James Chase - This Way for a Shroud

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.

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.