This Way for a Shroud

"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."