Jardinn shook his head. “I’ve been out of town,” he said. “Police got anything?”
Burr grinned and swore. “They think maybe the guys with the rifles got the wrong man,” he said. “Bonner is out with a statement that they’ve dug up a cello player whose life has been threatened. He was placed in a line with the conductor. Bonner thinks the killers were trying to get him.”
Jardinn grinned. “Well, isn’t that news?” he asked.
The newspaper man swore. “Sure,” he said. “But it’s too funny to be good news.”
Jardinn kept on grinning. “Bonner’s a good man,” he said. “He might have an idea.”
The newspaper man chuckled. “He has, about you,” he said. “He’s also out with a statement that a certain private detective handicapped the police by going after Carren too hard.”
Jardinn finished his coffee. “I still think he’s a good man,” he said. “Maybe that’s an idea, too.”
Burr groaned. “You’re too damned good natured, Jardinn,” he said. “Say, what did Carren really tell you before he slammed you down?”
Jardinn got up, dropped fifteen cents for a tip, and moved toward the cashier’s desk.
“He said never to talk to newspaper men just before the final edition goes to press,” he told Burr. “Maybe that was an idea, too.”
Burr grinned. “That was just a lie,” he said. “Call me up if you get anything, will you?”
Jardinn nodded. “I’ll come down to the paper personally,” he replied. “It’ll add a human touch.”
He went outside and bought the Los Angeles Times. He read the headline in a low voice.
“‘Police Have Reiner Clue.’”
“Sure,” he breathed, folding the paper without reading more. “They’ve been having clues on the Stannard murder—for three years.”
9
TELEPHONE CALL
When Jardinn reached the agency office it was after one. There was light showing beyond the frosted glass of the door; Max Cohn and Ernst Reiner were seated in the outer office. The picture director rose nervously as Jardinn entered; Max tilted the chair he was sitting in, grinned.
“Where you been, Ben?” he asked. “Down at Caliente?”
Jardinn went over and shook hands with Reiner. The director’s face was pale, flabby. His eyes looked bad. He said in his precise voice:
“I have come for a report.”
Jardinn grinned. “Sure,” he replied. “Let’s go into my office. Come along, Max—maybe we’ve got something to tell Mr. Reiner.”
They went into the office. Max and Reiner seated themselves in chairs near Jardinn’s desk. Jardinn pulled his chair over near a window. He got a pack of fresh cigarettes from his pocket, opened it and tossed it on the small table not far from him. As he dropped some bits of the package paper in the wastebasket he saw that the object had been emptied. The charred paper he had dropped there was gone.
Reiner said in a thick voice:
“Well?”
Jardinn got comfortable in his chair. He spoke to Max Cohn.
“Anything new?”
Max grunted. “Not much—but you know what I went out to Glendale about.”
Cohn’s eyes shifted to the profile of Ernst Reiner, who was watching Jardinn closely. Jardinn nodded.
“Yes—a woman called up and said she could tell us something about Ernst Reiner,” he said quietly. “Did she?”
Reiner sat up stiffly, turned toward Cohn. Cohn blinked at Jardinn.
“No,” he said. “That was some sort of deal—I couldn’t locate the woman.”
Reiner smiled. Jardinn smiled, too, but he shook his head.
“Never mind that, Max,” he said. “What did she say?”
Cohn frowned at Jardinn. Reiner said in a dignified tone:
“Your assistant has just stated that there was no woman—he could not find her.”
Jardinn grinned. “Sure,” he agreed. “But we’re not playing that way, Mr. Reiner. Come on, Max—talk out.”
Cohn shrugged. “I think she’s a little off,” he said. “Her name’s Degonné—she’s got a French accent. She lives up in the hills on the outskirts of the town. The house is pretty bad, and she says she stays there alone. There isn’t much furniture in the place. She just thought we should know that Ernst Reiner threatened his brother, some months ago.”
Reiner got from his chair and swore sharply. He looked at Jardinn.
