This Way for a Shroud

I

CHARLES FOREST, District Attorney, sat behind his big, flat-topped desk, a cigarette between his thick fingers and a brooding expression in his eyes.

Forest was a short, bulky man with a fleshy hard face, searching green eyes, a thin mouth and a square jutting chin. His thick white hair was seldom tidy as he had a habit of running his fingers through it when he was working on a knotty problem, and he seemed to spend most of his working hours solving knotty problems.

“McCann seems satisfied it was Jordan,” Forest said, waving his hand to the pile of newspapers that lay in an untidy heap on the floor. “On the face of it, Paul, he’s got a watertight case. I’ve read Bardin’s report, and that seems pretty conclusive. What’s worrying you?”

Conrad sank lower in the armchair. One leg hung over one of the arms of the chair and he swung it backwards and forwards irritably.

“It’s too damned pat, sir,” he said. “Doc Holmes said it looked like a professional job, and I think so too. I think a hop-head would have to be very lucky to kill six people with six shots, especially when he’s using a .45. Those guns kick, but each time he hit a bull’s eye. It seems to me the killer was a crack shot, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t killed before.”

“I know,” Forest said mildly. “I thought those five shots good shooting. I’ve checked on Jordan. He was a crack shot. He could hit a playing-card edge on at twenty yards, and that wants some doing.”

Conrad grimaced.

“I should have checked that myself,” he said, annoyed with himself. “Well, all right, that takes care of that. There is another thing: he uses an electric razor. From the look of him he hasn’t put a razor blade against his skin for years, and yet he had a cutthroat razor in his possession. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

“Not particularly. It would be something if we knew for a fact that he didn’t own such a razor, but we don’t know that. People cut their corns with razors, you know.”

“That’s what Bardin said, but I asked Doc Holmes. Jordan hadn’t any corns. And another thing, there was no blood on his clothes.”

Forest nodded.

“Well, go on: what’s on your mind?”

“Bardin said he’d heard rumours that June Arnot was Jack Maurer’s mistress,” Conrad said quietly. “Suppose Maurer found out she was cheating on him with Jordan? What would he do? Send them his congratulations? If I know Maurer as well as I think I do, he would have gone up there and ripped her wide open and then cut her head off to teach her not to double-cross him in the future.” He sat forward, his eyes intent. “The moment I saw the set-up I wondered if it wasn’t a gang revenge. It would explain the professional touch and the ruthless slaughter to make sure there were no witnesses. Alaurer has the imagination to leave a set of clues to lead the investigation away from him and to incriminate Jordan.”

Forest stared at his blotter, his brows drawn down.

“Do we know for certain she was Maurer’s mistress?” he asked after a long pause.

“No, but we might find out if we dug deep enough.”

“If we could prove she was his mistress beyond any reasonable doubt, then I would think you’re on to something, Paul.” Forest reached out and stubbed his cigarette out into the ash-bowl. He looked up and his cold green eyes probed Conrad’s face. “I don’t have to tell you that the only reason why I accepted office was because I was determined to nail Maurer. I know how you feel about him yourself: that makes the two of us. Up to now we’ve got exactly nowhere. He’s never stepped out of turn, never made a wrong move, never given us anything we can use against him. We’ve nailed four of his best men during the past two years, and that was an achievement, considering the opposition we came up against. But in spite of keeping after him, we’re no further to nailing Maurer now than we were when I took office.” He leaned forward and poked a finger in Conrad’s direction. “I’m not going to discourage any hunches, any leads or any ideas that might give me a chance — no matter how remote — to throw a hook into Maurer. Okay, you think Maurer could be at the back of this killing. He could be. I don’t say he is, but he could be, and that’s enough for me. Go ahead and make some inquiries, but don’t let anyone know what you’re doing. The only way we’re going to corner Maurer is to surprise him, and make no mistake about it, surprising Maurer is my idea of a modern miracle. He has ears everywhere. He knows every move we make as soon as we make it. But go ahead and start digging. I don’t give a damn if it is a waste of public money. We’ve got to gamble on hunches or we’ll get nowhere. Don’t make any written reports. Keep this between your staff and myself. Don’t bring police headquarters into it unless you have to. I’m pretty certain someone at headquarters talks.”

Conrad’s face lit up with a triumphant smile. He had hoped Forest would react in this way, but knowing the amount of work the office had to handle, he didn’t think Forest would give him an okay to go ahead on the flimsy evidence he had to offer.

“That’s fine, sir. I’ll start right away. Van Roche and Miss Fielding are okay. I’ll need them, but apart from them I’ll keep this under my hat. I’ll see if I can dig up some dirt on June Arnot. If I can link her with Maurer we’ve really got something to work on.”

“I’ll leave it to you, Paul,” Forest said. “As soon as you think you’ve got something, let me know.” He glanced at his wrist-watch. “I’ve got to be in court in ten minutes. Don’t take up too much time on the investigation. We’ve got a lot on our hands, but this comes first, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Conrad said happily, and got to his feet.

“There’s just one other little thing,” Forest said, and looked up. “This isn’t my business, but I’m going to mention it because I like you and because I take an interest in you. If I’m talking out of turn, say so and I’ll shut up, but sometimes a word at the right time can be helpful.”

