Susan shook her head. “I’ve taken his place,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “He told me where Vera is.”

Fresby sank down into his chair. “He told you that?” he said. “Has he told anyone else?”

Susan shook her head.

“Have you?”

Again Susan shook her head.

He eyed her for a long time. “I don’t think you’ll live much longer,” he said, his fists clenching. “I’m tired of being blackmailed.”

“I’ve taken precautions,” Susan returned, stifling a desire to run from the room. “I’ve written it all down and I’ve given the letter to my bank manager to be opened if I don’t see him in a week’s time. I didn’t think they’d do that sort of thing, but when I deposited the money, they were most helpful.”

Fresby scratched his head a little helplessly, relaxing once more in his chair.

“You’re a fool to meddle with this,” he said. “The cops’ll make you an accessory.”

“What do you want me to do—tell them?” Fresby shrugged. “All right,” he said, “Joe told you about that one, I suppose. It didn’t cut any ice with him.” He sipped his tea. “Well, what do you want?”

Susan told him about Cornelius, Kester and Rollo. She explained everything as clearly as she could. Fresby sat hunched up, his tea forgotten, his eyes intent on her face. When she had finished, he drew in a long, deep breath.

“What a yarn!” he said. “It’s true, every bit of it!” Susan retorted. “It could be,” Fresby said, chewing the ends of his moustache. “Kester Weidmann, eh? The millionaire.” He grunted, crossed his long, spindly legs and placed his fingertips together. “There’s money in this,” he went on and two spots of red showed in his cheeks. “That’s what Rollo thinks.”

“Well, where do I come in?” Fresby asked abruptly. “What’s all this got to do with me?”

Susan screwed up her courage. “You’ve got to hide the body,” she said with a little shiver. “I can’t keep it in my room. Mr. Smythe—he’s my landlord—might get suspicious. If he found it, he’d send for the police.”

Fresby stared at her. “Hide the body? Where do you think I’d hide it? I’m not going to do that.”

Susan opened her bag and took out the slim roll of notes she had put aside for Fresby. “I don’t expect you to do it for nothing,” she said. “But you’ve got to do it. I’m desperate. I’ll pay you for the trouble, but if you won’t do it, I’ll have to tell the police about you.”

“That won’t get you anywhere,” Fresby returned, eyeing the roll of notes with interest. “I’ll tell them you’re hiding a body in your room. What do you think of that?”

“If you won’t do it, then they’ll have to know anyway,” Susan said, hoping that he’d believe her bluff. “I can’t keep such a thing in my room. If you don’t take it away, I don’t care what happens.”

Fresby gnawed at his moustache. Maybe she meant what she said, he thought. He couldn’t afford to take the risk.

“How much?” he said. “What have you got there?”

“Twenty-five pounds.”

“Don’t be a little fool,” Fresby returned scornfully. “I’m not going to risk my neck for that. How much more can you pay?”

Susan put the money back in her purse. “All right,” she said. “I needn’t give you anything. If you’re going to be like that, I’ll just tell you to do it and if you don’t, I’ll go to the police.”

It was Fresby who at last broke the silence. “Very well,” he said, “give me the money.”

“Where will you hide it?” Susan asked. “I’m not giving you the money until you’ve thought out a plan.” Fresby came back to his desk and sat down. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll have to think. Give me half. I won’t do it unless you give me something.”

She hesitated and then counted twelve pound notes from the roll. “Here,” she said, pushing them across the desk. “But, you’ve got to do something quickly.”

He snatched up the money and put it into his waistcoat pocket.

“A trunk?” he said. “Well, that shouldn’t be difficult. I could take it to Charing Cross.”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “You don’t understand. It—it smells.”

Fresby scratched his head. “Well, I can’t have it here,” he said. “Maybe I could drop it in the river.”

“No! We’ve got to give it back to Mr. Weidmann when all this is over,”

Susan said, and then she held up her hand.

“What was that?”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

Susan got up and went swiftly to the door. She listened and turned a white, frightened face towards Fresby. “Someone’s coming up the stairs,” she whispered.

Fresby shrugged. “It doesn’t matter,” he returned indifferently. “They won’t be coming here. They seldom come—”

Susan didn’t wait to hear what he was saying. She crossed the outer room, opened the door softly and went out on the landing. She did not know why she had taken fright, but the faint scrape-scrape of shoe leather on the stone stairs below filled her with sudden dread. She peered over the stair rail and instantly recoiled. The man in the black shirt was coming up the stairs. He was already on the second landing and preparing to mount the stairs leading to Fresby’s office.

Scarcely breathing, Susan whipped back into Fresby’s room. “It’s the man in the black shirt,” she gasped. “He’s coming here. Hide me! Quick! He mustn’t find me here!”

Fresby’s face contracted. He just sat staring at her stupidly, his brain refusing to work.

Susan looked wildly round the room and then darted to a big cupboard that stood at the far end of the room. She threw the door open. Inside, hanging on a nail was Fresby’s hat and coat. There was plenty of room and she stepped inside and closed the door.

Fresby remained motionless, his mind confused and alarmed. The cupboard door had scarcely shut when Butch walked in.

“Hello, Jack,” he said, looking at Fresby with cold, searching eyes. “All alone?”

Fresby grunted and opening a drawer in his desk he took out a pipe and a shabby tobacco pouch. He began to fill his pipe slowly and carefully. It gave him time to recover his nerve.

Butch leaned against the wall, pushed his hat over his nose and seemed in no hurry to begin a conversation.

‘What do you want?” Fresby asked, without looking at him. “I’ve got nothing for you.”

“Who’s Susan Hedder?” Butch asked softly.

Fresby lit his pipe, stared at the burning tobacco and blew a thin jet of smoke in Butch’s direction. His brain was functioning again. He’d have to be careful. Rollo’s gang was dangerous to monkey with.

“Susan who?” he asked to gain more time.

“Hedder,” Butch returned. “Don’t stall, Jack. You know who I mean.”

Fresby shook his head. “I don’t,” he said. “Hedder, eh? That’s a name I ought to remember. Who is she?”

“That’s what I’m asking you,” Butch returned. He slouched across the room and sat down. “Come on, Jack, you don’t want to get in bad with us”, do you?”

Fresby shook his head. “I’m not kidding, Mike,” he said. “I’ve never heard of the girl. Mind you, I get a lot of girls in this office. I can’t remember all their names, but Hedder doesn’t ring a bell.”

Butch stared at him thoughtfully. “You sent her along to Marsh for a job at the Club,” he said.

So Marsh’s blown the gaff,” Fresby thought. All right, he’d fix him for that.”

He’d tell Marguerite about Joan. If he got out of this mess with a whole skin, he’d fix that damn little rat!

“That wasn’t Susan Hedder,” he said, looking at Butch with calculated surprise. “Her name was Betty - Betty something or other. Now let me think. Betty Freeman. Yes that’s the name she gave me.”

He congratulated himself that he had put that over pretty smoothly. Anyway, Butch didn’t seem to think he was lying.

“All right, Susan Hedder or Betty Freeman. I don’t care what she called herself. Who is she?”

Fresby shrugged. “How do I know?” he said. “Girls come here. I get ‘em jobs if I can. I don’t ask questions. It doesn’t pay in this game. So long as they settle my bill, why should I want to know who they are?”