“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.”