Death Out of Focus

by Gault, William Campbell

  The picture must be saved. Hart Jameson was dead; nothing could help him now.

  In the breakfast room Dave was telling Marcia, “… And one Texan stayed in but the other backed out. Uncle Harry has more than half the money he needs, though.”

  Marcia asked coolly, “Would the insurance on Hart Jameson make up the rest?”

  Steve glared at his wife. Dave Sidney looked uncomfortable.

  Marcia said, “I’m sorry, Dave.” She met Steve’s glare defiantly.

  Steve said, “There’s a detective coming over to see me. A Sergeant Morrow — from Homicide.”

  Nobody said anything for seconds. Then Dave said lamely, “I’d better go. I’ll see you tomorrow, I suppose, Steve.”

  Marcia went to the door with him as Steve sat down and poured himself a cup of coffee. How much of his dialogue with Hart Jameson should he repeat to Sergeant Morrow? How much of it had that girl in the other room overheard?

  Jameson had as much as admitted that the rumor was true. But when he had left Jameson this evening, Steve had felt sure he had convinced the youth the whole scheme was absurd and dangerous.

  Tonight’s accident might have been a catastrophic coincidence. But if he told Sergeant Morrow about their dialogue …?

  He heard the front door close and then Marcia came back to the breakfast room. “I think I’ll go to bed. I think you’ve made it plain that you won’t need me tonight.”

  He looked at her dully. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Perhaps. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

  He didn’t look at her. He sipped his coffee. For a moment, she stood in the doorway, staring at him. He wanted to look up, to ask her to stay. But he didn’t.

  She turned and left him.

  In his mind Steve damned Harry Bergdahl and his financial shenanigans. In his mind, he framed words for Sergeant Morrow. And he realized he had already made his moral decision when he had told Bergdahl that they hadn’t needed Jameson in the early shooting.

  Mortgages and Magnin’s and the new Bentley … The picture must be saved.

  Sergeant Morrow was a bony man with gray hair and a weary horse’s face. A shorter, stockier man was with him, a Detective Sommers.

  Steve said, “I was just having some coffee. I can imagine both of you gentlemen could use a cup about now.”

  Morrow looked at Sommers and Sommers nodded. They all went into the breakfast room. The officers sat where they would be facing Steve.

  As he poured Morrow’s coffee, Steve said, “I talked with Hart Jameson earlier this evening. He had been drinking then.”

  “On the phone?” Morrow asked.

  Steve shook his head. “I went to see him. I — read about that bar brawl he’d been in and I thought a little advice wouldn’t be amiss.”

  Morrow asked, “Was he alone?”

  Steve frowned. “I couldn’t swear in court that he wasn’t. But I heard him talking to a woman before I rang his bell and I’m sure she was in another room all the time I was there.”

  “What time was this?”

  “I got there at eight-thirty. I stayed about fifteen minutes.”

  Morrow sipped his coffee. Sommers sipped his coffee. Steve said, “I get the impression Jameson’s death isn’t considered accidental. Is there a suspicion of murder?”

  Morrow said dryly, “When a quarter of a million dollars is involved, there’s always a suspicion of murder.” He looked at Steve bleakly. “Wouldn’t that make sense to you?”

  Steve didn’t answer. His mouth was dry. Even then he thought only of the picture.

  Sommers said, “You can be damned sure there’ll be an insurance dick camped in your hair for a while. If you’ve got anything that might help us, now would be a real bright time to speak up.”

  “There’s nothing I can think of,” Steve said quietly. “Absolutely nothing.”

  They talked for only a few minutes after that. Both detectives finished their coffee and stood up. Morrow said, “We’ve got a full night ahead of us. We’ll be back tomorrow, Mr. Leander.”

  “I’ll be on location in Santa Barbara all day,” Steve said.

  “Why?” Morrow asked. “You won’t be going ahead with the picture until you get a new star, will you?”

  “We’ll be going ahead with the picture,” Steve answered. “We can always get another actor.”

  Morrow paused for a moment before saying, “We’ll keep in touch with you. Good night.”

