Max said grimly: “He had nerve—after Maya had got her out of the place.”
Jardinn pulled on his cigarette, and waved smoke away from his face with his right hand.
“It meant money,” he replied. “Maya can’t last much longer. It isn’t that they have to burn her up on the set—but she’s had her time. Ernst was after a new face. To hell with the old one. Anyway, he came back without her. She played in London, took too much veronal one night, and went out. It happened that Hans Reiner was in London at the time—and he’d spent the evening with her. He was questioned and released. Funny you didn’t get that in the morgue stuff, Max.”
Cohn frowned. “They haven’t got it,” he said. “Randling doesn’t mean anything to the Los Angeles papers. Chances are Hans Reiner’s name didn’t show much. They might not have connected him with Ernst.”
Jardinn nodded. “That’s right—they slip up a lot on what they clip. Well, I gave the story to Reiner. He was surprised, but when I got all through he gave me the right answer: What of it?”
Cohn slapped the sole of his right shoe against the floor and swore.
“It looks tough for Frey,” he said. “But where does he fit in—on this deal?”
Jardinn said: “If Ernst Reiner had tried to bring Ollie back, or had succeeded—and if he had been murdered—I could see a nice motive.”
Cohn kept slapping leather against office floor.
“Frey was close with Maya,” he said. “If she got the idea that Hans Reiner had something to do with the veronal dose—”
Jardinn said: “Yeah, I can see that, too. And Frey was hating Ernst hard. It was a chance to hurt him—by. shooting out Hans. But he didn’t do the job himself.”
Cohn said: “Why not go down and shoot the stuff at Frey? He might come through.”
Jardinn shook his head. “We haven’t got him tight enough. What the police don’t know won’t hurt anything. And I want to give Ernst time enough to reach Maya. She may get scared.”
Cohn whistled off key. “Ollie Rand!” he breathed. “With Maya keeping her clear. And the bulls haven’t picked up the connection.”
Jardinn said: “It was a quiet affair. They didn’t get the name tie-up. I’ve had the sister tagged for years. Filed away. Even at that, I almost missed it.”
“You held back on me, Ben,” Max said. “How long have you known it?”
Jardinn grinned. “Since the start of things, Max,” he replied. “And I’m not sure yet that it means anything.”
Cohn stood up. “Just the same,” he said, “you should have put me wise.”
Jardinn swore at him. “Where the hell do you get off—telling me what I should do?” he asked. “All right, supposing you’d known this right after Hans Reiner was murdered—what would you have done differently?”
Cohn got a foolish smile on his face. He spread his hands. Jardinn took a sheet of paper from his desk, got a pencil from his pocket. He said:
“Pull a chair up here.”
When Cohn was beside him he wrote:
Ernst Reiner was afraid of Howard Frey. Or he was framing Frey. Howard Frey was wise to the fact that Reiner was after him. Ernst Reiner came to me, but he wasn’t sure of me. Hans Reiner was murdered in the Bowl. Carol Torney played with my wristwatch. Ernst Reiner says he didn’t succeed in buying her, but that’s probably a lie. Maya Rand had sent her younger sister to Paris. Ernst and Hans Reiner had quarreled about her. Ernst wanted to bring her back to Hollywood. In London she took an overdose of veronal and died. Hans Reiner had been with her a few hours before. Maya Rand, after Hans Reiner’s murder, worked a girl named Doll Crissy into the agency, to see what we were doing. Carol Torney was knifed to death and brought to my house. That was to make it tough for me.
He stopped scrawling. Cohn said: “Phaley’s still worried about you—they may pull you down to the station anytime.”
Jardinn nodded, smiling a little. He used the pencil again:
Carren, pilot of the plane used in the Bowl kill, got his wind up and took off in a ship with one engine not working—
He looked at Cohn. Cohn nodded. He said in a low tone:
“Can’t get a thing on Carren. Someone used him, and they were after him too hard. He got scared, something snapped in his head. He tried to get away. The Bureau of Commerce inspector says the plane was all right inside. But she had a bad engine and had been grounded. Carren just lost his nerve and got foolish.”