“Why, sure,” Conrad said, puzzled. “What’s wrong, sir?”

“Nothing yet,” Forest said. He looked down at his smoking cigarette, then looked up again. “Are you looking after that pretty wife of yours properly, Paul?”

Conrad’s face tightened. This was unexpected, and he felt blood mount slowly to his face.

“I don’t think I understand, sir.”

“Someone told me your wife was at the Paradise club last night on her own,”

Forest said quietly. “She wasn’t exactly sober. I don’t have to tell you that Maurer owns the club, nor do I have to tell you a lot of people, including Maurer and his mob, know she is the wife of my Chief Investigator.” He got to his feet and came around the desk. “That’s all, Paul. I don’t know if you knew, but if you didn’t, it’s time you did. See what you can do about it, will you? It’s not good for business, and I don’t think it’s good for your wife.” He smiled suddenly, and his hard face softened a little. He put his hand on Conrad’s shoulder. “Don’t look as if the end of the world has come. It hasn’t. Young women as pretty as your wife often try to kick over the traces. Maybe she’s finding life a little dull: especially when you get called out suddenly. But have a word with her. She’ll listen to reason.” He patted Conrad’s shoulder, picked up his brief-case and made for the door. “I must be going. I’ll expect some news of Maurer from you in a day or so.”

“Yes, sir,” Conrad said woodenly.

II

Conrad’s staff consisted of his- secretary, Madge Fielding, and his leg-man, Van Roche. Neither of them appeared to have any other interests except the work of the department, and when Conrad came into his office he found them waiting impatiently for him.

“What’s the verdict, Paul?” Van Roche demanded as Conrad crossed the room to his desk.

“We go after Maurer,” Conrad told him, pulling out his chair and sitting down. The D.A. says he isn’t going to pass up the remotest chance, and although he isn’t entirely sold on the evidence, he thinks we should at least do some preliminary work.”

Van Roche grinned and rubbed his hands together. He was tall and thin, darkcomplexioned with a pencil-lined moustache. “That’s terrific!” he exclaimed. “You certainly must have dug it into him! What’s the preliminary work?”

Conrad glanced over at Madge Fielding who sat at her desk, toying with a pencil, her big grey eyes thoughtful. She was around twenty-six or seven, small, compact and durably put together. She had no claim to beauty. Her small features, her snub nose and her strong, firm mouth gave her face interest, but nothing more. Instead of beauty, she had an astonishing stamina for hard work, boundless enthusiasm and energetic efficiency.

“Well, what’s your reaction, Madge?” Conrad asked, smiling at her.

“I was thinking that if you two are going to dig into Maurer’s past you’d better buy yourselves a couple of bullet-proof vests,” she said quietly. “And I’m not kidding.” Van Roche gave an exaggerated shudder. “How right she is. Trust our little Madge to put her finger on the weak spot. Well, I guess I’ll take out an insurance policy to cover my funeral. I’d like to be put away in style.” Conrad shook his head.

“That’s the least of our worries. Maurer’s got beyond shooting cops. Ten years ago he wouldn’t have hesitated, but not now. He’s too much of a business man, and he has too much to lose to take chances. He knows shooting cops is about the one thing no one gets away with. No, I don’t think we have much to worn’ about on that score. We’ll be all right; it’s our witnesses we’ll have to protect, if we ever find any witnesses.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Van said, lighting a cigarette. “How do we start? What’s the first move?”

“Nothing very exciting, I’m afraid,” Conrad returned. “Our first job is to make a review of the work we have in hand and see what can be shelved and what has got to be done. The D.A. said Maurer comes first, but we can’t just sling the other work into the trash-basket. Suppose we see what we’ve got? If we put our backs into it, we should be able to have a clear run by tomorrow morning. Madge, will you make a list of the important items and then we’ll get down to it?”

Madge nodded and went briskly over to the filing cabinets. While she was getting out the more urgent files, Van went over to his desk and hurriedly inspected the files that lay in his pending tray.

“What’s our first move against Maurer, Paul?” he asked as he flicked through the files.

“Before we can hope to hook him up with June Arnot, we must prove they knew each other,” Conrad said. “We’ll have to work from June’s end. It might be an idea if you went down to Dead End tomorrow and checked every house and everyone you meet on the way. Make out you’re checking on Jordan. Try and get a description of anyone who went to see June regularly. With any luck we might get a description of Maurer along with the rest of them. Whatever you do, don’t mention Maurer’s name. We’ll tip our hand if we ask direct questions about him, and that’s the last thing we want to do.”

Madge came over with a pile of files.

“There’s more than I thought,” she said, putting them on Conrad’s desk, “but some of them aren’t immediately urgent.”

“Let’s get at it,” Conrad said, slipping out of his coat. “Come on, Van, let’s see how hard you can work.”

It wasn’t until nine-fifteen that night that the more urgent work had been cleared, and Conrad felt satisfied that he had at least four days ahead of him free to concentrate on Maurer.

With a soft whistle of relief, he pushed back his chair.

“I guess that’s it,” he said. That’s the last one, isn’t it?”

Madge nodded. She took the file from Conrad, placed it on the top of the others and carried them over to the safe.

Van Roche got up from behind his desk and stretched.

