“I was only having a bit of fun,” Doc said. His words tumbled from his trembling lips in a slobbering rush.
“Sure,” Butch said, blowing a long stream of tobacco smoke down his pinched nostrils. “You wouldn’t blackmail Celie, would you? Not a guy with your education.”
“That’s right,” Doc said with a ghastly attempt to smile. “I wouldn’t do a thing like that. I was just pulling her leg.”
Butch nodded. “You ‘ve got a swell sense of humour.” He turned suddenly to Celie. “Doc and me want to talk. You’d better go and draw your bath.”
Celie stared at him “My bath?” she repeated, shrinking away from him.
Doc struggled to his feet. “I’m going,” he said. His panic was gruesome to watch. “Don’t let me disturb you. I’ll run along.”
Butch looked at him. “Sit down, Doc,” he said softly.
The strength went out of Doc’s legs and he dropped limply into the chair. He put his hands to his face and began to moan softly to himself.
Butch pushed Celie roughly to the door. His bright eyes made her feel a little sick. “Get going and draw your bath,” he said, “and don’t make it too hot. Go on. I want to talk to Doc.”
She went out of the room and a moment later the two men heard the water gushing from the taps.
“Well Doc,” Butch said, lolling against the mantelpiece, “you sure spoke out of turn this time. What’s the matter with you—tired of life?”
Doc drew a shuddering breath. He couldn’t bring himself to speak.
Butch took his cigarette from his lips and snapped it into the fireplace. “The next time you try to put on the squeeze,” he said quietly, “take care you pick on someone your own weight.”
Very slowly, Doc raised his head and stared at Butch with blank eyes. “The next time?” he repeated, and then hope came into his face. “You mean I can go?”
Butch’s mouth twisted. “You don’t think I’d swing for you, you goddam little rat?” he said, leaning forward, his eyes glowing like hot coals. “They hang you for murder in this country. Get out! And if you open your trap I’ll come after you. Do you understand? I’ll take a chance on swinging if you squeal.”
Doc scrambled to his feet. “I won’t tell him,” he babbled, hysterical with relief. “I was only having a little fun. It’s all right, Butch. I won’t ever tell.”
“Get out, you yellow-gutted monkey! You make me sick.”
Doc jerked open the door and blundered into the passage. He paused for a moment when he saw Celie standing by the bathroom door, her hand to her face and her eyes enormous with fear. Then he moved forward to the head of the stairs.
A sudden gasp from Celie froze him in his tracks. He turned his head and had one brief, terrifying glimpse of Butch stealing down on him, a blanket held in both hands. He gave a sharp squeal of terror and tried to throw himself down the flight of stairs, but he was just too late. The blanket enveloped him and he was jerked backwards.
“So long, Doc,” Butch said, as he knelt on the squirming bundle. “This is your one-way ride. Found drowned, Doc, and nobody will send flowers.”
He twisted the blanket tighter and then gathered the kicking, helpless bundle in his arms.
Celie stood in the bathroom doorway, her face ashen. “No!” she screamed.
“You’re mad! You’re not to! No! No! No!”
“Get out of the way you black bitch,” Butch said without raising his voice and with a sudden vicious kick he sent her sprawling to the floor.
He entered the bathroom and stood over the bath, holding the bundle tight against his chest. “If you take it easy, Doc,” Celie heard him say in a calm conversational tone, “you’ll go quick.”
Then the bathroom door was kicked to and she tried to shut out the sudden splashing sound that followed.
chapter four
A soft tap came on the door and Rollo granted,
“Come in.”
Gilroy opened the door and stood looking at Rollo, his black, sensitive eyes uneasy.
“The others gone?” Rollo asked. He had made a sign to Gilroy to come back as he had left the room with Celie and Doc.
Gilroy nodded.
“Come in and shut the door,” Rollo said, pointing with his cigar to a chair. “Sit down.”
Gilroy sat down. He sat on the edge of the chair, his big, black fists on his knees.
“You don’t like any of this, do you?” Rollo asked. “Don’t be afraid to speak out. I want to know.”
Gilroy shook his head. “No good will come of it.”
“And yet you’ll go through with it?”
“Yes.”
Rollo drew on his cigar and let the heavy, oily smoke drift from his half-open mouth. “Still think you owe me something?”
Gilroy nodded.
“I suppose you do.” Rollo touched off the flake of white ash on to the floor.
“You’ve a long memory, Gilroy. Most people would have forgotten.”
“I don’t forget.”
“It was quite a simple thing,” Rollo went on. “Your mother was a lovely woman. She was too proud, too beautiful to be a slave.” He sighed and then said, “So you really think you owe me something because I bought her from that trader and set her free?”
Gilroy nodded.
“Why are you so anxious to square the debt?” Rollo asked, after a long pause.
“I don’t like you or the rest of them,” Gilroy replied. “I want to return to Haiti. You have never given me the chance to wipe out the debt. I have waited too long in this country. Now the chance has come and although it is evil, I do it because I can wait no longer.”
Rollo nodded as if satisfied. “He is very rich,” he said. “He’ll never miss the money.”
“That is not the evil thing,” Gilroy said indifferently. “It matters nothing to me who gets the money. But you are tampering with our religion. You are mocking at it. And no good can come from that.”
“We are pretending to bring the dead back to life,” Rollo said, waving his hand. “If you claim to be able to do that, you’re a liar. If Weidmann wishes to believe it is possible, he’s a madman. If I wish to make money out of it, I am astute.”
“No good can come of it,” Gilroy repeated. Rollo got to his feet and plodded over to the sideboard. He poured himself out a stiff whisky and then returned to his chair. “You can keep that stuff for weak Willies,” he said. “It doesn’t impress me.”
He glanced uneasily at Gilroy. But could he handle Gilroy? He thought he could. Gilroy was only doing this for his sake. He finished his whisky and put the glass on the desk. As he did so the telephone rang shrilly. He glanced at Gilroy, his shaggy eyebrows lifting and then he picked up the receiver.
“Yes?” he said.
A high-pitched voice grated against his ear. Words tumbled from the receiver in a hysterical torrent.
“What?” Rollo said, holding the receiver away from his ear. “I can’t hear you.” His face showed his alarm. “Who is it? For God’s sake, don’t shout like that! Who is it?” He tried to understand what the babbling voice was saying, but only panic, fear and hysteria were conveyed to him. “It sounds like a madman,” he said to Gilroy. “I don’t know what he wants. Here, you speak to him.”
Gilroy hesitated, then took the telephone from Rollo. “Yes?” he asked in his rich, rolling bass. “Who is it, please?”
Rollo could hear the voice quieten. Gilroy half closed his eyes. He listened for a moment or so and then said, “Hold on Mr. Weidmann, I will speak to Rollo.”
“Weidmann?” Rollo said, heaving himself to the edge of his chair. “What is it? What’s the matter with him?”
“He says his brother’s body has been stolen,” Gilroy said softly. “He doesn’t know what to do.”
Rollo bounded from his chair. “What?” he shouted. “His brother’s body stolen? What’s he talking about? He’s mad! Who the hell does he think would want his brother’s body?”
Gilroy didn’t say anything. He sat looking quietly at Rollo and Rollo suddenly stopped talking and stood glaring down at him. Weidmann’s tiny voice began to speak again, but neither of the men paid any attention.