Footsteps pattered after her. Footsteps that seemed to be gaining on her. But she did not look back. She kept on, running like a deer, startled to find how swiftly she could move.

She was on the road now, and she was running towards the Green Man.

Ahead of her she saw someone walking towards her. Behind her, the footsteps suddenly died away. She glanced back. A dim shadowy figure was standing watching her. She slowed down to walk, as a lone policeman drew near. He glanced at her suspiciously and it was only with the greatest difficulty that she did not let him see her distress. She kept on walking and when she reached the Green Man, she began to run again.

chapter five

Jack Fresby regarded Susan dubiously and nibbled at the ends of his moustache. Something was up, he decided. She looked as if she’d been out all night and her nerves were obviously in a shocking state. He eyed her, noting that there was a streak of dirt under her chin and one of her stockings was laddered.

Shouldn’t be surprised if she hadn’t been having a roll in the hay, he told himself. He looked at her again and grunted.

Well, perhaps not. She didn’t look the type.

He flattered himself that he could spot a wrong ‘un and there was nothing bad about this young woman. Anyway, she wasn’t at all the smart young woman who had called on him previously.

He scratched his head, humming under his breath. Frankly, he didn’t know what to do. Joe had said, “Every morning at half-past ten, I’ll ring you. If I don’t ring, you must go at once to 155A Fulham Road and give this box to Miss Hedder.”

It was now twenty to eleven and Joe hadn’t rung and this young woman, jumpy as a cat and suspiciously dishevelled, was asking for the box. Had anything happened to Joe? Fresby had a pretty good idea what was in the box. If he could be sure that Joe was out of the way, he could open the box and destroy its contents. But he would have to be careful. “I may be trying you out,” Joe had said. “If you don’t deliver the box, you know what I’ll do?” And he would too, the dirty little rat!

He decided to hedge. “What box?” he said, looking up at the ceiling.

“Anyone could come here asking for a box. Do you think I make ‘em! I don’t. I’ve other things to do.”

That ought to put her off, he thought, mildly pleased with himself. What’s she going to say to that?

Susan, very white and breathless, but coldly determined, leaned forward.

“You know what I mean! Joe told me things about you. He said if you tried to play tricks I was to go to the police and I will if you don’t give me the box.”

Another of them! Fresby glanced away so that she shouldn’t see the sudden murderous look that came into his eyes. He muttered under his breath, and then, “What things did he tell you?” he asked, his voice dropping to a confidential whisper.

“You know as well as I do,” Susan said, drawing back. “I’m not going to talk about it—it’s too unpleasant.”

Bluff, of course, but she guessed whatever he had done must have been pretty bad otherwise Joe would have told her about it. Anyway, she could see she had said the right thing.

Fresby’s face seemed to fall apart and he hurriedly looked away to hide the fear and dismay in his eyes.

“What’s happened to Joe?” he asked, after a long pause.

. Susan got to her feet. “If you won’t give me the box, I’m going,” she said firmly. “I didn’t come here to talk about Joe.”

“Here,” he said, “that’s a pawn ticket. I thought it’d be the safest place for it.

Herring and Hobbs in Greek Street. They’ll give you the box for ten shillings. I don’t see why I should pay for it.”

Susan snatched the ticket from him. “I’ll be back,” she said. “I want to talk to you again.”

Fresby mumbled to himself. “All right,” he said finally, “I can’t stop you. But don’t blame me if something happens to you. I don’t like girls like you. You’re a hard little piece.”

In less than an hour, Susan was sitting in the basement of a Lyons tea shop.

The steel box, a cup of coffee and a roll and butter stood on the marble-topped table before her. The table was in a corner and the basement was nearly empty. No one was paying her any attention.

She took from her bag the key that Joe had sent her and opened the box. The pile of treasury notes startled her.

Gathering them up hurriedly, she crammed them into her bag. There must be several hundreds there, she told herself, hoping that no one had seen what she was doing.

At the bottom of the box was an envelope, addressed to her in a fine spidery handwriting.

Joe had written: I’ll be dead when you read this. The man in the black shirt was here this afternoon, He told me to clear off or else I’d be sorry. He’s a killer. I know what he’ll do, so I’m taking precautions. As soon as they get rid of me, they’ll go after Mr. Kester. They want his money and unless someone stops them, they’ll get it. You must stop them.

You can do it, but you mustn’t go to the police. They’ll put him away and he’s harmless. He’d die if they put him away.

The money in the box is all yours. It isn’t much, but it ought to be enough.

Anyway, it’s all I have. I suppose you’ll ask yourself why you should help Mr. Kester. There isn’t any special reason except he is not well and can’t help himself. It’s pathetic, because he’s been a good man. I wouldn’t want you to do anything more than you have done already, but I’ve got no one else to turn to except you. You’re no fool and I know, if you keep out of sight, you can upset their apple cart.

Fresby will help you. He won’t want to, but he will if you threaten to give him away to the police. He’s done something bad. I won’t tell you what it is because it would make you an accessory. He’ll try to frighten you with that, as he tried to frighten me, but I don’t care and you don’t know, so he can’t frighten us, can he? Take care he doesn’t think you’re bluffing. He’s dangerous. Tell him that you know where Vera is and that’ll be enough. Don’t try to find out anything more about Fresby. It’ll only get you into trouble. If you can’t stop them milking Mr. Kester then there’s nothing more you can do. Whatever you do don’t go to the police. One more thing, if you don’t help Mr. Kester, remember there is no one else to help him. That’s why I’m giving you the money.

Joe Crawford.

Susan read this note several times.

Fresby would have to help her. She would go to him and tell him the whole story. She would give him money and threaten him at the same time. Yes, she couldn’t move without Fresby’s help.

She’d have to be careful. There was something frightening about Fresby.

“Don’t blame me if something happens to you,” he had said. Well, she’d take precautions.

She took a fountain pen and a sheet of notepaper from her bag and wrote a letter. She put the letter together with Joe’s note in the steel box and locked it.

It was half-past three before she again climbed the dirty stairs that led to Fresby’s office. This time she entered his room without misgivings.

He was making himself a cup of tea and he glanced round sharply as she came in.

“So you’re back,” he said, frowning at her.

“Yes,” she said and sat down by his desk. “There’re things I want you to do.”

He poured the tea into the cup, added milk and sugar and came back to his seat.

“Me to do?” he repeated. “You’ve come to the wrong shop, young lady. I’m busy. I’m not doing anything for you.”

“Joe’s dead,” Susan said, watching him closely. She shivered when she saw the look of intense satisfaction that came into his eyes.

“Oh,” he said, fingering his moustache, “so Joe’s dead.” He smiled. “You don’t expect me to say I’m sorry, do you?”