  Steve went to the door with them. After he closed it, he waited until he had heard their car pulling away. Then he went into the bedroom. Marcia was asleep or feigning sleep. He didn’t disturb her.

  His lies didn’t seem to affect his own sleep; he dropped off as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  He was at the breakfast table when Bergdahl phoned in the morning. Harry said, “I’ve had agents on my neck since the morning paper came out. Goddamned vultures …! What do you think of Tom Leslie for Jameson’s part?”

  “I think we’d be lucky to get him. Do I go to Santa Barbara today?”

  “Why not?”

  Steve said nothing.

  Harry asked, “How long did the law stay last night?”

  “Only long enough for a cup of coffee. I have a feeling that the insurance investigators are going to give it more time than that.”

  “Why …? Jesus, the punk had a record of drunken driving. And a criminal record, too.”

  Again Steve said nothing.

  Bergdahl asked sharply, “Is there something on your mind, Steve? What’s on your mind?”

  “Hart Jameson, of course. He had a tendency to brag, Harry.”

  “I heard about that. So all punks brag. Cripes, man, you don’t think I killed the kid, do you?”

  “I’m wondering what the police will think.”

  “Think, think, think …! Who cares what anybody thinks? Proof — that’s what the judge listens to.” Harry lowered his voice. “Listen, you worry about the picture. That’s enough to worry about. I’ll worry about the money. Okay, Steve?”

  “Fair enough,” Steve said. “Are we agreed on Tom Leslie for the part?”

  “I’ll let you know. I won’t sign anybody until I let you know. Now, remember, all you think about is the picture. You forget about everything else, okay?”

  “Okay, Harry. Good luck.”

  “Yeh. Oh, yeh. Good-bye.”

  Steve came back to the breakfast table and the Times account of the Jameson tragedy, complete with pictures. There was a view of the cliff over which the Jaguar had tumbled and a picture of the battered car lying on its side on the Coast Highway.

  It was early and Marcia was still in bed. He ate alone. He read that an autopsy was planned and that the police were searching for two people: the girl who was reported to have been with Jameson before the accident and an unidentified man who had been seen in the exclusive area on top of the bluff from which the car had fallen.

  There was no reason given why an unidentified man should not be in the area. Steve assumed the police had more reason than his presence to be suspicious of him. The police weren’t likely to reveal all of their information to the newspapers.

  None of it was his business, he told himself firmly. He had a picture to make. He had Hart Jameson’s part to cast and Laura Spain’s jitters to look forward to. Laura had voiced that rumor only fourteen hours ago. And now Hart Jameson was dead. If they could get Tom Leslie for the part …

  Before leaving to pick up Laura, he went into the bedroom to see if Marcia was awake. She wasn’t. She was lying on her back, her eyes closed, both hands clenched at her sides.

  He experienced a moment of unreasonable fright before he saw that she was breathing. He went out quietly.

  Laura was waiting out at the curb when Steve drove up. Her face was drawn and she had the morning Times under her arm.

  As she got into the car, she said, “I’ve had the acid test. I have never in my life wanted a drink more. But I didn’t take it.”

/>   “Good girl,” Steve said warmly. “Let’s not think about it. It’s really Harry Bergdahl’s headache, isn’t it? It’s none of our business.”

  Her voice was tight. “It’s not our business that a man is dead? After what I told you? We should have talked to Jameson.”

  “I did,” Steve told her. “Last night. And I’m sure he had no intention of rolling his car over that cliff. I’m sure I convinced him he should show up for the picture.”

  Steve had to keep his eyes on the traffic but he could sense that Laura was staring at him. Finally she whispered, “Steve, could it have been murder?”

  He nodded. “Two men from Homicide were over to my house last night. Incidentally, I didn’t tell them about that rumor you told me. And you had better forget it.”

  “Why …? If it isn’t murder, why?”

  “Because if it wasn’t murder, the insurance company could still claim collusion. And then there might not be a picture.”

  Silence. He came to a break in the traffic and stole a glance at Laura. She was staring straight ahead, her face rigid.

