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Death
In A Bowl


By ..
RAOUL WHITFIELD
GREEN ICE
"A first rate crook story-swift and exciting
and colorful.”-S. S. VAN DINE
SILVER WINGS
"A collection for boys of aviation stories that
pulsate with the vitality and the glamour of
the flying service.”
- THE BOSTON GLOBE
Illustrated by Frank Dobias
published by
ALFRED.A · KNOPF


RAOUL WHITFIELD
Death
Bowl

IN A


New York · ALFRED · A · KNOPF. London
mcm x x x i


Copyright 1930, 1931 by Raoul Whitfield
All rights reserved—no part of this book may be reprinted in
any form without permission in writing from the publisher
Published Mtrcb 1931
first and second printings before publication
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


- TO THE THREE VIRGINS
Of Hollywood, sympathetically,





O.F. BUTLER
BEQUEST
1/13140
NOTE: The characters in this
book are imaginary.
— R. F. W.
Yoo
7
-
71 -
0





CONTENTS
I. "I Could Have Killed Himą”. 3
II · Death in a Bowl · 17
III · Wrist Watch · 35
IV · Point-Counter-Point ·55
v · Lovely Lady : 74
VI · "If You Hurt Me—”.92
VII · Patio Scene · 113
VIII · Not Jealous · 127
IX · Telephone Call · 140
X · Death Again · 156
XI · "Poor, Goddam Kid—” · 173
XII · Baby-Faced Brat · 186
XIII · Veronal · 201
XIV · Merry-Go-Round · 214
XV · Tough One · 229
XVI · Crescendo · 243





Death
In A Bowl





4
Death in a Bowl
He looked down at Maya Rand. She was very beautiful,
but very difficult to work with. For that matter all hu-
mans were difficult to work with—even Frey, who had
written the story.
The action started. Reiner shrugged his shoulders. This
was not like the old days—this talking picture business.
He could direct only the rehearsals now. He must be
close to the mixer when they were shooting. It was the
sound he must direct.
Maya was turning now, facing the camera. She was
smiling—now she registered fear. She cried out: "No—
for God's sake—don't!"
The first shot cracked. She screamed. It was a horrible
scream. Three more shots made sound in the silence that
followed the scream. Maya was pressing her hands against
her stomach now. She was walking towards the camera;
her face was twisted. She screamed again. It was good,
the way she did that. Reiner pressed a button, lifted the
French phone.
"Cut!" he called. "That is good."
Frey swore nastily. "It's damned rotten," he said. "She
wouldn't scream that way. And if you can get that piece
of business past the Hays office—you're good."
Reiner paid no attention to the man who had practi-
cally rewritten the adaptation from the original story.
He spoke to the mixer.
"Give her everything—in that last scream. Hold her
down—on the first. She doesn't realize what's happened
at first, you see. Then, when he keeps on shooting—she
realizes—"
The mixer nodded. Frey said bitterly:


"I Could Have Killed Him—" 5
"It'll never get by—a woman shot in the stomach.
You can do that in a book, but we're making a picture.
They'll cut it out—and it'll take the guts out of the pic-
ture. It'll be a louse—like the last one you made."
Reiner straightened. He was short, rather heavy. He
was a German-American. He stood now, raging, running
the palms of his hands, fingers spread stiffly, up and
down the material of his coat.
"If the last picture was a louse," he said in a shaken
tone, "it was your work, you see? You made it bad, you
see?"
Frey was medium in size, well built. He had broad
shoulders and good arms. He had hated Reiner for three
months, and two days ago he had gone swimming with
Maskey, in the Maskey pool. He was bigger than Reiner.
He was through with Reiner.
"To hell with you, you fat slob!" he gritted. "You've
got to have everything—and still you can't get by. You
get the best woman we've got on the lot. You grab off
the pick of stories. You shoot every scene a half dozen
times, and then need more retakes than any director
here. You get the best music, the best lights and sets.
Everything. And still you make flops. You don't hand
me—"
Reiner was smiling. He said in a cold mocking voice:
"But in spite of these many faults, I am able to sleep
in my own home. I am not forced to spend my nights—"
Frey took two steps forward, struck heavily with his
right fist. The director had no protection from the blow.
He threw up his right arm slightly, but it did no good.
His legs gave way under the weight of his body; he fell


6
Death in a Bowl
almost in the center of one of the rugs thrown over the
control platform's wooden floor. He was unconscious as
he went down.
The mixer was on his feet; he was a young, blond
haired man. He stuttered toward Frey:
"For God's—sake—Mr. Frey—"
Frey looked down at the motionless form of the di-
rector. He smiled with his lips pressed together. Then he
parted them, said slowly and very calmly:
"I could have killed him—for that."
2
Ben Jardinn sat across the small table from Ernst
Reiner. His lean, pale face was expressionless as the di-
rector finished speaking. He nodded his head, but he did
not speak. Reiner said:
"My contract, thanks to a good lawyer, could not be
broken. Maskey had a choice to make—it meant money,
a lot of money. He chose to keep me. I might easily have
prosecuted Frey. I did not. Since he struck me down,
three days ago, several things have occurred. I am not
exactly afraid—but at the same time—"
He stopped again, smiling with his eyes. Jardinn said:
"I think you've told me about these things. Frey went
to Maya Rand and appealed for help. She turned him
down. He then went to your assistant, George Hillard,
and offered him twice the amount of money he would
make on this picture—to quit. He was turned down
again."


"I Could Have Killed Him—" 7
Reiner nodded. "I have said nothing about the affair.
But these things get around. Perhaps Frey is not so great
a writer as he thinks. He will find it difficult to find work.
It will enrage him, because he is vain. I am afraid of the
result."
Jardinn nodded. He had dark eyes and hair. His body
was lean, but it had firmness. He was in his late thirties.
His voice was soft; when he spoke he had a habit of turn-
ing his head away from the person to whom he talked.
"What fear have you?" he asked.
Reiner frowned. He had small, brown eyes. They were
narrowed back of glasses he wore. He replied hesitatingly.
"There is Maya. Frey was a very ardent admirer. I
don't think he was in love. Now she has placed herself
definitely on my side. There is George Hillard. I under-
stand that Frey got him into pictures several years ago.
George is staying with me."
Jardinn smiled. "You are afraid Frey will do some-
thing to them?" he asked. "Isn't that taking it a bit big?
After all—you got sore at each other and he knocked
you down. In the final settlement you won out. That's
happened before. Most directors are more important than
writers. What do you think Frey will do?"
Reiner shrugged. "It is not so small—this matter," he
said. "The money—I do not think of that. Frey has
money. But I have won—and he has lost. It will infuriate
him. And he will hear about it on all sides. That is Holly-
wood. It is not a small thing."
Ben Jardinn nodded. "What do you want me to do?"
he asked slowly. *


8
Death in a Bowl
Reiner smiled. It was a peculiar smile. Jardinn could
not get the meaning.
"Remember what I have told you—merely that," the
director replied. "There is nothing else to do. And re-
member also that Frey said, as he looked down at me: 'I
could have killed him for that.'"
Jardinn frowned. "You didn't say a very nice thing,"
he reminded. "You've both been under a big strain. But
I'll jot our talk down, when I get home. I don't like to
write—it will cost you fifty dollars."
Reiner nodded. "That is very good," he said. "You
have done some nice work in Hollywood. Several have
spoken of you to me. I have an envelope in my desk,
addressed to you. There is a cheque inside. It is for the
amount of five thousand dollars. It is payable to you,
dated a month from this time. If it comes to you—you
will help?"
Jardinn smiled. "You think Frey will murder you?"
he asked, almost cheerfully.
Reiner rose from his chair. "I think he will try to
hurt me in some way," he said quietly. "I'm very sure
of it."
Jardinn rose and shook hands with the director.
"You've made some fine pictures," he said. "They
show a good deal of imagination. Cities of the future,
and that sort of thing. Perhaps your imagination is work-
ing now."
Ernst Reiner continued to smile in his peculiar way.
He stood near the small table as Ben Jardinn moved
toward the door of the studio office.
"It would be nice to think that," he said steadily.


"I COULD HAVE KILLED HIM—"
9
Jardinn and Max Cohn had dinner together at the
Brown Derby on Vine Street. Cohn was short, chunky,
quiet. He looked like the average business man of his
race. He had come into the agency two years ago; Jar-
dinn considered him their best man. Nothing excited him;
he had killed two radicals in five seconds, six months
ago—and had got in return only a bullet in the left arm.
He knew Hollywood. Surface talk meant nothing to him;
he got beneath every word.
He said in his nasal voice: “I agree with Reiner. It
isn't such a small thing. Frey comes from a bad family.
His father served a ten stretch for a shooting down south.
He's got a cousin on the Los Angeles police force. A
lieutenant. It's a rotten police town, and he could count
on help.”
Ben Jardinn smiled. "He's made good money for three
years—and he's saved most of it. After all, Reiner said
something pretty harsh—and Frey had the satisfaction
of knocking him down. He might try to do him some
harm in pictures, but not personal harm. Reiner has
imagination-he's worried. I don't think he's a coward.”
Cohn raised a glass of water to his lips, spoke into it.
"Frey's coming this way—easy!”
Jardinn laughed rather heartily. They were eating in
a booth at the rear of the Brown Derby; he said in a
loud voice:
"_and my horse finished fifth. I'd have had better
luck if I'd stayed at the Casino."


10
Death in a Bowl
Howard Frey reached their table, let his dark eyes
meet Jardinn's. He smiled, said slowly:
"You're Jardinn. Tom Bender said you were over here.
I'd like to talk with you—not here. At your office, say.
But tonight, if possible."
Jardinn smiled up at the writer. "Unless it's pretty
important—" he commenced, but Frey cut in.
"It is. I'm perfectly willing to pay for the inconven-
ience to you. It's damned important."
Jardinn kept on smiling. "All right," he said. "I'll cut
the coffee and we'll go right along. Max—you take your
time. Come over later."
Cohn nodded. Jardinn rose, got his soft, dark hat,
went out with Frey. The writer took short nervous steps;
when they got outside and were moving along the Boule-
vard from Vine Street, he kept moving his head from
side to side. He didn't talk.
The agency was located in a frame building two blocks
from Grauman's Chinese Theatre. The rooms were not
particularly well furnished, but the chairs were com-
fortable. Jardinn closed the outer door behind him,
locked it from the inside. He led the way into his own
office, gestured toward a leather chair. From his own seat,
with two table lights switched on, he could catch every
expression in Fray's face. It was a sensitive face.
"You did a nice job on the Sarrell thing," Frey said
immediately. "Getting her off with a year was splendid
work."
Jardinn nodded. "I think so," he agreed. "If she'd
come to me a little sooner I might have been able to get
an acquittal."


"I Could Have Killed Him—" n
Frey was sitting tensely in the chair. He said slowly:
"I've come to you soon enough. You've probably
heard the rumors. I wrote 'Death Dance' for Famous.
Ernst Reiner was directing. He still is. We had an argu-
ment; he insinuated, after I'd called him a few names,
that I was forced to have affairs with women who are
important, in order to hold my job. I knocked him uncon-
scious. I'm pretty strong. He went to Maskey—and I was
let out. It was one of the two of us. Maskey's a business
man. He kept Reiner."
The writer paused. Jardinn said quietly:
"I'd heard this much."
Frey nodded. "I want you to hear it from me," he
said. "I was wrong, of course. My nerves were in bad
shape. Reiner's last picture was a million dollar flop.
This'll be another—and it's my story."
Jardinn sat motionlessly and waited. There was some-
thing about Frey he liked. The man was direct enough.
He wasn't beating around the bush.
"I'm not afraid of anything that Reiner will do to me
directly." Howard Frey was speaking more slowly now.
"I'm afraid of something else. I'd like you to listen to
it. If a retainer of five hundred would help any—"
He let his words trail off. Jardinn nodded. He spoke
quietly.
"That will do nicely. You think that someone might
take Reiner's life, and that, under the circumstances,
you would be suspected?"
Frey looked faintly surprised. He leaned forward in
the chair.
"Yes, that's it," he said. ""Was it that obvious?"


12
Death in a Bowl
Jardinn shrugged. "Just a guess," he replied. "What
makes you think Reiner's life is in danger?"
Frey said slowly: "He's done some rotten things. Not
so much with women, but with men. Men he's worked
with out here. He's pretty ruthless. He's hurt a lot of
people. Now these people know that finally someone
knocked him down, on the set. I'm not sure of anything,
of course. But I wanted to protect myself. I heard in-
directly, today, that when I looked down at him I said:
Til kill you for that.' I didn't say it. But it's got around.
And knowing what I do—"
The writer stopped again. He smiled a little. Jardinn
nodded his head.
"Why do you come to me with this explanation?" he
asked.
Frey reached for his cigarette case, offered it to Jar-
dinn. They both lighted up.
"You took Reiner's statement," Frey said quietly. "I
wanted you to take mine."
Jardinn got up, went over to the window, and looked
out. It had been a jolt, and he wanted a few seconds to
think. When he faced the writer again Frey was looking
thoughtfully at the tip of his cigarette. Jardinn said:
"How do you know Reiner gave me any sort of a
statement?"
"It cost me money to find out," the writer replied.
"I'm honest with you. Money will buy almost anything
—in Hollywood. It didn't buy that dark-haired secretary
of yours. But I'd let out the blue-eyed stenographer you
took on last week."
Jardinn whistled softly. He grinned at Howard Frey.


"I Could Have Killed Him—" 13
"Cohn took her on," he said. "I figured he had a reason,
but I wasn't sure. I'll fire her tomorrow, and kick Max
in the rear end. You got a transcription of Reiner's state-
ment, eh?"
Frey took it out of an inside pocket and handed it to
Jardinn.
"I'm through with it," he said. "He quoted me cor-
rectly. I did say: 'I could have killed him—for that.' But
I'm through. I'm square with Reiner, and I'm sorry I
knocked him down. He doesn't have to worry about me."
Jardinn said: "You're going out of your way to play
safe. You know something. You've made this same state-
ment somewhere else."
"Naturally." Frey chuckled. "You are working for
Reiner. Perhaps for me, too. But I am playing safe. I've
a cousin on the police force. Lieutenant Charles Bracker.
In Los Angeles. He and It—and a notary got together.
I told them what I've told you."
Jardinn's dark eyes narrowed. He sucked in cigarette
smoke, let it issue from between his lips in a thin stream.
"It isn't worth a damn, your statement," he said.
"Neither is Reiner's."
Howard Frey swore softly. "Mine's worth as much as
his," he reminded. "That makes mine worth something.
While he's alive he tells you that if he's murdered I did
the job. That's it, in effect. And while he's alive 1 tell you
that if he's murdered, I didn't do the job."
"And you are willing to pay me five hundred dollars
to listen to the statement, after you've already placed it
in a nicer spot," Jardinn said.
Frey took a wallet from his inner pocket and counted


14
Death in a Bowl
out five, hundred-dollar bills. He placed them on the
table.
"Your agency has always been fair," he said. "I don't
know how much Reiner has paid you. A lot more than
this, I can guess. He's going to be finished, and he knows
it. I'm not going to be the goat. I'm in a tough spot, and
I know it. When it happens—I'll work with you. Will
you work with me?"
Jardinn said: "Yes—but get this straight. A statement
and a retainer doesn't clear the way for you. Because you
come to a man who has listened to Reiner tell him that
he feels you will try to hurt him—and deny it—that
doesn't mean so much. Because you tell me that if any-
thing happens to him you will be suspected but you won't
be guilty—that doesn't mean you won't be guilty."
Frey smiled with his lips. "I wouldn't want your agency
hounding me," he said. "I want you to have to worry
just as much about my statement as Reiner's. I think you
will."
Ben Jardinn narrowed his eyes on the writer. He
nodded.
"Why don't you come through, and let us help
Reiner?" he asked.
Howard Frey rose from his chair. He laughed bitterly.
"I couldn't help him if I wanted to," he said quietly.
"And I don't want to help him. Why should I? Hasn't
he tried to fix it with you so that I'll be suspected?"
Jardinn sighed. "It all sounds like two picture people
getting dramatic over nothing much," he said.
Frey went toward the door, followed by Jardinn. When
it was unlocked the writer spoke.


"I Could Have Killed Him—" 15
"When I'm dramatic I don't spend five hundred dol-
lars," he said steadily. "You know damned well I'm not
going to murder Reiner. Yet he's afraid. You know that.
He hates me—and he doesn't know—"
The writer checked himself. He swore softly. Jardinn
said with mockery in his voice:
"When does the killing come off?"
Howard Frey smiled. "If I knew that I'd be eating
dinner with three people at just that second," he replied
grimly. "My idea is—to hell with Ernst Reiner—but
give me an airtight alibi!"
He went out and down the stairs. Jardinn, frowning
with his dark eyes, moved back into his office. He was
tapping on the surface of his desk with his right hand
knuckles, and whistling softly, when Max Cohn came
noisily in.
"Fire that blue-eyed woman of yours in the morning,"
he said. "She sold out on us—gave Frey the stuff Reiner
dictated."
Cohn grunted, dropped into the chair that Frey had
vacated.
"The dirty brat!" he breathed. "Does it hurt us
much?"
Jardinn grinned. "Not a damn bit," he said cheerfully.
"But when you fire her—it'll hurt you."
"She isn't a business woman," Cohn replied. "Her
place is in the home."
Jardinn nodded. "Get her a single apartment up along
Franklin Avenue," he suggested. "Keep her in the home."
Cohn looked hurt. He lighted a narrow, black cigar.
"What about Howard Frey?" he asked.


16
DEATH IN A BOWL
Jardin looked out of the window, toward Hollywood
Boulevard.
“Reiner's spotted to go out,” he replied. “Frey thinks
he's been picked for the goat–by Reiner. He came in to
retain us. He wants us to play fair. Someone's going to
do for Reiner, and they're going to get after Frey. Planted
evidence against him. We're to be nice and get him
clear.”
Cohn grunted and pulled on his cigar.
"Maybe he knows things, this Frey,” he suggested
nasally.
Jardinn ran long fingers over the pallid skin of his
lean face.
"It's a queer layout,” he breathed. “Ernst Reiner comes
in and says if anything quick happens to him-look up
Howard Frey. Then Frey comes in and says that Reiner
can't get away with that. If anything happens to Reiner
-don't bother with Frey."
Cohn said, without humor: “Maybe it'll be two other
fellows.”
"They're both paying money—and neither of them
is dumb," Jardinn said. "Reiner isn't asking for protec-
tion. He's pretty cool about it. Frey acts half amused.
He pays five hundred. Reiner gives me fifty for getting
his statement down and there's five thousand coming,
if he gets the dose.”
Cohn cocked his head to one side. He whistled cheer-
fully.
"We've got to wait for a murder,” Jardinn said slowly.
Cohn grunted. “Wait, hell!” he breathed. “We've got
to pray for it.”


CHAPTER II
DEATH IN A BOWL
THE next afternoon, at four o'clock, Max Cohn
called the agency. Carol put him through to Jar-
dinn, who had just come in.
"Did my little girl get packed up?" Cohn asked. "I've
got another one for the office."
Jardinn swore at him. "One woman in here is enough,"
he said. "Carol can do the stenographic work and we'll
give her a raise. Your blue-eyed brat has gone, and it'll
take us two days to get the odor of cheap perfume out
of the office."
Cohn said: "Ernst Reiner has a brother. Know any-
thing about music?"
Jardinn groaned. "You mean Hans Reiner has a
brother," he corrected. "He's conducting tonight at the
Bowl. What about it?"
Cohn's voice held a disappointed note. He spoke
slowly.
"It's a big doing," he said. "All the picture crowd will
be there. Ernst has Box 22. That's in the second tier of
boxes, just about in the center. Maya Rand will be in the
party. And that Maskey son-in-law. And Durling, the
guy that's supervising 'Death Dance.' Some others, not
so important."
17


i8
Death in a Bowl
Jardinn said: "Good enough—how about Howard
Frey?"
"Box 7," Cohn replied. "That's in the first tier, off to
the right as you face the shell. I checked up at the Bowl.
It'll be a big crowd, some twenty thousand or so. It's
Hans Reiner's premiere in the west. Getting a lot of
publicity—and Ernst shares it, of course."
"Sure," Jardinn replied. "All right, you needn't come
back here. If you can get away from that woman of
yours for an hour or so, better go out and take in the con-
cert. Maybe you can snare a seat somewhere near Reiner's
box. I'd like to know just who sits with him. Might help.
Stick through the racket."
Cohn made clicking sounds. "Will I see you out there?"
he asked.
Jardinn said: "It's a social event I wouldn't miss. But
don't bother with me unless I give you an opening. One
has to be careful at these sort of affairs."
Cohn called him a bad name, and Jardinn hung up.
He called out loudly: "Carol, you bum!"
His secretary came in. She was good looking in a sub-
stantial sort of way. She had dark eyes and hair, and
though her features were rather large they were also well
formed. Her mouth was firm, and she had nice, even
teeth.
"Thanks for the raise, Bennie," she said, smiling. "How
much is it?"
She only called him Bennie when she was pleased, and
it always annoyed Jardinn. He said savagely:
"Ten a week—and you won't be worth it. For God's
sake learn how to punctuate, anyway."


Death in a Bowl
19
She chuckled like a man. "I can use a better brand of
face cream," she said. "Maybe it'll get me a man."
Jardinn grunted. "Hollywood's a hell of a spot for a
homely woman," he said, "but I wish you luck. Got my
ticket?"
She laid the ticket on the desk before him. She had
nice fingers. Long and not too pointed. They were strong
fingers. He could tell that by the way she crushed things
in them. She wasn't afraid to use them.
"Row B, second tier," she said. "About four seats to
the right of Box 7—and two rows behind it, above it.
Too far to the side for the best music. You'll get too
much brass and not enough of the strings."
Jardinn smiled mockingly. "Hans Reiner does not play
the brass," he said. "He likes fugues in string, and some
of the Debussy music."
Carol laughed at him. "He's playing 'Afternoon of a
Faun,' " she said. "You won't get the French horns right."
Jardinn swore at her. "If you weren't so damned stub-
born I'd marry you," he told her. "Where are you sit-
ting?"
She laughed at him again. "I'm not," she replied. "I'm
going down to the beach and dance at the Ship, with a
wop named Abe Montelli."
Jardinn got up, slipped the ticket in a vest pocket and
reached for his hat.
"Carol Torney," he said slowly, rolling the r's, "and
Abe Montelli. What in hell you going to call the kids?"
She straightened up some papers on his desk.
"He isn't that kind of a wop," she said quietly. "His
brother is Frey's bootlegger."


20
Death in a Bowl
Jardinn stopped moving toward the door and stared
at her. He started to say something, changed his mind.
He went over to her and gripped her right arm just above
the elbow. He said harshly:
"Don't mix up in this, Carol. It's going to be nasty.
A lot of loose ends. Max and I can take care of it. Stay
away from this Montelli bird."
She smiled at him. "All right," she replied. "I'll stay
home and catch up on my knitting. With the back door
locked, and Uncle Laurie to keep an eye on—"
Jardinn swung her around. "Max and I can handle
this," he repeated. "Stay clear, Carol."
She looked at him with her dark eyes half closed.
"A girl's got to have fun," she said tritely.
He took his fingers away from her arm. He grinned
at her.
"Go home tonight," he said. "I'll buy the drinks to-
morrow night."
She kept smiling at him through her narrowed dark
eyes.
"Maybe," she agreed. "But if you do, it'll be to forget
what a job you've got on your hands."
She started for the door of his office, but he got in the
way. It wasn't the first time he'd heard her make half
stabs at future events.
"Listen, Irish," he said, "did Frey's bootlegger tip some
one off that Howard was going a-gunning tonight?"
His mockery didn't bother her. She looked him in the
eyes.
"Max doesn't know an oboe note from a first violin


Death in a Bowi 21
A," she stated. "You tell him to pick a good, center spot
tonight. You know music—you pick a bum location.
How come?"
He stepped aside. "It's just a funny idea of mine,"
he replied.
She nodded. "Sure," she agreed. "It's funny as hell."
And her voice held a hard, brittle note. He'd never
heard her get that sort of feeling into her words before.
2
It was ten after eight when Jardinn turned off Holly-
wood Boulevard to the right, moved up Highland toward
the Bowl. There was a jamb of machines; experience had
taught him that it was simpler to walk to the symphonies
under the stars. He kept on the right side of Highland,
walked with his head bent slightly forward.
Jardinn loved music without knowing too much about
it. He had a natural ear for massed tones; it pleased him
to note the varied effects of visiting conductors, maestros
—upon the Los Angeles orchestra. There had been, this
season, the Spanish maestro. He had used the baton during
two concerts. The men had played raggedly, without
feeling. The audience had liked Bandosa, but that had
been because he had waved his arms a good deal. Spanish
music had lift, even if badly played. The critics had
sneered, and that had pleased Jardinn because he had
sneered. The season lasted six weeks. Luigo Crusant and
Browkowski had each conducted, but they were estab-
lished symphonic leaders. You did not attempt to criticize


22
Death in a Bowl
them, except in their interpretation of individual com-
posers. They were always musicians, where Bandosa had
often been a showman.
Hans Reiner was famous, very famous. He was on
from Berlin, to conduct at the Bowl for the remaining
nights of the season. Jardinn sympathized with him; his
brother's position would mean, in Hollywood, much run-
ning about. After Berlin, Rome and London, Jardinn felt
that the maestro would be puzzled, if not slightly be-
wildered, with Hollywood. It amused him to think of
Hans Reiner at, say, one of Maya Rand's affairs. But then,
Maya had absorbed some culture.
"A foot, perhaps—of the five-foot shelf," he muttered.
A voice behind him said: "Hello, Jardinn—going to
the circus?"
It was Billy Long; he was flushed and bright eyed. He
wore no hat, but his overcoat was a heavy one. Jardinn
grinned at him.
"What the hell?" he demanded. "A tin-pan alley man
going in for better things?"
Long chuckled. He was in a cheerful mood. He wanted
to talk, and as they walked along he did.
"Got thrown out of Tod Lister's house," he said.
"Went over for dinner; there was a gang at the place.
Tod got talking about a lot of things that he'd read
about, only he told them as though they'd really hap-
pened. We hissed him down, and he got sore. Threatened
to put through a call to Georgie Nathan, and have him
tell the crowd over the wire that Tod Lister was a
swell actor. I said that was all very nice—but who in
hell was this Nathan. Tod kicked me out. So I de-


Death in a Bowl
cided to take in the noise show and grab oft a tune for
a theme song I've been trying to drink out of my sys-
tem for a week."
Jardinn said: "You're getting too damned highbrow,
that's the trouble. How'd you come with the lady from
Lajolla?"
The song writer swore with feeling. He pointed toward
a highly polished town car that was crawling toward the
Bowl entrance under the expert guidance of a well-
rigged chauffeur.
"There goes Bee," he said. "We used to say that in
New York, only she'd be walking out of Childs headed
for her boarding house on west Fifty-fourth then. Give
the little girl a big hand—she did it with her whisky
whisper, and two of my songs. Her voice has the studio
mikes grinning."
Jardinn said: "How'd you come with the lady from
Lajolla?"
Long swore. "Gave her that first lot I bought, up in
the hills," he replied. "She went back to Lajolla a gladder
and nicer gal. Nicer because she'd known my pure
love—"
He chattered on, and every once in a while, as they
walked up the winding dirt path into the hills, Jardinn
picked out something that was funny. He decided that
Long and Hollywood were well mated; both were noisy
and colorful. And clever.
Near the entrance he told the song writer that he was
waiting for a friend. Long looked very serious, and shook
hands solemnly.
"I know how it is," he said. "These things will happen.