“I don’t want another day like this,” he said feelingly. “Comrade Maurer would be flattered if he knew we’d worked this hard just for a chance of throwing a spanner in his works.”

Conrad glanced at his watch.

“Well, I’m going home. See you two here at nine tomorrow. We’ll get the plan working and see what we can do.” He picked up his hat and stood up. “Be seeing you, and get some sleep; you may need it.”

It wasn’t until he got into his car and started the engine that his mind turned to Janey. He had ruthlessly refused to let himself think of her during working hours, but now he turned his attention to her.

Why had she gone to the Paradise Club of all places? he thought angrily as he sent the car shooting along the deserted street. She knew Maurer owned the club, and she knew how Conrad felt about Maurer. Had she gone there deliberately to annoy him? And who had been the kind friend who had told Forest? Conrad wondered, his face hardening. “She wasn’t exactly sober.” That was a pretty nice thing to hear about your wife, and from your boss, too. “Have a word with her,” Forest had said. “She’ll listen to reason.” He certainly didn’t think Janey justified that observation. Listening to reason wasn’t Janey’s strong point, and Conrad wasn’t kidding himself he could persuade her to do something she didn’t want to do.

When he opened the sitting-room door, he found Janey in an armchair flicking through a magazine. Her face was cold and sullen, and he saw at once how tense she was.

Although he was a light sleeper, he hadn’t heard her come in the previous night, and when he got up in the morning, she hadn’t moved, although he was sure she had been awake.

He decided to come to the point right away. There was bound to be a row: that was inevitable.

He came over to the empty fireplace, and sat down in an armchair opposite to where Janey was sitting. “Janey…”

“Well, what is it?” she said in her cold, flat voice. She didn’t look up.

“You were seen at the Paradise Club last night.”

He saw her stiffen and a sudden wary expression cross her face. She recovered immediately and looked up, her eyes plainly hostile.

“So what? You were lucky I didn’t go to the Ambassadors. The Paradise is a lot cheaper.”

“That’s not the point. You know as well as I do that Maurer owns the Paradise Club. What were you thinking of, Janey?”

“Now look here, Paul, I’ve put up with a lot from you, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let you lecture me!” Janey said with violence. “You’re a nice one to preach! You come home at any hour and you sneak out at any hour. I don’t complain. Don’t imagine I don’t know what goes on in your office. That Fielding woman may be nothing to look at, but anyone can see she’s a sexy little bitch, and with a face like hers I suppose she lets you do what you like to her!”

“Now look, Janey,” Conrad said sharply, “we’re not going to have that old red herring brought up again. I fell for it the first time, but not again. You’re trying to side-step the issue. Why did you go to the Paradise Club?”

“That’s my business!” Janey flared. “And I’m not going to be cross-examined by you!”

“But you can’t go there!” Conrad said, his voice suddenly angry. “You know as well as I do it’s Maurer’s headquarters. You’re making the department a laughing-stock by going there. Can’t you see that?”

Janey giggled, but immediately her face hardened again as she pointed her chin at him.

“Do you think I care a damn about your stupid department? If I want to go to the club, I’ll go!”

“It was Forest who told me you have been there. Some kind person told him, and added you were drunk. How long do you imagine I’ll keep my job if you’re going to behave like that?”

Janey suddenly went white, and her eyes flashed.

“So your dirty little police force has started to spy on me, has it?” she cried. “I might have expected that. Well, you can tell your smug, blue-nosed boss from me to mind his own business! Neither he nor you nor anyone else is going to tell me what to do! And if you don’t like it you can go to hell!”

She turned and went out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

III

As the City Hall clock was striking nine, Conrad walked briskly along the corridor to his office. He pushed open the door and entered, hanging his hat on the hat-stand without pausing on his way to his desk.

Madge and Van Roche were already at their desks. Madge was typing busily. Van was scribbling notes on a pad, a cigarette in his mouth, his eyes screwed up to avoid the smoke as it spiralled past his face.

“You’ve got a visitor, Paul,” he said, pushing the pad aside. He jerked his thumb to the door to the little ante-room that was used for interviews. “And you’ll never guess who.”

Conrad put his brief-case on the desk and reached for a cigarette from the box that stood by the telephone.

“I don’t want to see any visitors this morning. Who is it?”

“Flo Presser.”

Conrad looked up sharply, his eyebrows climbing.

“You kidding?”

Van grinned.

“Go ahead and see for yourself. Come to that you’ve only to take a sniff at the keyhole to have the fact confirmed. I reckon she must have had a bath of Last Night’s Kiss or whatever the stuff’s called. She fairly hums with it.”

“Flo Presser? At this hour? What does she want?”

“She’s lost her boy friend. She wants you to find him.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell her I was busy? Get rid of her, Van. I’ve got other things to do than to bother my head about her. Tell her to go to the police.”

“Know who her boy friend is?” Van asked, his face suddenly serious.

“No. Who is he?”

“Toni Paretti.”

Conrad frowned. The name sounded familiar.

“Well, what about him?”

“He happens to be Maurer’s chauffeur and bodyguard,” Van said quietly. “I thought maybe you’d want to talk to her.”

Conrad took a long drag at his cigarette, then blew smoke to the ceiling.

