They crossed the room to the bathroom door and opened it. They looked into the most elaborately equipped bathroom they had ever seen, but their eyes had no interest for the luxury nor the glittering plumbing. Their attention became riveted on the sunken bath.
Ralph Jordan lay in the waterless bath, his head sunk on his chest. He was wearing a wine-coloured dressing-gown over a pair of pale blue lounging pyjamas. The walls of the bath and the front of his dressing-gown were stained red. He held in his right hand an old-fashioned cut-throat razor. The blood on the thin blade looked like scarlet paint.
Bardin pushed past Conrad and touched Jordan's hand.
'Deader than a joint of beef: chilled beef at that.'
He took hold of a long lock of Jordan's hair and lifted his head.
Conrad grimaced as he caught sight of the deep gash across Jordan's throat: so deep it had severed the wind-pipe.
'Well, that's that,' Bardin said, stepping back. 'Like I said: an open and shut case. He went out there, knocked her off, then came back here and cut his throat. Very considerate of him. It makes a nice tidy job – for me, anyway.' He groped for a cigarette, lit it and blew a cloud of smoke into the dead man's face. 'Looks like Doc Holmes is going to have a busy night.'
Conrad was moving around the bathroom. He discovered an electric razor on the wall.
'Odd he should have a cut-throat razor. You'd have to go to a good many homes these days to find one, and you wouldn't have thought Jordan would have kept one so handy.'
Bardin groand.
'Now don't start lousing up the issue. Maybe the guy cut his corns with it: people do.' He pushed open a door by the head of the bath and looked into an elaborately equipped dressing-room. On a chair was a suit, shirt and silk underwear. A pair of brogue shoes and socks lay near by.
Conrad walked into the room, then came to a sudden standstill.
'Now this will make you really happy, Sam,' he said, and waved to a bloodstained object on the floor.
Bardin joined him.
'Well, I'll be damned! A machete!' He knelt beside the razor-sharp knife. 'I bet it's the murder weapon. It's just the thing to cut someone's head off with, and it would lay a belly open like you open a door.'
'It wouldn't interest you to wonder why a guy like Jordan should have a South American jungle knife in his possession?'
Bardin sat back on his heels. His grin made him look like a wolf.
'Maybe he picked it up as a souvenir. I bet he's been to South America or the West Indies: probably the West Indies. It's the murder weapon all right, and I'll bet the blood on it is June Arnot's blood.'
Conrad was turning over the clothes on the chair.
'There's no blood on these. I shouldn't have thought it possible to cut off someone's head and not get blood on you.'
'For crying out loud!' Bardin said impatiently. He stood up and stretched his big frame. 'Do you have to lean so hard on your job? Maybe he had a coat on or something. Does it matter? I'm satisfied; aren't you?'
'I don't know,' Conrad said frowning. 'It's all very pat, isn't it? The whole setup could be a plant, Sam. The gun with Jordan's initials on it, the smashed car, Jordan's suicide and now the murder weapon. Everything cut and dried and laid out ready for inspection. It smells a little to me.'
'It smells because you're over-anxious to earn a living,' Bardin said, lifting his massive shoulders. 'Forget it. It convinces me, and it'll convince the Captain. It would convince you if you didn't yearn to get Maurer into the chair. That's it, isn't it?'
Conrad pulled at his nose thoughtfully.
'Maybe. Well, okay. I guess there's nothing here for me. Want me to drop you off at headquarters?'
'I'll call them from here. I'll want the boys to look this joint over. As soon as I get them working, I'll go back to Dead End and give the press the story. You're going home ?'
Conrad nodded.
'May as well.'
'Lucky guy. No late work, a nice little home and lots of glamour to keep you warm. How is Mrs. Conrad?'
'Oh, she's fine, I guess,' Conrad said, and was annoyed to hear how flat and unenthusiastic his voice sounded.
V
Driving just below the speed limit, Conrad cut through the back streets to avoid the theatre traffic. He wondered uneasily if Janey had made good her threat and had gone out, and if she had, whether she was back yet. He didn't want to think about her just now, but inevitably, whenever he headed for home, she forced herself into his thoughts.
He slowed down to light a cigarette. As he flicked the match through the open window his eye caught the name-plate of the street:
It was not until he had nearly reached the end of the street that he remembered the girl, Frances Coleman, who had called on June Arnot at seven o'clock this night, had given her address as 145 Glendale Avenue. His foot trod down hard on the brake and he swung the car to the kerb.
