This Way for a Shroud

by James Hadley Chase

  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 ha
lf-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!”