“That is a lie!” he said. “That is an attempt to frighten me, to procure money. That is blackmail. I will have her arrested—”
Jardinn said sharply: “Sit down, please, Mr. Reiner. All right, Max—what else?”
Cohn hunched himself forward in the chair and rolled his cigarette between thick lips.
“I couldn’t get much else out of her,” he said. “She says she isn’t well, and what she has to say might be dangerous for her. She wants to get away. She said she’d stay in the state. Five hundred dollars is what she wants. She was present, backstage of a theater in Paris, when Ernst Reiner threatened Hans Reiner. She knew the two men because they had been pointed out to her by the stage manager. One was a famous maestro, the other a great motion picture director. She was in charge of costumes—the play was a musical comedy. The two men were backstage to meet one of the female stars. That’s the substance of what I got, Ben.”
Reiner muttered in German. He clenched a fist, brought it down heavily on his fat right leg, just above the knee.
“She lies!” he state emphatically. “It is absurd. We will have her arrested.”
Jardinn frowned at the faded carpet of the office.
“What a story for the yellow press,” he breathed. “No, I don’t think we’d better have Madame Degonné arrested, Mr. Reiner.”
Reiner’s blood-streaked eyes widened. He said sharply:
“What, then, shall we do?”
Max Cohn was watching Jardinn with a puzzled expression in his eyes. He said slowly:
“As I told you, I think the woman’s off her head. She says she’s very nervous, hasn’t slept since she read about the murder. Neurotic, probably. Gets all worked up over every murder she reads too much about.”
Jardinn grinned. “Is that a professional opinion, Max?” he asked. “Or are you just using words?”
Ernst Reiner said in his accented tone, reaching for a slip of paper from the small table:
“It is preposterous! I shall not put up with this—”
He got the stub of a pencil from his pocket, scribbled something on the bit of paper. Jardinn said quietly:
“Go easy, Mr. Reiner. Better let me handle this. It doesn’t make much difference whether she’s crazy or mentally fine—not to the press. A story is a story.”
The director rose to his feet, glared down at Jardinn. He said in an angered voice:
“You wish to protect a woman who is attempting to blackmail me? She is after the money—the five hundred dollars. I will not agree.”
Jardinn said: “How long ago did you make a trip to Paris, Mr. Reiner?”
The director raised a trembling hand to his face, rubbed the palm and fingers over his flabby skin. He said thickly:
“It was perhaps four months ago—I made a hurried trip.”
Cohn whistled softly. Jardinn said:
“You went backstage at any theaters?”
Reiner walked around behind the chair in which he had been seated.
“Of course,” he said sharply. “Of course. It was a matter of business. It was a matter for the pictures.”
Jardinn said very quietly: “Was your brother in Paris at the time?”
There was a little silence. Reiner stood with his stubby fingered hands at his side. He kept his eyes narrowed on Jardinn’s.
“I saw him only for an hour, one evening,” he said. “He was off to London. I tell you, Jardinn, that this woman is a criminal.”
“Sure,” Jardinn agreed. “Where’d you see your brother?”
Reiner’s face was wh
ite. His mouth twisted; he drew himself erect.
“Backstage—at a theater,” he said in a shaken voice. “But I tell you, Jardinn, there was a reason.”
Jardinn nodded. “All right,” he agreed. “I don’t want to hear it. Better get me five hundred in cash, as early tomorrow as you can.”
The picture director raised his voice. He cried out fiercely:
“No—no! I will not!”
Cohn said. “Jeez, you better, Mr. Reiner. It’s a bad spot until we clear it up.”
Jardinn said: “You scribbled this woman’s name on that piece of paper. You’d better keep away from there, Mr. Reiner. The police aren’t killing themselves on this job, but the newspaper boys are working hard. If they get to this woman, by tagging you—”
He broke off, shrugged. Cohn said:
“They’ll pay her the five hundred quick enough.”
“Just like that,” Jardinn said, and snapped his fingers.
Reiner walked around and dropped heavily into the chair from which he had risen. He said in a thick voice:
“It is all—no good. It does not bring Hans back.”