“That’s right; of course he is.” He got to his feet. “Did she give you any details?”

“They had a date the night before last. He called her around five o’clock and told her he had a job to do. He said he would meet her at eleven o’clock at Sam’s Bar on Lennox Street. She waited until two o’clock, and then went home. Yesterday morning she kept calling his apartment, but couldn’t get a reply. She went round there in the afternoon. He wasn’t there. She asked around, but no one had seen him. She went to Sam’s Bar in the evening and waited, but he didn’t show up. This morning she decided something must have happened to him, so she’s come here.”

“What does she expect us to do?”

“She wants us to find him.”

“Didn’t it cross her mind he’s tired of her and has walked out on her?” Conrad asked.

“Didn’t seem to, and it didn’t occur to me either. I can’t imagine a rat like Paretti walking out on Flo. She’s a gold mine. It’s not as if she’s like the usual run of tarts. She makes money, Paul from what I hear: good money, and I can’t imagine Paretti passing up an income as good as she can provide.”

“He could have found another girl,” Conrad returned. “But what foxes me is why should she come here. Why didn’t she go to the police?”

Van concealed a grin.

“That’s exactly what I asked her, and she said you were a gentleman and she trusted you. I won’t tell you what she said about the police.”

Conrad sighed.

“Well, I’m not going to waste much time on her.”

He crossed the room, opened the sound-proof door that led into the anteroom.

A blast of cloying perfume enveloped him as he stepped into the room, and he grimaced.

Flo Presser was pacing up and down, a cigarette between her scarlet lips. She was a good-looking girl, around twenty-five, with a provocative figure, brassy blonde hair and big money-hungry eyes.

She swung around as Conrad came in. Her full skirt swirled out and then moulded itself for a brief moment around her long slender thighs.

“Hello, Flo,” Conrad said. He had met her often enough in the court room. She was regularly arrested for soliciting, and she had got to know most of the officials connected with the court. “What’s on your mind?”

“Gee! Mr. Conrad,” Flo said, coming over to him. “I didn’t think you’d mind me coming like this. I’m worried stiff. I know I shouldn’t be bothering you. I know how busy you are. I thought I’d go nuts last night wondering about Toni, and this morning…”

“Okay, skip the song and dance,” Conrad said impatiently. He sat on the edge of the table. “You shouldn’t have come here, Flo, but now you’re here, let’s keep it brief. What makes you so sure Toni hasn’t walked out on you?”

Flo’s big brown eyes opened wide.

“Walked out on me? Why, Mr. Conrad, he wouldn’t do that. Besides, I know he hasn’t.”

“How do you know?”

She hesitated, looking at him out of the corners of her eyes.

“You’ll keep this to yourself, won’t you, Mr. Conrad? If Toni knew I’d come to you, he would skin me.”

“How do you know he hasn’t walked out on you?” Conrad repeated.

“I’m looking after his bank roll,” she said after a pause. “I shouldn’t be talking about it, but Toni wouldn’t go off leaving me with five grand, not that he ever would leave me.”

Conrad looked at her, a sudden thoughtful expression in his eyes. She was right. He knew a little of Paretti’s record. If Paretti were going to leave Flo, he would make sure he collected his money first.

“Do you imagine anything’s happened to him?”

She nodded.

“Something must have. He might have been run over or something.”

“He was going to meet you the night before last: is that right?”

“Yes. He called me around five and said he couldn’t meet me as arranged. He had a job to do.”

“What was the job?”

She shook her head.

“He didn’t say.”

“He told you he had a job to do and nothing else? What were his exact words?”

“He said, “The boss wants me to do a job. I’ll see you at Sam’s Bar at eleven.” That’s what he said, and I haven’t seen him since.”

“What time were you going to meet him before he put you off?”

“Seven o’clock.”

He studied her.

“Why did you come to me, Flo?”

Her eyes shifted away from his direct stare.

“There wasn’t anyone else I could go to. I wouldn’t get any sense out of the coppers. They don’t like Toni anyway. I asked around and no one could tell me anything, and I got more and more worried and I thought of you. You’ve always been nice to me, Mr. Conrad, and I thought…”

“Okay, skip it,” Conrad said. “Toni works for Maurer, doesn’t he?”

A blank, remote expression came into Flo’s eyes. She half turned away to drop her cigarette into the trash-basket.

“I don’t know who Toni works for. He’s never told me.”

“Don’t give me that stuff. It’s Maurer, isn’t it?”

She swung round to face him, her face hard.

“I tell you I don’t know! Don’t start acting the copper with me, Mr. Conrad. I’ve always looked on you as a friend.”

Conrad shrugged.

“Okay, Flo. I’ll make some inquiries. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do. Where can I reach you?”

Her face brightened.

“I knew you would, Mr. Conrad! I said to myself…”

“Where can I reach you?” Conrad repeated impatiently.

“23c 144th Street. Why don’t you come up one night and see me, Mr. Conrad? I’ll give you a good time: honest I will, and it won’t cost you a thing.”

Conrad laughed.

“That’s no way to talk to a respectably married man, Flo,” he said, edging her to the door. “But thanks for the offer just the same.”