24
Death in a Bowl
Be good to her, Jardinn—set yourself up as an example.
Don't let the world know that—"
A feminine voice squealed "Billy!" in an excited tone.
Jardinn turned, saw two girls in blue rushing toward
them. They were twins, apparently. Noisy twins.
Billy muttered: "My God—a sister act! Get clear,
Jardinn—"
Jardinn walked down the path, bought cigarettes,
lighted one and moved toward the entrance again. Long
and the twins had disappeared. There was a crowd at the
gates; beyond he could see tier after tier of seats. The
hills rose darkly beyond the lights that fringed the Bowl.
There was no moon as yet.
The orchestra was tuning as he reached his seat. The
shell was dimly lighted—there was a babble of voices
over the Bowl. Across Cahuenga Boulevard, set atop a
hill, was the white cross that marked the spot, below,
where the "Passion Play" was given nightly. There was a
chill in the air; it would be almost cold before the con-
cert ended.
Jardinn stood beside his seat and looked around the
Bowl. It was a nice show; he guessed that twelve thousand
or so persons were already on hand. And they were still
pouring in through the gate, climbing the steps of con-
crete to their particular tier, or walking up the wide,
sloping path on the right. He looked back toward Box
22. Maya Rand was standing; she was wearing an ermine
coat. Many eyes, as usual, were turned toward her. An
aisle cut along behind her box; people were strolling back
and forth, watching her closely.
It was a four chair box, in the second tier, almost di»


Death in a Bowl
rectly in the center of the Bowl. As perfect a spot for
the reception of music as there was to be had in the Bowl.
Beside Maya stood Charlie Durling, his browned, hand-
some face turned toward the dimly lighted shell. Durling,
who was supervising "Death Dance," had a sunburn
complex. Maya's skin was white—very white. They at-
tracted much attention, these two. And Jardinn smiled
as he thought that attention was something neither of
them disliked. Dave Harris was seated, behind Maya. He
was a thin, boyish looking chap—the son-in-law of Lew
Maskey. Jardinn had met him while working on the
Carroll case; he had found him not too artistic for pic-
tures—and decidedly shrewd. He was studio business
manager at Famous.
There was no fourth party in the box. Jardinn sat
down and looked at Box 7, ahead of him and to the
left. It was empty. It was, also, a four chair box. The
orchestra was tuning up more earnestly now; in less than
five minutes the concert was supposed to begin. But con-
certs at the Bowl were often minutes late in starting.
Jardinn took a long, thin cigar from a leather case,
lighted it. An elderly woman had the seat on his left.
The one on his right was as yet unoccupied. He had no
program of the concert; he wanted none. Several times
he turned, glanced back toward Box 22. Ernst Reiner
had not arrived. Jardinn breathed to himself:
"In the shell—with his brother, I suppose. Wonder
how he likes—playing second fiddle?"
He smiled at the thought. Somewhere he had heard
that Ernst Reiner idolized his brother. But it was difficult,
in Hollywood, to distinguish truth from publicity.


26
DEATH IN A BOWL
A voice reached him from the aisle that cut across the
Bowl behind the first tier of boxes. It was Howard Frey,
moving toward Box 7.
"Hello, Jardinn! Great evening, eh? Nice crowd.”
Jardinn smiled, nodded. Frey was in evening dress;
he carried a dark stick in his right hand. He waved it
carelessly toward some one seated back of Jardinn. His
face held a drawn expression, but his eyes were smiling.
He called out again:
"Oh, Eddie-give me a ring tomorrow, will you?"
Then he was entering the box, with three companions,
all men. They were all in evening clothes; Jardinn rec-
ognized none of them. He knew many people in Holly-
wood; it was a part of his business. It struck him as a
strange thing that he should not know any of Frey's
companions. Rising, he looked back at Box 22. The short,
heavy-set figure of Ernst Reiner had entered. The di-
rector was bowing before Maya Rand; he raised her white
fingers to his lips as Jardinn watched. The tuning of the
orchestra suddenly stilled.
Conversation died gradually. Jardinn seated himself
again. A man was taking the seat next to him. He was
dressed in dark clothes, wore a dark hat. He had coarse
features and bushy eyebrows. Jardinn's eyes went to the
fingers that held a program; they were long, tapering.
They were almost girlish. Such fingers were strange;
they contrasted the head, the face of the man.
Silence came suddenly as the lights at the side of the
Bowl died. The shell lights flared brightly. A woman in
a trailing, black gown came from the left wing and made
a speech about Hans Reiner. It annoyed Jardinn. He


Death in a Bowl
cursed her under his breath, and kept his eyes on the
fingers of the man beside him.
Humans were still pouring into the Bowl. Ushers were
holding them on the wide path at the right. They could
only seek their seats between numbers. The woman in
black finished her speech in something that was supposed
to be a graceful tribute to a famous maestro. She gestured
toward the left wing—Hans Reiner came into the white
light of the shell.
The applause was good; first and second violinists
tapped their instrument wood with bows. There were
cries from some of the foreigners, hoarse calls of "bravo"
and "hoch." Hans Reiner bowed shortly as he moved
toward the platform from which he would conduct. He
was tall, slender, rather graceful. There was nothing in
his body or head that suggested he was related to Ernst
Reiner. Seated more than a hundred feet from the shell,
Jardinn could not distinguish the maestro's features. His
hair was dark and slightly waved; he had an erect bear-
ing. Reaching the platform, he faced the Bowl audience,
bowed. There was a storm of applause.
Jardinn turned, looked back toward Box 22. Ernst
Reiner was standing. He held his fat hands above his
head; he was applauding vigorously. The others in the
box were applauding, but with less enthusiasm. Jardinn
turned his head to the front again, glanced towards
Box 7. Frey was seated in the front, on the right. He was
not applauding, but was talking to the man beside him.
In the reflected light from the shell Jardinn could see
that he was smiling.
There was a hush as Hans Reiner faced the ninety


28 DEATH IN A BOWL
odd musicians, raised his baton. A woman sitting behind
Jardinn said in a low tone: "They're beginning just three
minutes late.” The baton was tapped sharply against the
music rack. The cello section droned sound into the si-
lence. Jardinn relaxed in the seat, narrowed his eyes. The
man beside him was breathing slowly, regularly. His
program covered the long, tapered fingers. His eyes were
closed.
The second violins were coming in. A French horn
sang counter melody as the first violins came in, sweep-
ing over the deeper tone of the seconds. The music died;
it was a tone poem that Jardinn had not heard played
before. There was too much sentiment for him. He
thought of Howard Frey, watching the brother of the
man he hated, and smiled faintly. He wondered what
Frey's feelings must be. He wondered why the writer had
come at all.
There was a cymbal crash; the tympani fought with
the brass in a sudden, fierce crescendo of sound. All in-
struments were playing now; Reiner was conducting
well, assuredly. The orchestra was playing with vigor.
The violins held the motive strongly, sweepingly.
Jardinn kept his eyes on the conductor. Hans Reiner
was graceful. His body was motionless; only his rather
long arms moved. He stood with feet close together-
the right was slightly advanced. He turned his body at
the hips, when he worked with one section or another.
Jardinn nodded his head slowly.
"If he can play music,” he breathed, "they'll like him
here."
Cymbals were crashing again-brass was sending


Death in a Bowl
29
strident, staccato notes out over the crowd. As the
greater fury died away there was a drone from above. It
grew louder; the man beside him swore softly, shifted
and tilted his head. Jardinn smiled.
Planes had disturbed more than one concert at the
Bowl, this season. The location for the symphony was a
scooped-out spot in the hills. Exhaust roar was picked
up easily. Valencia, playing a piano concerto, had been
drowned out for almost a minute. Protests had been made
by the Bowl authorities, but the planes still flew close
enough to be annoying.
Jardinn raised his head, looked up at the stars. They
were not so bright tonight; there were clouds hanging
over the Sierra Madre Range. The drone of the plane was
becoming louder. Jardinn decided that it was a tri-motor
ship. The man on his right swore again, in a half whisper.
"Damned planes!"
The music was swelling again. Brass and tympani
could compete against the ship's engines; the strings
reached Jardinn only faintly. All about him people were
stirring, muttering. The drone was becoming almost a
roar now. Jardinn frowned; he had never heard engine
beats so loud. The plane seemed to be coming from be-
hind, and very low.
Hans Reiner was working with the orchestra. His body
was swaying; the baton moved in greater and lesser arcs.
The tone poem was rising to a climax; brass dominated,
with the strings singing a rising melody, and steadily the
beat of the plane's engine increased. It was a roar now.
Only the crash of cymbals—the brassy flare of massed
cornets and French horns sounded above the exhausts.


30
DEATH IN A BOWL
III
tra now
And then, flying less than five hundred feet above the
Bowl, the ship flashed into sight. She was a big mono-
plane, but Jardinn could see no markings on her under-
wing surfaces or fuselage. She was a tri-motor plane, and
her roar completely drowned the orchestra now. The
man beside Jardinn cried hoarsely.
"It's a-damned shame!”
The Bowl was suddenly in darkness. Jardinn was tense
in the seat, staring toward the faint outline of the shell.
The musicians were lost in the blackness—not a light
shone. The roar of the plane's engines filled the bowl of
humans, beat down upon it.
The shell lights flared again. Jardinn stared toward the
orchestra, toward Hans Reiner. He caught a glimpse of
first violin bows, moving in unison. He could not hear,
the music. Then his eyes were on the maestro. Reiner was
not leading now. He was swaying on the platform, be-
fore the white pages of music on his rack. His baton
slipped from his fingers—he was twisting now. His legs
were giving away—his right hand fingers were clutching
toward the small of his back!
His slender body was slumping as Jardinn rose in his
seat. The roar of the tri-motor plane was becoming a
drone again; he could hear the first violins; they were
playing raggedly, off tempo. Hans Reiner was pitching
from the platform to the floor of the shell. His body
struck heavily. Somewhere across the Bowl a woman
screamed.
For a second Jardinn stared. Music had died now. Mem-
bers of the orchestra were on their feet. Two of them
were moving toward Reiner's body. Jardinn turned,


Death in a Bowl
3*
looked toward the box behind and above. In the reflected
light of the shell he could see Ernst Reiner. The director
was standing, staring toward the maestro's platform. His
lips were apart; his heavy lower jaw was sagging.
A confusion of sound was rising. Jardinn swung
around; he had almost forgotten Howard Frey. His eyes
swept the box to the left, below his seat. He said grimly:
"Frey—not there!"
And then, for the second time, the shell lights were
extinguished. Blackness hung over the Bowl. A voice,
coming from a spot near the sloping path, reached Jar-
dinn.
"Jardinn—this way. Hurry!"
It was Frey's voice. Jardinn moved past the man on his
right. Frey had got into action, left the box as he had
seen Hans Reiner pitch forward. He was trying to get
down to the shell.
Jardinn reached an aisle and moved along it toward
the path. He called out sharply:
"Coming, Frey!"
There were hoarse shouts in several sections of the
Bowl. A voice down near the shell reached Jardinn
clearly.
"Lights—lights!"
But there were no lights. Figures loomed ahead of
Jardinn, indistinctly. He moved around them. He was
out on the sloping path at the right side of the Bowl now.
He called sharply:
"Frey!"
There was no answer. A woman's voice, from some-
where behind, reached him. It was pitched high, shaken:


32
Death in a Bowl
"He fell—he went down—"
Jardinn swore softly, moved down the path. Still there
were no Bowl lights. Men's voices called hoarsely for
them; there was the tiny beam of a flash-light, below
Jardinn's position and towards the center of the Bowl.
Matches flared here and there—a figure suddenly was
beside Jardinn. He was knocked off balance. A voice said
thickly:
"Sorry."
It was a half whisper. Jardinn turned his head, mut-
tered.
"That's—all right."
Something flicked downward, scraped his right ear.
There was a battering blow on his right shoulder. He
groaned, let his body pitch downward. He went to his
knees—no one was near him as he turned his head. Bushes
of the hill beyond the path crackled. He got to his feet.
He called out:
"Hold up—or I'll—"
His words died. That was no good. He wanted to get
down to the shell—some one had not wanted him to do
that. Pain stabbed through his body. A blackjack or a
gun had been used. It hadn't worked so well. But it hurt.
It would have hurt more if the blow had struck his head.
He went on down the path. The lights flashed on again
as he neared the huge Grecian vase at the right of the
shell. Humans were surging toward the grass before the
shell; a few uniformed police were trying to keep the
crowd back. A group of musicians were bending over
the figure that was motionless on the floor, near the
platform.


Death in a Bowl
33
Jardinn went around back, went in through the right
wing, out on the platform. He groaned as a white faced
musician turned suddenly, struck against his right shoul-
der. Then he was close to the motionless figure. As he
looked down at the face of Hans Reiner he realized that
Brendt was straightening up. The doctor said slowly:
"He's dead—shot in the back—four times."
Jardinn knew Brendt. He was one of the best medical
men in Hollywood. He said in a steady voice:
"Rifle bullet wounds?"
Brendt shrugged. "Nasty wounds," he said. "Good
sized bullets. Two low—two high. One of the high ones
almost between the shoulder blades. In at different
angles."
Jardinn said slowly. "We can get that—in the autopsy.
That plane went over—the lights were out—"
Brendt said: "Let's pick him up, get him into the con-
ductor's room."
Several musicians lifted the body. Police were keeping
the crowd from the platform. Ernst Reiner broke
through, calling hoarsely, brokenly:
"Hans—Hans—what have they done—to you—"
Brendt caught the dead maestro's brother by the arm,
spoke to him in a low, sharp voice. Jardinn saw that the
director's body was trembling; he went slowly to the
edge of the Bowl shell. He looked at his wrist watch,
frowned. It was eight fifty-five. Max Cohn came up to
him, said nasally:
"Can't spot anyone in the crowd who heard shots or
saw the flashes. What got him—rifle fire?"
Jardinn shrugged. "A human on each side path, sweet


34
Death in a Bowl
with a rifle—they could have done it," he said in a low
tone. "The plane had the crowd looking up and the ex-
haust would take out most of the rifle sound. You can
use a Maxim silencer on a rifle—there wouldn't be any
flash, and the silencer might dull the sound some. But
they had to shoot in the dark. The thing is, why did—"
He checked himself, turned his back to the tiers of
seats. He lifted his left wrist.
"What time have you got, Max?" he asked.
Cohn got his watch from a vest pocket. They compared
faces; Cohn whistled softly.
"You're twelve minutes fast," he said. "We checked
to the minute, this morning. That watch of yours has
always been accurate, Ben—it's a damned good make."
Jardinn nodded. "Hans Reiner was a good conductor,
until four bullets dug into him," he said. "Things come
along—and change things."
Cohn stared at him. Then he narrowed his eyes on the
detective's lean face.
"I don't get you," he said softly.
Jardinn shrugged. "Supposing you want to kill a guy,
Max," he said in a low tone. "How do you do it?"
Cohn swore softly. "Get him in a dark alley and give
him the whole load from an automatic," he replied
simply.
Jardinn nodded, reached for his cigarettes. His voice
was steady when he spoke.
"That's the way I'd do it," he said. "Unless I had a
damned good reason for being spectacular."


CHAPTER III
WRIST WATCH

URKEL said, his left eye closed as the right looked
through the lens of the watch glass:
"She's running perfectly. She's twelve minutes and
some thirty seconds fast. She hasn't gained or lost in the
twenty minutes you've been in the store, Ben. I couldn't
do much with her to make things better. She's a beautiful
watch."
Jardinn leaned against the counter and smiled a little.
"I must have set her carelessly, a few days ago, Bur-
key," he said. "But I thought you should look her over."
The watch expert snapped the inner case shut, took
the glass from his right eye, snapped the outer case. He
handed the wrist watch back to Jardinn.
"Want me to set her back?" he asked.
Jardinn shook his head. He saw the mild surprise in
the watch expert's eyes; he said smilingly:
"I'll do it, Burkey."
The watch man said: "It's just ten forty. That was a
terrible thing, out at the Bowl, eh?"
Jardinn fumbled with the wrist watch. He nodded,
said slowly:
"Ten forty—thanks, Burkey. Yeah, it was pretty
bad."
35


Death in a Bowl
Burkel narrowed his blue eyes on the dark ones of
Jardinn. The detective was strapping the watch on his
left wrist.
"Did the police get anyone?" the watch expert asked.
Jardinn grinned. "Sure," he replied. "Anyone that
looked like a good bet. They always do."
Burkel chuckled, then frowned. "It's a job for you
and Cohn, maybe," he said.
Jardinn let his left arm drop to his side. He said slowly:
"It's a job, all right," he agreed. "A job for anybody
that sits in."
He thanked Burkel, moved toward the door of the
little shop. The watch expert lived in the rear—he had
come into the shop because Jardinn was a good customer,
and a friend.
Ben Jardinn walked over to Hollywood Boulevard and
turned up towards the building in which his office was
located. A detective's car, with siren wailing, streaked
down Highland and turned down Hollywood toward
Los Angeles. Jardinn said softly:
"So much noise—they must have picked up a drunk."
There was light back of the frosted, office door. But
the door was locked; Jardinn let himself in with his key.
Carol was sitting at her desk, putting lipstick on with
the little finger of her right hand. She twisted her head,
smiled at him.
"How was the concert?" she asked. "Did you hear
anything but the brass?"
Jardin went around and stood near the wall on her
right. He took off his wrist watch, wound it. He said
slowly:


Wrist Watch
37
"There wasn't any concert, Irish. Just a few tunes.
My clock ran down—what's the hour?"
Her eyes widened. She opened a drawer of her desk,
took out a man's watch. She said in a steady voice:
"It's just ten minutes of eleven, Bennie. What do you
mean, no concert?"
He grinned at her, set the wrist watch back twelve
minutes.
"Some guys were busy killing Hans Reiner," he told
her. "They shoved him out just after the start. So the
concert was called off. Where've you been?"
She stared at him. She spoke slowly, deliberately.
There was doubt in her voice.
"You mean—the maestro—was murdered?"
Jardinn swore at her. "Come out of it," he added.
"There're enough actresses in this hokum town as it is.
Get up off that chair and come into my office. I want to
ask you some funny questions."
Her eyes narrowed. She wiped lipstick from her little
finger with a tiny handkerchief. Her voice was suddenly
amused.
"I didn't do it, Bennie—I swear to God I didn't!"
He turned at the door of his office, smiled at her.
"And you didn't stay at home with Uncle Laurie and
your knitting," he said. "Come on in here, and leave the
lies you're thinking up outside."
He went into the office. Max Cohn stood near a win-
dow, frowning.
"Get anything?" he asked.
Jardinn grunted. "Carol did it," he said. "She shot him
from one side of the Bowl, then ran around to the other


DEATH IN A BOWL
-and shot two more times. I'm disappointed in her, Max.
Ain't you?”
Carol Torney stood in the doorway and swore at Jar-
dinn.
"You'd better quit the game,” she advised. “It's got
you using bad English.”
Jardinn nodded. His face held a peculiar, grim ex-
pression.
"I'm giving you that raise, Irish,” he said, "only it's a
different kind of one. I'm kicking you out of the agency.
How much have you got coming?”
Max Cohn sucked in his breath sharply. He stared at
Jardinn.
“For God's sake, Ben—” he commenced, but Carol
cut in.
"Let him alone, Max-he's been working hard. Why
the kick-out, Bennie?”
Jardinn seated himself in the chair back of the center
table, near his desk. He said in an easy tone:
"I didn't like the gentleman you seated on my right,
at the Bowl tonight. The one with the shaggy eyebrows
and the nice, long fingers. And it isn't decent of you to
fool with a fellow's wrist watch.”
He heard Cohn mutter something that wasn't dis-
tinct. When he looked at Carol she was staring at him
with wide, dark eyes.
"You're 'way over my head," she told him.
He relaxed in the chair. Cohn had come away from the
window and was standing near him. Carol stood near the
opened door that led into the other office. She was pale,
and her eyes looked frightened.


Wrist Watch
39
"You got hold of my watch when I was washing up
this evening," Jardinn said slowly. "You set it twelve
minutes fast. I think I know why. You got my seat, and
you got another one at the same time. That bird followed
me down the aisle, when I was trying to get to the path.
He took a swing at me—missed my head and got me on
the right shoulder."
Jardinn pressed fingers against the coat cloth over the
shoulder, winced. Carol said:
"You're running wild, Bennie—if you're trying to
joke—"
Jardinn got up from the chair and started toward the
girl. Max Cohn grabbed him by the right arm, and the
detective shook him off.
"You went and got yourself bought off, Irish," he
said. "I've checked you on the seats—you bought two.
My wrist watch doesn't run fast. I could keep you around
the office, but it's too much trouble for what I'd get out
of it. I can choke the truth out of you. Who bought
you off?"
The fear went out of her eyes. She threw back her
head and laughed.
"You're walking in your sleep, Bennie," she mocked.
"If you think I—"
His fingers closed over the material of her dark dress,
just below her throat. He pulled her up close to him.
"If you can rat it with me—you can do it with the
other fellow!" he snapped. "Who'd you sell out to,
Irish?"
Cohn cut in sharply: "Take it easy, Ben—you may
be wrong—"


Wrist Watch
4i
"Now you—get back! Now you get away from me,
Ben Jardinn. I'll shoot your goddam heart out! You—
get away—"
Ben Jardinn moved back from her. He said without
turning his head toward Cohn:
"You see what a—rat she is!"
Carol Torney stood with her back against the wall,
near the door. She was breathing heavily.
"I didn't—touch your damned watch!" she breathed
fiercely. "I only got one seat—you're framing me. You're
sore because you can't run—my private life. I go out
with the man—I want to go out with—and you can't
stop me from—"
The 'phone bell rang. Jardinn looked at the girl and
shrugged. He reached into a pocket and pulled out some
bills. He tossed her a twenty.
"That's too much for a rat," he said. "Take it—and
get the hell out of here. Better jump the town. When we
grab others we're liable to get hold of you."
He sat down in his chair and lifted the receiver. Cohn
was staring at Carol. Jardinn said:
"She isn't here. I don't know when she'll be in. Who's
calling?"
There was a sharp click from the other end of the
wire. Jardinn swore, hung up, called Central and asked
where the call had come from. He swore again, called the
Hollywood Police Station and had Evans tell Central it
was all right. She told him the call came from a pay
station at Ninth and Olive, Los Angeles. Jardinn thanked
her and hung up. Carol stood in the doorway, her gun
held low. She was smiling nastily. She said:


42
Death in a Bowl
"You haven't got a thing on me. I've got plenty on you.
I can make it hot—"
Jardinn cut in. "Get rid of that case of Scotch up at
your apartment," he advised. "I can use that for a starter.
I think you're sitting in with Ronnie White. Better take
a trip away—"
Cohn said: "Listen, Ben—what's the use of making it
rough for her? If she played rat—we know about it."
Jardinn smiled grimly. "It would be all right if she'd
done it in a big way," he said. "But she didn't. Maybe
she got a few grand for tinkering with my wrist watch,
and buying a seat next to mine. Maybe not that much.
Go on, Irish—put the gun up and make a duck."
The voice of a newsboy, shouting "extra," reached the
office. Cohn looked at the girl, muttered thickly:
"I can't figure her—ratting it, Ben."
Jardinn grinned. "That's what makes it good," he said
grimly.
Carol Torney stood looking at Jardinn, her body sway-
ing slightly, from the hips up. Her voice was tight.
"Maybe you're in on this, you two. Maybe you're fram-
ing me out. You're sore because I went to the beach with
Frey's bootlegger, Bennie. Max hasn't got guts enough
to do anything but stick with you. I've seen it coming.
Didn't he let you fire Belle? Didn't you try to—"
Jardinn yawned noisily. There was color in Carol
Torney's face now. She jerked her gun hand up a little.
"You better not try—" Her voice, pitched high with
rage, died suddenly as Jardinn got to his feet, moved
around the table and headed for her. He walked in on
the gun.


