Death in a Bowl

by Raoul Whitfield

  “Number, please.”

  Jardinn said: “I was cut off—”

  He checked himself. That was foolishness. Central’s voice said methodically:

  “What was the number you were calling?”

  He stood up. “Never mind,” he said.

  It took time. He couldn’t find the things he needed. When he got outside there was difficulty in getting the garage door opened. The car was inside—it seldom happened that way. The engine was cold. He was shivering as he drove down grade, sped the car along Hollywood Boulevard.

  It took him fifteen minutes to reach the section of town in which she lived. There were only three houses on the street, two on one side. The one the uncle rented was on the other. Jardinn braked the car down a hundred yards from the house. His Colt was in the right pocket of the light overcoat he had flung over his suit. He moved rapidly toward the house; there were no lights showing. The place looked like so many other homes at night—it drove suspicion inside of him. He thought grimly, as he reached the curb:

  If she tried to—pull me over here—lied—

  He went up the steps, walked across the porch, rang the bell. While he listened to it ring, hearing it faintly, he moved back from the door. He was thinking:

  That was Irish, all right. It sounded like Frey. Wire distorts voices. I can’t be sure.

  There was no sound from within the house. No lights flashed on. He rang again—twice. If Carol Torney had been afraid, she wouldn’t have waited in the darkness. The house would have been bright with light. She would have been waiting for him. Something had happened—inside.

  He got off the porch, went around to the side. Several blocks away a car was speeding toward the center of Hollywood. Laughter and shrill voices drifted back to him as the roar of the engine died. He tried to look through one of the side windows—but there was no light to give him background. He moved on to the rear door.

  It was closed, locked. He said to himself, grimly:

  “Got to—get inside.”

  It wasn’t difficult. It wasn’t the first lock he had picked. The screen door gave him more trouble than the lock of the other door; he was forced to cut the screening, shove up the hook. He had no flashlight.

  Inside the kitchen he stood motionless, listening. The dark had always bothered him; he was afraid. Conflicting thoughts filled his head; he had to fight down the desire to turn, go out. In the bungalow living room he could hear a clock ticking. It helped. It was a symbol of the commonplace.

  He wanted to go into the living room, through the tiny dinette, in the darkness. Light would make him a mark. But he wanted light. Carol’s fear-gripped voice was still sounding in his ears. It combined with the dark to make him uncertain. He fumbled for the light switch, snapped it. The kitchen was white with the glare.

  He called sharply: “Carol!”

  He waited long seconds. Then he got his Colt in his right hand, moved toward the living room. He knew the house, but he didn’t use the knowledge to any advantage. He walked with his body bent slightly forward, not on tiptoe. The kitchen light got into the dinette—some of it reached the living room. The bungalow was very small.

  When he switched on the living room light he said softly:

  “All right—all right.”

  The room was in perfect order. The telephone was on the little table beside the tinsel doll. The receiver was hanging in the hook. There were magazines on the divan—a compact and other woman objects were on the center table. He stood without moving, near the light switch, and searched the room with his eyes. He needed the sound of his voice, so he said: “All right—everything’s pretty—I’ve been a target—nobody here.”

  The rest he did swiftly, carefully. There was nothing wrong in the bedrooms. Carol’s clothes were in her closet—the brown dress she had worn when he had met her at the beach speakeasy was missing. Things were in fair order. The living room door had no inside bolt. He used a handkerchief, lifted the receiver of the phone. A voice said:

  “Number, please.”

  He hung up immediately, without speaking. There were few things that he touched—nothing with his fingers. When he was finished he switched off the lights, went out as he had come in. A concrete walk ran around the side of the house. He followed it, taking care not to step on the soft earth. It was raining hard.

  His shoes were not wet on the under portions; he went up on the porch, tried the front door. He had not done that before. It was locked. He moved from the bungalow, went to his car. There were no lights in the other two houses on the street. The rain made dripping sounds in the palms.

  He said in an unemotional tone:

  “She could have been—taken out.”

