“Yes?” she asked, in a flat, neutral voice.

“You were a friend of Mrs. Jane Conway, I believe,” said Sanders.

“Were?” She looked puzzled.

“Is there somewhere less public we can talk?” A group of three women were emerging from a door behind the receptionist’s desk, all yelling “’Bye, Marny” as they hurried out.

“Come into my office, then. It’s through here.” She pointed to a door at right angles to the first. It opened onto a corridor with several doors leading to glass-partitioned offices on the left, and, on the right, a low wooden partition which separated off a large room filled with desks and activity. He looked at his watch again. She remarked stiffly that on Fridays they worked late, so that the girls could come back and pick up their pay, and then ushered them into a spartan office. “Now what is this about Jane?” She glowered at him.

“Mrs. Conway was killed while out jogging on Wednesday,” he said bluntly. “Her name hasn’t been released to the press because we haven’t been able to contact her next of kin.” He kept his eyes carefully on her as he let the flow of inconsequential information cushion his words.

She stared at him, her face gray and her body still and stiff with shock. “Are you sure? Are you sure that it’s Jane?” She continued to stare. “I can’t believe it. Jane wouldn’t let herself be caught by someone like that.” She stood up suddenly. “Would you excuse me a minute?” Without a pause she picked up her purse and raced out of the office.

“Well,” said Dubinsky, “it’s nice that someone is upset because she got it. I was beginning to think that the whole world couldn’t have cared less if she lived or died.” He stretched his feet out in front of him and wriggled his toes in relief. They had done a fair amount of running around so far.

A minute or two later, she came back in the room, looking calm and self-possessed. “And in what way can I help you?”

“Mrs. Conway’s husband suggested—”

“That bastard!” she interjected in a matter-of-fact tone.

“—that you might have seen her more recently than he had, and that you could tell us something about her present friends and associates.”

“What do you mean by that?” The hostility in her voice was palpable by now.

“Only what I said, Miss Huber. Nothing else.” She leaned back in her chair. “For example, when did you see her last?”

“When did I see her last?” She seemed to consider for a moment the wisdom of answering this question. “I suppose it was Tuesday night.”

“This past Tuesday? The day before she was killed?”

“Yeah.” Her tone dared him to make something of it. “I had a little sort of party at my place and she came.”

“Who did she come with? Anyone in particular?”

Marny shook her head. “Not that I know of. I think she came by herself.”

“Were there many people there? Wouldn’t you have noticed who she came with?”

“Not necessarily. There were about fifty or sixty people there, I guess. But I do know that she left early. She had to work the next day, she said, and couldn’t stay late.”

The door to her office opened with a crash and a small head with yards of brown hair hanging from it poked in. “Oh, sorry! I thought you were alone.” She smiled winningly at the two men. “I just wanted to ask if you were coming to my opening tonight, Marny. Because if you were, there’s a party at Bill’s afterwards, and we’d be expecting you. Do come—to both, that is.” She grinned in a disembodied way and disappeared again, shutting the door behind her.

“A lot of our girls are actresses who work for us when things are a bit tight. She’s playing the second lead—the ingénue—in something opening tonight.” Marny’s voice reverberated with the pleasure she got from the reflected glamour of it all. “Now, what did you want to know?”

“We’d like to know about the men in her life—in her recent life, that is. Did she go home from the party with anyone, for example?”

“I don’t think so. You mean, did some guy take her home that night?” Then she shook her head definitively. “No.”

“Do you know of anyone she had been involved with in the past two or three months, then?” Sanders was getting exasperated at this waste of a Friday evening.

“Nope.” She leaned back and crossed her arms—the attitude said that she would be unforthcoming. Then she relented and moved forward a bit. “She used to go out with Grant Keswick, but that was washed up long before Christmas. And there was that funny guy from Cobourg, Mike Somebody-or-other. He was always hanging around her. He was creepy. I could never figure out why she let him stick around. But she said it was nice having someone around who’d do anything you wanted. There were always lots of guys crazy about her all the time, but she was really choosy. She didn’t go out with a lot of people.” She stood up. “I’m sorry, but I have to get out there and make sure that everything is winding up all right. I really can’t tell you anything else about her anyway.” She ushered them out of the office, pointed their way to the exit, and hustled into the large room.

Sanders picked his raincoat up off the chair and began to struggle into it. One of the crowd of girls from the back office emerged through the door and smiled at them. “Is anything wrong?” she asked hesitantly. “I mean, the girls said you were from the police. We were wondering if there had been an accident or something.” Her eyes sparkled with fascination and malice. “Miss Huber looked so upset when she came out of the office.”

“We’re investigating the murder of a friend of hers. She seemed to take it hard,” said Sanders, with deliberate and callous indiscretion. “Maybe someone here should keep an eye on her and make sure she’s all right,” he added casually as he did up his coat. “The friend who was looking after her before—when she left the office the first time, a few minutes ago?”

“Oh no. That wasn’t what she left for,” said their little informant. “She dashed over to telephone someone. Probably someone else who knew her friend.” She looked expectantly for another tidbit. Sanders smiled and left her standing there.

“Well,” he said, as they sauntered casually down the stairs. “I wonder who she called? I’m not sure that it was simple grief that made her react so poignantly to her friend’s death.” He caught sight of a telephone booth in the lobby. “You take the car on downtown. I’ll grab the subway later. We should get onto Cobourg tonight, and Mr. Keswick.”

There was no answer at Eleanor’s apartment. He deliberated briefly and then looked up her cousin Susan’s number. Susan owned the house the scattered crew of them lived in and was generally to be found lounging comfortably in her study on the second floor. He identified himself rather hesitantly and was surprised to be greeted with sleepy enthusiasm. “Sorry,” said Susan, yawning. “I’m studying for exams, and I fell asleep over some particularly obscure and turgid philosophy. Thanks for waking me up—otherwise I probably would have slept all night. Aunt Jane believes that if you’re sleeping, you must need the sleep. Which is kind, but awkward at exam time. What can I do for you? Looking for Eleanor?”

He admitted that he was. “She doesn’t seem to be upstairs. I thought perhaps she might be down with the rest of the family.”

“So you called me to avoid getting stuck in a long conversation with Aunt Jane. And got stuck in a long conversation with me instead. Well, she’s not home; she is over at Kate Abbott’s. Do you want me to yell for her out the window?” Susan’s study overlooked the side garden of the large house, and when the trees weren’t in leaf, she could see right into the Abbotts’ windows.

“You don’t have to do that—but maybe you could give me Kate Abbott’s number. Unless you think she’d be upset if I called there.”

“Kate wouldn’t be upset,” said Susan. “And you probably know better than I do right now if El would be.” Susan gave him the number and finished up with a cheerful “See you.”