Wrist Watch
43
She cried: "Cut it out, Bennie—cut it out!"
She didn't squeeze the trigger. He knocked the gun
out of her fingers with a swift, hard blow. He grabbed
her by the shoulders, used his knees to boost her into the
outer office. She was sobbing incoherent words at him.
He went back into his office, closed the door, locked
it on the inside. Picking up the baby automatic, he slipped
it in a pocket of his coat. Then he went over and sat
down, lighted a cigarette. Cohn said:
"God, Ben—you may be wrong. I figured you were
strong for her. She's been with us a long time. Maybe
she didn't rat. Maybe she—"
Jardinn inhaled, swore out white smoke into a two
syllable word.
"Maybe she didn't, Max. But she's running with the
wrong crowd. I figured for a while she was just being big
hearted, doing it for anything she might pick up. But—"
He stopped. A door slammed. He pointed toward the
outer office.
"Go out and see if she's gone," he ordered. "Lock the
outside door."
Cohn went out. He came back in a few seconds.
"She's gone," he said. "Why in hell would she set your
watch ahead?"
Jardinn smiled. "Someone has brains," he said. "They
might be able to take care of the police. It's been done.
But a private dick is something else again. That plane
was mighty important. I might be able to trace it. Sup-
posing she wings along the Valley somewhere and sets
down. Then I catch up with her. Twelve minutes is a lot
of time in the air. About twenty miles—for a tri-motor


44
Death in a Bowl
ship. That murder occurred at about eight fifty-two, by
my wrist watch. But I'm twelve minutes fast. Maybe that
tri-motor ship has been checked down—and checked
down honestly—at eight forty-five. I'd figure that ship
out of the deal, wouldn't I? She was on the ground
when Hans Reiner was murdered. I was supposed to
count the plane out."
Cohn swore softly. "What made you check up with
my watch?" he asked.
Jardinn said: "It was eight fifty-five when I looked
at my watch, on the platform. It didn't take me more
than three minutes to get down there, from my seat.
It wouldn't have taken me that long if Irish hadn't
planted that bird next to me. A woman seated behind
said that the concert was starting just three minutes late.
I didn't look at my watch then—Reiner had his baton
raised when she said it. He was shot down at eight fifty-
two, or within a minute either way of that time. That
was by my watch. And I knew the orchestra hadn't
played any nineteen minutes. When I checked with you
it made me twelve minutes fast. That set the kill time
back to eight forty. And that's just about right. The
concert had been on for about seven minutes."
Cohn said grimly: "But the police—they'd get a check
on the time. You wouldn't be the only one in the place—"
"I might be the only one there who knew that Ernst
Reiner was worried about Frey—and that Frey was wor-
ried about Ernst Reiner," Jardinn replied.
Cohn narrowed his little eyes. His thick lips parted.
But Jardinn spoke first.
"I'd be more apt to be on the job. And it was just a


WRIST WATCH
helper, fixing that watch. It was a cinch for Carol to do.
It was a cinch for her to put a guy close to me, so that he
could try to slam me down. He nearly succeeded.”
Cohn said: "He took a big chance. What was he stop-
ping you from doing?”
Jardinn grinned. "Ernst Reiner will be here pretty
soon,” he said. "He'll figure that Howard Frey had his
brother done in-motive revenge. If that bird in the
Bowl had hit me hard enough I wouldn't be here to take
five grand from Reiner, along with the job of finding his
brother's killer. That's one thing he would have stopped
me from doing.”
Max Cohn went over and looked down on Hollywood
Boulevard. He said with feeling:
“Carol Torney, crossing us up! It don't seem right.”
Jardinn tapped ashes from his half smoked cigarette.
He said grimly:
"It don't, Max—that's why I gave her the bum's rush
out of here. She's gone Hollywood, maybe.”
Max Cohn groaned. “I liked her, even if she was Irish,”
he muttered. “She had brains.”
Jardinn tilted his chair back and closed his dark eyes.
He said in a tired voice:
"She got careless in the way she used them, Max. I al-
ways did like her figure better."
Cohn grunted. “I like 'em heavier,” he returned.
"Who's going to tag her—and see what she does next?”
Jardinn whistled something from Dvorak's “New
World Symphony" badly. He tapped his fingers against
the side of his chair.
"I'll call someone she can't buy off,” he said slowly.


46
Death in a Bowl
"Maybe a woman would be the right idea. That Gunsted
woman. I've seen her a lot and I can't remember what she
looks like. She's negative enough for a tailing job."
Max Cohn frowned at Jardinn. "Torney's got brains,"
he repeated.
Jardinn nodded. He smiled a little.
"I get more money for using mine," he said cheerfully.
"Maybe that means something."
2 ,
It was almost two in the morning. Jardinn got up and
shoved the window wide. There was nothing on Holly-
wood Boulevard but street car tracks and the sidewalks.
The air had a snap to it. Back of him he heard Ernst
Reiner's voice. He'd been hearing it for several hours, and
it always got back to the same words.
". . . used to talk to Howard Frey about Hans. He
knew I loved Hans. He knew this was the way he could
hurt me most. I was instrumental in having Hans conduct
in the Bowl. He didn't want to come. It isn't exactly a
cultural center, out here. I tell you, Jardinn—"
Jardinn turned away from the window. He raised a
hand, said briefly: "Don't."
Reiner shrugged wearily. His eyes looked bad—they
were shot with red streaks. His shoulders had a droop.
He was a pasty-faced bulk collapsed in the chair. He was
emotional, and it annoyed Jardinn to see a man cry. He
had wished, more than once in the past few hours, that
the director would get up and smash things.
He looked at the oblong slip of paper laying on his


48
Death.in a Bowl
Reiner narrowed his eyes. His face was slightly flushed.
"Gott—you are like ice!" he breathed. "He was—my
brother."
Jardinn nodded. "I've got your check for five thou-
sand," he said. "I think it will carry me all the way
through. I don't think it will be easy. Things went rather
smoothly. Don't talk too much. You're worth consider-
able money, and if Howard Frey is as clever as you think
he might start a suit for defamation of character. I'll do
everything I can."
Reiner started to cry again. Jardinn lighted a cigarette.
He spoke quietly.
"I'll remember what you've told me, and I'll keep in
touch with you. I don't think your life is in danger. If
you want to avoid being hurt, don't read the papers. I'll
want to get inside the studio—there'll be people to see.
You can arrange that. Don't bother too much about what
the police dig up. They'll get a half dozen humans they
think killed your brother—and most of them will have
perfect alibis. They work that way, out here."
Reiner said thickly: "So many things—and I can't
think clearly."
Jardinn smiled. "If you don't get sleep—take some-
thing," he suggested.
The director stuffed his handkerchief back in a pocket,
"What?" he asked.
Jardinn shrugged. "Scotch," he suggested. "Get drunk
and sleep it off. Get sick and that'll give you something
else to think about."
"Gott!" Reiner muttered. "You are hard."
Jardinn went towards the outer, office door with the


Wrist Watch 49
director. Reiner was in bad shape—he leaned heavily
against the detective.
"My car is down below—a block away," he said. "Can
I take you to your home?" he asked.
Jardinn smiled his thanks. "I'm going to stay in the
office a while," he explained. "I've got some notes to go
over—and some more to get down."
Reiner said: "I must have the one who was responsible.
I must!"
Jardinn nodded. "A killer is a rotten thing," he re-
plied. "You may have to rip open your inside affairs—in
order to get this one. It isn't pleasant. But it'll be some-
thing done, if we succeed."
The director straightened a little. His small brown eyes
held momentary hatred.
"I will do anything—to succeed!" he said harshly.
Jardinn said: "You may have to do a lot. Start in by
getting sleep—one way or another."
The director went out of the room and along the cor-
ridor. Jardinn listened to his heavy foot-falls, went back
into the outer office. He closed the door, locked it, went
into his own office. He called a number, told Central to
keep at it. After about thirty seconds he heard Carol
Torney's voice.
"Yes?" It had a sleepy note.
He said: "Listen, Irish—you get too damned much
sleep. It'll make you soggy. Slip a fur coat over your
pajamas and come up here right away. Don't make a
parade of it. I want to ask you things."
The sleepiness went out of her voice. She said:
"Okey—I'll be over. 'Bye."


50
Death in a Bowl
She hung up. Jardinn scribbled words on a pad for
fifteen minutes or so. They filled five sheets of paper. He
burned four of them—and let the ashes drift over Holly-
wood Boulevard. The fifth he tore into little pieces, let
a match singe a few of the pieces, and slid them from an
ash tray into a waste paper basket near his desk.
When Carol came in he was leaning back in his pet
chair and smiling. He said:
"I'll send Max over to your place tomorrow for the
keys to the office. We can't have you running in and out.
You can get sore with him, if you want, but give him the
keys. When he comes back and points out that you could
easily have had some more made, I'll tell him we'll change
the locks around."
Carol Torney nodded. She sat down in a chair and un-
buttoned her squirrel coat.
"Like the pajamas, Bennie?" she asked.
He swore at her. "I don't like green," he told her.
She made a clicking noise. "Cut it out, Bennie," she
said. "You know I love red."
The pajamas were a pale blue. They were very nice.
Jardinn tossed her a cigarette. They lighted up. She said:
"Did he fall for it?"
Jardinn shrugged. "I can't figure Max," he replied.
"Maybe he did. We'll play he did, anyway. You put on a
good show."
She smiled. "What a sweet one they put on at the
Bowl!" she said.
Jardinn narrowed his dark eyes. "What a sweet one
who put on?" he asked.
She swore at him. "I can think of fifty easier ways of


Wrist Watch
shoving out a guy—than that way," she said slowly.
"How come?"
Jardinn frowned. "What gets me," he said softly, "is
why Max Cohn fooled around with my wrist watch. It
was right on the dot, before I went in for a wash."
The girl's long fingers played with the cigarette. They
rolled it from side to side as she held it on a level with her
hps.
"He knew you'd try to trace that plane," she said. "He
wanted the ship down at the time of the kill. So he set
the watch ahead. That's my guess."
Jardinn nodded. "Maybe it's all right," he said. "But
I like Max. I sort of hated to put on that act for him."
"Yes you did!" she replied.
"I'd like to know who got to him," Jardinn said
quietly. "It's the first time an outsider has worked into
the agency."
Carol eased her body down in the chair. She stretched
well shaped legs aslant with the faded carpet.
"There's the blonde you kicked out of here," she sug-
gested. "It costs Max money to keep her. I can name a
lot of people in Hollywood that have the gold, Bennie."
He nodded. "That's what's going to make this hard,"
he said. "There's plenty of money around for the cover-
up."
She said: "You were pretty rough, Bennie. You didn't
have to rush me out like that."
He grinned. "That was just thrown in for good meas-
ure. What do the papers read like?"
She shrugged. "The usual bunk. They name all the
pictures that Ernst directed—and list all the symphonies


52
Death in a Bowl
that Hans conducted. The reporters are all writing their
heads off, naturally. The damn thing was spectacular,
Bennie."
He swore softly. "It was a nice, colorful job," he
agreed. "Thirty-thirty rifles—one on each side of the
Bowl. Not too far back, but far enough to make it touch.
Two boys at the triggers, just to make sure. And neither
of them missed. Plane engine drowned the cracks from
their guns—silencers killed the flame red. Got a hunch
the gun boys were pretty well hemmed in by their own
pals. The guy that throws the switch was outside smok-
ing a pill when he was slugged. That tone poem runs
twenty odd minutes. They had their own man at the
lights—and he worked them right. It was smooth—and
sort of simple."
"They shot in the dark," Carol reminded, frowning.
"That was something."
He nodded. "That was hours of practice at just the
same angle—somewhere in the hills," he said. "Probably
they used a dummy—and they figured the slope of the
Bowl. The conductor's platform is always in the same
place. Reiner didn't move around much. My guess is that
they had their guns raised when the lights went out."
The girl smiled grimly. "How'd they know just when
they were going out?" she asked.
Jardinn frowned at her. "You were sleeping heavily,"
he said. "They had the plane coming right over the spot.
When she hit the spot—the lights went out. And so did
Hans Reiner."
Carol Torney shook her head. "Why the big show?"
she demanded. "Why not a knife in the back?"


Wrist Watch $3
Jardinn laughed at her. "That answer would help a
lot," he agreed. "It won't be easy to get."
She said: "Max was trying to cross you—maybe he's
got it. Making him think that you figured 7 played with
your wrist watch was not a bad idea, Bennie."
Jardinn said slowly: "It's a jolt for me. I always
figured Max was just about right for the agency. It's
hard to take. He figures you about the same way. He
couldn't seem to believe that you'd cross us."
She smiled with her lips pressed together.
"He's keen," she said. "Doing that watch job himself,
and then trying to make you believe that he didn't think
I'd do it. Not agreeing with you—that wasn't so dumb."
Ben Jardinn looked at his wrist watch. It was two thirty.
He smiled at Carol Torney.
"Reiner was in," he said. "He thinks Howard Frey
directed the kill. Getting even. Knows how Ernst loved
his brother. He's taking it pretty hard. I told him to get
drunk and sleep it off."
Carol chuckled. "He's not the type," she said. "Frey
been in?"
Jardinn shook his head. "Expect him in the morning,"
he replied. "I'm getting hungry. Max should be sleeping,
but we'll play safe. I'll order up some beer and sand-
wiches. Then you can run along home and sleep. Have
any of the papers got the studio fight stuff?"
She nodded. "The Tress' has got something about a
rumored knockdown of Hans Reiner's brother by a well
known picture writer," she replied. "It's carefully
worded, though."
Jardinn frowned. He said suddenly: "By God! I forgot


54
Death in a Bowl
to take that lighter out of my blue suit when I sent it to
the laundry this morning!"
Carol Torney snuffed her cigarette in the ash tray.
"You don't take this murder seriously enough," she
mocked.
He grinned at her. "Business is business," he said
slowly, and reached for the 'phone. He ordered four bot-
tles of beer and two Limburger on rye. He hung up, went
over and kissed her roughly on the hps. Then he went
back and sat down again.
"And pleasure is pleasure," he said.
She kept her eyes on his. "Bennie—" she said after a
while—"you're kind of nice."
He didn't seem to hear her. There was a half puzzled
expression on his pale face; his eyes were looking beyond
her.
"I'd like to know who got to Max," he said softly.


CHAPTER IV
POINT-COUNTER-POINT
BEN JARDINN got to bed, in his Laurel Canyon
bungalow, at four o'clock. He didn't sleep well. The
beer hadn't been too good, and the Limburger sand-
wiches had been too good. At nine o'clock he got up,
washed, dressed and cooked some eggs and coffee for his
breakfast. There was an accumulation of papers on the
patio grass—he picked out the right one and read seven
columns of bunk on the maestro murder. Los Angeles
and Hollywood police were working hard—they had
accomplished little, so far as the news print showed. Hans
Reiner had been cheerful before the concert. Ernst Reiner
had stated that his brother had apparently had no worries.
They had not seen each other, except for a few hours, in
the past two years. Ernst was not familiar with the mur-
dered conductor's personal affairs.
Hans Reiner had led a rather solitary life. Music was
everything to him. He was unmarried, had no secretary.
He traveled alone. Ernst Reiner had appeared "stunned,"
according to one reporter, "dazed," according to an-
other—and "was a broken thing," according to the
sheet's sob sister. The one fact of which the police were
sure was that two expert rifle shots had loosed thirty-
thirty bullets from positions in the Bowl. No humans had
been found who had seen the riflemen or had heard the
55


Point-Counter-Point
57
circles. That necessitated reporters using words in place
of facts.
The 'phone bell rang—a reporter from the Los Angeles
"Times" was calling. There was a rumor that Jardinn
had been called into the case by Ernst Reiner. The re-
porter wanted a verification. Jardinn asked:
"What case?"
The reporter, not without sarcasm, stated that Hans
Reiner had been shot to death in the Hollywood Bowl,
last evening. Hans Reiner had been conducting—he was
a famous maestro. He had been murdered.
Jardinn whistled softly, as though in surprise. He said:
"That's too bad—who did it?"
The reporter muttered something that Jardinn didn't
understand, hung up. Almost immediately the 'phone bell
rang again. Max Cohn spoke.
"Ben? You coming down here today?"
Jardinn grinned. "Anything doing?" he asked.
Cohn swore at him. "I've got a line on Irish for you,"
he said. "And Howard Frey has been in. He'll be back in
an hour. And the Gunsted woman is here now."
"Keep her there," Jardinn ordered. "I'll be down in
thirty minutes or less. Got anything important on Irish?"
Cohn was silent for a few seconds. He seemed to be
thinking something over. Jardinn said impatiently:
"Well—say something or hang up."
Cohn said: "Maybe it's important. She's running
around early in the morning. I spotted her."
Jardinn set his cigarette on an ash tray and spoke stead-
ily into the mouth-piece.
"Tell me the rest when I get down there. Call up


J8
Death in a Bowl
Famous Studios and tell someone that Jardinn wants to
get in touch with Maya Rand. Ask how. How's the
blonde?"
Cohn swore at him again. "She's raising hell," he said.
"A fiddler's got the apartment above her—and all she
hears is off-key 'Cradle Song.'"
Jardinn chuckled. "It's the mother yearning that's got
her," he told Cohn. "How does Frey look?"
Cohn hesitated again. "Worried," he said finally. "He
told me that this put him in a bad spot."
Jardinn nodded. "It's liable to put a lot of people in a
bad spot," he said. "You and I included."
Cohn said: "You better get right down here, Ben.
There's no girl in the office, you know."
"That's tough," Jardinn admitted. "But you can look
out on the Boulevard."
He hung up during Cohn's reply, got his soft hat from
the floor near the decanter of Scotch, and went outside.
There was a flivver down the canyon about fifty feet,
in the paved roadway. It looked familiar. He walked
around the tiny patio of the small, Spanish bungalow and
stopped as he looked towards his roadster.
"Hello, Bennie!" Carol greeted. "I thought you were
in the garage. I was going in."
He frowned at her. It was a warm day and the house
windows were opened. He'd been talking over the tele-
phone, and there was nothing the matter with Carol's
ears. He said:
"You shouldn't come up here. You know Max thinks
I've kicked you loose. If he gets wise to our little play—"
"He won't," she cut in. "He's at the office. I saw him


Point-Counter-Point
59
go up. The Gunsted woman's there—she went up a few
minutes after. I drove right out here."
He kept on frowning. "Why?" he asked.
She came up to him, spoke quietly. "I've got some-
thing on Max. He was prowling around last night. I left
the office at three. He was in back of the house. I sent
Uncle• Laurie around back—and when he headed for the
front I worked the porch light. He didn't see me, but I
caught him."
Jardinn smiled. "Maybe he was figuring you'd give
him a lead," he suggested. "But be careful. Better not call
the office."
She nodded. "I wanted you to know that he's giving
me a play," she said. "He figures I really did fool with
that wrist watch of yours, and I'm a suspicious character."
Jardinn nodded. He said slowly: "The police figure
the plane was just around by accident. Carren, the pilot's,
got a nice story. Maybe the wrist watch stuff wasn't
worth much, Irish."
There was a peculiar expression in her eyes. She nodded,
moved out toward the roadway.
"Mind if I stroll around the Bowl?" she asked.
He grinned at her. "There'll be a mob out there—sight-
seers," he said. "But go ahead. The dicks don't know you.
Max won't be out that way—I'll send him downtown."
She narrowed her eyes. "Downtown?" she said. "I'll
keep my eyes open for him, Bennie, if you're sending him
somewhere else."
She moved off, climbed into her flivver, and clattered
down the canyon road. Jardinn got into his car and
drove slowly out of the driveway. He backed around,


6o
Death in a Bowl
killed some time in front of the bungalow—rolled at low
speed down the grade. When he turned into Hollywood
Boulevard there was no sign of Carol Torney's flivver.
Max Cohn was in the outer office, talking to Marie
Gunsted. She was a middle-aged woman with a passive,
rather flat face. Her eyes were almost colorless. She was
dressed in dark clothes and wore a dark, ugly hat. Jar-
dinn smiled at her.
"Just a few minutes, Miss Gunsted," he said. "Come
on inside, will you, Max?"
Jardinn went in and sat down. He glanced toward the
waste paper basket. It had been cleaned out. The charred
bits of the sheet he had written on last night were gone.
He was looking at the calendar hanging over his desk
when Cohn came in. He shut the door back of him, came
over to Jardinn.
"Let's have it," Jardinn said. "You ran into Carol
Torney running around town, early this morning?"
Cohn nodded. His little eyes were half closed; his short,
chunky figure stood near the chair in which Jardinn sat.
"About three-thirty last night," he said. "She was
walking, wearing a fur coat. She was going towards her
house."
Jardinn said: "What in hell were you doing out at
that time?"
Cohn grinned broadly. "I figured I might be able to
pick something up—something on the Bowl murder. I
didn't feel sleepy, so I went out. Just walked around."
Jardinn nodded. "All right," he said. "She was walking
towards her house, at three-thirty. What of it?"
Cohn stopped grinning. "She was walking in that di-


Point-Counter-Point
61
rection, but she didn't go there," he said. "She went some-
where else."
Jardinn said quietly. "I don't want the three guesses.
You're being paid to tell me things. Don't let's play
games."
"She went to Ernst Reiner's place," Cohn said. "Went
around to the back."
"Did she get in?" Jardinn asked.
Max Cohn nodded. "Right away," he said. "She didn't
make any fuss about it. Either she had a key, or she didn't
need one. She got in—and at four-ten she came out. She
went home. She went right in and undressed in the dark.
Or maybe she didn't undress. I went home and got some
sleep."
Jardinn reached for his cigarettes, tapped one on the
desk surface, slipped it between his thin lips. He said
quietly:
"All right, Max—that wasn't a bad stroll. Don't talk
about it—I'll handle that end. Go down to the 'Times'
and ask Connors for a look around the morgue. Get
everything you can on both Ernst and Hans Reiner. See
if they've ever printed anything about Frey. You might
look up Maya Rand, too. The clippings are all indexed.
There'll be A.P. stuff from abroad. If you can get any-
thing on Hans Reiner from the other side, it might help.
I'll be here at four this afternoon."
Cohn nodded. "You putting the Gunsted woman on
Carol?" he asked.
Jardinn nodded. "Better drop over and get the office
keys from her," he said. "Don't get in an argument—just
get the keys."


62
Death in a Bowl
Cohn said: "She's had time to have more made."
Jardinn smiled a little. "We'll have some different
locks put on the doors," he said. "But get the keys, any-
way. On your way out tell the Gunsted woman to come
in. See you at four."
Cohn moved towards the door of Jardinn's office. He
turned with his left hand on the knob. His little eyes
were very small as he looked at the detective.
"It gets me—Carol working against us, Ben. It don't
seem right."
Jardinn smiled grimly. "It don't, Max," he said for the
second time. "She's afraid of something. Afraid of the
agency, maybe. Afraid of what we might do. We've had
some luck lately. Someone else knows that, other than
Carol."
Cohn said: "They've offered her money to cross us
up, big money. And she's grabbed it."
He shook his head, swore and went outside. Jardinn
heard his voice, very faintly through the thick door,
as he spoke to Marie Gunsted. He rose from the chair,
faced the window and looked down on Hollywood Boule-
vard. Jane Winston came out of the Pig'n Whistle,
across the street, and walked slowly along the paving. An
Isotta-Fraschini, with a New York license, rolled shinily
along. There was the sound of the door opening. It was
Marie Gunsted, but Jardinn was still thinking of Max
Cohn.
Ernst Reiner working against Howard Frey and Frey
working against Reiner. Max Cohn fighting Carol Tor-
ney—and Carol watching Max. A score for one—a score
for the other. Point-counter-point. For the first time the


POINT-COUNTER-POINT
63
agency gears were grinding. Money could do that. Money
was doing it. But who was lying-Carol or Max? Reiner
or Frey? The human who had planned the murder of
Hans Reiner was a mystery. Little mysteries were trying
to keep him so.
Jardinn turned slowly from the window. Marie Gun-
sted said in a flat tone:
"Is there anything I can do, Mr. Jardinn?"
Ben Jardinn shook his head. "I'm sorry,” he said, "but
there was a mistake. There was a person I wanted you to
sort of watch, but she knows you. I wasn't aware that she
did.”
He saw the questioning glance in her eyes. He said
quietly:
"It was Carol Torney. She left us, and I had an idea you
might keep track of her.”
Marie Gunsted showed him something that was meant
for a smile. She said:
"Carol Torney wanted me to keep track of Mr. Cohn.
She changed her mind. Odd, wasn't it?"
She went quietly from the office. Jardinn sat down
and stared at the faded carpet. The only conclusion he
could reach was that it was about as odd as hell.
The girl had a baby face and figure and a husky voice.
She was dressed in a blue sport outfit that fitted nicely.
She had brown hair and eyes and she looked right at
Jardinn when she talked. She didn't seem too bright; he
liked her. After she'd got through explaining he said:


64
Death in a Bowl
"All right—what do you know about this agency,
or me?"
She didn't smile. "You're the Ben Jardinn who went
after the bunch that framed Clara Sarrell," she said.
"You got her out of jail. I don't think much of detec-
tives—but that was a nice job. I don't know much about
the office. I'm a fair stenographer, and I can keep quiet."
Jardinn nodded. "We'll take you on," he said. "The
last girl we had in the outer office couldn't keep quiet.
It's hard sometimes—when you want a fur coat or some-
thing."
The girl said: "I've got a fur coat and a Chevvie that
gets me around. All I want is a job. If I change my idea
about men I may marry one next year."
Jardinn grinned: "Don't change your idea," he ad-
vised. "Thirty a week. Your name is Edith Brown. We'll
call you Ede around here. Familiarity is said to breed
contempt—and that's one of the funny things we like.
Howard Frey, the director, will be here soon. Show him
a chair—and come in and tell me he's outside. Call the
agency that sent you and tell them you'll do. I'll go out
and show you how the buttons work."
He went out into the other office with her. When he
got back at his desk he took a slip of paper from a
drawer and started to scribble. His head felt better than
his stomach. He wrote: "Ask Frey about his brother
serving ten year stretch. Ask him if he's got in touch
with that cop cousin, Bracker. Talk about his yelping for
me at concert. Are the bulls working on him? Call off
any appointment that Max may have made with Maya
Rand. Get out to Mines Field and see this bird Carren.


Point-Counter-Point
6$
Important. Check on those in the box with Frey. Find
out why in hell Carol went into Reiner's place, if she
went in. Carol and Max—watch. Find out who gets Hans
Reiner's money. Ask Frey why he tried to buy Hillard
off. Also about his play with Maya. Get dope on Abe
Montelli, Frey's bootlegger. Frey's bootlegger's brother
—correct. Check on where Carol was night of concert.
Look up Ronnie White. See if—"
He stopped scribbling as the new stenographer came
in and told him that Howard Frey was outside. He
nodded, folded the slip of paper, got it carefully in a
small, inside pocket of his vest. He tilted his chair back,
got his shoe leather on the small table and hunched down
a little.
"Start him this way," he said. "Can you do short-
hand?"
She frowned. "Not so good, but a little," she replied.
He smiled more broadly. "It isn't important, but try
it," he said. "Snap that green button on the right of
your desk and use the head-set that's hanging near it.
Take down as much as you can—it'll come through to
you clearly. But don't let it bother you any."
She nodded, went out. Howard Frey came in. He
looked as though he'd missed some sleep. There were
circles under his eyes. His lips were pressed tightly to-
gether. He was dressed very carefully, perfectly. He took
a chair across the table on which Jardinn had his feet. He
said:
"This is pretty bad, Jardinn."
Jardinn offered the writer a cigarette; he refused it.
After he had lighted up the detective said:


66
Death in a Bowl
"Anyone working on you?"
Frey nodded. "Some plain-clothesmen from the D.A.'s
office have been around to the apartment. They joke a
lot and drink my liquor, but they're damned persistent.
It's got around that I knocked Ernst Reiner down, on the
control platform. That's the thing."
Jardinn grinned. "Knocking down the brother of a
murdered man can't put you in San Quentin," he said
slowly.
Frey shrugged. "They're after me, just the same," he
muttered. "They always have to find a goat—when a name
gets smeared out, around here. I hear Ernst Reiner has
offered ten thousand reward. That counts, too."
Jardinn took his shoes from the table, got to his feet.
"You're a name, yourself," he reminded. "They can't
railroad you so easily."
Frey made an impatient gesture. "Oh, they're decent
enough about it. But they're working on me. One of
these dicks said he'd heard that I got drunk at one of
Maya's parties, and said I was fed up on hearing Ernst
talk about his love for his brother. Said I wished he'd do a
flop overboard, on the way across. This was weeks ago."
Jardinn said: "Did you talk like that?"
Frey groaned. "Why not?" he asked. "We were trying
to get the story in some sort of shape. That was tough
enough. And every half hour or so Ernst Reiner would
yap about how much he loved his brother. It got on my
nerves."
Jardinn nodded. "Don't let it get on them now," he
said. "Got any ideas?"
Howard Frey's sensitive face was twisted. His dark


Point-Counter-Point
67
eyes stared at Jardinn, then narrowed. His face was pas-
sive again. He shrugged.
"You're working for Reiner," he said. "I know that."
Jardinn smiled. "I don't think you killed Hans Reiner,"
he said quietly. "Does that help any?"
Frey swore fiercely. "You don't think I did!" he said
bitterly. "You know goddam well I didn't! I called to
you, up there in the Bowl—"
Jardinn interrupted. "Take it easy, Frey. You can
help us both, maybe. You got out of that box in a hurry—
what was the idea?"
The writer said bitterly: "You're suspicious, too.
Figure I was trying to alibi myself by calling to you,
showing you where I was. You're taking Ernst Reiner's
money and—"
"I've taken some of yours, too," JaTdinn reminded.
"We have a wonderful organization here, Frey." He
smiled ironically. "We can handle two angles at one and
the same time. By God, but we're efficient!"
Howard Frey was staring at Jardinn; his eyes were
puzzled. The detective leaned back in his chair.
"I know you didn't use a thirty-thirty, if that's what
you're getting at," he said. "I just wondered why you
happened to be trying to get down towards the musicians'
shell in such a hurry. Most of the crowd weren't sure
what it was all about."
Frey got up and walked around near the wall. He
stood still, frowned down at the carpet.
"You hadn't met Hans Reiner, had you?" he asked
abruptly.
Jardinn said. "I didn't have that honor."