Jardinn nodded. “It may keep the right person alive,” he said grimly. “You bring in the five hundred—we’ll get this woman away and watch her. When we need her we’ll dig her up.”
Reiner let his weary eyes meet Jardinn’s.
“Why do you not break her story down now?” he asked. “Suppose you are caught getting her away? The police know that I have retained you.”
“We won’t be caught,” Jardinn replied. “As for breaking her story down—suppose we fail to do it? Suppose she stands up under the strain, insists she heard you threaten your brother. It puts you in a bad spot. It messes the whole thing up. We want to get your brother’s killer or killers. We don’t want to have to spend our time fighting to clear you. She knows that—she’s not so crazy.”
Cohn said thickly: “Crazy like a fox.”
Ernst Reiner stared at Jardinn and spoke in a low voice.
“I will—get you the money.”
Jardinn nodded. “Good,” he said. “When you reached the shell, after the lights had come on again, you said: ‘Hans—what have they done to you?’ Why did you use those words?”
Reiner relaxed in the chair. He held his right hand below the level of his eyes, looked at it, steadied the shaking fingers.
“There was no reason,” he said slowly. “I felt that he was hurt, dead. I sensed it. I hardly knew what I was saying. It was instinct—saying that.”
Jardinn said suddenly, changing the subject:
“Did Maya Rand know the pilot, Carren, very well?”
Reiner’s eye held a stupid expression. He shook his head.
“I do not know this Carren,” he replied. “I do not know that Maya was acquainted with him. I have read about him. Why do you ask?”
Jardinn said: “Do you still think Frey is responsible for Hans Reiner’s murder?”
The director shivered as he used the last word. He said grimly:
“I think Howard Frey is a dangerous man. You know that. I came to you, even before Hans—”
He stopped. Jardinn looked at Max Cohn. Cohn said:
“It seems to me I saw a picture once—something about a girl who couldn’t make up her mind about three guys who were hot after her. There was a lot of singing and—”
“Never mind,” Jardinn cut in. He looked at Reiner and smiled.
“You don’t like the way I’m handling this job, Mr. Reiner,” he said. “It’s the best way I know. Because the police are yelling that I caused an important human to get himself quieted, don’t think I’m all wrong. That was a tough break. There may be some more of them.”
The director said slowly: “I do not know about these things. I have come to you. You do not seem to care about Howard Frey. The police are working on the bullets. They are at the Bowl much, I am told. They are seeking motives. You do not seem interested in such things. It is more as though you suspected me.”
Jardinn made a gesture of amusement. He chuckled.
“If the police are working one way—there is no use in repeating that work,” he said. “I hear what they are doing. It is undoubtedly good work. I am more interested in the events that occurred before the crime was committed—and in those acquainted with your brother.”
Reiner rose with an obvious effort. He said:
“I am in your hands. You have done good work in other instances. I’m tired—it is difficult for me to sleep. If I appear upset, you see there is sufficient reason. The money will arrive tomorrow.”
Jardinn rose. “It’ll be worth it,” he said simply. “I’ll get in touch with you if anything happens.”
Reiner said: “It is a terrible thing. A terrible thing.”
He went slowly from the inner office. Max Cohn went out with him. Jardinn heard him turning the key in the lock of the outer office door, after the director had departed. When Cohn came back there was a puzzled expression on his face. He sat down and waited for Jardinn to speak. A car engine hummed, on Hollywood Boulevard. When the sound of the engine had died away Jardinn said:
“That’s just a clever woman, out in Glendale. But we’ve got to keep her quiet. We don’t want her to get talking for a while.” He winked at Cohn.
Cohn said: “I didn’t figure he’d come through with the five hundred in such a hurry. You’re pretty slick, Bennie.”
Jardinn smiled. “I’ll handle it—when the five hundred gets here. Seen Irish around?”
Cohn shook his head. “She’s dropped out of sight,” he replied. “Maybe she left town.”
He slumped in the chair and started to whistle off key. He stopped and said half to himself.
“Frey—Ernst Reiner—how about this Rand gal, Ben?”
