'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