Jardinn nodded: “Or wise,” he said grimly. He scrawled again:
Maya doesn’t seem to know Carren. She lies to protect Frey. Frey yelps he’s being framed by Reiner. Reiner is sure Frey did the Bowl kill. Police getting nowhere on either murder. Point—has the suicide of Olive Rand in London anything to do with Hans Reiner’s murder here? Point—why was Reiner murdered in such a spectacular manner? Point—what was it that Carol Torney knew and because of the knowledge was killed? Point—is the theory of two rifle shots, one at each side of the Bowl, satisfactory? Point—
Jardinn swore and sat back in his chair. Cohn picked up the paper and read what he had written very slowly. He put it down.
“One rifle at each side of the Bowl—that’s the way it was done,” he said. “Range—about two hundred yards. Maxim silencers to kill the flash. A mob, probably, hemming the riflemen in—and the plane to kill the sound.”
Jardinn said nothing. Cohn said slowly:
“I’ll tell you, Ben—I think Howard Frey did the job. He did it this way because he was out in the open, had a nice alibi. And he hates Ernst Reiner. He saw Hans Reiner knocked off the conductor’s platform by lead—and he knew that Ernst would see it. He thought he had something like a perfect crime. Maybe the death of Maya’s sister had something to do with it—maybe not. Maybe Irish had something—and was holding out for a big price. Frey couldn’t pay her—he was almost broke. Irish was clever. So he got her out of the way and tried to stop you at the same time. But he’d come to you first. Another alibi.”
Jardinn nodded. He studied the writing he had scrawled on the paper, then tore it into little bits. He put the bits in a pocket of his suit. Cohn said grimly:
“Irish crossed us, Ben. She got in too deep—and was done in. It’s too goddam bad, because she was a good kid, and we’d have got wise to her, anyway. I think you’re wrong about Frey—he’ll break pretty soon. Maya Rand may not, but Frey will. He’s our man.”
Jardinn narrowed his eyes and rubbed his lips with the back of his right hand. Cohn said:
“If they exonerated Hans Reiner, over in London, they didn’t have anything on him. But maybe this Olive Rand wrote Maya letters that meant something. Frey was pretty crazy about Maya. He’d have done a lot for her. If Maya thought that Hans Reiner was responsible for her sister’s death—”
Jardinn said, frowning: “Hell—Maya sent her away. She’s pretty hard, Max. She wouldn’t have sent—”
The phone bell stopped him. He lifted the receiver, listened, said:
“Yeah, Pat—I’m right in the office. Got anything?”
Phaley said: “Frey says you’re a dirty liar, and that you and Reiner are framing him. He says you were hired by Reiner to do that. He says Reiner pulled the job on his brother, and if you two don’t come down here in a half hour he’s going to spill something that’ll hurt.”
Jardinn swore into the mouthpiece. “We’ll stay away and let him spill it,” he said. “Did you find the knife he used on Irish, Pat?”
Phaley said they hadn’t, but that there were a lot of bulls working on the Torney murder. He said he thought Jardinn had better come down after a while.
Jardinn grinned. “Sure,” he agreed. “But we’ll let him spill it first, Pat.”
When he hung up Cohn said: “What’s he got—the sister stuff?”
Jardinn shrugged. “Probably. And it’ll mix Ernst Reiner up. And Maya. He’s not so dumb, Max.”
Cohn grunted. “Still want me to work the Carren angle?” he asked. “It’s tough—I doubt if he had a
ny passengers. No books at the field—everything was sloppy out there. He lived alone, and the people at the house didn’t know him well. Talked once or twice about getting money for a transatlantic flight. At the field, too.”
Jardinn said: “Someone gave him money—enough to make that flight. But he couldn’t get clear. No, let him go. See what you can do with the Frey party stuff. Check the police on what happened at the party—and what happened after, before I ran into Frey, just after he’d reached his apartment. I’m going to get some sleep—and then go down and see what Frey let loose. If I don’t see you before, I’ll drop in here about nine tonight. Be around, Max.”
Cohn nodded, and Jardinn got up and stretched. He said:
“I’m tired as hell.”
