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.