“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.”