68
Death in a Bowl
Frey laughed bitterly. "I had it," he said grimly. "It
was a hell of an honor. I met him at Maya's place. Maybe
it was her idea of a joke. She's funny that way. Anyway,
he bowed and said: 'The pugilist, I believe?' I could have
taken him by the throat—he used that nasty, Continental
superiority that gets me. But I didn't take him by the
throat. He took Maya by the arm, and they went into the
music room. I went downstairs and got tight. Not too
tight—just nice. About an hour later I went up to say
good-night to Maya. She was out on the patio, walking
around alone and talking to herself. She was sore as the
devil."
Jardinn asked: "What night was this, Frey?"
The writer said: "Two nights before the concert. Ernst
Reiner wasn't there. They were shooting some night stuff
without Maya."
Jardinn nodded. "What was she sore about?" he asked
quietly.
Howard Frey sat down again. He leaned towards Jar-
dinn, said in a steady voice:
"I'm in a tough spot—and I'm going to be in a
tougher one, Jardinn. I can see it coming. Are you going
to be square with me?"
Ben Jardinn smiled with his lips. "It depends on what
you mean by square, Frey," he said.
Frey said: "I'm slated to be the goat. I'm almost broke,
Jardinn. I've made money, but I've never saved it. I
made a play for Maya—and you know what that means.
If they frame me I won't be able to get Cummings, or
Jallett. I need help—and I need it now. Those big lawyers
will be too expensive for me."


Point-Counter-Point
69
Jardinn tapped ashes from his cigarette to the tray.
He said quietly:
"My job is to get the man who brought the guns in
for the sharp-shooting deal. If I get the man—we'll get
the boys who worked the rifles. I know you didn't work a
rifle, Frey."
Frey said: "And you know Ernst Reiner didn't work
a rifle."
Jardinn whistled softly. "Come out in the open," he
said. "You think Ernst Reiner did a murder job on his
brother?"
Frey smiled coldly. "Talk straight," he replied. "You
think I didn't work a rifle—but maybe I put the boys
there?"
Jardinn said: "I know you didn't work a rifle. And I
just told you I thought you didn't murder Hans Reiner."
Frey relaxed. He was silent for several seconds. His
voice was very calm, when he spoke.
"Ernst Reiner insults me on the set. He then comes to
you and makes a statement with a basis that he fears harm
from me, after I've knocked him down. Does that make
sense?"
Jardinn said quietly: "Not the way you tell it, Frey.
He insulted you. You knocked him down. He got you
fired. Then he came to me and said he was afraid of
trouble. That makes better sense."
Howard Frey smiled. "I came to you and told you that
if anything happened to Ernst Reiner, I wouldn't be
guilty. That gave you a laugh, didn't it?"
Jardinn shook his head. "Just a smile," he corrected.
"What you're trying to tell me is that Ernst Reiner is


70
DEATH IN A BOWL
going to frame you for the murder of his brother. All
right—what about it?”
Frey said: "You're cold as hell—but I think you're
honest."
Jardinn bowed. “You were saying that you found
Maya Rand, two nights before the concert during which
Hans Reiner was killed, out in her patio, sore as the
devil.”
Frey nodded. “She didn't hear me come up—I was
behind her. She was talking to herself, as I said. Gritting
words out. She can use them, when she's being herself.
She played burlesque in Philly for two years before she
got money enough to come out here and take the pies
for Sennett, as a start. Well, she was using words. I
caught a few.”
Jardinn said: "For God's sake be right with me, Frey.
Don't make any mistakes. They'll count like hell. I
don't master-mind to get a killer. I go out and fight for
a break. I'll fight Maya Rand just as quick as anybody
else. But be right with me.”
Frey's face was white-almost as pale as the natural
color of the detective's skin. He said slowly:
"I could go to some other agency, Jardinn. I've come
to you. From the very beginning. I've got to have a
chance—and you can give it to me. Even if you are tak-
ing Reiner's dirty money."
Jardinn said: "What was Maya Rand saying?”
The writer spoke very quietly. His voice was almost
toneless.
"She said: 'I got up here alone—I'll stay here. He's
rotten, but he can't pull me down. I can get to him-


Point-Counter-Point
7i
before he gets to me—use his brother—' That was all,
Jardin."
Jardinn said: "You're not making any mistake?"
Frey swore bitterly. "It's a rotten time for me to
make mistakes," he replied. "That's what she said, Jar-
dinn. Only she gritted out some nasty words in between.
Just the regular words one human uses on another—
when there's hate."
Jardinn nodded. He relaxed in his chair. Frey had been
leaning forward; he got up, rubbed the palm of his right
hand across his face. He said:
"Maya's mixed up in tins—I'm a dirty rat for telling
it! But I'm not going to be framed! I'm not—"
His voice was pitched high. Jardinn said sharply:
"Steady! It's all right, Frey. Want to tell me some-
thing else?"
Frey faced him. He shook his head. His eyes had a
strained expression.
"That's the biggest thing I know," he replied. "Doesn't
it mean a damn thing to you?"
Jardinn smiled faintly. "It's a nice thing to know,"
he replied. "Someone was trying to kick the star rating
from under Maya Rand, for some reason. That someone
had a brother. Maya figured she could keep on shining if
she could 'use' someone's brother. It might mean some-
thing."
Frey said: "If you don't go after her I'm going to the
D.A. with—"
Jardinn got up and swore at the writer. He said
grimly:
"You keep away from the D.A.'s office. A lot of people


Death in a Bowl
use words and don't mean them. You did that, with
Ernst Reiner unconscious at your feet. You should know.
When you've got anything to say—come and say it. I'm
after a killer—man or woman. It's my business. I'll take
your money and Ernst Reiner's money. I'll take anyone's
money, if I can give something for it. This isn't a hobby
with me. I don't work in a library, or go into trances. I
don't dope out involved codes. And I don't bother too
much with the D.A.'s office or the harness bulls. Your
brother did ten years in stir, down South. What for?"
Howard Frey clenched his fists at his sides.
"Manslaughter was what they convicted him on," he
said harshly. "He wasn't guilty."
Jardinn said: "What city was he tried in?"
"Atlanta," Frey replied. "Want me to pay for the
wire you're going to send for a transcript of the court
testimony on the case?"
Jardinn went over to a window, turned his head away
from Frey and grinned.
"How about this cousin of yours—this cop Bracker?"
he asked. "Been talking to him?"
Frey said slowly, steadily: "I've come to you. You're
as hard as the thing Maya Rand calls her soul—but I
think you're white."
Jardinn turned, faced the writer. He said:
"Get some sleep—I've got a lot to do. Don't talk too
much."
The writer moved towards the door. He said grimly:
"I suppose you give Ernst Reiner the same advice."
Jardinn nodded. "It's damn good advice," he stated.
"But it's harder to follow when a couple of dicks have


Point-Counter-Point
73
got you in a soundproof room with a length of rubber
hose."
Howard Frey's eyes were little, dark slits. But there
was no fear in them. He said very quietly:
"I didn't even plan to knock Ernst Reiner down. It
was instinct."
He went out. Jardinn stared at the half closed door,
nodded his head, sat down. The outer door slammed.
Edith Brown came in with a note-book in her hand. She
said:
"I missed some of it. The receivers don't fit just right
over my head. But I got the best part."
Jardinn regarded her narrowly. "What part was that?"
he asked.
She smiled with her brown eyes. She set the note-book
on his desk.
"What Maya Rand said, talking to herself," she an-
swered.
Jardinn got up and stood beside her. He said in a
tone that was so hard it was unpleasant:
"I don't know you well enough to break your neck,
Ede. But I'll break it—if you don't do just one thing
for me. I swear to Christ I will. Do you know what that
one thing is?"
She nodded. "To forget what Maya Rand said, talking
to herself," she replied.
"Just that," he said softly, and got his hat from the
dust on top of the cabinet. "Just exactly that!"


CHAPTER V
LOVELY LADY
MAYA RAND sat in the chair that was something
of a throne at Famous, sipped tea, and nibbled at
small crackers with her perfect teeth. She had a face that
was slightly oval in shape—her eyes were very beautiful.
Her hair was dark; she had a small but exquisite figure.
There was a great deal of confusion on Set Two?»the din
had no effect on Maya. Her colored maid hovered in the
background; she was called Nina, and she had one of the
most perfect primitive faces that Jardinn had ever seen.
Maya said in tones that were very precise and clear:
"Things go badly today. The lighting is not good.
George does well enough, but he is not Ernst Reiner."
Jardinn nodded. He was seated on an uncomfortable
chair, very close to the star of "Death Dance." He said:
"I read somewhere that work on the picture was to be
called off until after the funeral."
Maya Rand lifted her shoulders a little, made a helpless
gesture with her white hands. She had slender, tapering
fingers.
"We are behind schedule, as it is. There will be retakes.
The set is wanted. Or the space for another, rather. There
was the fire, you know. The studio is in rather fearful
shape. It isn't that the officials don't sympathize with
Ernst. They do."
74


Lovely Lady
75
Jardinn leaned back a little in his chair and watched
the electricians working with the lights. The set showed
a corner of a richly done living-room. Maya was in evening
dress; her scarlet wrap set off the pallor of her make-up
startlingly.
Jardinn said: "You were acquainted with Hans Reiner,
Miss Rand?"
She said. "Yes, acquainted."
She had a peculiar way of clipping off her sentences. He
decided that she would be difficult. She had assurance. She
wasn't a wide-eyed child—there was her background. She
had come up from a low theatre. He wondered how far
she had come, and how much fight she had lost on the
way up. Or gained.
"You were in the box with Ernst Reiner," he said. "Do
you mind telling me your reactions. I mean, at the time
of the murder? It will help."
She narrowed her eyes on his. She said:
"I wasn't thinking much about the concert. I dislike
music. It was an affair, of course. I go often to the Bowl
and think about other things. My work, mostly. It's re-
laxation, you know."
She smiled at Jardinn; he smiled back.
"Of course/' he agreed. "And publicity."
She nodded. "And publicity," she agreed. "But that
isn't as important as the relaxation."
He laughed at her. "After all, Miss Rand," he suggested,
"you've worked under greater strain, with less chance for
relaxation."
She set her teacup on the tray near her and kept her
dark eyes on his. She said:


Lovely Lady
77
Jardinn said: "What next?"
She shrugged. "There was a great deal of excitement. I
didn't rise—the others did. I remember Ernst; his body
was very tense. He was staring towards the shell. He cried
out something—I think it was 'Hans'. I'm not sure. The
lights went out again. Mr. Durling said something about
Hans Reiner fainting—overwork, perhaps. He stayed
with me. Mr. Harris stayed, too. Ernst went down towards
the shell. I think we were all standing by this time."
Jardinn nodded. "Did you look around the Bowl, after
the lights came on again?" he asked.
She nodded. "I was quite excited," she said. "I had an
idea there might be a panic, a stampede. Even though we
all were outside, right in the hills."
Jardinn smiled. "When you looked around, did you see
Howard Frey?" he asked.
Her eyes widened. She shook her head.
"No," she said. "Should I have seen him?"
He said slowly: "It would have been just chance. He
was present, you know."
She said, carefully: "I've heard that he was. I believe
there was a party—several men with him. I didn't see him
—not at all. Not before, or after. Does it matter?"
Jardinn shrugged. "It might," he told her. "So many
things seem unimportant now—later they assume im-
portance."
She leaned towards him. "What you mean is that you
want to learn whether I'm lying to you or not," she said
quietly. "I'm not."
Jardinn said: "Without trying to frighten you, it


7«
Death in a Bowl
wouldn't be wise to lie. It never is. But I don't think you
are. I was trying to determine how observant you are. Or
perhaps testing your memory."
George Hillard came over. The assistant director was a
slow moving, handsome man of about thirty-five. He had
a nicely waxed mustache and a pleasant voice. He said:
"Pardon—it'll be about ten minutes, Maya. Hank is
doing things with the spots. Are you all right for that
time?"
She nodded. "I'll look like hell in a close-up," she stated
calmly. "Better not, George."
He said: "You look like a million. The front office is
yelling for it. Ernst may be busted up for a few days. Got
to, Maya."
He moved off, calling for the boss electrician. Some bit
players in evening clothes moved across the set languidly.
A tall, good-looking boy said in a rather high-pitched
tone:
"I think she's a lovely lady."
Jardinn tapped fingers against the wood of the chair.
Maya Rand smiled and said:
"My memory is just fair. I haven't a too bad past, but
sometimes I forget portions of it. I was merely acquainted
with Hans Reiner—just the usual entertaining one would
do for one's director's brother, a stranger in town. I doubt
if we were ever alone in a room together."
Jardinn nodded. "You haven't any idea regarding the
murder?" he asked.
She shook her head. "It seems an incredible thing to
me," she replied. "Such a sort of stupendous way to do—
such a thing. I don't think anyone knew Hans Reiner out


Lovely Lady
79
here, with the exception of his brother. That is, really
knew him. And Ernst loved him deeply."
Jardinn rose from the chair. He said very quietly:
"Perhaps you knew Howard Frey better?"
She rose also. But there was no change of her expression.
She smiled at him.
"I know Howard quite well. He tells me the police are
bothering him. That is all very silly. He couldn't control
his feelings—and Ernst has been working very hard. That
affair had nothing to do with the Bowl—knocking down
Ernst—"
She checked herself. Jardinn said in a low tone:
"You don't want to be dragged into this. You aren't
big enough to beat it. I'll want to talk to you—not here."
She stood quite stiffly. There was a faint contempt in her
eyes.
"I can't be dragged into it," she said emphatically. "I'm
not afraid, and I don't care to talk with you."
He smiled. "I'm easier to get along with than the
police," he said. "On the surface I may not pretend to be
so impressed with your importance as they will. But I'll
be fair."
She said coldly: "I don't know what you're getting at.
What more would we have to talk about?"
Jardinn looked towards the group of bit players near
the edge of the set. He said in an easy tone:
"We might talk about the night Frey was introduced
to Hans Reiner, at your home. We might talk about
Reiner insulting him. And just to be out in the Cali-
fornia air while we talk, we might wander out to your
palmy patio—"


80
DEATH IN A BOWL
Her eyes showed fear—but only a flash of it. Then she
was shaking her head.
"I've a rather difficult scene to do," she said steadily.
"I must have a little quiet.”
He nodded. “I'm sorry to have bothered you,” he told
her. "When shall I come to your house?”
She glanced towards her white slippers. She said very
quietly:
"Tonight—if you wish. But you don't think—”
Fear caught at her words, gave them an uncertainty of
tone. He touched her right wrist with his fingers.
"I think you're a very lovely lady,” he said quietly, and
went slowly towards the thick door of the soundproof
stage.
In the studio street he lighted a cigarette and gazed to-
wards the stars' bungalows. He said softly:
"A very lovely lady—but a liar, just the same.”
Brenniger came in the Hotel Christie as Jardinn was
buying two-for-a-quarters at the cigar counter. Brenni-
ger was a short, heavy-set man. He had a cherub-like face.
He looked not unlike a Y.M.C.A. secretary with suffi-
cient income to eat well. He slapped Jardinn on the back.
"Didn't know you used cigars, Ben,” he greeted.
Jardinn grinned at him, and passed one over. He bought
two more.
"Don't,” he said simply. "How's business?”
Brenniger coughed heavily. "It's way over my head,”


Lovely Lady
81
he replied. "The rotten part is I've got to work just as
hard as you—only no one slips me five grand for it."
Jardinn said. "You've been reading the papers. My
client did a wise thing when he slipped me the five grand
—but he wasn't so wise when he talked about it, after-
ward."
The police detective grunted. "It's a tough one, eh,
Bennie? How's Max and that swell kid, Miss Torney?"
Jardinn struck a match and held it near the tip of Bren-
niger's cigar. He lighted a cigarette.
"They're both fine," he replied. "Carol isn't with me
any more. Max is working hard, though."
He watched the police detective closely. Brenniger was
intelligent, even though he didn't look that way. He in-
haled with satisfaction.
"What happened to the kid?" he asked. "I thought she
liked her work."
Jardinn grinned. "Her uncle's been sick," he said.
"She's sticking close to him."
Brenniger grunted. "He didn't look sick, when I saw
him down in Los Angeles this morning," he observed.
"Say, this is a good smoke."
Jardinn nodded. "Just a nice one," he replied. "It isn't
anything fatal—the uncle has spells."
Brenniger said: "Sure, we all have spells. Know any-
thing I can use without hurting your graft too much?"
Jardinn rolled his cigarette around and appeared to
think the answer over. Brenniger swore and said:
"Anything that isn't too funny, Bennie."
Jardinn nodded. "Lay off Frey a little," he suggested.


82
Death in a Bowl
"He's all right. His nerves were just a little shaky, that's
all."
"That's what I told the chief," Brenniger said slowly.
He had a peculiar smile playing around his thick lips.
"But he said a guy that hates another guy is kind of
likely to hate another guy's brother."
Jardinn groaned. "With that kind of reasoning my
spot isn't so tough," he said. "I won't have too much
competition."
The city detective smiled good humoredly. He in-
spected the ash on his cigar with narrowed eyes.
"I hear this Rand gal is calling Madame Wakun in from
Pasadena," he said. "She's going to put on a show and look
in the glass. She's naming the gent that put the guns in
the Bowl—and then the Rand gal is going to put us wise.
All we have to do is to go out and grab off the gent she
names."
Jardinn nodded. "Bonsall's a good publicity man, but
if he spreads that stuff around he's a damn fool. He'll pull
her into the case—and it may not be so funny."
Brenniger grunted. "I'm going out to the Bowl and
wander around," he said. "I'm a sociable chap—come
along?"
Jardinn shook his head. "You won't find ejected shells,
footprints that are worth anything much, or bloodstains,"
he said. "I was out there when they let things loose. It was
smooth, Brenny."
The city detective nodded. "It's all nice, so far/' he
agreed. "Still, there are a few guys sitting on the edges of
cots up in San Quentin that got along all right for a week
or so after they shoved other guys out."


Lovely Lady
83
Jardinn grinned. "You didn't send them there," he said.
They moved towards the street. Jardinn said:
"I'm going down to the beach and take a swim. It stim-
ulates me."
Brenniger let his eyes show what he thought about that.
He pulled on his cigar.
"Sure you are," he agreed. "And I'll give you a tip—
Carren's hard to get along with. We've been talking
things over. He's got guts, but he's nervous as hell."
Jardinn said: "You think he just happened to wing that
plane over there, Brenny?"
The city detective shrugged. "He's had ships flying over
Bowl concerts before. He was warned twice by the De-
partment of Commerce. They got complaints from the
Bowl committee. He admits he never flew so low. Says
he must have misjudged the distance."
Jardinn swore softly. "Maybe he did," he said.
Brenniger nodded. He gestured with his chin towards
Jardinn's roadster.
"When you get through with this job you can go buy
yourself a nice shiny one," he said.
"Or sell this one," Jardinn replied. "If you did a human
in, Brenny, and had a hundred thousand in cash, you'd use
it to keep out of stir—yes?"
Brenniger said: "I'm ahead of you—I wouldn't have
any trouble in finding a lot of humans ready to take it
and help me keep out."
Jardinn went towards the roadster. The city detective
called after him:
"If you see Miss Torney tell her I hope her uncle gets
rid of the spells."


84
Death in a Bowl
Jardinn grinned back at him. "She'll like the thought,"
he said.
But he wasn't smiling as he climbed back of the wheel.
He drove out Vine to Wilshire Boulevard, turned west-
ward towards the ocean. He decided that Jerry Bonsall
was too good a publicity man to send out Maya Rand's
name tied up with a fake crystal gazing stunt. He decided
that Howard Frey had told him the truth about finding
Maya in the patio alone—using words that she didn't want
to be repeated now. Her eyes had showed him fear.
He decided that Brenniger, who was one of the best
men the City had on the force, wasn't convinced that Car-
ren was telling the truth. And Brenniger was suspicious
about Carol having left the agency. The thoughts came
to him separately—they didn't exactly tie up. The thing
was—he had to go slowly. There was the matter of Max
Cohn telling him he had seen Carol go into Ernst Reiner's
house. He had to go at that carefully, very carefully.
There was the matter of the wrist watch. He couldn't be
sure there—he could only play the girl against Max—and
wait for a break.
The agency had been lucky. They had got inside of a
few things. That had meant a reputation. Someone was
afraid. It was the money that would stop him from get-
ting anywhere. Certainly there had been leaks—where
none had existed before. It wasn't a pleasant situation.
It took him forty-five minutes to reach the field. He
parked the car near the line of hangars, went into the Ad-
ministration Building. A red-haired clerk scribbled him
a pass, when he asked for Pilot Carren. He said in a tired
voice:


Lovely Lady
"He'll be around the tri-motor ship hangar. It's up to
the right when you get on the dead-line. Someone can
point him out. You're a reporter or a cop, I suppose?"
"Whichever annoys you the least," Jardinn replied, and
went out to the dead-line.
He walked along past the propellers of little cabin and
open cockpit ships, reached the big hangar where the tri-
motor planes rested. Two were inside—one was on the
dead-line, two of the propellers whirling at idling speed.
The third propeller was not turning. A mechanic in over-
alls came near him; Jardinn said:
"I'm looking for Carren. He around here someplace?"
The mechanic pointed towards the far side of the big
ship. Jardinn went around. Two men were talking to a
third. The two had slips of paper in their hands and were
using pencils. One of them walked away as Jardinn came
up—the other smiled at the man who stood with his back
against a wing-tip of the big monoplane.
"Just a tough bit of luck, Carren," he said, and went
away slowly, writing stuff on the slip of paper.
The pilot regarded Jardinn with narrowed, weary eyes.
He was dressed in a gray suit and wore no hat. He had a
rather long face and a stubble of beard. His arms hung
loosely at his sides, but fingers clenched and unclenched
nervously. Except for his fingers there was no movement
of the pilot's body.
Jardinn said loudly, against the rumble of the two
engines:
"My name's Jardinn. Ernst Reiner has asked me to do
some looking around for him. I haven't rushed out here
because I figured you just blundered into the killing."


86
DEATH IN A BOWL
He paused. Carren said, in a voice that was flat:
"Too bad the rest don't figure that way. It's tough—for
me.”
Jardinn nodded. Carren had brown eyes, and they held
a lifeless expression. They didn't seem to meet Jardinn's
—they appeared to focus on some spot beyond him.
"I was in the Bowl, the night Hans Reiner was mur-
dered,” Jardinn said steadily. "You were flying pretty
low.”
The pilot wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. He
said:
"I thought I'd do it right. There was a girl aboard who
wanted to get down low-maybe I sort of fell pretty
hard for her.”
Jardinn stepped up close and said sharply:
"You're a goddam liar! You're too good a pilot to do
a stunt like that for a girl.”
Carren's face was white. He said in a hoarse voice:
"You can't talk like that to me! I know who you are!
You haven't got anything on me. You won't get any-
thing on me,”
Jardinn laughed at him. It was a nasty, mocking laugh.
"I'm getting enough on you!” he snapped. “Every time
you pull one like that last-I get something on you. Bet-
ter be right with me.”
Carren stood with his body hunched forward a little.
He was breathing heavily—both hands were clenched at
his sides. Jardinn let his eyes drop, slipped his right hand
into a side pocket of his coat. He said:
"I know you're nervous as hell. But don't get too nerv-
ous. I'm holding something that quiets any kind of


Lovely Lady
»7
nerves. Don't try to pull one of Frey's tricks on me."
Carren sucked in his breath sharply. His body was
tense, his eyes wide. Then his facial muscles relaxed. He
ran the fingers of his right hand over his face. He said
hoarsely:
"There was a party made up—they wanted to see the
Bowl. I took them over. There were two girls aboard. I
don't know where any of the people live. I take lots of
them up. They've all been asking me where the passengers
are—I don't know. Why should I?"
Jardinn said: "I'll tell you why—most of them sign a
release slip. Most fields get addresses. There might be an
accident."
The pilot shook his head. "There wasn't enough time—
they got here late."
Jardinn smiled narrowly. "You got over the Bowl just
after the concert started—you had plenty of time," he
said.
Carren walked a few feet away from the wing-tip of
the big plane. Jardinn said:
"You're lying, Carren—and you'll catch plenty of
punishment for it. If they get you downtown—"
The pilot swung around, faced him. He said hoarsely:
"The ship just happened—to be there! Do I look like
a killer?"
"I never saw a man who looked like one," Jardinn said
more quietly. "You look like a liar to me—I've seen them
before."
A mechanic came up. He grinned at the pilot.
"Phone call from Detective Headquarters, Hen," he
said. "A guy named Bonner wants you to wait out here


88
DEATH IN A BOWL
't think ords. "It Lottled-doo
until he gets here. He says it's nothing important-he just
wants to talk with you.”
Carren nodded. Jardinn smiled grimly. He said noth-
ing. The pilot asked the question.
"Who's Bonner?”
Jardinn shrugged. “You'll like him," he said with
irony. "He has technique—with a hunk of rubber hose.”
"They haven't got anything on me,” the pilot mut-
tered. The rumble of the two throttled-down engines al-
most drowned his words. "It was just a passenger joy-
ride. I didn't think I was so low.”
Jardinn said: “You didn't circle the Bowl. You didn't
come back. You didn't give your passengers much of a
show. You just got there-winged over very low-and
kept on going. And while you were over the Bowl-
Hans Reiner was murdered.”
Carren kept his clenched hands at his side. His face
was white, twisted. His eyes stared at Jardinn's.
"It was just luck!” he cried. “Just damn, rotten
luck!”
Jardinn stepped in close to him. He said sharply:
"You know Frey pretty well-you'd better talk first.
It'll be easier—"
Carren struck with his left hand. The blow caught
Jardinn over the right temple-it battered him back-
ward, rocked him on his heels. The second blow caught
him under the left ear-he went down heavily. He
didn't lose consciousness. His body was numb, almost
helpless. He pulled himself to his knees, fumbled for the
weapon in his pocket. It had slipped from his relaxed
grip as he had gone down.