  “We’re not the police,” Steve reminded her gently. “And Hart Jameson is dead. Nothing can bring him back.”

  Laura was silent for blocks. And then she said hoarsely, “I wish I weren’t so goddamned broke!”

  SIX

  It was a bad day. Laura was jittery and the others were wooden. It was a day of almost completely wasted film. Steve fought his irritation and tried to think of nothing but the picture. He was not successful. He was a man with a conscience.

  Laura had voiced a rumor and Jameson had verified it. And he had withheld that information from the police. No matter how he tried to rationalize it, that had been morally, if not legally, wrong. Dave Sidney had argued in support of his silence, but Dave had admitted he took a light view of the morality of money.

  Involved financial manipulations had always been an accepted part of the picture business. Since the advent of confiscatory income taxes, those manipulations had ventured farther and farther from the true intent of the Federal law. So far as he knew, however, they had never before ventured into the realm of murder.

  He told himself that he couldn’t be sure it was murder. The police would decide that. They had experts whose job it was to decide that definitely. And if they should discover it wasn’t murder, there would be no moral problem for him to solve.

  The script girl rode home with them. He and Laura carefully avoided any discussion of Hart Jameson’s death.

  He dropped Laura first, and told her, “It was a bad day. Tomorrow will be better.”

  She patted his hand. “I was abominable. It won’t happen again, I promise you.”

  As they drove on, the script girl said, “I wonder who’ll take Hart Jameson’s part? He’s going to be difficult to replace, isn’t he?”

  “Very,” Steve agreed. “Mr. Bergdahl is working on that now.”

  And what else, he wondered, was Mr. Bergdahl working on now? On his alibi perhaps? He hadn’t seen a paper since this morning’s Times. By now the wet-eyed cinema columnists had undoubtedly taken over and the public would be deluged with another tidal wave of bathos. The “exciting newcomer” was dead, dead, dead.

  A cerise Cadillac convertible was parked in his driveway, and he tried to remember which of his or Marcia’s friends drove a car like that.

  It was Harry’s car. He was sitting out on the sundeck, a drink in his hand. Marcia sat nearby in a terry-cloth robe over her swim suit.

  Steve went over to kiss her and she turned her cheek.

  Harry said, “Some kiss. If Dotty tried that, I’d throw her into the pool.”

  Steve took a deep breath and turned to face Bergdahl. “I suppose the columnists are pulling all the stops.”

  Bergdahl shrugged. “I only read the financial page. I can get Leslie for the lead. I can get him pretty cheap, too. Okay?”

  “Fine,” Steve said. “I wasted your money today, Harry.”

  Bergdahl shrugged again. “That figured. Did Laura show up sober?”

  Steve nodded and went over to mix a drink. With his back to Harry, he asked, “Has Sergeant Morrow been around?”

  “No. There’s a real nasty slob nosing around for the insurance company, though. Polack bastard named Tomkevic. He’s got a nasty mind, Steve. Keep your temper under control.”

  Steve turned to find Harry looking at him meaningfully. He said, “I haven’t any temper left. I didn’t even have the gumption to horsewhip that cast today.”

  “It’s the first bad day,” Harry said soothingly. “Don’t fret, Steve.” He looked at Marcia and away. He sipped his drink.

  Marcia murmured, “Excuse me!” She rose and went down the steps to the pool.

  Harry inclined his head. “What’s with her?”

  “I guess she’s annoyed with me. She thinks I’m keeping some deep, dark secret from her.”

  “Are you?”

  Steve shook his head.

  Harry said quietly, “Dave told me about the talk you had with Jameson. Did you tell Marcia about that, too?” Steve shook his head again.

  “Smart boy,” Harry said. “Women — they can’t keep nothing to themselves.” Steve sipped his drink.

  Harry finished his and expelled his breath. He stared at Steve steadily. “For Christ’s sake, you don’t think I killed him, do you?”

  Steve said evenly, “Of course not. It was an accident, wasn’t it? Have the police decided?”

  “I think they’re willing to write it off as an accident, but that Polack Tomkevic sure as hell ain’t about to. You watch out for him, Steve.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Steve promised. “Will Leslie be ready tomorrow?”

