Joe peered into the gloom. He could see Kester Weidmann at the desk. A pile of papers were scattered before him and several heavy ledgers lay close at hand.

“What do you want?” Kester asked, a little sharply. “I didn’t send for you, did I?”

“It’s the car,” Joe said. “There’s something wrong with the magneto. I thought you ought to know in case you wanted to use it.”

Someone was sitting in the big chair, facing Kester, his back to Joe. Joe could make out the top of a head and he could see the outline of an arm and hand resting on the arm of the chair. He felt a sudden horror as if he had stretched out his hand into the darkness and had felt something that squirmed under his touch.

“We want the car tonight,” Kester said abruptly, looking from the figure in the chair to Joe. “We are both going out.”

Joe clenched his teeth. “You can’t have the car,” he jerked out and then, unable to restrain himself, he said, “Who’s that —who’s that sitting in the chair?”

Kester smiled. His crazy little eyes twinkled. “Why, Joe,” he said, “you haven’t forgotten Cornelius? Joe doesn’t recognize you,” he went on to the motionless figure in the chair. “Come round here, Joe, and see for yourself.”

Joe shook his head. “No,” he said. “Mr. Cornelius is dead. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Kester got slowly to his feet. “We’re soon going to remedy that,” he said, advancing on Joe with a sly little smile. “Before long, Cornelius will be walking about again.”

Slowly, as if hypnotized, Joe walked round to the front of the chair.

Releasing his arm for a moment, Kester tilted up the light.

“Doesn’t he look well?” he whispered.

Joe suddenly wanted to be sick. His stomach heaved, and cold sweat ran down his face. He backed away, holding a handkerchief to his mouth and nose in the endeavour to shut out the faint but sickening smell of the embalmer’s oils.

“In a little while,” Kester said, smiling at the body of his brother, “I’ll have you walking about. It’s the best I can do, Cornelius.” His mouth squeezed into a thin, miserable line. “They’ll call you a zombie, Cornelius, but it’s better to be that than in the cold, wet ground away from me.”

The macabre atmosphere in the room, the insane rambling talk from Kester, the acrid smell, Cornelius’s livid face were the ingredients of a terrifying nightmare which threatened Joe’s sanity.

He turned and blundered out of the room and he did not stop until he had reached his own ordered bedroom where he slammed and locked the door.

It was some time before his quivering nerves allowed him to think clearly.

He lay on his bed, the cold feeling of horror still with him, and stared up at the ceiling.

Somehow, he decided, they had persuaded Kester that they could bring Cornelius back to life. In return, Kester was going to pay them a million pounds. Of course, they could never bring Cornelius back to life, but Kester, who wasn’t well, believed they could. They would go on bleeding Kester, kidding him that any moment his brother would come back to life, and Kester would go on paying them until he had no money left.

Later, after he had cut himself some bread and butter and had made a cup of tea, he sat by the window and ate his simple supper. It was just after seven o’clock. Susan would be starting work at the Club. Perhaps she would find out something. She might telephone him later to say how they reacted when Kester did not turn up. There was plenty of time before she did that. He wished he had the telephone in his room.

A few minutes past ten o’clock, he decided that he would see what Kester was doing.

Then he heard the Rolls-Royce start up and he sprang to the door. It opened outwards and as he turned the handle in the attempt to throw it wide open, it jammed. He kicked at it savagely as he heard the Rolls back into the drive. Someone had put a wedge under the door and he knew the harder he shoved, the faster the door became jammed.

He spun round and rushed to the window in time to see Kester sitting at the wheel of the Rolls. It was just a momentary glimpse and then the big car vanished round the bend in the drive.

* * *

Butch stood looking down at Celie, his face hard and his eyes suspicious. He knew Kester Weidmann had been to the club and had met them all except himself. He had not been invited. As soon as Celie had left the Club, he had driven after her, determined to find out what had happened.

“Come on,” he said, “let’s have it. Don’t sit there like a goddam dummy! I’m not going until you’ve shot your piece, so get going.”

Celie lolled indifferently on the bed. A cigarette hung from her full, red lips and one of her small feet tapped impatiently on the floor. Her face was sullen and her eyes thoughtful. “It’s nothing to do with me,” she said, as if it hurt her to talk.

“Doc’s handling it. If you must know, Weidmann’s brother died and Weidmann wants him brought back to life. He’s crazy and believes that Doc can do it.”

Butch ran his fingers through his close-cropped hair. “Go on,” he said, restraining his irritation with difficulty. “What about the money?”

Celie looked up sharply. “Nothing’s been arranged about the money.”

“Yeah? You don’t kid me,” Butch said coldly.

“That’s the first thing Rollo would arrange. Don’t try to pull a fast one on me. What’s the matter with you? Do you think you can work this on your own?”

“You’re always suspecting something,” Celie said impatiently. “I keep telling you there’s nothing in it for us. Rollo and Doc are handling it.”

“Where’s the dinge come in?”

“Gilroy?”

“You know who I mean.” Butch’s eyes snapped.

“He’s supposed to do the voodoo stuff.”

Celie became suddenly cautious. She had to be careful. If Butch found out too much, he might force her to give him a cut. “I don’t know what he’s going to pay,” she said, stretching out her long legs and craning her head to admire her neat little feet.

“All right, never mind how much it is. The point is we’ve promised to bring his brother back to life?”

“For God’s sake, how many more times? Yes! Yes! Now are you satisfied? And where do you get all this ‘we’ stuff from? I’m not doing it. You’re not doing it. Doc, Gilroy and Rollo are doing it!”

Butch shrugged. “I’m going to be right there when the payoff takes place,” he said. “Weidmann’s worth a pile of jack. He could lose two million without going into a decline.”

“If you believe that, you’ll believe anything,” Celie said, reaching for a cigarette in the ebony box on the bedside table.

She glanced up, saw the tight, cruel mouth now set in a hard line and the small eyes like chips of ice and she realized that it wouldn’t be wise to goad him further. “Listen, Mike,” she said, resting back on her elbow, “you know I want to get out of all this when the time’s right. But this isn’t the time. We must wait. We can’t afford to take chances—”

“Aw, shut up!” Butch said viciously. “You’re trying to walk out on me. I know. I can smell it a mile away. Well, you’re not going to do it. I’ll kill you first. Do you hear?”

She smiled at him. “Don’t get mad, Mike, I’m not going to walk out on you.”

The cold look went out of his eyes, and he grinned. “I’d get a kick out of killing you, baby,” he said. “Know what? I’d break your back across my knee. You’d take a week to croak.”

Celie’s smile remained fixed. “Now we know,” she said.

“Yeah,” Butch returned. “But never mind that.” He tossed his cigarette butt into the fireplace and scratched his head.

“Maybe I’ll figure out a way to cut us in. Even I have ideas now and then.”

“Oh, forget it,” Celie said, suddenly standing up. “Go home, Mike. I’m tired.”

He pulled her to him, feeling her hard, thin back through the silk of her wrap. “You’re always tired when I come along, aren’t you? Well, that don’t matter. I can wait.” He let her push him away and then said suddenly, “Weidmann keeps his brother’s body in the house?”