LOVELY LADY
Mancang
He got it from the pocket—his head was clearing. He
swayed to his feet. There was a roaring in his ears; it
seemed to be increasing in tone. The great tri-motor
shape was moving, rolling forward. Jardinn saw it as
a blur as he swayed on the turf. Wind whipped at his
body; he bent forward against the force of it. Raising
the gun, he fired once. His hand wasn't steady enough,
his grip strong enough, to prevent even the recoil. He
didn't fire again.
His vision was better now—in the distance he saw the
big plane getting into the air. Men were running towards
him from the dead-line. A voice said:
"Carren's grounded—he shouldn't have done that!”
A middle-aged man, with a gray mustache, was star-
ing at the gun Jardinn held loosely at his right side. He
said:
"What's the matter-you got a gun there"
Jardinn slipped the gun in a pocket. He said thickly:
"He knocked-me down. He's got—that ship for
a—"
A voice, hoarse and strained, broke in on Jardinn's
weak tone.
"She's—slipping off—it's a crash!”
Jardinn stared desperately in the direction he'd seen
the tri-motor ship take off. Two hundred feet above the
earth, he saw her. She was in a bank-headed back
towards them. But she was slipping—the scream of wind
through her rigging reached him as she came down.
Someone cried out: "She's only got—two engines"
Jardinn stood motionless. The nose of the big plane
seemed to whip downward in the last fifty feet. She was


90
DEATH IN A BOWL
plunging almost straight towards the field surface when
she struck. There was the terrible, vibrating roar of a big
plane crashed to earth. Then only a distant hissing,
drowned by the wail of the field siren and the shouts of
running men.
Jardinn raised his right hand fingers to a cut beneath
his left ear. The pilot had worn a ring. He walked unstead-
ily towards the wreckage of the big plane. He muttered to
himself:
“I didn't think-he'd do that.”
When he reached the wreckage they had carried Car-
ren from the ship. It had taken time for Jardinn to get
to the spot. Every foot of the distance hurt. The man
with the gray mustache walked towards him, shaking
his head. There was no color in his face.
Jardinn said: “Dead?”
The man nodded. “Everything came back on him,"
he muttered. "She slipped off on a wing."
Jardinn moved around the wreckage. He didn't go
near the body of the pilot. A tall man with rounded
shoulders and thick lensed glasses came over and stood be-
side him. He said in a stunned voice:
"Something must have happened—to Carren. I de-
signed that big girl. She was a-tested plane. Something
went wrong—"
He broke off, moved away shaking his head from
side to side.
Jardinn turned away from the wreckage. He went
over and sat down on the grass, lighted a cigarette with
shaking fingers. He smiled a little, with his dark eyes
narrowed. He said unsteadily:


LOVELY LADY
91
"Brenniger was right-Carren knew things. He
couldn't be pushed—too far. Maybe the ship was fixed
maybe he slipped her off-he might have been too
shaky—"
Fifteen minutes later, as Jardinn was getting into his
roadster, a Headquarters' car drove up beside it. Ed Bon-
ner climbed out of the rear seat and frowned at him.
"What in hell happened out here?” he demanded.
Jardinn smiled with his lips. "There was an accident,”
he replied.
Bonner grunted. “Your face looks as though it hap-
pened to you,” he returned.
Jardinn said: “Part of it did," and got the roadster
moving. “But most of it happened to a pilot named
Carren.”
Bonner called after the moving car: "I came out—to
see that fellow.”
Jardinn twisted his head, grinned. “Go ahead,” he
called back. "He won't mind—not now.”


CHAPTER VI
"IF YOU HURT ME"
EDITH BROWN was frowning over a clipping from
a newspaper, when Ben Jardinn shoved open the
door of the agency office. She looked up at him, started
to work her baby smile, stared. She smiled down at
her.
"I know," he said. "But I'll survive. What are you
clipping—ads for other jobs?"
She shook her head. "Stories about the murder in the
Bowl," she replied. "Gun experts are disagreeing—I
thought you'd want to see the items."
He nodded. "It's safer to stay in the office and read,"
he agreed. "Anything happen?"
She chuckled at something, looked a little startled, set
the shears on the surface of the desk and nodded.
"A nifty boy came in and said you might want to
give him a job as an operative. I said that you might. He
tried to make a date with me, but I told him I was broke.
A man named Squire called up from Pasadena and said
that he could handle that matter himself—that he'd
learned who the man was. He said to tell you he was get-
ting sick of his wife, anyway. A woman called and said
she'd read you'd been retained by Ernst Reiner—and
she had something of interest to tell you. Her name's
91


"If You Hurt Me —"
Degonn6, and she lives in Glendale—the address is on
your desk. She sounded Frenchy like. I guess that is
about all."
Jardinn nodded. "You're earning your money," he
said. "If you're broke—"
He tossed her two tens. She said: "Thanks," and nar-
rowed her brown eyes on his. He said:
"I wasn't hit hard—that is, not very hard. I was a
delicate child and I still bruise easily. I'm going down to
a barber shop and take a nap under some cold towels. If
a little, Jewish looking man comes up here tell him I'll
be a half hour late. He's Max Cohn, and he's my assistant.
Don't let him kid you too much."
Edith Brown chuckled. She scooped up some of the
clippings, offered them to him.
"How about reading them in the barber shop?" she
asked.
He shook his head. "I can't see through towels," he re-
minded. "Put 'em on my desk. How do you like the job?"
She shrugged. "Just so long as I don't get hurt it'll be
all right," she replied.
Ben Jardinn had got over near the door; he paused,
frowned at her.
"Who's going to hurt you?" he asked.
She shrugged again. "I didn't say anyone was," she
said. "I said so long as—"
"All right," he cut in. "I remember the speech. But
don't kid yourself—you won't get hurt. You may get
killed, but it'll be so sudden there won't be pain."
He went out and down the stairs. In the chair of a
barber shop across the street, he decided that Edith Brown


94
Death in a Bowl
would be all right around the office, even if he hadn't got
her by the usual method of running a trick ad in the
paper. She seemed smart enough about a lot of things, but
she'd been dumb in suggesting that he bring the clippings
along. She was better than the blonde Max had brought
in, anyway.
The barber, who thought Jardinn ran an agency for
motion picture people, seemed to believe his story of a
wild party at the Cotton Club, and agreed that the towels
would help his face. While Jardinn tried to think of
other matters, the barber advanced his own theories about
the murder in the Bowl. It all came down to the point
that he figured Hans Reiner had been shot from the plane,
by a super-sharpshooter. Jardinn mumbled that he agreed
and tried to get the man's idea of a motive. The barber
didn't have any, but he consumed ten minutes in an ef-
fort to make his customer believe otherwise.
When Jardinn got back to the office Max Cohn was
sitting on the edge of Edith Brown's desk and talking
about Tampa, Florida. He grinned at Ben.
"Miss Brown's been living in Tampa," he said. "We got
something in common."
Jardinn went on towards his office. "I doubt it," he
replied. "Come on in and tell me some things."
Cohn followed him in. He looked pretty cheerful. His
dark eyes worked on Ben's face; he spoke in his nasal
voice.
"Where'd you get this Brown kid, Ben?"
Jardinn frowned and slid into the chair back of his
desk.
"You lay off her," he warned. "We've got a job• on—


"If You Hurt Me —" 95
and it might be tough. She's a nice girl. Did you get the
keys?"
Cohn tossed them on the desk. He kept on grinning.
"Irish raved a lot, but she gave them to me," he said.
"It's her idea that I wanted her out of the office. God—
women are funny. She thinks I wanted her out because
I couldn't make her."
Jardinn put the keys in a pocket. He said slowly:
"What happened at the paper?"
Cohn shrugged. "I spent two hours working around
the files," he replied. "There's damned little on Hans
Reiner. Just the usual stuff. He's conducted all over the
continent. No one ever took a shot at him over there. Or
if they did it didn't get sent over the cable. Maya Rand
gets a lot of the usual publicity. Nothing that counts in
this thing. Just the regular bunk."
Jardinn nodded. Cohn asked: "What's the matter with
your face—it looks hurt?"
Edith Brown came in with some clippings. She handed
them to Jardinn.
"Busy girl," Max said. "You'll get yourself a nervous
breakdown around here."
She went out without speaking, but she smiled a little.
Ben Jardinn said:
"I want you to cut using a line with this kid. I'm not
joking. Lay off."
Lines in Cohn's face wrinkled with surprise. He looked
hurt.
"Relative of yours, Ben?" he asked in a sarcastic tone.
Jardinn tapped on the desk surface with fingers of his
right hand. He looked at the clippings.


96
Death in a Bowl
"You didn't spend all your time on the paper morgue,"
he said finally. "Did you see Glenning?"
Cohn nodded. "My old pal Glenning," he mused. "He's
got himself a bad throat—doesn't feel like talking. It got
better when I reminded him that I helped get him that
experting job down at bull headquarters. He talked a
little."
Jardinn waited. Cohn lighted a cigarette and sat down.
"One bullet mushroomed after it got inside Reiner—
the other didn't. Both thirty-thirty in caliber. The one
that mushroomed finished him. The other one slapped
into some bone, and didn't do too much damage. It's
Glenning's idea that the bullets were fired from different
guns. He likes the idea of one sharp-shooter being on each
side of the Bowl, on the paths."
Jardinn smiled a little. "What made the bullet mush-
room?" he asked. "A cross, cut at the point?"
Cohn shrugged. "That's one way of doing it," he
agreed. "Though Glenning didn't say that. Only one was
a soft nosed bullet. It struck under the left shoulder
blade, dug in to the right. The other struck his back a
little low, and traveled to the left. Glenning's guess is
that they were fired from a distance of about two hun-
dred yards—not much less. Impact force showed that."
Jardinn nodded. "That's nice shooting," he murmured.
"Nice distance—and in the dark. Just the two bullets—
none banged around the orchestra after a miss."
Cohn nodded. "We poked around there pretty care-
fully, at the time," he agreed. "Jeeze—what we need is
a motive lead. It would be a sweet stunt to get this fellow
Carren talking."


"If You Hurt Me —"
Jardinn grinned. "It would be a miracle," he said
grimly. "He's dead."
Max Cohn took the cigarette from between his rather
thick lips, muttered a surprised "huh," and stared at
Jardinn.
"There was an accident," Ben stated. "I was getting
him all worked up calling him a liar and a few other
things. He cracked me down, got aboard a tri-motor
ship and took off. She crashed over the field. He got killed.
Bonner was on the way out—he wanted to talk with him."
Cohn kept on staring. He said slowly:
"Maybe you played him the wrong way. Maybe you
should have agreed with him, Ben."
Jardinn nodded. "Maybe," he agreed. "But you're never
around to give me advice when I need it."
Cohn got a foolish expression on his heavy face. He said
slowly:
"Carren's dead—Jeeze, that's tough. I think he knew
something."
Jardinn picked up a small slip of paper, read aloud the
name "Degonne," handed the slip to Cohn. He looked
towards the window.
"Trot out that way tonight and see this woman," he
said. "She called here and said she had something of in-
terest to tell me about Ernst Reiner."
Cohn grinned. "The name's French," he announced.
"She probably had some relation killed in the war, and
thinks she can tell you something that'll hurt Ernst."
Ben Jardinn picked up a clipping and read it. While he
was reading he said:
"Just as sure as hell this is a cover-up job. We can't


98
Death in a Bowl
afford to miss anything. Don't be smart with her. Listen to
everything she says."
Cohn swore. "It seems to me you took a chance—get-
ting this Brown kid in from an agency."
Jardinn went on reading the clipping. He nodded.
"No doubt about it," he agreed. "But we were pretty
careful when we got the others we've had outside—and
they went bad. Even Carol."
Cohn frowned. "I can't figure her going inside of
Ernst Reiner's place," he said slowly. "She should be
worked on."
Jardinn set down the clipping and smiled nastily. He
said slowly:
"There's just the two of us, Max—and we've got
enough to do. The police don't know what it's all about.
We won't learn much from them. Never mind Irish. If
we want her I'll take care of that."
Cohn shrugged. "She fixed your wrist watch," he re-
minded. "Even if that didn't count, she knows some-
thing."
Jardinn nodded. "Carol Torney's stubborn as hell," he
said. "I think she put a bad boy next to me—the one who
tried to slug me down. I think she did tricks with the
wrist watch. But I don't think she knew what it was
about. Someone just came along at the right time—with
plenty of money."
Cohn got up and put the slip of paper in his pocket.
"How about the passengers in that tri-motor plane?" he
asked. "Maybe they knew something."
Jardinn nodded. "Maybe," he agreed. "I'll get back to
the field later. The police are working that end. They


"If You Hurt Me —"
can't find any passengers. Things seem to have been
worked sloppily out there. Carren said he didn't even re-
member what his passengers looked like. He made up some
story about a girl wanting him to fly low—one of those
aboard. He was lying. The officials at the field don't seem
to have paid much attention to the night flights. Carren's
dead—and that end is going to be plenty tough."
Cohn grunted. "It's ten to one the passengers didn't
know what it was all about, anyway," he said. "Carren
made a deal—and carried it through. He was getting in
a jamb, lost his nerve—and finished things. That's the
way I see it."
Jardinn leaned back in his chair and smiled. He said
quietly:
"I've got a hunch you're right, Max. And look here,
this murder fits in with a theory of mine. It looks like a
big, spectacular job. But it's smooth, Max. After you get
through with the woman out in Glendale, say tomorrow,
I want you to get after the light end—out in the Bowl.
Those lights were turned off—then flashed on, and then
turned off again. See what you can get on that. The fel-
low that was slugged is Murphy. You might talk with
him, though the police have been doing most of the ob-
vious things, and the reporters have been sticking close
and printing most of the stuff they learn. I'll look up
Carren's family."
Cohn nodded. He kept his dark eyes lazily on Jardinn's.
He said:
"Sure. You were saying the kill fit in with a theory of
yours—but you didn't mention the theory."
Jardinn yawned. "Didn't I?" he said. "Well, maybe I


IOO
Death in a Bowl
was just using words. But what I was trying to get at
was that it might not have been such a fool stunt to do
in a human with twenty thousand other humans around,
at that. Not with things right. None of them saw any-
thing—and they were all in the way, after the kill."
Max Cohn grunted. "That's a hell of a theory, Ben,"
he muttered. "It doesn't mean anything."
Jardinn grinned. "Maybe I'm getting old," he sug-
gested. "I've always tried not to have theories. The first
thing I know I'll be chasing fingerprints."
Cohn chuckled. He moved towards the door. Jardinn
said:
"You might go up to the Bowl headquarters tomorrow
and talk to Mrs. Winf red-Neeley. She likes to talk. There's
a lot of politics in the Bowl stuff, so they say. Find out if
they cancelled any other maestro, to let Hans Reiner con-
duct."
Cohn groaned. "Oh, God!" he breathed. "Not that?"
Jardinn stood up and called for Edith Brown. He said
to Cohn:
"These foreigners are hot blooded. You never can tell.
Remember, the simple things—"
Cohn swore at him and went out. Edith came in, smil-
ing. The outside door slammed. Jardinn walked past the
girl, went into the outer office. He heard Cohn going down
the steps. He locked the door, went back into his office.
He shut the door behind him, went over and sat down.
Edith Brown stood before his desk, her brown eyes
smiling at him. He motioned for her to take the chair
that Cohn had vacated. She sat down gracefully. She
slumped a little. He liked her eyes, and the imperfection


"If You Hurt Me —
ioi
of her mouth lines. She had one of the most cheerful voices
he had ever heard. The huskiness was nice—but not too
nice. It didn't fit in with her baby face and figure; Jar-
dinn liked contrast. He said quietly:
"I've checked you, at the agency. That isn't sufficient,
under ordinary circumstances. These aren't ordinary. I'm
in a tough spot. The office work around here doesn't
amount to a damn. There's such a thing as a sporting
proposition. You said something, a little while ago, about
liking this job if you weren't going to get hurt. That was
silly—it gave me the idea that you didn't know what this
was all about. Play fair with me—are you in here for a
reason? Or did you just want a job?"
Her eyes met his squarely. "Just for a job," she said.
"I came here three months ago, from Tampa. I tried to
get picture work—my voice doesn't go with my face. I
can't get it. If I could whine maybe I'd do. I needed the
job—any job."
He nodded. "Max put one of his girls in here—she sold
out on us," he said. "I had one named Carol Torney. It
isn't generally known—but I kicked her out. I was sus-
picious. I'd like to use you—maybe outside the office. I
don't want Max Cohn to know that. You won't get hurt.
You won't have to think. You'll just have to do what I tell
you. Nothing else. No imagination—no police work. I'll
pay you sixty a week—while the job lasts."
She said slowly: "You're sure I won't get hurt?"
He grinned. "Unless you walk in front of a truck, or
get hit by some falling brick—you won't get hurt," he
replied.
She nodded. "I'll do as you say," she said simply.


"If You Hurt Me —" 103
"You're bright as hell, Ede. I don't know where I stand,
with the office crowd wise enough to know the gold is
flowing all over the place. I've never been sure of Carol—
she was too hard inside. I'm sure of you. I'm positive."
She said, smiling: "Why?"
He smiled, too. He opened a drawer at the bottom of
his desk, on the right side, and took out a gun. He held it
towards her, still smiling.
"It's loaded," he said. "It's got ten bullets. It's got a
Maxim silencer that'll work well killing the racket of
one shot. You walked in here and took a job. You've got
a baby face and brains. I can use both—and I'm going to
use both. You won't get hurt, Ede—not unless you get
clever."
She looked frightened. She shivered a little. He laughed
nastily.
"I've got to have help. It's all right being crossed—just
so long as I know who are crossing me. But I won't be
able to know about you. I won't have time. If it happens—
I'll just get the idea suddenly."
She started to shake her head, stopped. She said:
"I don't have to stay on here."
He nodded. "You have to stay on here," he contra-
dicted. "You came in—and you looked around. You heard
a few things. You're going to stick—and you're going to
do what I tell you. Either that or—"
He slipped the weapon back in the drawer, closed it. He
sat down and lighted a cigarette. There were tears in the
girl's eyes.
"You said I wouldn't get hurt," she said shakily. "You
said—"


104
DEATH IN A BOWL
"You won't,” he cut in. “You won't even come close
to getting hurt. It'll be the easiest job you've ever had.
But I've got to get things right, here in the office.”
She said shakily: "Then why'd you show me the-
gun?”
He smiled. "Figure it out for yourself," he replied. “I
can't shoot worth a damn—but at two feet it's hard to
miss.”
She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. She tried
to smile. Her baby face was pale.
"I'm not tricking you,” she said in an uncertain tone.
"And you said — I wouldn't get—"
"Christ!” he cut in harshly. "A lot of people don't get
hurt. But they get dead.”
She got up from her chair suddenly. There was courage
in her eyes. Her baby figure was tense.
"You think I came into this agency for a reason!” she
flared. “It isn't true. I came just for a job! That was all!”
Ben Jardinn leaned back in his chair, grinned at her
cheerfully.
"All right—all right,” he said in a soothing voice.
"You've got it, haven't you?"
Jardinn finished scrawling on the fourth sheet of paper,
struck a match under the white stuff, let the flames eat
upward. He took the ashes over and dropped them into
the waste paper basket. One sheet wasn't completely de-
stroyed; he could distinguish the words “Carren” and
"Bonner” and a few broken sentences of unimportance.


"If You Hurt Me —" io5
There wasn't much else in the waste paper basket. He
smiled.
"Twice," he said softly. "Make sure, this time. Think
someone's trying to read this stuff."
Edith Brown came in. Her face was still pale, and her
eyes were red. But she smiled.
"The woman who cleans the office is outside," she said.
He nodded. "Let her come in, Ede," he told her. "Feel
better?"
She nodded, went out. A heavy-bosomed German
woman came in. She turned weary eyes towards Jardinn.
"Don't do anything in here tonight," he said. "Just
stay outside. Don't come in at all."
She nodded. Jardinn folded a dollar bill, gave it to her.
She went out. He followed her into the outer office,
watched Edith Brown putting powder on her nose. He
said:
"Getting late. Run along, Ede. Give me a number that
I can call. I won't call it tonight. Better go over to the
Egyption and hear Garbo talk. Come down around nine
tomorrow."
She scrawled a 'phone number on a slip of paper,
handed it to him. He held her fingers in a grip that was
almost gentle.
"Not sore at me, Ede?" he asked. "You've got to be
right."
She said in her husky tone: "There was no reason to
think I wouldn't be. You didn't have to be brutal."
He frowned. "I was just honest with you, Ede," he
said.
She got ready for the street slowly, carefully. At the


"If You Hurt Me —"
wood Bowl. Early arrivals were strolling along; the pro-
gram girls, in their gay colored uniforms, were listlessly
calling attention to their printed sheets. Jardinn turned to
the right, did not go through the gates. He moved around
by the hill-cut parking places, approached the shell near
the musicians' entrance.
On his left he could see the lighted, semi-natural
theatre. Tier after tier rose from the level of the grass that
stretched between the shell and the first rows of seats.
Only a small portion of the Bowl was filled; he could see
the early comers moving up the aisles, the side paths. The
brakes of cars squealed on the dirt road that wound from
Highland Avenue to the parking spaces. Jardinn said
softly:
"Get through with this—get up above for the first
number. Move around; see how things look, even if the
police have done all that."
He moved among the musicians, into the ante room at
the left of the shell. The brass sections were tuning; he saw
the tall, gray haired concert master standing near the door
that led to the shell platform, moved towards him. Brus-
set smiled as he approached; there was a sadness in the
man's eyes. He had a lean, cadaverous face; he spoke with
an accent.
"You have—learned something, Mr. Jardinn?"
Ben Jardinn shook hands with the concert master, said
quietly:
"Very little. I have come to you to learn something,
perhaps."
Brusset spread his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.


io8
Death in a Bowl
"It seems difficult," he said. "But if I may help, in any-
way—"
They moved from the ante room, went out along a
narrow path that circled around towards the grass that
fronted the shell platform. Among palms they found a
secluded spot. Jardinn said in a low voice:
"You were in the shell—when the lights went out?"
Brusset nodded. "I was with Madame Volten, the so-
loist who was to sing during the second half. We were
talking. When the airplane came over we both complained
rather bitterly—there has been so much of it this season.
The other maestros had complained, and I was worried
about Herr Reiner. Then the lights went out. It startled
me—I looked towards the shell platform. We were in
the ante room across the platform from the one in which
you met me. The switch that operates the lights was across
the platform from us. As I looked—the lights came on.
Herr Reiner was falling. I think he had one hand at his
back. The lights went out again—and I started towards
the platform. There was much confusion. Finally one of
the tympani men reached the switch and turned the shell
lights on. The Bowl lights came on very soon—perhaps
ten seconds after that—"
Emil Brusset's voice died; he stood looking towards the
outline of the shell, the great curve of it, frowning. Jar-
dinn said:
"When this tympani player found the switch there
was no one near it?"
The concert master shook his head. "Not a soul," he
stated. "The electrician had been outside smoking—he
knew the time the piece would take. He had been struck


"If You Hurt Me —" 109
down, and as he has said—he did not recognize the one
who assaulted him. But I do not understand why the
lights flashed on—then off again."
Jardinn said: "The police theory seems to be that
Hans Reiner was shot from the two paths of the Bowl.
The shots were fired in the darkness. But the lights were
needed—it was necessary to see if there had been hits.
When Reiner fell—they were not needed. Darkness was
better. So the switch was thrown again."
The concert master frowned. "That was remarkable
shooting," he said softly.
Jardinn smiled a little. "That is the police theory," he
repeated. "For the present I am accepting it. As a matter
of fact, the shooting was not so remarkable. Two hundred
yards or so, with perfects sights and perhaps much prac-
tice at a similar angle. If the men with the rifles were well
screened by friends, they could easily have raised their
weapons and sighted—just before the lights went out. It
is only a matter of ten feet across the paths—these men
could have fired from the growth beyond. The bushes are
tall enough to hide a human."
The concert master said quietly: "It was a horrible
thing, Mr. Jardinn."
Jardinn nodded. "This is confidential, of course," he
stated. "I would like you to take me to one or two mu-
sicians in each of the sections. First violins, second violins,
brass, cellos, tympani. I would like to have you show me
on the score of the tone poem Hans Reiner was conduct-
ing—the approximate note sounding when the lights went
out."
Emil Brusset whistled softly. "You mean, of course,


'' I F Y O U• H U R T M E — '' III
Jardinn nodded. They moved along the path towards
the shell. Brusset spoke in a low, puzzled voice:
"It was such a spectacular, daring way to shoot
down—" He broke off, then said grimly: "It was almost
like a gesture. The supreme indifference of the method—"
Jardinn said: "Sure—it looked like all that at first. But
it begins to look like something else now. It wasn't so
daring and it wasn't worked indifferently. Certainly it
was no gesture."
Brusset made a clicking sound. "It was a very terrible
thing," he reiterated.
Jardinn said grimly: "It was a damn, smooth job."
Thirty minutes later, as he moved slowly along the
right path of the Bowl slope, he was repeating the words.
The orchestra was playing the second number; Bern, the
local conductor was wielding the baton. There was only
a fair crowd in attendance. Near the spot where he had
been knocked down, Jardinn paused, stood looking down
at the musicians. The music reached him; it was a jest in
tone. There was a quality of mockery in the string sounds;
the brass section superimposed gay notes against the
motif of the violins.
Jardinn stood motionlessly for several minutes. His
eyes, half narrowed, searched the whole slope of the Bowl,
rested on the conductor's platform, on the squat, un-
graceful form of the maestro. The strings died, brass
was subdued to the thin tones of a reed.
Above him, in the upper rows that rimmed the crest
of the hill, there was muffled laughter. Lovers occupied
the upper rows—it was an ideal spot. He looked in that
direction, said softly:


II2 DEATH IN A BOWL
"Too far-even for rifles, back there.”
A feminine voice reached him faintly. It was protest-
ing, half jokingly.
"Charlie-stop! If you hurt me”.
It died suddenly. Jardinn glanced back towards the
shell again, smiling grimly. He muttered to himself:
"Yeah, but that Brown kid isn't afraid of being hurt
that way. It isn't hugging that worries her. And there was
Ernst Reiner, pretty worried about something--and
Frey-"
He stopped muttering as the music ceased, the Bowl
lights flared. He said slowly, in a half whisper:
"Damn-D’Este might be the man,”
He moved suddenly down the sloping path and towards
the Bowl entrance.


ii4
Death in a Bowl
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 hunt-
ing around, you tell me she may never have worked on
the lots!"