  He got in the car, drove around the block, turned to the left on Hollywood Boulevard. Frey lived in an apartment not far from Famous Studios; he turned to the left again before he reached Vine Street. He glanced at his wristwatch—it was loose against his skin. It was four-thirty-two, and he had received the call from Carol a few minutes after the hour. About thirty minutes had passed.

  The apartment building was a rather pretentious one; Jardinn parked the car before the entrance, went inside. A sleepy-eyed elevator man regarded him dully. Jardinn said:

  “Howard Frey in?”

  The man grinned. “You with him?” he said. “I just took him up.”

  Jardinn nodded. “Not with him—just a little behind him,” he said. “Is he sober?”

  They got inside the elevator. The man chuckled.

  “Sober and sore,” he replied. “He must have had a hard fall.”

  Jardinn nodded. He got a little smile on his face.

  “I tried to hold him up, but it didn’t work,” he said. “Hurt much?”

  The operator stopped the car, opened the door.

  “Cut over the right eye,” he said. “It’s 5D.”

  Jardinn nodded. He stood opposite the door of 5D as the elevator descended. He kept his right hand in the right pocket of his coat, buttoned the coat tightly, turned up the collar. He kept the smile on his face, rang the apartment bell.

  10

  DEATH AGAIN

  Frey was in dinner clothes; he held a handkerchief over his right eye. At intervals he took it away—there was a nasty cut running above the eyebrow. The skin was bruised, badly swollen. He sat on the gray divan of the apartment living room; Jardinn stood near the radio and grinned at him.

  “Better let me pour you a stiff one,” he suggested. “It’ll help.”

  Frey shook his head. “I haven’t got a thing in the place,” he said. “I wanted to cut the drinking until this business was over. Tonight I was getting crazy over the whole thing. Bonner was up again, shooting fool questions at me. And the damn reporters are here all the time. They’ve caught up to the fact that my brother served a prison term—it’s getting rotten. I had to get out. My friends were too damn sympathetic. And then some fool I didn’t know got funny. I hit him—he hit me—”

  He broke off. Jardinn said: “That isn’t a fist cut, is it?”

  The writer swore. “He knocked me down,” he said. “There was a table edge that got in the way. I nearly went out. But I’ll be all right—all set for the dicks again tomorrow.”

  He spoke bitterly; his eyes avoided Jardinn’s. There was a little silence, then the writer said:

  “What are you doing for me, Jardinn? Have you got any trace of the real criminal?”

  Jardinn shook his head. He moved away from the radio, sat in a chair opposite the divan. He turned his head slightly away from Frey.

  “Suppose you read that the pilot of the plane flew over the Bowl at about the time of the murder—” he started, but Frey nervously interrupted him.

  “At about the time! At exactly the time, Jardinn. You know that.”

  Jardinn smiled. “All right,” he agreed. “Anyway, he’s dead. Good friend of Maya Rand’s, you know.”

  Frey’s breath made a hissing sound as he sucked it in sharply. He got up from the divan a
bruptly.

  “Was he? I didn’t know it,” he said. “Did know he was killed in that crash, of course. That was a rotten break. He probably knew enough to clear me.”

  Jardinn said: “You haven’t been accused of anything yet—why get all nervous before anything tough breaks?”

  The writer stopped near the chair and frowned down at Jardinn:

  “I’ve told you why—it’s the reason I came to you,” he said. “If they get me in a cell I’ll never have a chance to make a case.”

  He moved around behind Jardinn. With his right-hand fingers Jardinn caught the material of the writer’s coat. He said sharply:

  “You won’t gain anything by lying,” and released his grip.

  Frey came around and stood in front of him. His face was white; there was a droop to his shoulders. He took the handkerchief away from the injured spot, stared down at Jardinn.

  “What do you mean by that?” he asked.