“First time I’ve ever heard a married man was respectable,” she returned. “And I should know.” She paused in the doorway that led directly into the passage. “You’ll let me know as soon as you find out something, won’t you, Mr. Conrad?”

“Sure. I’ll be in touch with you before long.” He edged her into the passage. “Be seeing you,” and he closed the door.

“Pretty nearly gassed, weren’t you?” Van asked as Conrad came back into his office.

“Yeah, pretty strong.” There was a hard, tense light in Conrad’s eyes. “Madge, have we got a file on Paretti?”

“Yes.” Madge got up and went over to the filing cabinet. She found the file and brought it over to Conrad.

“Thanks.”

He opened the file and settled down to read its meagre contents while Van watched him with alert interest.

“Not much here,” Conrad said after a few minutes. “He’s had two convictions; neither of them amounted to much, and believe it or not, he’s been arrested twenty-seven times. Listen to this: seven arrests for homicide, twelve arrests for assault and robbery, four arrests for being in possession of drugs, one arrest for malicious mischief, one arrest for consorting with known criminals and one arrest for juvenile delinquency. He’s beaten the rap each time except for the juvenile delinquency and consorting with known criminal charges, and those two convictions stuck before he hooked up with Maurer.” He looked up to stare at Van. “There’s a note here that’s interesting. Paretti is a crack shot with a .45. That mean anything to you?”

Van pursed his lips into a soundless whistle.

“Are you trying to tic him up with the Dead End massacre?”

“Work it out for yourself,” Conrad said quietly. “He had a date with Flo for seven o’clock the night before last: the night of the killing. Suddenly he cancels his date with Flo, telling her he has a job to do for his boss. We know who his boss is. At around seven on that night, eight people get wiped out: six of them by a .45.”

“I can’t see Paretti hacking June’s head off,” Van said doubtfully. “That’s not his line.”

“I’m not suggesting he killed June. I think he drove Maurer out to Dead End, and while Maurer was taking care of June, Paretti took care of the staff.”

“For crying out loud! Maurer wouldn’t be so crazy as to kill June himself! He’s got dozens of thugs who’d do it for him.”

“It’s my bet it was Maurer who did the job himself,” Conrad said, leaning forward, his elbows on the desk, his face in his hands. “I think he found out June was cheating on him, and he went haywire. I think he took Paretti and went up there and did the job.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “And I’ll tell you why I think so. He knew the risk he was running. Up to now he hasn’t made a wrong move. He hasn’t done a thing we can use to pin on him. Up to now every murder he’s planned has been carried out by one of his thugs who gets his instructions from some other thug so the trail will never lead back to Maurer. Okay, this time Maurer gets the bit between his teeth. This time he wants to even the score in person. This is a personal thing between June and him. He takes Paretti and goes up to Dead End. He’s known there, and he knows there must be no witnesses, no one must be left alive on the estate who can link his name with June’s or who might have seen him arrive. Paretti takes care of the staff while Maurer goes down to the pool, surprises June and hacks off her head.” He pointed a finger at Van. “Then what happens? There is still one witness left alive after the slaughter — Paretti. Isn’t that like Maurer? He wouldn’t trust his own mother. Paretti has worked for him for fifteen years, but he doesn’t trust him. So he takes care of Paretti, and it’s my bet Flo knows Maurer has taken care of him, and that’s why she came here. She’s too scared of Maurer to mention his name, but she’s no fool, and she must have hoped that by coming to me with this story, I’ll get around to what she’s driving at.”

Both Van and Madge were sitting tense and silent while Conrad talked. When he paused, Van slammed his fist down on his desk.

“I bet that’s it!” he said excitedly. “It fits Maurer, and it docs explain why Flo came here. It’s her way of getting even with Maurer for ironing out her boy friend! And now we’ve got to prove it.”

“And that won’t be easy,” Conrad said quietly. “Here’s what we do. Your first job, Van, is to go to Paretti’s apartment and turn it inside out. Go over the place as if you were looking for gold nuggets. I’m not saying you’ll find anything, but you might, so get over there and snap it up.” He scribbled an address he took from Paretti’s file and tossed it to Van. “That’s where he hangs out. Take a gun with you, and watch out. Don’t let anyone know who you are unless you have to. If you have to break in, break in. I’m going to the Pacific Studios and see if I can dig up some information about June. I’ll be back here at one o’clock, and we’ll see how we’ve got on.”

Van opened his desk and took out a .38. He checked the magazine, tossed the gun into the air with a theatrical gesture, then stowed it away in his hip pocket.

“I want you to take notice of this,” he said, looking at Madge. “I get sent on a job where I can get a skinful of slugs, but the Master Mind over there picks himself a soft one: among the movie stars, glamour, legs and the rest of the trappings. Just make a note of it. I’m not saying it’s unfair, but just record it for the sake of the underdog.”

“Get moving!” Conrad snapped. He wasn’t in the mood for banter. “And let’s have some results!”

IV

Conrad followed a pert, orange-haired girl along a maze of rubber-floored corridors, past innumerable doors on which were easy to remove signs bearing the names of directors, producers and movie executives.

The orange-haired girl appeared to be deeply affronted that she had to conduct Conrad to so lowly a person as Harrison Fedor, and when they came upon his office in the remotest part of the building, she didn’t bother to stop, but waving her hand disdainfully, said without turning, “That’s it; go right ahead,” and she continued on her way, swinging her hips contemptuously.

