Harrison Fedor, June Arnot’s publicity manager, came across the mosaicpaved floor with a bouncing little rush. He was a small thin man with steady hard eyes, a rat-trap of a mouth and lantern jaws. He grabbed Conrad’s hand and shook it violently.
“Nice to see you here. What’s been happening? Is June all right?”
“Far from it,” Conrad said quietly. “She’s been murdered: she and the whole staff.”
Fedor gulped and his face sagged, then he got hold of himself and sat down in one of the basket chairs.
“You mean she’s dead?”
“She’s dead all right.”
“For God’s sake!” Fedor took off his hat and ran his fingers through his thinning locks. “Dead, eh? Well, goddamn it! I can’t believe it.”
He stared first at Bardin, then at Paul. Neither of the men said anything. They waited.
“Murdered!” Fedor went on after a pause. “What a sensation this is going to be! Phew! I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
“What does that mean?” Bardin growled, his face heavy with disapproval.