Or out at Long Island.”
D’Este grunted. He continued passing photographs to Jardinn, and Ben kept on dropping them on the table’s surface. D’Este said:
“We’d get a still of some scene or some damn fake scene, or a shot of the kid’s face, even if she hadn’t worked out here. That’s part of the lousy game. But you know I’d go out of my way to help you, Ben—you’ve done your stuff for me. Why don’t you let me look at this brat? I’ll get you the dope, all right.”
Jardinn said: “I’d like to know right away. A quick job’ll help. If it don’t go, then I’ll fix it so you can see her. If I get what I want—I can use it tonight.”
D’Este chuckled. “First time I’ve seen you togged to kill,” he said. “Know who I think did the Reiner job?”
Jardinn grinned: “That nance O’Reilly?” he replied. “Maybe thinking he was losing Hans to Ernst.”
The casting bureau man winked at Jardinn. He handed him a half dozen photographs.
“All baby-faced kids,” he said. “Maybe she’s in there. No, not O’Reilly. Just some guy who wanted to try something. No motive, see. Just a clever guy trying to get away with the old, perfect crime stuff. That’s what’s making it rotten for you, Ben.”
Jardinn smiled down at the pictures. He shook his head.
“Money is what’s making it rotten for me, Leon,” he replied. “It always counts—the spend stuff. Nothing here.”
He dropped the last picture. D’Este swore. He said slowly:
“That about finishes the sweet kid type. Sure you grabbed off the right idea? Maybe she does heavy stuff.”
Jardinn lighted a cigarette, shook his head.
“Not with that face and figure,” he replied. “But maybe I’ve got the wrong hunch. Maybe she never worked in pictures.”
D’Este turned around and stared at Ben; he groaned heavily.
“For God’s sake!” he muttered. “After all this hunting around, you tell me she may never have worked on the lots!”
Jardin grinned. “Like my old friend, S. Holmes,” he returned, “I’m a very careful worker. You know Ernst Reiner, Leon?”
D’Este was twisting the ends of his waxed mustache again. He was small in size, very dapper in appearance. He had always been small in size, but he hadn’t always been so dapper. It was a Hollywood affectation.
“Sweet director,” he said. “But, Jeez, he’s fussy. When he’s casting—he’s casting. He does a smooth job.”
Jardin nodded. He got on his light coat, buttoned it over his dinner clothes. He said cheerfully:
“Come up to the office tomorrow, about twelve, will you. We’ll have a bit of lunch. On your way in look at the stenographer. Then forget her until we get outside. She’ll take your name.”
D’Este widened his dark eyes. He nodded. Jardinn walked around to the far side of the table and looked down at the writing on the back of a photograph. He lifted the picture, turned it over. D’Este said:
“You saw all that stuff, Ben.”
Jardin shook his head. “I didn’t see this one—must have slipped by. Not that it makes any difference.”
The casting bureau man came around and looked at the photograph. He said in an irritated tone:
“Just another baby face—God, I see ’em in my dreams.”
Jardinn grinned. “That’s better than falling off a cliff,” he said. “I get that dose every week or so.”
D’Este grunted. “Ever hit bottom?” he asked.
Jardinn shook his head. “If I’d do that little thing once I think that would end it,” he replied. “That would be swell. Any suggestions?”
The casting bureau man toyed with his waxed end mustache and chuckled.
“Out of my line, Ben,” he said. “See you at twelve.”
Jardinn nodded, went toward the door of the office. He stopped, swore softly, faced D’Este again.
“Damn near forgot about Max Cohn,” he said. “Can’t make it tomorrow, Leon. I’ll give you a ring in the afternoon. Not so much of a rush, anyway.”
D’Este nodded. “Not sneaking out of buying me a lunch, are you?” he asked. “Say, want to take that photo along?”
Jardinn narrowed his eyes a little and said absently:
“Which one?”
D’Este held up the last one he had looked at; there was a peculiar expression in his dark eyes. He said:
“This one.”