Patio Scene
Jardinn 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, Jeeze, he's fussy. "When
he's casting—he's casting. He does a smooth job."
Jardinn 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."
Jardinn 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?"


n6 Death in a Bowl
The casting bureau man toyed with his waxed end mus-
tache and chuckled.
"Out of my line, Ben," he said. "See you at twelve."
Jardinn nodded, went towards 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 after-
noon. 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 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 towards 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."


Patio Scene
117
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 cock-
tail 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, any-
thing 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 towards
him, her eyes blazing. He turned his head towards 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, dis-
torted 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 act-
ing.


118 Death in a Bowl
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 Holly-
wood."
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 in, 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 'pu-
gilist.' 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. How-
ard 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?"
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 per-
fect.


Patio Scene
"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 in-
side, 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 get-
ting in deeper. He's right about the police wanting a
goat."
"He has friends," she said.


120
Death in a Bowl
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. Jardinn 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
in 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 re-
laxed, 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 towards him, speak-
ing 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
gold-fish 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


PATIO SCENE
121
under a nervous strain. He hasn't much money-he'd
spent a good deal in attempting to show his admiration of
you.”
Sald.
"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—"
"Nono!” 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


122
Death in a Bowl
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 dan-
gerous."
Jardinn stood up, dropped his cigarette stub in the ash
tray near the fan-backed chair, smiled coldly at the ac-
tress.
"Fd 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.


Patio Scene
123
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 Mas-
key'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? Tak-
ing 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.


124
Death in a Bowl
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 have 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 recog-
nize 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


PATIO SCENE
125
.
Wrap. Shint hand plementary for and speak Something
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.”
Maya Rand walked a few feet and placed her left hand
aganst the fan-backed chair arm. Her face was turned
towards his. She said thickly:
"Carren-the plane pilot?”
Jardinn nodded. “Know him?” he asked.
She was breathing heavily. She shook her head. It was
as though the movement had been an effort, a great effort.
"See tonight's papers?" Jardinn asked.
She didn't speak. She shook her head again.
"What,” she commenced, and stopped.
Jardinn said carelessly. "He had an accident. His
plane crashed.”


CHAPTER VIII
NOT JEALOUS
IT was eleven-fifteen before Carol Torney reached the
beach speakeasy designated by Ben Jardinn; he had
been in the place a half hour, sipping two old fashioned
cocktails, smoking a half pack of cigarettes and watching
the door that led to the narrow street. In the distance an
amusement park concession shrilled stupid music; at in-
tervals there was the rush of a scenic railway car. Carol
came in quickly; her eyes caught the lift of his hand. She
moved over the wooden floor, reached the booth. A weary
eyed waiter followed her.
"Beer," Carol said. "Hello, Bennie. Got a start?"
He shook his head. He rose, strolled past the booth next
in line, turned and came back. The booth was empty.
There was none on the other side—he'd picked the last one
in the line. A radio suddenly got into action, but no
couples were using the small dance floor. There was only
the faint murmur of voices, at the far end of the room.
Jardinn slid along the bench across from Carol. He
smiled at her.
"No start—not drinking much," he said. "Sure you
weren't tagged?"
She leaned back a little and narrowed her eyes.
"Killed ten minutes, making sure," she replied. "But I
spotted Max standing on a curb, as I drove through Holly-
127


128
Death in a Bowl
wood. Came around the block—passed the place again.
He wasn't there. Drove all over the place getting here.
Maybe he followed—maybe not. Sure thing he didn't fol-
low all the way."
Jardinn said: "Where'd you spot him, Irish?"
She was looking in a mirror and fooling with her lip-
stick.
"He's in this," she said. "You better watch him, Ben-
me.
Jardinn sipped his drink. "Where'd you spot him,
Irish?" he repeated.
"Down near the Montmartre," she said. "Between the
entrance and the corner of Highland. On Hollywood.
Just lolling around, but he wasn't there when I turned the
block."
She finished with her lips, lifted the glass of beer. She
made a face that wasn't pretty, set the glass down.
"Rotten," she said.
Jardinn nodded. "Get something else," he suggested.
"Listen, Irish—you keep away from the office, see?"
He signaled the waiter. Carol looked at him, then at the
beer.
"Take it away," she told the waiter. "Whisky sour, and
don't make it too sweet."
The waiter wanted to know what was the matter with
the beer. Carol said:
"It's rotten."
He took the glass away, muttering to himself. She kept
her eyes on Jardinn.
"You don't look so good, Bennie," she said. "Maybe
we're going to get licked."


Not Jealous
129
Jardinn said grimly: "Maybe we are. Did you hear what
I said about keeping away from the office?"
Carol Torney looked around the place curiously.
"It's a dead spot, eh?" she breathed and shivered.
Jardinn lifted his right hand, clenched his fist and
pounded it on the surface of the wooden table. His glass
danced—things vibrated. Carol's black eyes got wide. He
said angrily:
"Goddam it—you stop doing that, Irish! When I ask
you questions—you answer them. Remember, I can fight
women just the way I fight men. I'll do it—"
"Easy, Bennie," she interrupted. "You've been losing
sleep. What makes you think I've been around the office?"
He sat back and smiled nastily at her.
"You're curious as hell," he replied. "You'd like to
know who's doing the stenographic work."
She smiled. The waiter brought the whisky sour. He
said in a hoarse voice:
"If it's too sweet I'll get you a lemon."
Carol nodded. The waiter moved away. Carol sipped the
drink, smiled.
"It's all right, Bennie," she said. "It's pretty all right.
Who is doing the office work?"
Jardinn looked at her strong fingers. He said slowly:
"A baby-faced kid named Brown. She's dumb, and I
want her to stay that way. After she got the job she started
getting scared. Afraid she'll be hurt. I want her to stay
that way, too. I got her from an employment agency."
Carol chuckled. "Max Cohn's the only one that'll hurt
her," she said. "Any special reason for throwing this party,
Bennie?"


130 Death in a Bowl
He said: "Just a chat. What happened while you were
out at the Bowl?"
She shrugged. "Walked around and tried to figure dis-
tances, things like that. Had a talk with Mrs. Winfred-
Neeley. Asked her about how she'd happened to sign up
Hans Reiner. She said she'd been trying to get him to con-
duct in the Bowl, for three years."
Jardinn said: "You want to be a little careful. Max
thinks you've been kicked out. If he picked up the idea
that you've been out asking questions—"
"Newspaper woman," she interrupted. "I told her my
name was Briggs. No one out there from the police. It was
all right, Bennie."
"All right." His voice was very low. "The night of the
murder you were down here—that is, at the beach some-
where. You wanted to be. What happened?"
She shook her head. "Abe didn't show," she replied.
"You know Fd tell you anything that had happened, if
it were worth while. I met this Montelli somewhere. Think
it was at the Cocoanut Grove. Someone said that his
brother was a big guy. Some picture boy, I think. Any-
way, I heard his brother was Frey's bootlegger. Thought
maybe I'd get a line on why Frey had rushed to you. But
Abe didn't show. I came down to my aunt's—you know,
the red headed one."
Jardinn nodded. Carol Torney kept her eyes on his face.
She said:
"Carren hit you—before he killed himself, eh? I'm
sorry, Benny."
Jardinn smiled, touched the hurt spots and finished his
drinks.


Not Jealous
"What makes you think he killed himself?" he asked.
She shrugged. "They were closing in. You went at him
too roughly."
Jardinn frowned at her. "How do you know how I went
at him?" he asked.
She said: "For God's sake, what is this? A thirder? I've
been reading the papers, and I know how you work."
He passed the cigarettes, lighted the two. They were
silent for a while. Then Jardinn leaned across the table's
surface and spoke in a low voice.
"They're afraid of us, Carol—afraid as the devil. I've
got an idea that the D.A.'s office will slow things up, just
as soon as it can be done. And the police are slowing up al-
ready. Max Cohn's been bought. They came right inside
the office—right into us, Irish. It makes me sore."
Carol frowned. "Got anything?" she asked.
He smiled at her. "I've got a job for you," he said.
"But we've got to be careful. Max figures he's sitting nice.
He's doing the routine stuff I give him—and watching
me. I'm not sure he knows who did the job on Hans
Reiner, but he knows that it's his job to worry me, keep
me away from the real stuff. They bought him out,
Irish."
She nodded. "Why don't you get him in a cellar and
make him talk?" she asked.
Jardinn shook his head. "That would mess it up. But
I've got a job for you. It's a woman job. I'll keep Max away
from you. Carren knew what a lot of this was about. Find
out where he lived and who he knew. Work it that way.
It'll give me some leads. I'm wasting too much time
around the office."


132
Death in a Bowl
Carol nodded. "I can try that," she said. "But it may be
slow."
Jardinn smiled. "It may be," he agreed. "Don't make a
mess of it. What did you want to put that Gunsted woman
on Cohn for?"
Her eyes widened, but she chuckled. She said:
"I thought it would be a nice stunt. Then I remembered
that he knew her pretty well. So I called it off."
Jardinn nodded slowly. "I'm running the agency," he
reminded grimly. "Don't start things without talking to
»>
me.
She shrugged. "I was trying to help you, Bennie," she
said. "I can do more than that baby-faced—"
"Don't get that way," he cut in. "There are too many
women in this deal, right now. When things clear up I'm
going to kick all the women out—put a man in the office."
She swore at him. "Sure—Max is so damn faithful,
Bennie."
They sat in silence. Carol broke it by staring out at the
dance floor and speaking against the beat of the Biltmore
orchestra, and the voices of the trio.
"Frey could have done it, Bennie. Or Ernst Reiner. Or
that picture actress—"
She checked her words. Jardinn beckoned for the
waiter, asked for the bill. He said to Carol Torney:
"What picture actress?"
His eyes held a hard expression, and the tone of his voice
had changed. Carol looked hurt.
"We're not going—so soon?" she asked. "Listen, Ben-
nie, I don't get to see you—"


Not Jealous
133
"What picture actress?" he cut in again. "Come on,
Irish—open up."
She laughed at him. "The English actress—the one he
had the affair with, in London. She's been in Hollywood
for three months."
Jardinn leaned back and smiled. "If you got something
why in hell didn't you get to me with it?" he said. "Now
listen, Irish—you come through with this."
She kept her eyes on his; her face was flushed. She said:
"You've got to be good with me, Bennie. Never mind
the bill. If you want to be nice—"
He stood up. "You just made a mistake, Irish," he said.
"Hans Reiner didn't have any affair in London—not that
you know about. There wasn't any English actress. You
just made a mistake. You're thinking about some actress
like—"
He stopped, grinned at her. She said savagely:
"You're playing around with Maya Rand. I know that.
You didn't just pretend to kick me out of the office, Ben.
You did kick me out. You were getting tired—"
"Shut up," he said wearily. The waiter came with the
slip of paper; Jardinn paid him. But he didn't sit down.
"You're holding back on me, Irish. You'd better come
through. A jealous woman can't muss around in this deal."
She got up. "She won't look so pretty with a rope
around her neck," she said bitterly.
Jardinn stared at her. He shook his head slowly.
"It beats me," he said. "You're getting too curious,
Irish. I don't want you sitting too close on this job. You're
supposed to be out of it, and if Max—"


134
Death in a Bowl
"To hell with Cohn!" she snapped. "You never worked
a job like this, Ben. You never played around the way you
are. Maya Rand saved her money. She's got plenty. You
don't care about Howard Frey. Or Ernst Reiner. If Maya
Rand wants to buy you—why not. She's got looks—"
"My God," Jardinn muttered, and sat down on the
bench.
Carol Torney laughed wildly. Then, suddenly, she was
very calm. She stepped to the side of the table.
"I'm not putting up a yell, Ben," she said quietly. "I'm
not jealous."
He motioned towards the bench opposite him. He said
very quietly:
"Sit down, Carol. For just a few minutes. I've got to tell
you something."
She kept her eyes on his, shrugged. She went over and
sat down. Jardinn said:
"Hans Reiner has been murdered. Howard Frey is
under suspicion, and unless the D.A.'s office can kill the
case he'll stand trial. I can see it coming. He's a good goat.
We've had pretty good luck in the agency, Carol—and
maybe it'll keep up. But it won't if you get selfish. Or jeal-
ous. You know things you shouldn't know. You chased
me out to the Rand house tonight, I think. Or maybe you
had some friend tail me. Cut it out, Irish. It's no good."
She started to cry. Jardinn swore softly.
"Either you're working for me, or you're not," he said.
"Keep me a fair break. If you don't—you can hurt me.
Work the Carren angle and never mind what I do—or
quit. Tell me now."
Carol Torney twisted her handkerchief in her strong


Not Jealous
i37
He thought: She's wise to something. She's scared,
wishes to God we were out of this thing.
When the drink came he downed it, paid up and went
towards the door. A man's voice sounded from one of the
almost enclosed booths on his left. It had a high-pitched,
expressionless quality—it was the voice of a pervert.
"Sure she got it—sure she did. Right in the stomach.
Six chunks of lead. And do you know what she did? She
kept right on goin'—kept right on her feet. Picked up a
meat cleaver and knocked that hunky's brains all over the
place. Sure she did. Then she went over and put a record on
the phonograph. They found her in front of it, sort of
leanin' against it. She was holdin' her stomach and
grinnin'. An' she says: 'He was a louse—an' he got what
was cominY Then she walked over and got on a bed—and
died. Sure she did. She should've been a man—that big
baby!"
Jardinn opened the door and went outside. He was smil-
ing.
"So many humans like to tell lies," he said almost gently.
"It's hell finding out what really happens."
He thought about Irish and frowned. She was either
jealous, scared—or lying. He shrugged, stared up and
down the narrow, alley-like street that ran north and
south the length of the beach towns of Venice and Santa
Monica, a square from the sand and boardwalk.
"Not jealous," he said, as though answering a question,
and looked for Carol's machine.
It was not in sight; he walked to the northward, but
failed to see it. Then he went back to his own car. He


Not Jealous
i39
Jardinn got up, dropped fifteen cents for a tip, and
moved towards 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 person-
ally," he replied. "It'll add a human touch."
He went outside and bought the Los Angeles "Times."
He read the head-line 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 mur-
der—for three years."


Telephone Call
"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 towards Cohn. Cohn
blinked at Jardinn.
"No," he said. "That was some 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 Degonne—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."


Telephone Call
i43
Max Cohn was watching Jardinn with a puzzled ex-
pression 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
black-mail 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 theatres?"
Reiner walked around behind the chair in which he
had been seated.


Telephone Call
i45
"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 break-
ing 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 fight-
ing 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 be-
low the level of his eyes, looked at it, steadied the shaking
fingers.
"There was no reason," he said slowly. "I felt that he


Telephone Call
i47
are at the Bowl much, I am told. They are seeking mo-
tives. 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 do-
ing. 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 de-
parted. When Cohn came back there was a puzzled ex-
pression 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."


Telephone Call
149
'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
wrist watch 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 hesi-
tating, 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
drinking?"
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."


150 DEATH IN A BOWL
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 get-
ting 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 click-
ing 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 hu-
man voice. He got the one word faintly:


Telephone Call
"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 re-
ceiver up and down. There was no immediate answer.
The voice of an operator reached him after a few sec-
onds. It was routine in tone.
"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 hap-
pened 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


i52 Death in a Bowl
rapidly towards 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 towards 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 flash-light.
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


154
Death in a Bowl
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 fin-
gers. 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 apart-
ment not far from Famous Studios; he turned to the left
again before he reached Vine Street. He glanced at his
wrist watch—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?"


Telephone Call
155
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 jD."
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.


Death Again
i57
"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 abruptly.
"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


158 Death in a Bowl
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 go-
ing 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 be-
lieve me—"
Jardinn said in a mild tone: "Ever read the script of
'Death Dance,' Frey?"
The writer braced himself by leaning against the cen-
ter 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?"


Death Again 159
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 towards 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,
in 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."


160 Death in a Bowl
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 towards 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 cheque 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
cheque stubs didn't read that way—and I mean it."


162 Death in a Bowl
"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 Torney. 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 hap-
pens."
"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 towards
Jardinn. His lean face was twisted. His tongue was work-
ing 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 this 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 any more—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:


166
Death in a Bowl
Frey stared at him. "I told you I'd get you for what you
did tonight," he said.
Jardinn chuckled. Phaley grinned. The uniformed
copper said:
"Guess I'll write that down, too."
Jardinn nodded: "Sure," he said. "But now that we've
listened to the bed-time story, I'll tell you what happened.
I got word that Frey was mixed up in a scrap—came over.
The elevator man said he'd just come up and he looked
pretty bad. Said his eye was all cut. I said that was too bad
and came along. Frey didn't want to let me in. In the
fooling around he tripped on a rug or something, and
when I put up my right hand to catch him—his right eye
touched the knuckles. I came on in—and you fellows came
along."
Phaley said, grinning: "I don't see any rugs—and you
should have opened your hand when you tried to catch
him, Ben."
Jardinn nodded. "It all happened so suddenly," he said
cheerfully.
Frey took the handkerchief away from his eyes and
said:
"That's a lie."
Jardinn looked hurt. "It's the hard words in this busi-
ness that keep me awake nights," he said slowly.
Phaley narrowed his brown eyes on the face of Frey.
He said:
"We got a complaint from a guy named Terris. Make-
up man over at Warners. Party at his place and the fur-
niture was wrecked. Seems Frey, here, was thrown out.
A fellow named Loomis is at the hospital, still unconscious.


Death Again
169
The 'phone beside his bed tinkled—then the bell rang. He
waited a few seconds, got the receiver to his ear.
"Yeah," he said. "Jardinn."
Max Cohn's voice reached him. It sounded distant. The
line wasn't clear.
"They got Howard Frey down at the Hollywood sta-
tion, Ben—figured you might want to know. Allers tipped
me. He had some sort of a scrap, wrecked an apartment.
He's cut up some. Don't know what the charge is—dis-
orderly conduct, I suppose. Thought you ought to know,
Ben."
Jardinn got his lips close to the mouthpiece and said:
"I know about it, Max. I've been outside, moving
around. Just got in. Did you stay out late tonight?"
Cohn said: "Not so late. In around two. What are they
doing, framing Frey?"
Jardinn waited a few seconds, and didn't answer the
question.
"See Irish around anywhere?" he asked. "After you left
the office?"
Cohn said that he hadn't. He asked some more ques-
tions, and Jardinn answered one of them. He told Cohn
he'd be at the office around ten. After some more talk he
hung up, went into the living-room, moved towards the
light switch. The lights had been left burning when he
had hurried out, after Irish had called. His eyes went
towards the divan—his hand came away from the switch.
He said in a whisper:
"Irish!"
She was lying on the divan; her brown dress hung


170
DEATH IN A BOWL
slightly over the front of the piece of furniture. Her hat
was on the floor near the divan-her dark hair was loose.
She was lying on her left side her head was turned away
from him. He grinned, thought:
When the hell did she get here? How'd she-get in?
He said softly: "Carol—Irish.”
She didn't move. He chuckled, spoke in a sharp tone.
"Hey, bum-come out of it!"
He started towards her—the 'phone in his bed-room
sent sound into the living-room. Jardinn grinned, picked
Carol's hat from the floor and placed it on a chair. He
went to the bed-room.
It was Cohn again. He spoke in a cheerful tone.
“Just happened to think, Ben-you were asking about
Irish. She's got an aunt down at the beach. Santa Monica,
I think. She might be down there, if you can't get her
uncle at the house.”
Jardinn said: "What made you think I wanted to get in
touch with her? I just asked you if you'd seen her. That all
helps. We've got to keep track of her, Max.”
Cohn said: “Well, I didn't figure you were sleeping yet.
Just thought I'd let you know that. But she'll be around-
she won't go far.”
Jardinn swore at him. “You lay off calling me," he said.
"I'm all in.”
He hung up and frowned at the 'phone. It was odd-
Max calling him back like that. He thought of Carol, on
the divan. And then, suddenly, he felt fear run through
his body. She was a light sleeper-he had called sharply.
Unless she was exhausted


Death Again
He moved swiftly towards the living-room again. The
first light of dawn was showing; it was still raining a little.
A machine horn sounded twice, from some spot along the
canyon road. He went close to the divan. He said softly:
"Carol."
His hands were on her shoulders. He swung her body
around, her face towards him. He said, as he closed his
eyes:
"Oh, God!"
He got his right hand fingers against the skin over her
heart. Then he went over to the window that faced down
the canyon and stood staring out. His face was colorless;
the tears in his eyes made a blur of the canyon road. Sev-
eral minutes passed.
When he went into the small dining-room and poured
himself a drink from the decanter he was thinking clearly
again. Irish had been scared—there had been reason
enough for that. He sat on the edge of a chair and downed
the liquor. He felt broken up inside. He said in a puzzled
tone:
"Christ—maybe I thought more of her—"
He got up and went back to the living-room. But he
didn't look at Carol Torney. After a few minutes he
banged a clenched right fist into the palm of his left and
thought bitterly:
"I'll have to call the police. I kicked her out of the
agency—she's dead, in my place. By the time I get things
fixed—"
He looked at his watch. It was five twenty-five. She
had talked to him shortly after four. He went over and


Death in a Bowl
hated to see the pain in her staring eyes. She'd felt the
knife. It would be gone, of course. He had left the house—
she had been brought in. He said fiercely:
"Goddam the luck!"
Police investigation, inquest, coroner's jury. Newspaper
men.
He touched her gently on a shoulder with the fingers of
his right hand and said very softly:
"I'm sorry as hell, Irish."
Then he went to the 'phone and called the Hollywood
police station. When the desk sergeant's voice sounded he
waited a second or two, spoke slowly.
"This is Ben Jardinn—at eight six four Laurel Canyon.
I got in a few minutes ago and found the body of a woman
in my living-room. She was dead, apparently stabbed
through the heart. Better send someone up here."
There was a clicking over the wire. The desk sergeant
said:
"Yeah—will you repeat that now?"
Jardinn closed his eyes and said: "Goddam it—why
don't you keep a pencil on your ear?"
He repeated it.


174
DEATH IN A BOWL
say Irish got that knife about an hour ago. Maybe a little
longer back. She talked to me over the 'phone, just after
four.”
Phaley turned in his chair and whistled softly. He said:
"Well-she did, eh? Well.”
Jardinn said: "How about Frey? Is he all right, pretty
well covered?”
Bracker said thickly: "You can't hang this one on
Frey, Jardin. He didn't bump Hans Reiner, and he didn't
knife this woman.”
Jardinn inspected his cigarette critically. He got it be-
tween his lips.
"Cousin of yours, isn't he?” he asked quietly.
Bracker got up and started towards Jardinn. Phaley
said sharply:
"Sit down, Bracker. I'm running this party. There's a
little time of Frey's where he doesn't seem to know just
what happened. But that can happen to anybody."
Jardinn said: "Sure. It might even happen to me, eh?”
Phaley said: “It might.”
There was the sound of brakes squealing, in front of
the bungalow. Phaley got up and went towards the door.
He said, as he moved:
"Poor kid—that must've hurt like hell.”
His eyes watched Jardinn's as he said it. Jardinn nodded.
"The noose'll hurt, too,” he replied. “I swear to Christ
it will.”
Boyce was a tall, lean man with large, dark eyes and
thinning, gray hair. He nodded to Jardinn, smiled at
Phaley. He didn't seem to notice Bracker. Phaley said:
"She's on the divan, Doc.”
was
man


"POOR, GODDAM KID" 175
He gestured. Boyce went over and looked at the body.
Phaley said to Jardinn:
“You're pretty hard, Ben—you don't seem to mind
much.”
Jardinn said: "She was mixed up in the Reiner kill, Pat.
I kicked her out of the office. She was doing little things
that didn't help. I think she reached for gold. She tried
to frame Max Cohn, and I caught her at it.”
Phaley widened his eyes. "Well!” he said slowly.
Boyce came around and asked where he could wash his
hands. Jardinn told him. Phaley asked:
"How long, Doc?”
Boyce shrugged his narrow shoulders. He didn't turn
his head as he went from the room.
"Hour or two-hard to say exactly. Long bladed knife,
I'd say. Got the heart-looks like a blow that was driven
upward. Take an autopsy to be sure. Very swift death.”
Phaley said to Jardinn: "Guess we'd better go down to
the station and get your story, Ben. She tried to cross you,
eh?”
Jardinn nodded. "I'll give it to you straight, when we
get down at the station,” he said. “God, I'm tired.”
Phaley said: "How about a drink?”
Jardinn pointed towards the dining-room and the de-
canter. Phaley moved away and Bracker said:
"Howard Frey didn't do it, Jardinn.”
Jardinn swore. "Who in hell says he did?” he replied.
"If you keep on yapping that he didn't you'll get him up
in the Big House, maybe. You're the hell of a dick.”
Phaley said from the dining-room: “Now, Ben-now
Ben!”


Death in a Bowl
Bracker muttered something that Jardinn didn't get.
The medical examiner came out rubbing his palms and
fingers together. He yawned mostly. Phaley called:
"How about a drink, Doc?"
Boyce smiled at Jardinn and went into the dining-
room. He came out dabbing his lips with a blue handker-
chief.
"That stuff's good," he said. "Not cut more than
twice, I'd say. Can't be local."
Jardinn shook his head. "Brought it up from Cali-
ente," he replied. "It's all right, even if—"
He stopped as a car halted behind the doctor's. Phaley
said:
"Coroner's bus, maybe."
Boyce shook his head. "It's the scribble boys," he said.
"Well, I'd say it doesn't look like suicide. More like mur-
der."
Phaley swore. "Jeeze—but you think things out,
Doc!" he muttered. His eyes met Ben Jardinn's. "Want
to let the boys in?"
Jardinn nodded. "Sure," he said. "Maybe it's a human
interest story."
He didn't recognize the first newspaper man to enter
the bungalow. Curlew was the second. A photographer
came in behind the two.
The first one grinned at Jardinn, said hello to Phaley.
His eyes went around the room, rested on the figure of
Carol Torney. He went over and looked down at the girl's
face. Curlew said:
"Any idea who did the job?"
Phaley said: "I just got here—with Bracker."


