Butch took out a packet of Camels, lit one and put the packet away again. He stared round the room with blank eyes.

“You’d better not lie,” he said at last, but Fresby could see he had lost confidence. “Marsh said you put a lot of pressure on him to get the girl the job.”

Fresby chuckled. “I did,” he said, “the rotten little pimp!” The girl wanted the job and she offered me twenty-five quid to fix her up. She wouldn’t take anything else. That’s a good fee, Mike, so I oiled the works to get her in.”

The two men stared at each other for a long time and then Butch got up.

“So you don’t know who she is or where I can find her?”

Fresby shook his head. “Anything wrong?”

“I don’t know yet. If she doesn’t turn up tonight there’ll be a lot wrong. If she does, maybe it don’t matter. “ He turned to the door. “ Find out who she is, Jack,” he went on. “Rollo’ll pay you a hundred quid for the right information. Somehow I don’t think she’ll turn up tonight. We want her bad. I’ll come and see you again.”

Fresby nearly glanced towards the cupboard, but then he remembered the letter lying at the bank waiting to betray him.

He stared down at the floor, his mind seething with fury and greed. To think there was a hundred quid in that cupboard and he couldn’t get at it.

“That’s dough,” he said, glancing up. “What’s Rollo paying out money like that for?”

“Never mind,” Butch said, opening the door. “And the next time you ship a dame into the club without asking me, I’ll fix you good. I shan’t tell you a second time.”

Fresby grinned uneasily. “I shan’t do it a second time. All right, Mike. Leave this to me. I’ll find her if I can.”

Butch grunted and went out, closing the door behind him.

Fresby relaxed in his chair, listening. He heard Butch go down the stairs, but even then he did not call to Susan. His mind was fully awake now. If Rollo was willing to pay a hundred pounds to get hold of this girl, it was obvious that there was a lot of money involved. The whole business revolved round the body in the trunk. Rollo wanted it. No doubt that was why he was so anxious to get hold of Susan. Well, Fresby had Susan and he was also being offered the body.

Surely there must be some way for him to capitalize on this set-up?

The cupboard door opened and Susan came out, very white and shaky.

Fresby looked at her and smiled. “Did you hear?” he said. “Well, it’s all right. From now on you and me’ll work together on this. I’ve got an idea. I know now where I can hide the body.”

There was an ominous silence in Rollo’s office. Celie stood behind Rollo in her usual place by the empty fireplace.

Rollo sat at his desk and Butch leaned against the wall near the door.

“She must have been a plant,” Rollo said suddenly. “It’s half-past seven and she hasn’t come. That boy Joe must have planted her here.”

“Yeah,” Butch said, “that’s how it looks.” He glanced beyond Rollo at Celie.

“The girl I nearly caught was slight, blonde, about twenty-one, round face, small nose.” Rollo went on. “Is that like the girl Marsh engaged?”

Butch grunted. “That’s her. If it hadn’t been for the copper I’d’ve caught her.”

“Well, we’ve got to find her, Mike,” Rollo said. “She knows something. She must know something. Get Marsh up here.”

“Sure,” Butch said, and heaving himself away from the wall, he slouched from the room.

Rollo reached out and took a cigar from the box on his desk. “Doc’s worrying me.”

“Gilroy says he’s dead,” Rollo announced as if speaking his thoughts aloud.

“How does he know?”

Celie swung round. “Stop it!” she exclaimed hysterically. “I’m not interested in that old fool!”

The door opened and Butch came in followed by Marsh.

Butch looked at Celie, saw her frantic expression and his mouth tightened.

He had come back just in time, he decided.

She would blow her top if he didn’t take her aside and quieten her.

“Here he is,” he said, jerking his thumb at Marsh.

Rollo leaned forward. “Has this Hedder girl come?”

Marsh cringed back. His fat face was like a lump of putty. “No, sir,” he said.

“I—I can’t think—I don’t know . . .” he stopped and put his hand to his mouth. “It’s not my fault,” he went on. “I don’t know anything about her. Jack Fresby wanted her to have the job. It’s his fault.”

Butch groped in his hip pocket and pulled out a .38 police special. Holding it by the barrel he began to club Marsh’s neck and shoulders, dragging him round the room by his hair as he did so.

Celie hid her face. She couldn’t stand much more from Butch. She was beginning to realize what a dangerous game she had been playing in trying to double-cross him. She now saw him for what he was, a coldblooded killer without a spark of feeling in him.

The thudding of the gun butt on Marsh’s fat neck and shoulders, his strangled screams and the stumbling, scraping feet round the room filled her with sickening terror. If Butch found out about Gilroy, he would do that to her!

Suddenly Rollo said, “Stop!”

The sudden sharpness in his voice jerked Butch round. He shoved Marsh away, slapping him across his face with the barrel of his gun as he did so.

Marsh, his face and neck black with bruises, two or three patches of hair torn from his scalp, fell forward on his knees and rolled on his side. He lay gasping and moaning, but Butch paid no attention to him. He was staring at Rollo.

“The police,” Rollo said thickly.

On his desk a red light was glowing. It flickered off and on as the doorkeeper downstairs flashed the warning.

“Get him out of here,” Rollo went on urgently. “Quick!”

Butch grabbed hold of Marsh. Half carrying him and half dragging him, he took him from the room.

“Get out!” Rollo said to Celie. “God knows what’s the matter with you, but if the cops see you they’ll know something’s up.”

Rollo was alarmed. The police had only once before come to the club and that was more than a year ago. Since then he had taken the greatest care not to give them an opportunity to come again.

Now, when he had Kester Weidmann securely locked up in one of the rooms upstairs, they had to poke their noses into the club again. Had Joe’s girl tipped them off? If they had a search warrant and found Weidmann, it’d be difficult to explain what he was doing in a club like this. He could rely on Weidmann, of course, but the police might spot the little man was crazy and suspect what was going on.

As Celie slipped through a concealed door that led to her own apartment, Rollo opened a drawer and took from it a big ledger. He picked up a pen and began entering figures in the endeavour to create an atmosphere of a business man engaged in honest work.

A rap came on the door and a tall, clean-shaven young man came in. He was wearing a shabby, but well-cut lounge suit and in his hand he carried a brown felt hat.

Rollo looked at him with a bland, enquiring expression on his fat face.

“Yes?” he said, pushing the ledger aside and laying down his pen. “You wanted to see me?”

The young man glanced round the room and pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. “I’m Detective Sergeant Adams,” he said, “of Vine Street. You’re—er—Mr. Rollo?”

Rollo nodded. This debonair young man certainly did not look like a police officer, he decided, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t be troublesome. He waved his fat hand to a chair.” Sit down,” he said affably.” Have a cigar?”

Jerry Adams shook his head. “Don’t use ‘em,” he said, sitting down. “One doesn’t make much money in the police force, you know.” He glanced round the room again. “The night club world seems far more profitable.”

Rollo sniffed. “We have to make a show,” he returned, shrugging his shoulders. “My overheads are enormous. But you didn’t come here to discuss night club profits, did you?”