Jardinn lighted a cigarette and shrugged. He squashed the match, dropped it in the wastebasket.
“It’s hell to get anywhere—without a motive,” he muttered. “A lot of better men than myself have found that out before.”
Cohn said with his eyes half closed:
“I don’t think we’re working Frey hard enough. Reiner may be right.”
Jardinn nodded. “Max,” he said slowly, “I can’t get over Irish trying to cross us up. It’s hard to take. And I don’t think she got so much. Just a little to try and make it hard. I feel kind of sorry for her.”
Cohn swore. “You’re too damn sympathetic, Ben,” he replied. “She was dirty with us. She deserved what she got—maybe some more.”
Jardinn frowned. “Sure,” he agreed. “She was rating it. Hell—I hope she finds a hole for a crawl. She may need it.”
Cohn said musingly: “If you could get her in a cellar—with something that would scare her—make her tongue get loose—”
Jardinn closed his eyes. “That would only mess things up, Max,” he said softly. “Just mess things up, that’s all.”
2
He hadn’t been sleeping long. The phone bell pulled him out of it, insistently. He sat up, found the button of the small reading lamp on the table beside his bed. The wristwatch was beside the lamp—the hands showed it was a few minutes after four. He’d been in bed almost two hours. Rain-was tapping the windows of the Laurel Canyon house as he reached for the receiver. He said sleepily:
“Yes?”
Carol Torney’s voice came clearly; her words were hesitating, filled with fear.
“Bennie—I’ve been called up twice in the—last hour. You’d better—come over.”
He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed. Weariness was leaving him. He spoke stupidly.
“Called up—about what?”
She said: “I can’t talk—over the phone. You don’t want me—to do that. Uncle Laurie’s away—I’m alone in the house. You better come right over, Bennie!”
Jardinn swore softly. “Listen,” he told her, “I’ve only been sleeping a couple of hours. I’ve got to get more than that. What in hell’s the matter with you, Irish? Been d
rinking?”
Her voice was high pitched, almost shrill as she spoke. It was strange; Carol had always been cool enough, steady about things.
“Bennie—you come over here. For God’s sake, Bennie. I tell you I’ve been called twice—in the last hour.”
Jardinn said: “All right, Irish. You sit tight. I’ll rush things. Be over there in twenty minutes. If it’s something bad, get over to a neighbor’s—”
“Like hell I will,” she cut in. “I’m not going out. That’s what—they want. They called twice, I tell you. You come over—”
“All right,” he repeated. “Want to tell me anything—before I start?”
There was silence. Then, her voice low and hoarse, she said:
“God, Bennie—it isn’t you that’s—”
Her words died. He said impatiently:
“Listen, Irish—you’re acting up. I don’t get you. Who called you—and what did they say? Never mind talking over the wire—we’ll take the chance.”
She said: “I didn’t mean that, Bennie. I was just getting scared. You kicked me out—and I thought—”
Her voice died. She cried out, panic in her tone:
“You there, Bennie—you’re coming over, aren’t you? Listen, you’ve got to come over! Hear me—you’ve got to come! If they get me, Bennie—”
He said grimly: “Cut out using that name. I’ll be over as soon as I can get there. If you haven’t been drinking—take one. If you have been—take another. It’s raining like—”
She was talking incoherently. There was a sharp clicking of the receiver—he thought she had hung up.
“Irish—” he said sharply—“I’ll be right—”
Her voice was a long drawn whisper. It was one word expelled with all the horror he had ever heard in a human voice. He got the one word faintly:
“Frey!”
He said sharply: “Carol—Carol!”
There was no answer. He heard clicking sounds. Then faintly, he heard a man’s voice. It sounded like the voice of Howard Frey. It was hard, very distant. The words reached him slowly. They were spaced. It was almost a beat.
“You—dirty—little—”
There was a crashing sound. The line was dead. He called again and again, then shoved the hook of the receiver up and down. There was no immediate answer. The voice of an operator reached him after a few seconds. It was routine in tone.
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