  Jardinn said quietly. “You haven’t told me all the truth, Frey,” he said. “Some of it’s been all right. Some of it hasn’t. You seem to be pretty sure that you’re going to be in a bad place—you have been, from the first time you came to me. The evidence I’ve got now doesn’t warrant an arrest—and I doubt if the police have stronger evidence against you. What is it you’re not telling me?”

  Frey said steadily: “I’m not holding back anything, Jardinn. What would I do that for—don’t I need help? They may not have me yet—but it won’t be long. I’m nearly going crazy, Jardinn.”

  Jardinn rose from the chair. “Maybe you’ve already gone crazy,” he said in a hard tone.

  Frey was staring at him, his eyes wide. He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, dabbed his injury with the handkerchief. He said:

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Jardinn. I don’t know why you came here at this hour. If you don’t believe me—”

  Jardinn said in a mild tone: “Ever read the script of Death Dance, Frey?”

  The writer braced himself by leaning against the center table. He swore shakily.

  “Read it? I wrote most of it, Jardinn. Hell—you know that.”

  Jardinn nodded. “Then why did you come to me and try to drag Maya Rand into this murder, because you heard her repeating words that were in your script?”

  Frey narrowed his eyes; lines creased his forehead. He said suddenly:

  “Good God! And I never thought of that—”

  He broke off, turned and walked toward the radio. Jardinn said grimly:

  “I hope you don’t mind my saying that you’re a damned liar, Frey.”

  The writer swung around. He came rapidly to Jardinn’s side. His face was splotched with red. He said in a voice that shook with rage:

  “I don’t take that, Jardinn. I don’t have to take that. After all, I’m hiring you—”

  Jardinn said in a nasty, low voice:

  “Sure—but you’re not buying me, Frey. It takes more than five hundred to do that.”

  The writer’s eyes met the dark ones of Ben Jardinn in a narrowed stare. He said in a steady enough tone:

  “I never thought of Maya using the words in the script. I’m not sure yet—”

  He broke off, muttered something that Jardinn didn’t get, as he turned away. Across the room he turned, faced Jardinn again.

  “You went to her, told her what I’d said she had said, on the patio—”

  “I’m running things the way I see fit,” Jardinn cut in. “Yes, I went to her. We’re not getting anywhere on this thing. The police are not getting anywhere. A motive is important. If I get that—things will move. You repeated words that involved Maya Rand. But you must have known those very words were in the script of the picture she’s making. It’s a sweet out for her.”

  Frey made an impatient gesture. “It might have been just a piece of luck—that there was a connection,” he said. “Or she might have been thinking the way she did—and expressed it in terms of the story. You do it—quote something to get it out of your system.”

  Jardinn smiled coldly. “You don’t even come close to believing such tripe as that,” he said.

  Frey moved toward a door that led into another room. He said wearily:

  “I’m all in—I can’t think straight. I want to get some iodine on this cut. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Jardinn nodded. After Frey left the room he moved silently to the chair on which the writer’s coat had been flung. It was mud covered—a sleeve was torn. His hat lay on the carpet near the chair. A side of it was crushed. It was wet, mud stained. Jardinn went across the room and faced the doorway through which Frey had made his exit. When the writer came back—red streaked across his forehead—he said quietly:

  “I don’t think you went broke spending money on Maya Rand—the check stubs don’t read that way. What did you do with the money?”

  Frey’s eyes showed fear—it was gone instantly. The writer laughed shakily:

  “You can’t hand me that—the bank wouldn’t let you see my stubs. I did spend money on Maya—she lies when she says I didn’t.”

  Jardinn got his cigarette pack from a pocket.

  “I asked you to be right with me, Frey,” he said in a cold voice. “By God, you’d better be. I said the bank check stubs didn’t read that way—and I mean it.”

  Frey raised his voice. “What you trying to do—send me up for a kill I don’t know anything about? Reiner bought you out—he had the most money. You’re not trying to help me—you’re trying to get me!”

  Jardinn said: “I’m going to get the killer of Hans Reiner, Frey. I told you I didn’t think you did the job. That still goes. But you’ve lied to me.”