He went out and over to the Christie Hotel. He left a call for five o’clock and told the clerk to be sure they woke him. He fell asleep almost the second he hit the bed. He was so tired he didn’t have the dream in which he was falling over the cliff.
2
Maya Rand looked bad. Her eyes had a weary expression, and there were little lines around the corners of her mouth. She smiled at Jardinn and extended her left hand. He took it and said:
“It’s getting you, Maya. You’d do much better if you stopped lying to me.”
She got angry. “I haven’t lied to you,” she said, and went over to the divan near the fireplace.
It had got colder—there was a small fire putting a glow in the room. It was almost six o’clock. Jardinn said:
“Yes, you have. Frey has done some talking. He’s trying to drag Ernst Reiner into the thing.”
Her slender body was taut; she raised fingers to her lips, said in a muffled voice:
“What did—he say?”
Jardinn smiled gently. He went across the room and stood looking down at her.
“Just about what I told Reiner a few hours ago—and what he told you I knew. About your sister and Hans Reiner. Only he added something. You have letters from Olive.”
Her face was a pale mask. She widened her eyes and said:
“Of course, Ben. She wrote me from abroad.”
Jardinn nodded. “She wrote you that Hans and Ernst Reiner had quarreled about her—that Ernst wanted her to come to the States, to Hollywood. She wrote that he had said he would make her a star—and that she wanted to return. She disliked her other work. And then she wrote you again—”
Maya Rand said: “No—no—Howard couldn’t have told—”
She stopped. Jardinn’s face was serious.
“He did tell,” he said simply. “She wrote you that Hans Reiner had told her the truth—that you didn’t want her to return, that you were keeping her away. That you hated her—”
Maya Rand cried out, covered her face with white hands. When she took them away there was a hard expression in her eyes. Her lips were pressed into a red, thin line.
Jardinn said: “Hans Reiner wanted her to hate you—he wanted her voice for the concert stage. And perhaps he wanted something else, too. He had argued with his brother; he said Hollywood was a cheap thing for Olive. He accused Ernst Reiner of merely wanting her for money purposes. And it was then that the director told Hans the truth—in order to show him that he wanted Olive for the screen because she was an artist, a fine actress. He wanted her in spite of that fact that you had sent her away, that you were afraid of her beauty, ability. He told Hans that because he knew his brother. He knew Hans would tell your sister—and he thought she would defy you, come to Hollywood. He was right—Hans Reiner did tell your sister the truth. But he was wrong—she didn’t come to Hollywood.”
Maya Rand looked at him with dull, hurt eyes. She said, after a long silence, in a voice that was barely a whisper:
“Well?”
Jardinn shrugged. “She knew that you hadn’t given her things because you loved her. You were trying to keep her away. You were afraid of her, hated her. So she wrote you that she knew—and a few days later she took veronal—and died. An accident.”
Maya Rand said slowly, dully:
“It was—an accident. She couldn’t sleep. She was high-strung, sensitive. I am the same way.”
Jardinn nodded. “Well, that’s what Frey has told. He knew—you showed him the letters. That’s all he has told. He’s been drinking heavily for months—his heart is bad. He’s had an attack, and the doctor won’t let them question him more—not just now. They haven’t let him sleep—he’s sleeping now. But when they wake him—”
Maya said in a hard tone: “What he said is true. But the publicity—”
Jardinn smiled grimly. “Don’t be foolish, Maya. Publicity is a small thing. Why do you think Frey told that?”
She closed her eyes, shook her head. A log crackled in the fire and sent sparks to the rug. Jardinn walked over and kicked them away.
“You hated Hans Reiner, when you got that letter from your sister. Because you didn’t really hate your sister. You were doing things for her—but you wanted to keep her away. You hated Hans Reiner for telling Olive the truth. That’s what Frey says. You are very wealthy, Maya. You hated Hans Reiner—and you hated Ernst Reiner, because he told his brother a truth that could hurt your sister.”
Her eyes were little slits looking darkly into his. She said weakly:
“Well?”
Jardinn smiled, shrugged. “Well, the police are very liable to reason that you had a nice chance, Maya. Your money could make that chance. You had a motive. Hans Reiner was killed, while his brother looked down at him. And perhaps that sight of his brother dying—perhaps that will yet break Ernst Reiner. Certainly he will never forget it.”