Conrad rapped on the door and pushed it open.

“Come right in,” Fedor said.

He sat behind a desk, a cigar in his mouth, a relaxed, contented expression on his thin, hatchet face.

“Did that orange-haired hip-swinger bring you up here?” he asked, opening a drawer and producing a pint bottle of Four Roses and two tot-glasses which he placed on his blotter. “She has a surprise coming to her. Tomorrow, when the news breaks, she’ll stop that fanny-waving routine of hers and show me some respect.”

Conrad pulled up a chair and sat down.

“What news?”

Fedor rubbed his hands together and beamed.

“Laird’s promoted me to general publicity manager with a salary that’d knock your right eye out. I had to talk him into it, but he finally came across this morning. Tomorrow I move into an office that’d make the President green with envy, and on the first floor. How do you like that?”

Conrad offered his congratulations and accepted one of the tot-glasses. They drank solemnly, then Fedor sat back and raised his bushy eyebrows.

“What’s on your mind? I don’t want to rush you, but I have a busy day ahead of me.”

“I’m tying up a few loose ends connected with Miss Amor’s death,” Conrad said smoothly. “Is there anyone here she confided in, would you know? Did she have a dresser or a secretary or someone like that?”

Fedor’s eyes became wary.

“What did you want to know?”

“The inquest’s tomorrow. I have to have a reliable witness who’ll testify that Miss Arnot and Jordan were lovers. I didn’t think you would want to be bothered.”

“You’re damn right I don’t!” Fedor said, squirming forward on his chair. “I have a hell of a big day on my hands tomorrow. Is that all you want to know?”

“That’s all.”

Fedor thought for a moment.

“You’d better talk to Mauvis Powell. She was June’s secretary. She’ll know the details.”

“Where do I find her?”

“She has an office just down the corridor. I’ll call her and tell her you’re on your way.”

“That’s fine. One other thing: how about someone to cover Jordan’s end of it?”

Fedor frowned.

“You’re pretty thorough, aren’t you? I thought this was an open and shut case.”

Conrad grinned disarmingly.

“We want to keep it shut. We never know what kind of questions a coroner will ask, and we have to be prepared. Is there anyone within reach who would know what Jordan did in his spare time?”

Fedor scratched his aggressive chin.

There’s Campbell, his dresser. He might know. You’ll find him downstairs, clearing up Jordan’s dressing-room. Anyone will tell you where to find him.”

“Okay. I’ll have a word with him. Would you tell Miss Powell I’m on my way?”

“Sure.” Fedor reached for the telephone. He called a number. After a moment’s delay, he said, “Mauvis? This is Fedor. I have Paul Conrad here. He’s from the D.A.’s office. He wants to talk to you about June. Tell him all he wants to know, will you?” He listened, then said, “Good girl. He’ll be right along.” To Conrad, he said, “Okay, brother. Help yourself. Last office along the corridor.”

Mauvis Powell was a tall, dark woman in her late thirties; neatly dressed in a black tailored costume with a white silk shirt and severe collar. She looked up as Conrad came in and gave him a cool, distant smile.

“Come in,” she said, and waved him to an armchair. “What can I do for you?”

Her desk was a litter of unopened letters and glossy photographs of June Arnot.

Conrad sat down.

“We may need a witness at the inquest, Miss Powell,” he said. “Just to tie up the loose ends. Is it a fact Miss Arnot and Jordan were lovers?”

She surveyed him with tired, bored eyes.

“I wouldn’t want to swear to it,” she said with a contemptuous smile. “Miss Arnot often told me of her experiences with Mr. Jordan, together with a wealth of detail, but she may have been lying. As I never saw them together as lovers, I can’t be explicit.”

“That’s understood, but you did gather from her conversation that they were lovers?”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“Did she have any other lovers except Mr. Jordan?” Conrad said casually.

He saw a sudden alert expression come into her eyes.

“Is it necessary to ruin what reputation Miss Arnot may have left after the inquest? she asked, her voice suddenly cold.

“I hope not, but the question is important, and I would like an answer.”

“She had other lovers: Miss Arnot had her own code of ethics.”

“In confidence, can you give me any names?”

He saw her stiffen, and anger chased the wary expression from her eyes.

“I have no intention of taking part in any smear campaign the District Attorney may be considering,” she said sharply. “If that is all you wish to know, Mr. Conrad, perhaps you will excuse me. I have a lot of work to do.”

“This is not a smear campaign,” Conrad said quietly. “I am investigating a murder, Miss Powell. We’re not entirely satisfied that Jordan did kill Miss Arnot.”

She sat very still, looking at him.

“Then I must have misread the newspapers.”

“I said we were not entirely satisfied,” Conrad said patiently. “On the face of it, it would seem pretty obvious that Jordan did kill her, but we have learned not to accept the obvious. Is it a fact that Miss Arnot and Jack Maurer were lovers?”

She stiffened, and her mouth set in a hard line.

“I don’t know,” she said in a flat, cool voice that was so final Conrad knew he would be wasting his time to press the question.