"Poor, Goddam Kid —" 177
The medical examiner said: "Knife wound. Blade
reached the heart. Well, so long."
He went out. Curlew looked at Jardinn. He said:
"Miss Torney, wasn't it?"
Jardinn nodded. He said in a flat tone:
"She worked in the agency. I caught her crossing me
up. Doing nasty, little things that held me back on the
Reiner murder. I kicked her out. She's called me a couple
of times, trying to get her job back. I said no. When I got
in this morning she was over there, dead."
The reporter that Jardinn didn't know nodded his head.
He needed a hair cut badly.
"Good story," he said.
Jardinn narrowed his eyes. "I don't know who in hell
you are," he said tightly, "but I don't like you. Get the
hell out of here!"
Phaley said: "Now, Ben—remember the press. Let's go
down and tell it right, to someone that counts."
Jardinn shrugged. He said grimly: "All right, but wait
a minute."
He went out and got the liquor, took it to the back of
the house. When he reached the living-room again Cur-
lew said:
"Was that nice?"
Jardinn smiled. The photographer said:
"How about a picture?"
Jardinn made a sweeping gesture. "Go to it," he said.
"Sorry I can't produce the knife. If you shoot the house
from the outside don't miss that rose bush back of the
patio."
Bracker said: "You're hard-boiled, Jardinn."


i7%
Death in a Bowl
Jardinn said: "I don't like them when they rat it. That
brat was trying to cross me."
Phaley pulled at one end of his mustache and moved
towards the door of the house.
"All set, Ben?" he asked.
Jardinn nodded. "Keep your hands off the silver," he
said to the newspaper man he didn't know. "I know what's
in the place."
The coroner's machine pulled up as they reached the
curb. Smith, the assistant, and a sun-tanned youngster
climbed down.
"Boss'll be out pretty quick," Smith said. "We'll just
wait around."
Phaley and Bracker went towards their car. Jardinn
called after them:
"I'll follow you in."
Phaley just nodded his head. The coroner's assistant
lighted a cigarette and said:
"Where's the body, Jardinn?"
Jardinn moved towards the roadster on the driveway at
the left of the house.
"Inside," he called back grimly. "It's the one that
doesn't move."
2
When Jardinn reached the agency office it was after
ten o'clock. He'd had breakfast, but he hadn't had any
sleep. He didn't feel much better. At the desk in the outer
room Edith Brown was putting powder on her baby face.
Her eyes got wide as he went close to her.


"Poor, Goddam Kid —" 179
"They told me about—"
"All right," he interrupted. "It doesn't affect you in
any way. Who's been in?"
She said shakily: "Mr. Cohn is inside. A messenger
brought a package. I signed for it. Mr. Ernst Reiner called
and said he would be here at eleven. Miss Rand's secretary
called and wants you to call the house. She says it is very
important. Mr. Howard Frey called and said he would call
again later. A reporter from the 'Herald' has called twice.
Some reporters have been here. That's about all."
Jardinn smiled. "Write what you just told me on a slip
of paper. Bring it in after a while, in ten minutes, say.
Feel better?"
The girl said: "I didn't sleep much."
Jardinn said: "I didn't sleep at all. It's part of the game.
If you sleep too much—you miss things."
He went into the inner office; Max Cohn was standing
near the window. He faced Jardinn as he closed the door
back of him. His fat face looked sallow; there were little
wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He nodded his head in
the quick jerky manner that was habitual in him.
"God—it is pretty bad, Ben," he said thickly.
Jardinn went across the room and dropped heavily into
his desk chair. He nodded.
"It's rotten, Max," he said. "But I think I can get clear.
May need your help—not right away, but later. Irish is
dead—and there was a reason for it. I've got an idea about
the reason. She was crossing us, Max."
Cohn wet his thick lips with the tip of a gray coated
tongue. His little eyes were blinking. He went around the


"Poor, Goddam Kid —" 181
knifed. She called me just after four—and she was scared.
I tried to get to her place in a hurry, but maybe she didn't
call from there. The police are working on the 'phone
trace now."
Cohn said. "God—I'm sorry for her, Ben. Even if she
was crossing us up. She was a good looking kid."
Ben Jardinn nodded. His eyes were narrowed on the
wall of the office, beyond Cohn.
"Frey's in bad," he said softly. "Damn bad. He got tired
sitting in his apartment and answering the dicks' ques-
tions. He went out on a party and got in a brawl. He was
thrown out—and there's about an hour of his time un-
accounted for. It's the hour in which we figure Irish got
the knife."
Cohn sat up straighter in his chair and grunted. He
said:
"He came in here in a hurry, after he knocked Ernst
Reiner down, to get protection. Maybe you made a mis-
take taking his money, Ben."
Jardinn frowned at the wall. "He's all cut up," he said.
"Like he'd been in a fight. Says he fell down. Says he can't
remember where he went after he and some others were
kicked out of the apartment where the party was being
held. Says he just wandered around, he guesses."
Cohn muttered: "He's a killer—or a damned fool, Ben.
He should have stayed at home."
Ben Jardinn nodded. "I got this call from Irish, Max—
and she was scared. I didn't get very excited about it. She
said something about having had a couple of 'phone calls,
gave me the idea that someone was coming after her. I
tried to talk her away from being scared, but it didn't


Death in a Bowl
me. He had time enough—and he can't account for that
thirty minutes—and another twenty or so, before that."
Cohn swore. "If they can trace her call to you—" he
breathed softly.
Jardinn said: "They haven't traced it yet—you know
how those things are. No record of a call from Irish's place,
and a lot of others went through at just about two minutes
after four. No central listening in—that they've found.
A lot of 'phones are dial system and they're still making
switches. I doubt if they'll trace the call."
Cohn grunted. "Did you tell the police everything?"
he asked.
Jardinn said: "Sure. I've got to be free. I can't be held
back. Frey denies everything, of course. But they're hold-
ing him inside. I've got a good record, so I can wander
around. Within the State limits. But they're suspicious.
And we haven't got enough on Frey, Max."
Cohn pulled on the cigar and stared blankly towards
the office window. He said suddenly:
"What about this Rand woman? Get anything from
her?"
Jardinn shook his head. "Just one thing, and I don't
think it's worth much. She hadn't heard that Carren was
killed in the plane crash. When I gave her the news she
fainted. I took her upstairs and when her doctor chased
me away he said it was just a case of nerves."
Cohn looked at Jardinn. "And you don't think that
faint was worth much," he said. "The hell you don't!"
Jardinn smiled a little. "Supposing you find out what
it was worth, Max," he suggested. "You work it from the
Carren end."


"Poor, Goddam Kid —" 185
Cohn nodded. "All right," he said. "What's your play?"
Jardinn tapped on the desk surface with his fingers.
"I think I'll stick close to Howard Frey," he said. "But
in about a half hour I'm going across to the Christie and
catch a few hour's sleep."
Max Cohn got up and shook his head. He said heavily:
"I figured you'd take Irish's going out harder than you
are, Ben," he said. "That poor kid."
Ben Jardinn stopped tapping on the desk surface and
got to his feet.
"She was crossing us," he said, and there was anger in
his voice. "Now you get the hell out of here, Max—you
get—"
He saw the surprise in Cohn's eyes, checked himself.
Max went towards the door, turned and faced him.
"We're getting in on Frey," he said. "We may be right.
There's a motive for the Irish thing—if we can get one
for the Bowl death—"
Jardinn sat down again. His lips were twitching.
"You find out about Carren," he said. "The police can't.
That'll help. If you should run into Reiner, don't talk
about the Glendale woman frame-up. I'll handle that."
Cohn nodded. "You better get some sleep," he said.
"You tough guys get let down quick, when it comes."
Jardinn said placidly: "Now you go right ahead and get
the hell out of here, Max."


CHAPTER XII
BABY-FACED BRAT

RNST REINER'S thick, dignified voice reached
ijardinn's left ear, over the 'phone wire. He said:
"It is very terrible, Mr. Jardinn. I am told that Howard
Frey—" He stopped; he had uttered Frey's name bitterly.
Jardinn said grimly:
"Don't believe half of what you're told. It is terrible,
but it gives us more to work on. I'd prefer not to talk
over the 'phone. Everything is being done, Mr. Reiner,
and I should like to see you in about two hours. Where—
at the studio?"
Reiner said: "I will be in my bungalow. You will be
admitted through the gates. At twelve-thirty, perhaps?"
Jardinn said: "Make it one, please. I will want to talk
only with you."
"I will be alone," Reiner said.
Jardinn spoke in an irritated tone, as he pressed the
button for the stenographer.
"Miss Rand will not be present, I hope."
There was surprise in Ernst Reiner's voice. He replied:
"Miss Rand? She is ill—in her home. She will not be
present, of course."
Jardinn smiled. "Good," he said. "I regret to hear she
is ill. At one."
186


Baby-Faced Brat
187
He hung up as the baby-faced girl came into the room.
He smiled wearily at her.
"I've got to go out and have a chat with a friend," he
said. "I'd like you to come along."
Her eyes showed a little fear. He pointed towards the
chair opposite the small table.
"Sit down," he said. "You and I are going to put on
a little show. Ever act in a show?"
She moved slowly to the chair, seated herself. Her face
was pale and her slender fingers twisted around. She
shook her head.
"I'm afraid I won't be—very good," she said.
Jardinn smiled with his lips. "Of course you will," he
contradicted. "You'll be natural. You'll just be Miss
Brown."
She said: "If you don't mind—I'd rather not."
He tapped on the desk with his fingers. He said very
softly:
"Can you imagine Carol Torney saying about the same
thing? She was a better sport than that."
The girl's eyes were large with fear. She looked away
from Jardinn, looked down at her lap. She said:
"It was a terrible thing—"
Jardinn's voice was sharp—very sharp.
"Maya Rand is ill. I want to be very considerate and
gentle with her. She is extremely beautiful. If I were to
visit her alone I might forget to be considerate. With you
along—there will be a reminder."
Her hands started towards her throat, but she checked
the motion. She said:
"I'd much rather—not go."


i88
Death in a Bowl
Jardinn got up and stood looking down at her, smil-
ing.
"Just the same," he said, "you're going. I've been over
to see D'Este. Know him?"
The fear in her eyes was clear. Her lips trembled. She
said:
"He has charge of the Casting Bureau, I—think."
Jardinn nodded. "So many pictures of beautiful women
he has over there," he said. "Do you know, there is one
that resembles you remarkably?"
She was staring at him. He stopped being pleasant and
said nastily:
"Now listen, Doll Crissy—I've got you spotted. You
were too frightened when you first came into this office.
There was no particular reason for you being frightened,
but you were. There was too much 'if you hurt me'
stuff. You've scrawled messages for me—and I saw your
hand-writing on the back of a picture at the Bureau. I
lied about the picture—it was taken a few years ago, and
you wore your hair differently. It doesn't resemble you
too much. But the writing did the trick. You came into
this office. Maya Rand put you in here. Why?"
The girl pushed back the chair and got to her feet. She
held her right hand, spread fingered, across her lips. Her
body was tense with fear.
Jardinn said: "Take it easy—sit down. You won't get
hurt. I've got a job for you. Come on—sit down. If you
run you won't get beyond the door."
The girl took her fingers away from her lips. Her face
was colorless. She sat down in the chair, looked terrible as


Baby-Faced Brat
189
she started to cry. Jardinn sat down and smiled. He
lighted a cigarette.
"You're so goddam feminine I'm getting to like you,
Doll," he said. "Now that should make you feel all cheer-
ful again."
2
Maya Rand reclined on the pillowed, wicker divan that
had been placed in the sun of the patio, and smiled wanly
at Jardinn. He sat in one of the two fan-backed chairs
that faced the divan, smiled back at her. She said:
"It was a shock, you see. Mr. Carren had worked in a
picture with me, a few months ago. We were merely ac-
quaintances, but I am very sensitive, temperamental."
Jardinn said, still smiling: "What picture did he work
in, Maya?"
She said: "He was really a nice boy. It was a great shock.
I have not been very well since the affair at—"
She stopped. Jardinn tilted his lean, pale face and let
his eyes see the blue of the California sky. He said quietly,
almost lazily:
"What picture did Carren work on—with you,
Maya?"
He watched anger show in her eyes. She said, with it
creeping into her tone:
"Does that matter?"
He nodded. "Lies always matter, Maya," he replied
calmly. "Carren never worked in a picture. I've checked
him at the field. Even if he had worked in one with you,


190
DEATH IN A BOWL
I doubt if you'd have known it. You're pretty well pro-
tected, my dear.”
She moved her head on the silk of a pillow, said bit-
terly:
"What has this all to do with me, anyway? The police
do not bother me. Yet you come here"
Jardinn chuckled. “You're so lovely, Maya," he said.
"I'd like to keep you out of San Quentin, if I can.”
She sat up, bracing herself with fists buried clenched
in the silk coverlet on which she was lying. Her eyes were
narrowed on Jardinn's.
"Don't be a fool!” she said sharply. "I don't have to
listen to you.”
He shrugged. Maya called sharply:
"Carriemy milk! Be sure it is cool, but not cold.”
The dark-colored maid yes-madamed her and moved
from the spot almost the length of the patio from them.
Her shoes made a slight shuffling sound. Jardinn said:
"Better make it a stiffer drink. I'm going to tell you
some bad news.”
Maya Rand lowered her head and shoulders to the pil-
lows again. She shrugged.
"Yes?” She said. “I will not need a strong drink. I will
not allow you to worry me. I will not be temperamental.”
Jardinn said: “Fine. I admire a picture actress who can
come down to the level of ordinary folk. You're big,
Maya. Christ—but you're big."
Her eyes shot little rages at him, but there was a smile
on her lips.
"Christ, but you're hard, Jardinn," she mimicked.
"You are so hard with women.”


Baby-Faced Brat
191
Jardinn let a grim smile stay around his lips. He said:
"Yeah, that's right, of course. Well, I see by the papers
that the police say you are not involved in the Bowl
murder. And that glass gazer you had over from Pasadena
says the murderers are many miles away, seeking to return
to the old country."
Maya Rand shrugged again. "I never read the papers,"
she replied.
Jardinn grinned. "I thought maybe one of your clip-
ping bureaus might have made a mistake and sent you
something important about yourself," he said.
Maya laughed nastily. Jardinn said, after a little pause:
"Something like: 'Maya Rand, star of many films, does
not believe Howard Frey guilty of murder in the Holly-
wood Bowl.'"
She sat up, rearranged the pillows, narrowed her eyes
on Jardinn's. She said slowly:
"You think Howard Frey did murder Hans Reiner?"
Jardinn smiled. "It begins to look a lot like it," he re-
plied. "Maybe he didn't turn loose the bullets—but he
might have bossed the job."
Maya said thoughtfully: "After all, I do not know
Frey very well."
The maid came with the cool glass of milk. Maya said:
"Mr. Jardinn will need something. He is giving me a
third degree. What will make it easier, Jardinn?"
Jardinn said: "Nothing, thanks."
Maya dismissed the maid with a graceful gesture of
her right hand. She sat up and sipped the milk. She was
wearing a black something that had a wide trouser effect
and a waist that fit her body tightly.


Baby-Faced Brat
193
"I've played too many trial scenes to let you frighten
me, Jardinn. For God's sake cut it out!"
Jardinn said, smiling: "They knifed Carol Torney.
You know that, of course. I'd kicked her out of the
agency because she'd been bought over. But they got
worried. Maybe they didn't believe she was really out. So
they knifed her. Not so long before that she spoke to me
about you."
Maya Rand widened her eyes a little. She was very pale.
She said shakily:
"I'm sorry—about her."
Jardinn nodded. "Don't be," he replied. "She said you
wouldn't look so pretty with a rope around your neck."
She rose to her feet, stared down at him, turned away.
Almost immediately she faced him again. She said in a
tone that was strangely quiet:
"You are lying, Jardinn."
He shrugged. "I might be," he admitted, "but as it
happens—I'm not. That's what Irish said. A few hours
later she was dead."
Maya dropped on the divan again. She leaned towards
him, framing her face in her white hands. She pressed
perfect teeth together, smiled.
"Why are you here, Jardinn?" she asked.
He said simply: "I caught that baby-faced brat you got
inside the office, Maya. Doll Crissy."
Maya closed her eyes, and swayed a little on the edge
of the divan. Jardinn said:
"It was a lucky break. I happened to see hand-writing
that looked like hers, on the back of a picture at the


194
Death in a Bowl
Casting Bureau. And she was acting scared. She came
through, Maya—and that puts it up to you. You paid
money to that employment agency, with someone else
handling that end, and I took this Crissy kid on. But I
was suspicious from the start. I've been having trouble
in the agency since the Reiner murder—even before that.
You put her inside with me—you wanted to know how
we were working things."
He stopped. Maya opened her eyes and looked towards
the goldfish pool beyond him. She said, very faintly:
"It isn't true."
Jardinn swore. "You wanted to know how we were
working things," he repeated. "Why?"
She shook her head, without speaking. Jardinn turned
and called:
"Carrie—there's a Miss Crissy sitting in that roadster,
out on the driveway. Ask her to come in, please."
Maya started to rise and to speak. She changed her
mind, sat down again. She said:
"Carrie has good ears—you should be careful."
Jardinn smiled grimly. "You should," he corrected.
"Anything I tell you can't hurt me—but it may hurt
you. You're lying, Maya—and I haven't time to play
that sort of game. The police are working one way—I'm
working another. Murder's come right into the agency.
Why were you using this Crissy kid?"
The actress shook her head. "I never heard of her,"
she said.
Jardinn stood up and sighed. "I'll tell you, then," he
said. "You wanted to put up a fight for Frey—but not
too much of a fight. You didn't want to get into the thing


Baby-Faced Brat 19J
all the way. Doll Crissy was inside to let you know when
we had Frey in a tough spot. Things didn't break so she
could help you much. But she got you the stuff about a
woman out in Glendale having something on Ernst
Reiner."
He caught the flicker of surprise in Maya's eyes. He
said:
"That was all wrong. I had a woman call in—from
Glendale. I framed the story with one of my men—and
we handed it to Reiner stiff. He came through and told
the truth. I'm giving him the five hundred back in an
hour or so. It was a play on Reiner—and Doll didn't give
you anything that counted."
He watched the actress closely. She kept her eyes half
closed and her face was pokered. She wasn't showing a
thing.
There were the sound of foot-falls; Doll Crissy came
up and stood close to Jardinn. She looked frightened.
Jardinn tapped her on a shoulder gently, and grinned
into her blue eyes. He said:
"Miss Rand—let me present Miss Crissy."
He offered cigarettes to both women—both refused.
Maya said coldly, looking Doll Crissy in the eyes:
"You say that you know me—that I hired you to get
me information regarding Jardinn's agency?"
Doll nodded her head. Jardinn motioned towards one
fan-backed chair, sat in the other. Doll wet her lips, got
tears in her eyes and said unsteadily:
"I didn't—want to do it, Maya—"
Jardinn inhaled. "How much did she give you, Doll?"
he asked.


Baby-Faced Brat
197
waited. She lay back on the pillows and closed her eyes.
She looked very beautiful and very fragile. She said, after
a while:
"Ben—Sokolsky's a good publicity man, but I think
he's letting me down a little. I pay him ten thousand. You
know tricks. I could double that—and it wouldn't take
all of your time."
She opened her eyes and Jardinn laughed into them
with his.
"God, but you're dumb, Maya," he said placidly. His
voice got hard. "To hell with Hans Reiner. That's a job.
But—they got Irish. Some dirty, knife sticking, son of—"
He got up from the chair, walked a few feet away from
it and watched the fish in the pool. He lighted one cig-
arette from the stub of the other. Maya's voice reached
him. It had almost a bored quality.
"I do believe I have seen that girl somewhere. But
then I see so many people. Frightened thing, isn't she?
Would she make a good witness in court, I wonder?"
Jardinn forgot about Carol Torney, went close to Maya
Rand and stood looking down at her. He smiled, looked
away from her with his dark eyes and said softly:
"She'd make a sweet witness, Maya—with a good
prosecuting attorney to handle her. The best kind. She's
young, and she isn't hard. She's dumb—and she hasn't
much of a complicated past. There isn't anything for
your defense lawyers to tear down."
Maya kept her eyes closed. Jardinn said in a harsher
tone:
"But that's not it. I'm not worrying about that. She's
just a good girl to have around."


Baby-Faced Brat
199
Jardinn spoke grimly. "It doesn't matter. With that
girl—I've got you. I know Hollywood, the part of it
that's real. I know the rotten, yellow press. You're at the
peak, Maya—but you've got years in the game yet. If
you throw them away to protect a killer—killers—"
She shut her eyes. Her lips met in a line that showed
hardness. She parted them again.
"You think I know more than anyone else, Ben. So
you got that girl. You don't care about Hans Reiner.
That's just—a job. But Carol Torney—that hurt you.
So badly. And now you're going to hurt me."
He said without looking at her: "The death in the Bowl
is the important thing. They've hurt Irish. I didn't love
her—but they've hurt her. I'll hurt anyone who stands
in the way."
She moved her body a little, so that she was lying on
her left side. Her head was close to his.
"And I'm—in the way," she said in a half whisper.
He nodded. "You know things," he said simply.
She closed her eyes, and there was passion in her words.
"Beautiful things," she said. "Beautiful things."
Jardinn said with grimness: "All women know those
things. I don't want them—I want the nasty, ugly
things."
He got suddenly to his feet. She said in a steady voice:
"You'll say I tried to bribe you—and then to seduce
you. You'll say I put a girl inside your agency—to watch
you. You'll say I hate one of two brothers, because I was
heard to say certain things. You'll say I love Howard
Frey—and that I'm protecting him."
Jardinn nodded: "Yes," he said.


200
Death in a Bowl
She rose slowly, stood facing him. She threw back her
head and laughed. It was bitter laughter.
"And / will say—that you lie," she said fiercely. "I'll
say that, Jardinn. And you know you can't beat it. You
know that!"
Jardinn smiled. "May I use your 'phone?" he asked.
She nodded. Her eyes were filled with fight, dark with
suppressed anger. She said:
"The Hollywood police number is Highland 7000.
You can get reporters at—"
He grinned at her. "Don't act like a bit player and
dramatize everything that happens off the lot," he said
quietly. "I want to call a friend and find a nice safe place
for your baby-faced brat."
Maya Rand held out a hand, smiling. He took it in both
of his.
"She's such a lovely person," she said. "I'm sure she'd
be safe—almost anywhere."
Jardinn nodded. "Sure," he said. "Anywhere—almost."


CHAPTER XIII
VERONAL
THE roadster rolled towards Famous Studios; Jardinn
spoke with his eyes on the boulevard. There was a
cheerful expression on his face.
"She's an actress, Doll—that's why she can look you
over and say she doesn't know what it's all about. She's
an actress.”
Doll Crissy said tearfully: "She's in love with
Howard Frey. She did it-for him.”
Jardinn frowned. “Yeah?” he said. “Would you stay
in love with a guy that did the thing Frey did put me
after her by giving me the words she'd used, on the
patio that night?”
Doll didn't answer. Jardinn drove the car across Vine
Street. He said quietly:
"You're coming in with me to see Ernst Reiner, Doll.
Don't be surprised at anything I say. Just act bored. If
I tell him something and then turn to you and ask if that
isn't so you just say it is so. Don't make any mistakes."
The baby-faced girl nodded. She said tremulously:
“Maya may have ’phoned him.”
Jardinn grinned. “Sure,” he agreed. "I sort of figured
on that. They're all mixed up together, Doll-that's
what makes it so tough.”
She said: “You'd better let me go away. I'm afraid
of what they might do."
201


202
Death in a Bowl
Jardinn swore. "You're safest with me," he told her.
"Besides, I like you, Doll."
She said with some spirit: "You like Maya Rand."
He grinned again, pulled the car over near the curb,
slid out from behind the wheel. He held her left arm as
they crossed to the studio gate.
"Look pretty," he said. "Reiner's an artist first—he
may give you a job."
When they reached the elaborate bungalow occupied
by Ernst Reiner a chunky woman with a flat face and
glasses greeted them. Jardinn said:
"Ben Jardinn—by appointment to his majesty, Herr
Reiner."
The chunky woman frowned and left them in a small
room. She returned with her hat on straight hair, said:
"Mr. Reiner will see you."
She gestured towards a half closed door, went out.
Jardinn moved to the door, stood aside as he shoved it
open. Doll Crissy went through first. Reiner was seated
back of a period desk, frowning. Jardinn said:
"Miss Crissy, Mr. Reiner. A valued assistant."
Ernst Reiner bowed without rising. He waved a hand
towards chairs that faced the desk. Doll Crissy walked to
one and seated herself. Jardinn sat in the other. He took
the long envelope from his pocket and tossed it on the
desk surface.
"Won't need the five hundred, Mr. Reiner," he said.
"There wasn't any woman in Glendale. Wanted to see if
you would lie about the Paris meeting with your brother."
Reiner was breathing heavily. He said in an angered
tone:


Veronal
203
"Me—I do not lie! There was no need for you to do
such a thing—"
Jardinn smiled. "That's up to me," he said. "Because
you give me five thousand dollars to get a murderer—
that doesn't mean that you are not the murderer."
The director rose. His eyes were pin points of rage. He
said thickly:
"I will not stand such talk! There was more than one
person back of the stage in Paris, when I talked with this
musical comedy star. There was—"
"Sure," Jardinn agreed. "Don't get excited. You didn't
murder your brother. How do you think I know you
quarreled with him, in the theatre, if there wasn't some-
one present? I've told you no threatening woman exists."
Reiner seated himself, still breathing heavily. He glared
at Jardinn. He said:
"I come to you—for help. But from the beginning—
I have the feeling that you suspect me. I do not like that."
Jardinn said grimly: "You know Carol Torney was
murdered. Her body was found in my place. I found it.
I have the feeling the police suspect me—and I don't like
that. But what can I do about it?"
The director looked at Doll Crissy. He said slowly:
"Howard Frey is under arrest. I have heard he is sus-
pected of something greater than a drunken quarrel."
Jardinn nodded. "I think we're getting close to Hans
Reiner's killer," he said in a hard voice. "I begin to think
you were right, Mr. Reiner."
The director's small, brown eyes glittered back of the
glasses he was wearing. He said thickly:
"It is the proof that I want, Jardinn."


io6
Death in a Bowl
me. When I first went to you Frey had not given you
money."
Jardinn said: "You quarreled with Hans Reiner, back-
stage, in a Paris theatre. What about?"
Reiner hesitated, shrugged. He said in a precise tone:
"Well, it does not matter. I will tell you. There was an
actress I wanted for a picture over here. Sound was com-
ing—and this actress possessed a voice. A very fine voice.
My brother was acquainted with her. He was distressed
because she had even gone on a Paris stage in a musical
comedy. For her he desired concerts. He felt that her
voice was very wonderful. We quarreled over—that."
Jardinn said: "There were no blows struck?"
The director said heatedly: "Most certainly not. It was
a matter between artists. Hans was the musician—it was
my opinion that the woman was a superb actress. I wanted
her, perhaps selfishly, and yet not utterly so."
Jardinn nodded. Reiner leaned forward across his desk
and asked:
"How did you learn of—this scene?"
Jardinn spoke simply: "Maya Rand told me."
The director's voice was a hoarse, grating whisper. He
said:
"Maya—Rand?"
Jardinn nodded. Reiner was breathing heavily again.
He rose from the chair, paced up and down back of the
desk. A voice outside the bungalow called:
"Hey, Shrimp—over to Stage Seven—that lousy bas-
tard McKenna is yellin' for lights!"
The reply was obscene and to the point. Reiner stopped
pacing and said to Jardinn:


Veronal 209
wiped his lips with trembling fingers making the cloth
dance. He said hoarsely:
"You know—the name."
Jardinn smiled. "Yeah," he said. "It's an easy one to
remember. You just think of grand or sand or land—
and then you remember the name. And that woman was
coming up, Mr. Reiner. She had looks and a voice, Ollie
did."
Reiner started to cough. He held the handkerchief
pressed to his lips and bowed his head. Jardinn waited
until he straightened up again. He said:
"Olive Rand—Maya's younger sister. All set t6 come
back to the place Maya shipped her away from—and take
the play away from a fading star. I doubt that your
brother could have prevented her, dangling concert
chances. Maybe she wanted to come back and shove
Maya out of the spotlight. Maybe she didn't love her
sister, Mr. Reiner."
The director spoke in a dull voice. He kept his eyes on
the surface of the period desk.
"She was so sensitive. Temperamental. And she was
working very hard, in London, Paris—the south of
France. She could not sleep at night. It was nerves, you
see. And there was the accident—she was not too strong.
An overdose—"
Jardinn said: "Too bad, too bad. She was pretty young.
Young—to die that way."
Reiner said slowly: "You have learned about her. I
do not suppose it was difficult. She was well-known
abroad."