  “I’ll have him there.” Harry stood up. “And Dave will ride with you.” He studied Steve thoughtfully. “Have you ever decided who your real friends are, Steve?”

  Steve smiled. “Mmmm-hmmm. People who don’t interfere.”

  He went to the door with Harry and then came to watch Marcia splashing in the pool. She was blithely ignoring him. He started down the steps to the pool when the housekeeper came out to tell him a Mr. Tomkevic was waiting to see him.

  The pressure mounted in Steve’s chest. He said, “I’ll see him out here.”

  He was mixing a drink when the brown-eyed, soft-voiced man came out to the sundeck.

  Steve indicated a chair and asked, “Drink, Mr. Tomkevic?”

  “No, thanks. My first trip here doesn’t seem quite as silly now as it did to you then, does it?” Steve shrugged.

  Tomkevic sat down and stared at Steve. Then, “I suppose you’re about to have dinner. I’ll try to be brief.”

  He went on then, to explain about the accident. Jameson’s car had gone over the bluff from an empty lot, and it had to bump across an extremely rough stretch of ground in order to reach the edge from which it fell.

  “He was probably drunk,” Steve explained.

  “It’s been established that he’d been drinking. And drunken drivers have accidents. But not accidents like this. It would have required a rather high degree of rationality simply to keep the engine running across that field. You must remember there was no automatic transmission in that car, and that field could not be traversed in high gear.”

  Steve asked quietly, “Why are you telling me this, Mr. Tomkevic? I’m not a detective.”

  Tomkevic said blandly, “Everything I’ve learned about you today indicates you’re a man of exceptional integrity, Mr. Leander. I want you to reëxamine your conversation with Hart Jameson and determine if there isn’t something you overlooked.”

  “I’m not following you,” Steve said.

  Tomkevic frowned and leaned forward. “Frankly, I’m checking a rumor. The rumor is that Jameson never had any idea of appearing in this picture, for which he was insured.”

  Steve could feel the pulse beat in his wrist. He looked down at the pool. Marcia had taken off her swimming cap and was drying herself.

  “Wel
l …?” Tomkevic prompted.

  Steve said easily, “You hear a lot of damn-fool rumors in this business, Mr. Tomkevic. Jameson was signed to play and he would have been in legal hot water if he hadn’t.”

  “Perhaps. Are you telling me now that you and Jameson didn’t discuss his appearance in the picture?”

  “I’m not obligated to tell you anything, am I?”

  “That would depend on your conscience, Mr. Leander. A man is dead. Anything you can tell me that would help to uncover the reason for his death is important. Don’t you agree with that?”

  “I agree with that. But I don’t believe any other conversation we may have had about the picture is anybody’s business but mine.”

  Tomkevic’s face tightened. “Well, you’ve told me enough to confirm my suspicion. I’m sure you’ll realize later that honesty is your only sensible course.”

  Steve flushed. He asked, “Confirm what suspicion?”

  “That Jameson’s death was no accident.”

  “Isn’t that a question for the police to decide?”

  Tomkevic said wearily, “The police are overloaded. Even for a death as headline-worthy as this one, their time is limited. Mine isn’t, and they’ll ride with me.”

  “But will the courts?”

  Tomkevic stood up. “Mr. Leander, I think I can safely say that by the time this mess gets into a court, it will be a criminal court. And the state will be the plaintiff.”

  Steve’s flush deepened. “Is that an accusation?”

  Tomkevic met his glare. “At the moment, I can only accuse you of a serious error in judgment. I am going to get to the truth of this accident. You would have done both of us a service if you had been completely coöperative with me today.”

  Steve said nothing.

  Tomkevic said, “It still isn’t too late.”

  “I’m sure you can find your way out,” Steve told him.

  Tomkevic smiled bitterly. He glanced past Steve to where Marcia was coming slowly up the steps. Then he turned abruptly and left.

  Marcia went past to the portable bar and began to mix a drink.

  “And why are you sulking?” Steve asked.