James Chase: This Way for a Shroud

“Someone hacked her head off,” Conrad said quietly. “Not content with that, he ripped her as well. Can you think of anyone who would do that to her?”

Fedor’s eyes popped.

“Good grief! Hacked her head off! For God’s sake! Why did he do that?”

“For the same reason he ripped her: he didn’t like her. Know anyone who’d dive off the deep end like that?”

Fedor’s eyes suddenly shifted.

“Can’t say I do. Hell! Have the press got this yet?”

“No, and they won’t get it until I have some more facts to work on,” Bardin said grimly. “Now look, if you do know someone who might fit, you’d better spill it. The quicker we shut this case down, the better for everyone, including you.”

Fedor hesitated, then shrugged."I guess that’s right. Ralph Jordan was her current lover. They have been having some mighty awful quarrels recently. This picture he’s making with June is his last. Pacific Pictures have torn up his contract. They’ve had more than enough of him.”

“Why?” Conrad asked, lighting a cigarette.

“He’s been living on a diet of reefers for the past six months, and boy! does that guy hit the roof after a reefer session!”

“In what way?”

“He runs amok.” Fedor took out his handkerchief and blotted his face with it. “He set fire to one of the studios the week before last. Then last week, at Maurice Laird’s swim party, he started something that took Laird everything he had to hush up. Jordan had some kind of acid he went around splashing on the girl’s swim-suits. The stuff started burning, and Bingo! there were no swim-suits. You’ve never seen anything like it. Some thirty of our best-known stars were running around without a stitch on. Okay, it was pretty funny for us guys, and we appreciated the joke until we found the stuff hadn’t only taken off the swimsuits. It took off a few yards of skin as well. Five girls had to go to hospital. They were in a terrible state. If Laird hadn’t paid up handsomely Jordan would have been prosecuted. Next morning Laird tore up his contract.”

Conrad and Bardin exchanged glances.

“Sounds as if we might go along and talk to this guy,” Bardin said.

“For the love of mike don’t tell him I said anything about him,” Fedor said feverishly. “I’ve enough on my hands without having to cope with him.”

“Apart from Jordan,” Conrad said, “does anyone else come to your mind who might have done this?”

Fedor shook his head.

“No. Most of June’s friends were pretty rotten, but not all that rotten.”

“Is there anything in the story that she and Jack Maurer were lovers?”

Fedor suddenly looked down at his hands. A cold, remote expression came over his face.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You could make a guess. Did she ever mention Maurer to you?”

“No.”

“Did you ever hear his name coupled with her?”

“I guess not.”

“Did you ever see him with her?”

“No.”

Conrad looked across at Bardin.

“Isn’t it wonderful that as soon as Maurer’s name is mentioned everyone clams up? You’d think the guy didn’t exist.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Fedor said hastily. “If I knew anything I’d tell you. I don’t know a thing about Maurer except what I’ve read in the papers.”

“The same old song and dance,” Conrad said in disgust. “One of those days, with any luck, I’ll come across someone with a little guts who isn’t scared of Maurer, and who knows something : one of these days but, God knows when.”

“Take it easy,” Bardin said. “If the guy doesn’t know he doesn’t know.”

Sergeant O’Brien came down .the steps of the patio.

“Can I have a word, Lieutenant?”

Bardin took his arm and walked with him into the lounge.

“Stick around,” Paul said to Fedor, and went after them.

“He’s found the gun,” Bardin said, his heavy face more cheerful. He held out a .45 Colt automatic. “Look at this.”

Conrad took the gun and examined it. Engraved on the butt were the initials R.J.

“Where did you find it?” he asked O’Brien.

“In the shrubbery about thirty yards from the main gate. I’ll bet a dollar it’s the gun. It’s empty; it’s been fired very recently, and it’s a .45.”

“Better get it checked, Sam.”

Bardin nodded. He handed the gun to O’Brien.

“Take it down to headquarters and have it checked against the slug you’ve found.” He turned to Conrad. “R.J. That’s easy, isn’t it? Looks like I’ve got me an open and shut case. Looks like Jordan’s got some talking to do. Coming?”

According to Fedor, Ralph Jordan had a penthouse apartment on Roosevelt Boulevard. He had taken the apartment soon after June Arnot had got rid of her Hollywood home, and although he had kept on his own luxurious home in Beverly Hills, he seldom lived there.

Conrad swung the car up the circular drive leading to Jordan’s apartment block and pulled up in the shadows. Near by was a row of garage lock-ups. A big black Cadillac, parked half in and half out of one of the lock-ups attracted his attention.

“Someone wasn’t looking where he was driving,” he said as he got out of the car. He walked over to the lock-up. Bardin followed him.

The Cadillac’s off-side wing had crashed against the side of the lock-up, splintering the wood. The wing was pushed in and the off-side headlamp was smashed.

Bardin opened the car door and inspected the registration tag.

“Might have guessed it,” he said. “Jordan’s car. Who said he wasn’t hopped to the eyebrows?”

“Well, at least he’s home,” Conrad returned, and walked over to the entrance to the apartment block. He pushed through the revolving doors into the lobby, followed by Bardin.

A stout pink-and-white reception clerk in a faultlessly fitting tuxedo rested two small white hands on the polished top of the reception desk and raised his pale eyebrows at Conrad with a touch of hauteur.

“Is there something I can do?”

Bardin pushed his bulk forward. He flashed his buzzer and scowled. When he wanted to, he could look tough and ferocious, and he was looking tough and ferocious now.

“Lieutenant Bardin, City police,” he said in a grating voice. “Jordan in?”

The reception clerk stiffened. His small hands fluttered.

“If you mean Mr. Ralph Jordan; yes, he is in. Did you wish to see him?”

“When did he get in?”

“Just after eight o’clock.”

“Was he drunk?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t notice.” The shocked expression on the clerk’s face made Conrad grin.

“What time did he go out?”

“Just after six.”

“He’s on the top floor, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. We’re going up. Keep your hands off the telephone if you know what’s good for you. This is a surprise visit. Anyone up there with him?”

“Not as far as I know.”

Bardin grunted, then tramped across the pile carpet that covered the halfacre of lobby to the elevator.

“So he went out just after six and got back at eight. That would have given him plenty of time to get to Dead End, do the job and get back again,” he said as the elevator took them swiftly and silently to the top floor.

“Keep your eye on him,” Conrad cautioned as the elevator doors slid back. “If he’s still hopped up he may be dangerous.”

“He won’t be the first hop-head I’ve had to handle, and I bet he won’t be the last — worse luck.”

Bardin paused outside the front door to the apartment.

“Hello: the door’s open.”

He thumbed the bell-push. Somewhere in the apartment a bell rang sharply. Bardin waited a moment then shoved the front door wide open with his foot and looked into the small lobby.