“Okay, if you don’t know, you don’t know,” he said, shrugging. “I give you my word this is in confidence. You won’t be asked to make a public statement.”

“I don’t know,” she repeated woodenly.

He looked at her, and she looked at him, and he knew there was nothing more he would get out of her on that angle.

“Do you know Frances Coleman, Miss Powell? I believe she is an out-of-work extra?”

He saw surprise in her eyes.

“I know of her. She had a small part in Miss Arnot’s last picture.”

“Do you know why she called on Miss Arnot on the night Miss Arnot was murdered?”

“I didn’t know she had called on Miss Arnot.”

“Her name was in the Visitors’ book.”

She looked puzzled.

“She hadn’t an appointment. She must have called on the off-chance of seeing Miss Arnot.”

“What would be the chances of Miss Arnot seeing her?” She lifted her elegant shoulders in a shrug.

“It would depend on Miss Arnot’s mood. I should say the chances were practically non-existent. Miss Arnot never liked to be bothered by people she didn’t know. I’ve never known her to see anyone without an appointment.”

“That wouldn’t apply to Jordan, of course?”

Mauvis Powell shook her head.

“Oh, no. He had the run of Dead End.”

“And Jack Maurer would have the run of it too?”

She looked at him, her mouth tightening.

“I have already told you, I know nothing about Mr. Maurer.”

“But you have heard of him?”

“Who hasn’t?” she said, shrugging. “If that’s all, Mr. Conrad…” Her hand went out to hover over a packet of unopened mail.

“There is just one other thing. Miss Coleman has left her apartment house. You wouldn’t know how I could get in touch with her?”

“Have you tried the Central Casting Agency or the Union Offices? They will have her new address.”

Conrad nodded.

“Thanks. I’ll try them. You wouldn’t have a photograph of her, would you?”

She gave him a for-heaven’s-sake-when-are-you-going-to-stop-pestering-me look, swung round in her chair, opened a filing cabinet and took out a bulky file.

“There may be one amongst these stills of Miss Arnot’s last picture. I’ll see.”

Conrad watched her slim fingers flick through a big batch of glossy prints, saw her fingers hesitate over a print, flick it out and look at it more carefully.

“Here she is. She stood-in for Miss Arnot occasionally, and this still was taken to see how Miss Arnot’s costume would photograph.”

Conrad took the 7” X 5” plate and looked at it. The girl in the picture was about twenty-three, dark, with large serious eyes that looked right at him and gave him an odd, creepy feeling that crawled up his spine and into the roots of his hair.

It was, he found himself thinking, an unforgettable face: a face that could haunt a man’s dreams. Her hair was parted in the exact centre of her head and framed her face, reaching almost to her shoulders. She had a straight-cut fringe which half concealed an unusually broad forehead. But it was her eyes that attracted him. He liked the serious and yet half-humorous curiosity he fancied he found in them, as if she were looking out on to a world she found exciting, novel and unexplored.

“Most men appear to get struck all of a heap when they see her,” Mauvis Powell said dryly.

The sound of her voice made Conrad start.

“Why, yes,” he said a little blankly. “She is unusual, isn’t she?”

“But she couldn’t act worth a cent,” Mauvis Powell said scornfully. “She’s wasting her time in pictures.”

Conrad took out his billfold and slipped the photograph into one of the compartments.

“I’ll be glad to keep this if you can spare it.”

She smiled, and her direct look embarrassed him, to his annoyance.

“Keep it by all means.”

Conrad found he had to make a slight effort to concentrate; his mind was still occupied with the photograph.

“Well, thanks for your help. I’ll let you know if we want you at the inquest. Sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”

“You’re welcome,” she said indifferently, and reached out for a packet of mail.

Outside in the corridor, Conrad took out his billfold and had another long look at Frances Coleman’s photograph. The girl’s face drew him like a magnet. He couldn’t understand it, and he couldn’t remember ever having had such a feeling of intense interest for a girl as he was now feeling for this girl.

“What’s the matter with me?” he thought. “I’m behaving like a goddamn schoolboy.”

He put the photograph away, pushed his hat to the back of his head and swore softly under his breath. Then he walked quickly along the corridor to the row of elevators, jabbed the nearest button and waited. While he waited he caught his hand going towards his inside pocket for his billfold again, and he had to make a conscious effort to change its direction and fish out a pack of cigarettes.

V

The hands of the City Hall clock stood at five minutes past one o’clock as Conrad swung his car to the kerb outside a drug store. He crossed the sidewalk, pushed his way past the crowd besieging the quick-lunch counter and shut himself into a pay booth.

Madge answered his call.

“Is Van there?” Conrad asked.

“He’s just come in. Hold a moment.”

Van’s voice came on the line.

“Did you have any luck?” Conrad asked.

“Yeah.” Van’s voice sounded excited. “I’ve got something that ties Paretti in with Jordan. I found an old envelope in the trash-basket. On the back of it was a sketch-plan of Jordan’s apartment. How do you like that?”

Conrad let out a soft whistle.

“You’re sure it’s Jordan’s apartment?”

“You bet! I thought from your description the lay-out looked familiar. On my way back here I dropped into Jordan’s place and checked. There’s no doubt about it.”

“That’s really something,” Conrad said. “Did you find anything else?”

