“Oh.”
The sergeant’s manner took on an air of diffidence which Conway had never observed before. “Look,” he said, “I don’t want to be nosy, but — ah — how you fixed for money?”
A perfect reading, Conway thought: impossible to tell whether he’s prepared to lend me money, or wants to borrow some. “I’m not rolling,” he said. “I can’t do anything elaborate, but I think I can manage to do it respectably.”
“Course you could go to Woodlawn Haven,” Bauer said. “But they don’t need the publicity so much. You’ll get a better break from one of the smaller places that can really use the advertising.” Conway could only look at him. “But not too small. You’ll be surprised, I’ll bet, how big a turn-out you’ll get.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Conway said. Which was true. With all his meticulous planning, he had given no thought to the necessity for what is known as a Christian burial. Nor to the sideshow that is apt to accompany the burial of a spectacular murder victim. “I’d like as little publicity as possible,” he said.
“Oh, sure,” said the detective, thoroughly unconvinced. “Try the Walbridge Mortuary. Mention my name. Not that I get a cut,” he added hastily. “But they’ll play ball with you, and the Department plays ball with them. They ought to do it for the price of the casket. And they’ll put on a service no woman could ask for more. They certainly did all right for Layzelle Llewellyn.”
“Who?” Conway asked.
“The White Rose. You know, I told you.”
“Oh, yes. You said I might be able to save you some trouble,” Conway said, hoping he was not changing the subject too abruptly.
“Yeah. Larkin and I’ve been checking that list of your friends this afternoon.”