Jardinn got a puzzled expression in his eyes. He said nastily:
“What in hell would I want to take that one along for, Leon?”
The casting bureau man dropped it back on the table with the others. He parted his lips, yawned as he tapped them carefully with the tips of his fingers. When he got through yawning he said in a pleasant voice:
“If I can help you any, Ben—”
Jardinn grinned at him and went outside the office. There was a frown on his face as he walked along the paving toward the spot where the roadster was parked.
“Hell!” he muttered as he slipped back of the car’s wheel. “Every one seems to know more about this kill—than I do.”
2
Maya Rand sat across from him, gracefully indolent in the huge, fan-backed chair. She wore a jet-black evening gown—white pearls in a long string contrasted the color. Her skin was beautiful; with no harsh, studio lights to strike her she was a gorgeous thing. She sipped her cocktail with narrowed eyes upon the liquid in the long stemmed glass. She said:
“I feel more and more as though it had nothing to do with pictures or picture people, Hans’ death. I think that Ernst is standing the shock wonderfully. Of course, anything that I can do to help, you know I’ll do.”
Jardinn leaned back in his wicker chair, got his hands from the pockets of his dinner coat and smiled at her.
“It’s nice to know that,” he said, and turned his head away from her, keeping his dark eyes on the patio palms. “Even if you did start in by lying to me.”
She was very quick. On her feet, she took a step toward him, her eyes blazing. He turned his head toward her, kept on smiling.
“You did, you know,” he said quietly.
She brought her right hand downward; the cocktail glass shattered on the patio tile. She said in a twisted, distorted voice:
“You can’t be a beast—with me!”
Jardinn said: “I can do a lot of things with you, Maya. To hell with your temperament. Hans Reiner went under dirt today. That’s more important. Sit down and stop acting.”
She turned her back on him, moved away from the fan-backed chair. He called after her, softly:
“You knew Hans Reiner—before he came to Hollywood.”
She stopped, swung around. Her eyes held denial. She shook her head. She said in a strained tone:
“I didn’t—I didn’t know him! You can’t do this to me. You can’t! If you try—”
“Take it easy,” Jardinn cut it, and slumped down in his chair. “Howard Frey was at your place, here. Hans Reiner was here. Ernst was working at the studio. Hans had heard about Frey knocking his brother down. You introduced them, and Hans referred to Frey as the ‘pugilist.’ Then he went out in the patio, out here, with you—”
“That’s a lie!” Her voice was sharp, steady. She sat in the fan-backed chair, but she didn’t relax. Her eyes were on the dark ones of Jardinn.
“Hans Reiner went into the music room with me. Howard Frey started to drink. He felt he’d been insulted. Hans played some of his own compositions—he left in about a half hour. I came out here and strolled around, going over some of my scenes for the next day. There were lines to be spoken.”
Jardinn smiled with his thin lips. He said:
“What next?”<
br />
She was calmer now. She spoke in a low voice, making graceful gestures with her hands. She knew how to use them; it was a nice show. Jardinn kept his eyes away from her face, watched her hands. They were very perfect.
“After a half hour or so I was chilly. It was two nights before the concert at which Hans was—”
Her voice wavered. She relaxed in the chair, smiled wanly. Jardinn nodded:
“Yeah, go on,” he said. “You got cold.”
She spoke very perfectly now, using words and her picture voice. It amused him and he fought away a grin.
“I had finished doing the scene—talking it. I went inside, looked around for Howard Frey. He’d gone, my Jap told me. There were some other guests—there almost always are.”
She spread her hands in a gesture of completeness.
“That was all,” she said.
Jardinn leaned forward, got a cigarette from his case, remembered Maya. He apologized, offered her the case. She shook her head.
“My voice,” she explained.
He lighted up, said very casually:
“Rather a nasty spot for Frey—meeting Ernst Reiner’s brother.”
She drew her wrap about her shoulders, touched her dark hair with pale fingers.
“It was unavoidable. Frey came without calling. He does that, often. Hans chanced to be here.”