2io Death in a Bowl
Jardinn nodded. "I'm working in Hollywood. There
are files I keep—many of them useless things. But events
concerning picture people and their relatives interest me.
I get clippings from abroad—about them. Olive Rand
hasn't been in Hollywood for six years or so. Maya kept
her away. A good many people don't even know she has
a sister. When she took too much veronal it didn't get
into the papers here. She sang under the name of Rand-
ling."
The director said wearily: "Yes, yes. But what has it
all to do with my brother's death?"
Jardinn smiled. "Your brother was questioned by Lon-
don police, after she died," he said simply. "She died in
London—Hans Reiner was there. He was exonerated.
He had spent the evening with her in her hotel room,
before she took the overdose."
Doll Crissy was watching Jardinn with her blue eyes
wide. Reiner said grimly:
"You mean to tell me, then, that Hans was in some
way responsible for her death—and that his murder
was a revenge."
Jardinn shook his head. "Not exactly," he said. "But
perhaps Hans Reiner was in some sense responsible for
the death of Olive Rand. Perhaps that was the motive for
the killing of your brother."
Reiner said: "But Howard Frey—"
Jardinn smiled with his eyes on the wall beyond the
director.
"Frey and Maya Rand were quite intimate," he said.
"Maya, of course, knew conditions as they really existed.
Perhaps Frey knew them, too. You were Hans Reiner's


VERONAL
213
moved from the studio. When they were inside the
roadster, he drove slowly towards Los Angeles. With one
hand he got bills from his pocket, handed a roll of them
to her.
"Take two hundred,” he said. “You're going down to
Caliente and just have a good time. Play roulette and
things like that. You can come back day after tomorrow.”
Her wide eyes showed surprise. Jardinn grinned.
"If you stick around, you're a damn fool,” he told
her. "This'll be all over by tomorrow night.”
She said in a frightened voice. "Howard Frey-killed
Reiner?”
Jardinn grunted. “What makes you think that?” he
said, getting surprise into his voice. "That talk-at the
bungalow?”
She nodded. Jardinn kept the roadster headed towards
Los Angeles and made a sound that was almost a chuckle.
"Jeeze, Doll” he said amusedly—“if I told you you
weren't dumb-you'd believe me!"


218
Death in a Bowl
Bowl. Carol Torney played with my wrist-watch. Ernst
Reiner says he didn't succeed in buying her, but thafs
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 Lon-
don 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 wor-
ried about you—they may pull you down to the station
any time."
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 work-
ing—
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 in-
side. 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


Merry-Go-Round
223
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 ex-
pression in her eyes. Her hps 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


224 Death in a Bowl
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 ques-
tion 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. Pub-
licity is a small thing. Why do you think Frey told that?"
She closed her eyes, shook her head. A log crackled in
the first 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


228
Death in a Bowl
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?"
She said: "I was angry with him, because of the fool
he had made of himself—knocking Ernst Reiner down.
He came to me for money—I refused him. I think he was
trying to frighten me—he knew I could explain the
lines in the script—but he thought it would frighten me.
I would give him money."
Jardinn said slowly: "You're telling the truth this
time, Maya—and by God you've got to tell it."
She said: "I'm finished—in pictures. This will fin-
ish me."
Jardinn said grimly: "It might do more than finish
you in pictures. I'm going to see Frey."
She said weakly: "I've told you—the whole truth, Ben.
If you get me out of this—"
Jardinn moved towards the door that led to the drive-
way.
"If I get you out of this" he interrupted, "You'd
better start saying your prayers again each night. It'll be
something like a miracle."


CHAPTER X V
TOUGH ONE
DAT PHALEY was chewing on a sandwich when
I Jardinn walked into the ante-room of the Vine Street
Emergency Hospital. He was alone. He grinned at Jar-
dinn.
"Hello, Ben,” he greeted. “Thought you'd be along.”
He took another chew of the sandwich. Jardinn said:
"Anything new?"
Phaley finished the sandwich, wiped his lips with a
handkerchief and stroked the ends of his drooping
mustache. He said:
"Yeah-Frey's dying. Doc gives him an hour or so.
Digitalis isn't helping much. He got excited about fifteen
minutes ago.”
Jardinn smiled grimly. "You mean you got him ex-
cited,” he said. “Well?”
Phaley said calmly, using a tooth-pick between words:
"Frey knifed Irish-goddam his soul. He got drunk,
ran into her after he left the party. Ran into her coming
out of his apartment house. She got away. He called her
up and said he was coming over. She hung up—and he
went over to her place. She was using the telephone
he kicked in a window screen and got inside. She let go
of the 'phone and ran to the back of the house. He used
a kitchen knife on her, when she tried to get clear. The
229


230
DEATH IN A BOWL
reason-he'd heard she had been going to Ernst Reiner's
place. He says she was framing him. And he was pretty
drunk. He says if he'd run into you he'd have done the
same thing."
Jardinn said slowly: "He's lying.”
Phaley shook his head. "I don't figure it that way,”
he said. "He knows he's dying. He says he left the house
right away. Carol Torney was lying on her back in the
kitchen. There hadn't been much racket. He walked
around a while-she'd hit him a few times. Then he went
to his apartment and you came along."
Jardinn said: “How'd Irish get out to my place?
walk?"
Phaley shrugged. “That's something else again,” he
said. “I don't think Frey took her there. I do think he
killed her. He swears he didn't do the job in the Bowl,
and he swears you and Reiner were framing him for it."
Jardinn said coldly: "Come through, Pat. You're lying
or holding back on me. He didn't knife Irish just because
he was drunk and she was working in the agency.”
The plainclothes man said: "I thought you'd fired her,
Ben?"
Jardinn smiled a little. “You didn't think anything
of the kind, Pat,” he said. “And Frey wasn't supposed
to have known it.”
Phaley went over and sat down on a bench. He spoke
with his eyes on the waiting room ceiling.
"I sort of figured you were lying about firing her, Ben.
Frey said he caught her hanging around Maya Rand's
place twice. Once she was coming out of the house. The
Rand woman told him she hadn't seen her, talked with
W


Tough One
233
it and got out to my place and then back to his again—
before I got there."
Phaley swore. "The Rand woman is the best bet," he
said. "To hell with this using a plane to spoil the concerts
—and to get Hans Reiner sore. That's kid stuff."
Jardinn said: "Yeah, but that's on the level. I've just
come from Maya's place. The deal got away from her,
Pat."
Phaley grunted. "Somebody saw a nice chance to step
in and do a neat job," he said grimly. "And they had a
couple of goats, eh?"
Jardinn nodded. "That's the way I figure it, Pat," he
said. "But who stepped in?"
The plainclothes man swore again. "Well," he said
slowly, "there's Reiner's brother. This dope about the
Rand woman's sister lets him in. And Maya Rand isn't
clear, Bennie. Not by a damn sight."
Jardinn said: "And Howard Frey isn't clear."
Phaley stroked his mustache. "We got something to
work on," he muttered.
Jardinn blinked tired eyes and swore towards the hall-
way that let to the room in which the dead man lay.
"Did Frey give you the name of the man he used—
when he passed the coin to Carren?" he asked.
Phaley nodded. "Got two boys looking him up," he
said. "Got his address—but if he's wise he won't be there.
His name's Cordova, and he hasn't got a record."
Jardinn asked: "What did he tell Carren?"
Phaley grinned. "If you keep asking questions I'll want
a split on the five grand Reiner's paying you. Frey said
he was to tell Carren that a certain picture outfit had it


238
DEATH IN A BOWL
Doctor Francis, Carrie-myself—we all knew he was
here.”
Jardinn frowned. Phaley talked into the mouthpiece
in a low voice. After a few minutes he hung up. He said
to Maya Rand:
"Francis verifies your time, Miss Rand. He says he
would be willing to testify to such a statement on the
witness stand.”
Jardinn smiled grimly: "Francis, Maya and the maid,
Carrie. We couldn't beat that combination if we wanted
to. Frey lied, just before he went out, Phaley. Why?”.
The plainclothes man frowned. “He knew about the
knife," he said slowly. “He knew the man who murdered
Irish, Ben.”
Jardinn looked at Maya Rand. He said very quietly:
"We're getting in close, Maya. Have you told us every-
thing?”
She said firmly: "Howard's dead. Hans Reiner is dead.
My sister is"
She stopped, closed her eyes. She said in a low, hard
voice:
"I've told you everything and I've told you the
truth.”
Phaley twisted his hat and asked Jardinn for a ciga-
rette. When he had lighted up he said:
"Don't take a sudden trip anywhere, Miss Rand. We
don't want anything embarrassing to happen.”
There was scorn in Maya's eyes. She said with the same
quality in her voice:
“I shall not run away."
valu.


CHAPTER XVI
CRESCENDO
MAX COHN was reading a paper in the outer office
of the agency, when Jardinn walked in after eat-
ing. It was seven-thirty; Jardinn sat on the desk and
dug knuckles into his tired eyes. Cohn said:
"You look all in, Ben—get anywhere?"
Jardinn shook his head. "Hear about Frey making a
confession?" he asked.
Cohn grunted. "Yeah, and it sounds fishy to me," he
replied. "But it might be right, at that."
Jardinn said: "You get anything—on the Carren end?"
Cohn shook his head. "It's tight as a drum out that
way," he said. "But I've got a line on a fellow I may be
able to see at eight-thirty, out at the field. A pilot who
knew Carren."
Jardinn said: "Good—can you get back here around
nine?"
Cohn grinned. "May be a little late," he replied.
"Should make it by nine-thirty, anyway. Something due
to break?"
Jardinn swore softly: "There's just a chance. But I'm
all in, Max. And I want to tell you some things before
I head for the bungalow and a long nap."
Cohn said: "Well, I'll be back at nine-thirty."
Jardinn looked around the office. He smiled with a
hurt expression in his eyes.
243


244 Death in a Bowl
"That damn blonde of yours, Irish—and the baby-
faced brat. None of them on the level, Max. You can't
trust a woman."
Cohn said: "Not when other men get a chance to work
on them."
Jardinn shrugged. "Irish knew something, Max," he
said. "I went through her place after I got away from the
Christie and that bum nap. Had to work fast. And the
bulls had been there, too. But they missed something."
Cohn's eyes got wide. But he waited for Jardinn to
finish.
"Irish knew music," Jardinn went on. "She had a
score of that tone poem—the number they were playing
when Hans Reiner got hit."
Cohn said: "Jeeze—trying to figure time, eh? Put
someone wise."
Jardinn nodded. "Or maybe she wanted to know what
the piece was all about," he said. "It's got a lot of noisy
music in it. Plenty of horn and tympani stuff. Crescendo
after crescendo."
Cohn said: "Jeeze!"
Jardinn half closed his eyes and looked at the desk.
He shook his head slowly.
"She knew things, Max," he repeated. "She wasn't a
bad kid. She sort of liked me—but she had an idea I
didn't think much of her. I think maybe she wanted to
hurt me. She put a fellow next to me that tried to slug
me down. Then, after Reiner was out, I think she got
scared."
Cohn screwed up his face and swore. He slapped his
foot against the base of the desk.


248 Death in a Bowl
"This is—my show. Get over against the side, the
wood."
Phaley grunted and cramped his body against the right
side of the box-like structure. Jardinn rolled on his
stomach, raised his legs high from the knee to the foot,
shoved back away from the opening. He said in a whisper
that reached Phaley above the beat of the symphony:
"This box is well built. It's thick. Any sound that gets
out—beats towards the shell. It rolls into the music com-
ing out."
Phaley said: "You goddam fool—those bullets had a
penetration from a two hundred yard carry. They went
in from opposite sides. One of 'em mushroomed—"
The music was dying—the violins were singing a soft
motif. A harp belled an obligato. Jardinn said softly:
"You goddam dumb dick—you can mark a cross on
the nose of the lead and make it mushroom. You can cut
down the powder in the load and get the same penetration
at fifty yards that you can at two hundred."
Phaley was breathing heavily. He said grimly, as the
orchestra worked into a movement that brought in sec-
tion after section:
"We're fifty yards away—and in dead center. You
can't put bullets in that conductor at different angles—
not from here."
Jardinn said: "You watch his back—when you hear
these shots. We haven't got a plane overhead—and we've
got lights. You watch—"
His voice rose as the orchestra sent a fury of sound into
the Bowl. The violins were working in unison; the horn
sections sent a blare of brass noise over the tiers of seats.


CRESCENDO
249
Heinrich Bern was moving his body from side to side; his
baton was flashing in the shell light. Jardinn gritted:
"He'sma target, Pat.”
The conductor swung suddenly to the left. There was
a crash of cymbals—a staccato wail from the first violins.
Jardinn said: “Now!”
The box was filled with sound, dulled but still loud.
There was no flame from the riflethe Maxim silencer
killed it. Bern's body was swinging to the right. He
brought down his baton as the cymbals crashed again. Jar-
dinn's second "Now!" was almost lost in the tympanic
beat. The rifle spoke again and a short flame streaked
from the barrel.
A wisp of smoke drifted from the opening of the radio
box. Phaley spoke hoarsely.
“God-one man-in here! The bullets caught Reiner
as he pivoted to get the first violins-and got him at the
other angle when he swung to the right!”
Jardinn jerked his head in a half nod. He got the rifle
under his coat again. The music was battering, roaring up
to them. He waited until it quieted. Then he turned his
lips toward Phaley, spoke softly.
"One man-murdered Reiner, Phaley. He had the
plane engines, to kill all sound from his rifle. He might
have had a better silencer than the one I used. What little
flame got loose on the second shot didn't hurt anything.
The audience was watching the ship—he was concealed.
The musicians were all working hard. He caught Reiner
in a swifter pivot than the one Bern just made. Reiner was
a more dynamic maestro. A cut-down powder load would
have stopped the bullets from tearing through Reiner. If


2JO
Death in a Bowl
he had been bending forward a little—that would have
made a trajectory guess impossible."
Phaley swore. "Sure as hell—he got the dose from
right here!"
The music was rising to a finale now. Jardinn spoke in
a louder tone.
"When the lights went out the second time he got the
rifle under his coat and cleared out. He got his aim while
the lights were on, and Reiner made a sweet target on that
platform, Pat. A target at fifty yards."
Phaley said grimly: "He had him right."
Jardinn changed his cramped position, said: "After the
number—we'll get out. Ten to one we'll be seen. But that
don't count. We've got light on us."
Phaley said grimly: "That smoke—a cigar would let
loose that much. They're smoking all over—the place."
Jardinn nodded. "We didn't have a tri-motored plane,
or anyone to work lights," he said. "Reiner got it—from
right here."
The orchestra crashed into the final bars of the num-
ber. The music ended in a barbaric, discordant note.
Heinrich Bern stood motionless, then faced the tiers of
seats. Applause crackled over the Bowl.
Jardinn rose, bent low, walked out in front of the box.
Phaley was behind him. He turned to the left, followed
a dirt path to a sloping aisle, went up the aisle. A few
persons looked at him curiously. An usher came down the
aisle and said:
"You can't—cross down there. You should have come
up the other way."


Crescendo 25i
Jardinn grinned. "Sorry," he replied. "This looked
easier."
The usher frowned at him. They reached an aisle that
ran the width of the Bowl, went out through the gates
and stood near the big bowl used for coin contributions.
Phaley passed the cigarettes and lighted one for Jardinn.
"Christ!" he breathed. "Reiner got it—from that
damned box!"
Jardinn kept a hand on the rifle under his coat. He
said:
"By God—I thought that sound would get out, with-
out plane engines to drown it. Just luck—hit right on
the cymbal crack."
They moved slowly down the sloping path, towards
Highland Avenue. Machines were coming up—late for
the concert. Phaley said:
"You were sure about that kill from the box. Why?"
Jardinn smiled. "Pretty hard to cover up rifles, on the
side paths of the Bowl. Pretty hard to keep people from
seeing them raised. And for two humans, even if they
were sharp-shooters, to hit in the dark at two hundred
yards—that would be sweet shooting, Pat."
Phaley nodded. "I never did like the idea," he said.
"But it was all we had. I couldn't see the angle shooting
from the box, and I missed the cut-down powder
charge."
Jardinn said mockingly. "You're a hell of a dick, Pat.
But I didn't get the idea that way. I went to the concert
master—found out where Reiner was on his score—-
when the lights went out. He had just turned to the first


256
Death in a Bowl
brother that he didn't just want the girl for money
purposes. He said it was for art. He told Hans that
Maya didn't love the girl—Maya didn't care about her
voice. Maya wanted to keep her sister away. He said
that he'd have a tough fight with Olive, here in Holly-
wood, but he'd take the chance. He really wanted her.
I don't know what happened in London, but Maya has
a last letter from her sister. Perhaps Olive changed her
mind, after Ernst left. She decided to come to this coun-
try. Hans Reiner was losing her. So, that last evening
he was with her, he told her what Ernst had told him.
He told her that Maya really hated her, was selfishly
keeping her away. He gave her the truth."
Phaley stroked his mustache and said: "Goddam
squealer!"
Jardinn shrugged. "It broke up the girl. It finished
her. Maybe she took the overdose of veronal by mis-
take, maybe not. But she did write Maya one final let-
ter, and in it she let Maya know that she knew the
truth. And she wrote that Hans Reiner had told her.
Maya started to hate. She hated Ernst for telling his
brother, but Hans Riener was the man she wanted to
smash. He came over as guest conductor. And Maya
got an idea. She'd hurt him, destroy his prestige. She'd
break him, get at his nerves. She'd hire a pilot to wing
low over the Bowl. Not one night, but every night.
Every night he conducted. He was temperamental—
and she'd get at him that way."
Cohn grunted. Phaley sat up a little. Jardinn smiled.
"It was just a woman's way of hurting. It was damn
foolishness. But it might have been effective, at that.


CRESCENDO
aaaaaaaaa 257
It failed, because another human saw a chance. A big
chance. If Hans Reiner were murdered as the plane
flew over the Bowl—this human had Maya where he
wanted her. He could bleed her, again and again. Black-
mail her. He could threaten to expose the fact that she
had put up the money for the ship Carren flew. And
if the police knew that, God help Maya Rand. They'd
laugh at her truth. They'd believe that she wanted to
kill.”
Phaley swore grimly. "He had her right,” he breathed.
Jardinn nodded slowly. “Maya gave money for the
plane pilot-to Howard Frey. He used a third party,
to reach Carren. The third party squealed to the one
who saw his chance, and took it. Carren didn't know
what he was doing. He was trapped. He thought he was
just winging a ship low over the Bowl. Spite work.
When he realized how completely he was trapped, he
nearly went mad. The police were hounding him-I
was after him. He made a break for the ship-a plane
that was grounded and had only two engines in working
order. He crashed and was killed.”
Phaley said slowly: “And that was a break for the
Rand woman.”
Jardinn looked at the ceiling. “But she was pretty
worried. She had to know what was going on in the
agency. She worked that dumb Crissy brat inside. And
the baby-faced kid was so scared she gave things away.
Ernst Reiner and Frey had fought. They were afraid
of each other. The kill gave Reiner a chance to get at
Frey. He didn't lose any bets. Or maybe he really
thought Frey did the job.”
was


260 DEATH IN A BOWL
were in deep. Frey went out, but before he died you got
to him. I've talked to Barrett, the copper you bribed
to get inside the hospital room. He thought it was just
an agency job, and he let you in. I don't know what
you told Frey, but I can guess. You told him they were
giving Maya Rand the works. He knew he was finished.
You said that Maya had gone crazy and knifed Carol
Torney, because Carol was wise to the plane hiring. You
said if he confessed to that murder the police would
lay off. You said she'd told you where the knife had been
thrown—”
Cohn cut in grimly: "That's a lie-they're all lies!
All of them!”
Phaley said softly: "Jeez-my hands are starting to
get nervous.”
Jardinn said grimly, looking down at Max Cohn:
"Frey was too sick to figure how Irish's body got out
to my place. He thought you were all right. He loved
Maya. He came through with the confession and
right away Maya smashed it all to hell with a perfect
alibi for him. You slipped up there, Cohn. You slipped
up in other ways. You fixed my wrist watch—not Irish.
I fed stuff into the waste-paper basket—and you grabbed
it. I've suspected you from the start, Cohn-but I told
you things. I played ball with you. You weren't in sight
of anybody when Hans Reiner died—and you weren't
in sight of anybody when Carol Torney got knifed.
You had a damn good reason to get her to my place.
Then you'd run the agency, with me fighting a murder
charge. But you called up twice before I found her
lying on the divan. You didn't want me to suspect, so


262
Death in a Bowl
Jardinn nodded to Phaley. The big plainclothes-
man stepped in close to Cohn, smothered his protecting,
upflung hand. He drew his right fist back and struck
three times. Cohn made no sound, but when Phaley
stepped away he slipped to the floor of the office, cov-
ered his face with stubby fingers.
Jardinn said: "What in hell's the use, Pat? We've got
him. We're up here alone. He isn't yellow, like a cheap
crook. He's a dirty killer. But, by God—he's got guts.
We can't beat it out of him."
Phaley swore. "Irish was—a good kid," he said bit-
terly.
Jardinn closed his eyes, swayed again. When he opened
them Cohn was propped up against the wall, his face
a half-red mask.
Jardinn said: "You had that blonde on the outside,
Cohn. The one I kicked out. She was costing you money.
You don't make too much in here. Maybe she was
after you all the time, like a lot of women. They've got
to have things. You saw a chance to pick up a lot
of money, Cohn. You took it."
Cohn stared at him dully, shook his head. Jardinn
opened the drawer of his desk and took out an auto-
matic. He said softly:
"Get his gun, Pat. We'll save the State some trouble.
The way I told you."
Phaley reached down and got Cohn's gun. Jardinn
spoke in a toneless voice.
"He confessed, Pat—and then he made a break for
it. You pulled your rod, and you both let loose at the
same time. He missed you. You got him. I let go and got


CRESCENDO
263
nehaler eine Forma de en
die
mengsel the
two hunks of lead inside. He was trying to make a break
for it—and we stopped him.”
Phaley said grimly: "Sure-that was the way it went,
Ben. I'll put a bullet over there—from his gun.”
He gestured towards the wall opposite from Cohn.
He walked a few feet away.
"Then we'll just—let him have it,” he said quietly.
Jardinn nodded. He said: "Start it right, Pat-knock
over a chair.”
Phaley raised Cohn's gun a little, reached for the
nearest chair with his left hand. Cohn said in a flat,
dead voice:
"That goddam-woman. Wait—I'll talk.”
Phaley dropped his left hand. Jardinn stood motion-
lessly. Cohn wiped red from his swollen lips, spoke
slowly in a thick, dull tone.
"That blonde—she had me licked, Ben. She was al-
ways wanting something. Once and a while I got a
little graft money. But that wasn't enough. She had
me licked a lot of ways. I owed money. She was always
-going to leave me. And I-didn't want—that."
Jardinn said slowly: "Reiner—and Irish-all for a
rotten woman—"
Cohn cut in bitterly. "Hans Reiner-he wasn't any
good. I could read between the lines in those reports.
He drove Olive Rand—to suicide".
Jardinn said: “You're looking for an out, now. You
don't know what he did. Never mind that—what did
you do?”
Cohn stared at Jardinn. His voice was low and
husky.


CRESCENDO
aaaaaaaaaa 26
was all about. Frey used a man named Cordova as a
go-between. But Cordova described Frey to Carren. The
pilot gave me the description. And I knew it was Maya
Rand's game. I was watching Frey. And he didn't have
money—not enough money. Maya Rand wanted to hurt
Hans Reiner. I saw—the big chance."
Cohn's thick-set body shivered a little. Jardinn said
slowly:
"Ernst Reiner and Frey were hating each other. You
thought that would be a cover-up. You wanted the
police to get Frey. You knew he wouldn't squeal on
Maya. But when he weakened a little—you got scared.”
Cohn didn't speak. Jardinn said bitterly:
"I wasn't sure—until I crawled into that radio box.
You're a short man, Cohn-you would fit in there nice.
I didn't. And you've-killed before. You're greedy.
That blonde woman,”
Cohn said bitterly: "Goddam her.”
Phaley. drew a deep breath. “Cordova—where's he?
Who worked with you on the lights?”.
Cohn said harshly: "I don't squeal. They've both
skipped. They didn't know it was to be a kill—just a
concert smash. A dirty, Hollywood trick.”
Jardinn turned away, went over and looked down on
Hollywood Boulevard. He said softly:
"That poor, damn kid—Irish—”
Phaley said: "I'll take Cohn down to the station,
Ben. You coming?"
Jardinn didn't reply. Phaley said slowly:
"Come down later, Ben.”
Jardinn said: "Yeah-later."








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