There was a silence. Maya Rand sat stiffly on the divan. She said tonelessly:
“Howard Frey tells a truth—and I am to be suspected of the murder of Hans Reiner.”
Jardinn frowned. “I think it can safely be said you had a motive,” he stated. “Maya—why did you faint when I told you Carren had crashed and was dead?”
She lifted a hand weakly in defense. Jardinn spoke harshly.
“It was Carren’s amibiton to make a transatlantic flight. Did you promise to back him?”
Fear showed in her eyes. She cried out:
“Oh, stop it—please! I had nothing to do with the murder in the Bowl! I swear to you I hadn’t. Nothing, nothing!”
Jardinn made a wide gesture with his hands.
“I think you did, Maya,” he said. “But I don’t think you planned it. That won’t help you any—”
She said with rage in her voice: “Ernst Reiner did not love his brother! He said again and again that he loved him. But he did not. He hated him! He was jealous, just as I was jealous with Olive. Ernst hated Hans that night—the night of the concert. You could feel it. Hans was in the spotlight.”
Jardinn half closed his eyes. “Dog eat dog,” he said slowly. “Merry-go-round. Frey loved you, in his manner, Maya. He loved you until things got too tough. While he loved you he did things for you. That makes three. Maya Rand, Ernst Reiner—Howard Frey. All hating the man who died in the Bowl.”
Maya shivered. She rose weakly and went nearer the fire, holding her arms outstretched toward the small flames.
Jardinn said: “Max Cohn tells me that Carren talked of flying the Atlantic. He hadn’t much money. I don’t think he knew why he flew over the Bowl the night of the murder. He only knew that he was to fly at a certain altitude, very low—and reach the spot at an exact minute. Later, when he learned what had happened, he couldn’t stand the strain. He took off in a ship that was grounded—and crashed. He was trapped—and I think that means he was handled so cleverly he saw no way out. What he had to tell he knew the police would not believe.”
Maya Rand turned and faced him. She looked older than she had minutes ago, more tired. She spoke in a shaken voice.
“I gave Howard Frey five thousand dollars. I wanted to hurt Hans Reiner. God! how I wanted to hurt him. But not to kill him, Ben. I swear to that. I had the idea one night, when a plane flew
low over the house here. A big plane. There was a party and the violinist, Livitski, was playing. He went into a rage—there was so much noise. I told Frey to hire the pilot of a plane with three engines—and to have him fly very low over the Bowl, each night that Hans Reiner conducted. It was petty, cheap—but don’t you see? I wanted to humiliate him, hurt him. I wanted to smash his music. I gave Frey the money—that much because I knew each night it would be more difficult for the plane to fly over. I wanted to be sure.”
She checked herself, turned toward the fire again. Jardinn said:
“You damn—little fool.”
She went over to the divan and threw herself on it, sobbing. The sounds she made were not pretty. She said in a choked voice:
“Howard—must have—gone crazy!”
Jardinn lighted a cigarette. He shook his head.
“God help you—if he tells the bulls that,” he muttered. “Maya—I think you’re telling the truth. But you’re in a bad spot—a terribly bad spot. When Frey came to me and told me he’d heard you using words about ‘getting to him through his brother’ he dragged you directly into the case. Give me the truth on that—it may help you.”
She turned her head toward him, said brokenly:
“That was—in the script—of Death Dance. You know that, Ben. He knew it. Perhaps he didn’t remember it—perhaps he thought it would hurt me, to tell you. I wasn’t thinking of Ernst or Hans Reiner when I spoke the words. Hans Reiner had had a very formal, cold talk with me. He had tried to tell me that he had nothing to do with Olive’s death. I said that I understood. He had been gone almost an hour—I was pacing back and forth in the patio and rehearsing my next scene. The instant I spoke the words the irony of them struck me. I checked myself. But Howard had heard them. He repeated them to you—and I think he knew at the time they were in the script. I think he remembered it.”
Jardinn said: “All right, but why did he turn on you? Why did he put you in that position?”
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