Jardinn nodded. “Want to hear Frey’s idea of what happened?” he asked.
She frowned. “Is it important?” she asked.
“Might be,” Jardinn said. “Frey’s in a mess—and getting in deeper. He’s right about the police wanting a goat.”
“He has friends,” she said.
Jardinn smiled. “Sure,” he agreed. “But wait until things start to move—the friends will forget a lot of things. They’ll know him, but not very well. Or maybe they’ll take trips for a few weeks. Anyway, friends may not help too much. Want to hear his story?”
She nodded. Jardin said: “After you left the room with Hans Reiner, Frey went downstairs somewhere and had some drinks. In about an hour he came up, went out to the patio. You were excited, pacing back and forth. You were talking to yourself. You said: ‘I got up here alone—I’ll stay here. He’s no good, but he can’t pull me down. I can get to him—before he gets to me. I’ll use his brother.’ Or words to that effect; I may have slipped up somewhere. You didn’t know Frey was listening.”
She widened her eyes, looked surprised. Then she relaxed, laughed. It was a low, throaty laugh. Her slender body moved with the laughter. Jardinn smiled:
“I’m glad you’ve got a sense of humor,” he said. “It’s nice.”
She stopped laughing. She leaned toward him, speaking mockingly.
“You believe that sort of thing?” she asked. “Frey comes up and crouches in the shadows of the patio—while I parade back and forth dramatically, involving myself in a nasty mess by telling terribly important things to the goldfish in the pool.”
Jardinn smiled pleasantly. “Frey had reason to hate Ernst Reiner,” he said. “He took a nasty insult, and when he physically resented it he was fired. His contract was broken. He was shelved. It isn’t much fun to be shelved, in Hollywood. Frey may be sensitive. He was working under a nervous strain. He hasn’t much money—he’d spent a good deal in attempting to show his admiration of you.”
“Oh, God!” She got up, started to laugh again. She walked a few feet from the chair, came back and stood beside it. “Howard Frey spent money on me? He spent it—on me!”
Jardinn said: “All right, you spent it on him, then. The point is, he hasn’t much money just now. And Maskey had shoved him out, started him on a slide. It happens that Ernst Reiner had come to me; he felt his life was in danger. Right after that Frey comes to me and tells me he’s learned that Reiner suspects he will try to injure the director. Frey says it’s the bunk. But he thinks he may be framed for some injury that will occur.”
Maya Rand looked down at him with narrowed eyes.
“Well?” she said.
Jardinn shrugged. “Frey couldn’t revenge himself on Ernst Reiner, even though he had told me he might be framed. Reiner had made it too tough for him. But he knew that Ernst idolized his brother. He knew that Hans Reiner was to have his little moments of triumph. If he could smash Hans Reiner down, murder him—with the man he hated looking on—”
“No—no!” Her words were half cries. She turned away from him. Her arms were raised; he guessed that her fingers were pressed to her lips.
“It’s a theory the police seem to like,” he said. “What Ernst Reiner can do with this picture, after the shock of his brother’s murder—that’s problematical. Perhaps Frey thought it would finish him—the Bowl kill. Or perhaps he thought that such a crime, done in such a big way, would turn suspicion away from him. Or perhaps he thought he had a perfect alibi.”
She said quickly: “He did!”
Jardinn shook his head. “You mean you’ve heard that he called to me, just after the lights went out—and that I tried to follow him. No, that’s far from perfect.”
She faced him again. She said in a calmer tone.
“You suspect Howard Frey?”
Jardinn shrugged. “You’ve just hurt him a little,” he said. “You’ve caused me to doubt that he told me the truth when he said he’d spent money on you. You laugh at what he told me he heard you saying—”
She shook her head. She said in a hard tone:
“I shouldn’t have laughed, perhaps. That was wrong. But it seemed funny. I’m an actress, of course, and I couldn’t believe you’d believe that a plotter in crime would walk about muttering things that would be dangerous.”
Jardinn stood up, propped his cigarette stub in the ashtray near the fan-backed chair, smiled coldly at the actress.