“A cut-throat razor strop, but no razor. There’s a chance the razor found in Jordan’s hand belongs to Paretti. It’s worth checking. I also found sixteen hundred bucks hidden around the apartment.”

“Nice work. This checks with my idea that Maurer rubbed Paretti out. Paretti wouldn’t skip into hiding and leave all that money, plus his roll with Flo. He just wouldn’t do it.”

“That’s the way I figure it too. Did you turn up anything your end?”

“I sure did. Campbell, Jordan’s dresser, talked. He’s tied Maurer in with June. He says Jordan knew June was Maura’s mistress and Jordan was scared stiff Maurer would find out he was playing around with June. He was always talking to Campbell about Maurer, especially when he was drunk. This puts Maurer out on a limb. I’ve got a sworn statement from Campbell. We can start something now, Van.”

“But Campbell’s statement won’t stand up in court, will it, Paul? You’ll need supporting evidence.”

“I’m going after it now,” Conrad said, his voice hardening. “I’m going to bring Flo Presser down to the office and she’s going to talk. She knows Paretti worked for Maurer, and she’s damn well going to make a statement if I have to slap it out of her. I’m on my way down to her place now. I want you to tell the D.A. we’ve got enough evidence to start an investigation. The police will have to be brought into it; we can’t do it alone. Ask him if he’ll call a meeting for this afternoon or as soon as he can fix it so I can let him examine the evidence for himself. McCann should be there. Find out when the D.A. can hold the meeting, then call McCann and ask him to attend. Don’t give him any details over the telephone. We don’t want any of this to leak out until we’re ready to jump Maurer. Okay?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Right. Be seeing you around half-past two,” Conrad said and hung up.

He paused long enough at the quick-lunch bar to grab a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee. He bolted them down, then ran out to his car.

144th Street was a side turning off the exclusive Lawrence Boulevard, the main shopping centre of Pacific City. 23c was a top-floor apartment above a florist shop and two empty offices.

Conrad left his car outside the florist shop, entered the side-door entrance and mounted a steep flight of stairs. At the head of the stairs was a sign-board; the only card in the otherwise empty slots read: Miss Florence Presser. 4th floor. Apartment C.

There was no elevator, and Conrad started his long climb. As he reached the third-floor landing, his foot on the bottom step of the flight that led to the top floor, he heard a sudden wild scream that came from above.

A voice he recognized as Flo’s cried out: “No! Don’t touch me! Keep away!”

Another blood-curdling scream rang out which was suddenly cut short.

Conrad shot forward and tore up the rest of the stairs, cursing himself for not bringing a gun with him.

As he reached the landing, he saw a front door that stood half open. He was half-way across the landing when the door jerked fully open and a big, thick-set man came out. His swarthy, brutal face, under a pulled-down black slouch hat, tightened when he saw Conrad, and his right hand slid inside his coat.

Conrad took off in a flying tackle. His right shoulder slammed against the big man’s thighs, and they went down together in a heap on the floor.

The big man had got his gun out and he took a side swipe with the barrel at Conrad’s face, but Conrad saw it coming, got his shoulder up in time and took a numbing blow on the fleshy part of his bicep that made him wince.

He grabbed hold of the big man’s wrist with his left hand and drove his right fist into the big man’s face. His knuckles smashed against teeth that gave under the impact, and the big man cursed.

Conrad swung the big man’s hand against the wall and hammered it against the plaster, trying to break the grip on the gun. He got a bang on the side of his head that sent bright lights swimming before his eyes, and then the big man heaved himself away and kicked Conrad in the chest as Conrad grabbed at him.

The big man scrambled to his feet, raising the gun. Conrad squirmed forward, grabbed the big man’s ankles and heaved. The big man went over backwards, the gun going off with a roar that rattled the windows. A shower of plaster from the punctured ceiling came down on top of them.

Conrad was half up as the big man heaved himself off the floor. The gun crashed again. The gun-flash burned Conrad’s cheek; the slug zipped past his ear. Conrad sent over a long, looping right with all his weight behind it. It caught the big man on the side of his jaw with a devastating impact.

The big man grunted, his eyes rolled back, the gun dropped from his hand. He tried to regain his balance as he swayed on the top stair. Conrad jumped in and drove his left fist into the big man’s belly.

The big man came forward with a rasping gasp, then straightened up and went straight back down the long flight of stairs to land on the back of his head and neck with a crash that shook the building.

Conrad stood for a second looking down at the big man as he lay, his arms and legs thrown wide, on the lower landing. He didn’t bother to go down. No one of that weight could fall as the big man had fallen without breaking his neck.

As Conrad turned to Flo’s apartment he heard the wail of approaching police sirens.

He walked into a long, narrow room, gaudily furnished as a sitting-room.

Across the divan bed, wearing only a pair of black nylon stockings held up by a pair of pink, rose-decorated garters, lay Flo.

An ice-pick had been driven with tremendous force into the side of her neck. He didn’t have to touch her to know she was dead. The job had been done expertly; a professional job. The point of the ice-pick had punctured her spinal cord.

He swore softly under his breath, rubbed his sore shoulder, then groped for a cigarette.

He was still looking down at Flo when two prowl boys, guns in hand, burst into the room.