  Frey went over close to the divan, dropped down on it. He sat stiffly for a few seconds, then his head went down into his hands. He rocked from side to side, cursing steadily in a monotone. He put feeling into the words.

  Jardinn went over and stood several feet from him. He said:

  “What happened tonight, Frey? Where’ve you been? What did you do?”

  The writer paid no attention to him. He stopped swearing, but he kept his long-fingered hands covering his face. His head was bent forward.

  Jardinn said: “How about Carol Torney?”

  Frey took his hands away from his face. He stared stupidly at Jardinn. The muscles of his mouth moved, but no words came. He leaned back on the divan, smiled. It was an almost child-like smile.

  “Carol Torney—I don’t know her, Jardinn. How does—she come in?”

  Jardinn shook his head. He didn’t smile. He said softly:

  “I don’t know yet. But I thought maybe you’d met her. I thought maybe you were at her place this morning—say around four.”

  Frey kept the child-like smile playing around his lips. He said very quietly:

  “I don’t know her. I wasn’t at her house at four this morning. What happened—did someone cut her throat? Am I supposed to have done it? What in hell’s it all about?”

  Jardinn said: “All right, we’ll forget Tomey. I just thought you might have known her, might have been with her. Around four, say. You weren’t. You got in a scrap somewhere and got your head hurt. I’m sorry, Frey.”

  Frey’s smile lost some of its child-like quality. His voice got hard.

  “Sorry I haven’t got more coin for you,” he said. “Sorry you’ve got to turn me loose—and maybe string with the police. Reiner got there first—and he had more money—”

  Jardinn interrupted: “Never mind the heroics,” he said. “Don’t get all self-sympathetic before anything happens.”

  “It’ll happen, all right,” Frey said bitterly. “I can see it coming.”

  Jardinn said: “How about Carren—could he see it coming?”

  Frey got up from the divan and took a step toward Jardinn. His lean face was twisted. His tongue was working over his lips.

  “Now you get out of here, Jardinn!” he mouthed. “You get out of here! I’m through with you, understand? You can’t do t
his with me. I’ve been through enough in the last three days. You get out of here—and stay out. I don’t want you anymore—you’re just a cheap dick—”

  Jardinn reached out his left hand and gripped Frey by the shirt. He pulled him in close, said grimly:

  “What did you do with Carol Torney, Frey? Better be good.”

  Frey swore at him and started to bring up his left arm. Jardinn hit with his right fist—he hit hard. Frey cried out, half turned and staggered away from him. He gritted:

  “You—bastard!”

  Jardinn got both hands around his shoulders as he fell on the divan. He pulled him up close again. He knocked his hands away from his face. His fist had ripped open the cut over Frey’s right eye—it looked bad.

  Frey said weakly: “You dirty, cheap dick—”

  Jardinn hit him again, in the same place. Frey twisted clear and swung wildly. He was cursing in a half whisper. Jardinn caught him by the throat, tightened his grip and dragged him to the divan. He said in a low tone:

  “You’ve lied—from the start. The whole pack of you. There’s just one way to get something out of you—”

  The phone bell rang. Frey was struggling in the grip of Jardinn’s fingers. Jardinn said:

  “You didn’t hire me—you were working me for protection. Carren squealed on you, before he went up in that ship—”

  He relaxed his grip; Frey twisted free. He fumbled for his throat, taking deep breaths of air. His face was a mask of red. Jardinn shoved himself up from the divan, stood looking down at the writer. The phone bell kept on ringing. Frey said weakly:

  “I don’t know—Carren. I don’t know—this woman—Torney. I’ll get you for this, Jardinn. I’ll get you, sure as—”

  Jardinn said: “All right—if you don’t know Carol Torney—they’ve framed you. That’s just as bad. Answer that phone.”

  The doorbell rang. Frey said in a voice that held fear:

  “Don’t open—that door!”

  Jardinn laughed at him. He turned his back, walked to the door, opened it. Phaley stood in the hall, grinning. Beside him was an officer in uniform.