“I’d rather believe that than the explanation you are about to offer me,” he said simply.
She showed her surprise in an involuntary gesture of her hands. She spoke in a controlled tone.
“What explanation am I about to offer you?”
Jardinn let the skin at the outside corners of his eyes crinkle in a smile.
“You might tell me that you were just rehearsing your lines for a scene the next day,” he said.
She nodded. She sat in the fan-backed chair again, her wrap drawn tightly about her shoulders.
“Yes, exactly,” she said in clipped sentences. “Yes—that’s it. That’s what I was doing. Rehearsing lines.”
Jardinn sat on the arm of the wicker chair. He frowned at her.
“Don’t be a fool, Maya,” he warned. “The lights are bright enough just now. That throne chair over at Maskey’s is comfortable enough. When you snap your fingers things happen. But I saw Jean Carewe a week ago, down at Tia Juana. She sat in a chair like the one they move around for you. And the studio lights burned just as brightly for her. She didn’t have to snap her fingers—they anticipated that. Know what she’s doing now? Taking anything that’s easy around Caliente—and nothing’s easy.”
Maya Rand said stolidly: “I haven’t done anything. Publicity can’t hurt me. Jean Carewe was mixed up in a killing.”
“So are you.” Jardinn nodded his head. “By God, you are, Maya. The reporters will be down on you like a pack of dogs. They helped make you—and they’ll pull you down so damn quick—”
He got up, walked over close to her. She said quietly:
“Want to see the script of Death Dance?”
Her eyes were half smiling. Half amused. She was sure of herself, he knew that. She was sure of herself on this point. He felt beaten, and he didn’t like to feel that way. He tried to keep the flatness out of his voice.
“How many scripts are there?” he asked.
She shrugged. “God knows. Twenty—thirty—forty. You can even choose your favorite color—they type them on pink, yellow, white paper. The lines are in all of them, you know.”
He said slowly: “Howard Frey did the story—he knew the lines were there. He must hav
e recognized them. Even if he hadn’t written them in, he knew the script.”
She said in a flat voice: “He’s been terribly nervous—perhaps he didn’t recognize them.”
Jardinn said grimly: “Even knowing that he came to me, telling me something that would drag you into this mess, you try to excuse him.”
She drew a deep breath. Her voice was expressionless.
“He didn’t—murder Hans Reiner,” she said.
Jardinn got off the arm of the wicker chair. He laughed bitterly.
“It’s a close job,” he said steadily. “How long have the lines been in the script, Maya?”
She smiled. “Months,” she replied. “The story was ready for me three months ago. We hadn’t finished the last picture. It’s a stock market story—and I play one brother against the other. In the end, I lose. Death Dance.”
Jardinn nodded. “Sure,” he said. “The old hokum. I believe you, Maya—the lines were in the script. They’ve been there for months. Howard Frey just didn’t recognize them. He thought you were acting a real part.”
Her eyes met his squarely. “Yes,” she said. “He didn’t have anything to do with Hans Reiner’s death. He wouldn’t come to you and deliberately lie about me. He’d know I could show you the script. He simply was upset, terribly upset. He didn’t remember.”
Jardinn said in a very calm voice, “But what made him think that those words of yours might mean something? Why didn’t he just laugh, step out and speak to you?”
Her eyes showed momentary fear. The tapering fingers of her right hand played with the soft material of her wrap. She said unsteadily:
“What are you—getting at?”
Jardinn leaned over her dark head. He spoke clearly, in a very low voice.
“Frey knew something—he didn’t think of the script lines because something else was more important. What you said fitted in. To save his neck he squealed on you—”
She was on her feet; she pushed him away from her. She said excitedly:
“Oh, why don’t you go away? Why don’t you hunt for the murderer the way—others do? The police haven’t bothered me! They are at the Bowl. They don’t come here. They don’t try to make things out of nothing!”
Jardinn smiled at her. “I do things my way,” he said steadily. “Just like Carren did things his way.”
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