“No.” Adams stretched out his long legs. “I believe you know Herbert Martin? Doc Martin to his friends.”

Rollo stiffened. “Yes. I’ve known Doc for years. Anything wrong?”

Adams glanced at his fingernails and then looked at Rollo sharply as he said, “The river police fished him out of the drink a couple of hours ago.”

Rollo clenched his fists. “Dead?”

“Very.”

So Gilroy had been right. Poor old Doc. Fished out of the river, eh? Had someone pushed him in? Had he committed suicide? No, Doc wouldn’t do that. He was too fond of life. Murder? Better be careful. This might give the cops a chance to examine all his affairs.

“I’m shocked,” Rollo said mechanically. “Who’d’ve believed it. I always thought the old boy would have died in his bed.”

Adams was watching Rollo closely. He was sure the news had come as a surprise. That was disappointing. He had hoped that Rollo might have had something to do with Doc’s death.

“When did you see him last?” he asked casually.

Better tell the truth, Rollo thought. Give this copper the slightest opening and he’d get tough. He wasn’t taken in by Adams’ mild appearance. There was something about the grey, steady eyes that belied his casual indifference.

“Let me see,” Rollo said, laying his cigar down. He noticed with irritation that his hand was far from steady.

“The night before last. He came to see me and left here just after eleven.” He shot a quick glance at Adams and caught the look of disappointment on the young man’s face. Ah! He’d known that already. Yes, he’d better tell the truth. These damn busies always had the story straight before they tackled you.

“What did he want?” Adams asked.

“Want?” Rollo’s eyebrows went up. “Nothing. He liked to see me now and then, I liked him. We just talked. He was a sociable old fellow.”

Adams smiled grimly. “I see,” he said. Lie number one, he told himself. “I shouldn’t have thought you’d have had much time to be sociable.”

“Oh, but there you’re quite mistaken,” Rollo returned. “I like to have a few friends round me. Doc was a very interesting old boy. I’ll miss him.”

“Anything on his mind?”

So they were wondering if it’s suicide. Rollo pursed his thick lips. “He was worried about money,” he said. “In fact, he wanted to borrow a couple of hundred from me, but I couldn’t help him. I’m a business man and he had no security.”

“I see.” Adams again examined his fingernails. “So it wasn’t just a social call?”

“Oh, yes,” Rollo said, nodding his head. “He only mentioned it as he was leaving. I didn’t take him seriously. If I’d thought the old boy was going to make a hole in the river I’d’ve given it to him without question.”

There was a long pause as the two men regarded each other. Then Adams went on, “So you can’t help me?”

“No. Doc kept to himself. I don’t know anything about his affairs except he was short of money. He had no enemies. I don’t think you need worry about the question of violence.”

“I never worry about anything,” Adams said, getting to his feet. “If he was murdered it would be because he found something out. I understand he had a prying nature.”

Rollo stared at him. “Had he?”

“If he found out something about one of these local toughs—Egan for instance—it might be a sufficient motive for his death.”

“Why do you keep on about Egan?”

Adams smiled. “I’d like to catch that boy,” he said confidentially. “He’s too bad to be true.”

Had Doc found out anything about Butch? Rollo wondered. If he had—what was it? Butch was secretive. Then with a sudden start Rollo remembered Celie’s odd behaviour. His great fists closed tightly.

Adams watched him with interest. “Are you remembering something?”

Rollo controlled himself. “No,” he said. “Nothing. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

“You’ll be seeing me again,” Adams said. “It depends a lot on the verdict of the inquest.”

Rollo nodded. “I’m always pleased to see members of the police,” he said without much conviction. “Have a drink before you go?”

Adams shook his head. “On duty,” he explained and crossed the room.

“Nice place you have here.”

Rollo watched him go down the stairs and leave the club. He waited until the doorman had put the chain on the door and then he hurried back to his office.

Weidmann was sitting in the chair. He sprang to his feet when he saw Rollo.

“You’ve got to do something,” he exclaimed. “If you don’t find Cornelius before tomorrow, I’m going to the police!”

“The police can’t help us,” Rollo returned, choking down his fury. “There’s only one thing to be done. Write me a cheque for ten thousand pounds and I’ll have your brother here tomorrow. I’ve found out where he is, but it’ll cost me that amount to get hold of him.”

Weidmann screwed up his face. “I haven’t any money,” he explained in his soft voice. “Cornelius has it all. He will give it to you.”

Rollo straightened his giant frame. “You haven’t any money?” he repeated stupidly.

Weidmann shook his head and smiled. “I gave it all to Cornelius. Three million pounds in bonds. It’s in a belt round his waist. He is so much better at keeping money than I am.”

There was a grumbling of thunder in the distance and a vast black cloud hung over the city. For several hours now the air had been close and oppressive and once it had tried to rain.

“I don’t want to come in,” Susan said, hanging back. She could just make out Fresby’s bowler hat outlined against the sky and hear his laboured breathing. The exertion of dragging the heavy trunk from the taxi down the dark alley had taxed even his great strength.

“You’ll do what I tell you,” Fresby returned irritably, “or I’ll wash my hands of the whole business.”

“I can’t do this on my own,” Fresby went on, in a low nagging voice.

“You’ve got to help me.” She was aware of the sound of jingling money as he fumbled in his pockets. “I’ve got it,” he said finally, and a moment later a key grated in a lock.

A door swung open and then a ray of light sprang into the alley as Fresby turned on a switch.

“Where are we?” Susan asked, her voice scarcely above a whisper.

“This is Ted Whitby’s workshop,” Fresby returned, catching hold of one of the trunk’s handles. His face was damp with sweat. “Come on, give me a hand. We don’t want anyone to see us.”

The thought of being caught with the trunk galvanised Susan into action. She helped Fresby lever the trunk into the passage of what appeared to be a dilapidated house. There was a curious odour about the air, sweet, musty, sickish; an odour of slow decay. Thunder rumbled again as Fresby closed the street door.

Susan, wide-eyed with fear, huddled against the wall, away from the black trunk. The loose wallpaper rustled as she touched it and plaster ran down the wall behind the paper making a sound like the scurrying feet of mice.

Fresby scowled at her and pushed his hat to the back of his head. He wiped his damp forehead. “Come on,” he said impatiently. “We’ll get this little lot down into the cellar.”

Susan helped him pull the trunk to the head of the stairs. He went first while she hung on to the trunk to prevent it from sliding down too quickly.

“Now, where’s the switch?” Fresby muttered as they both reached the bottom of the stairs. “Have you a match?”

Susan, in a quavering voice, said she hadn’t. It was dark in the cellar and the light from the passage upstairs only lit part of the stairs. She hated being in the dark with Fresby. She expected him to creep up to her and seize her again. She knew if she lost her head, he would become more excited and dangerous. In sudden panic as she heard his shuffling step nearer to her, she too moved forward in the hopes of finding the light switch.

As she did so, she brushed against something and she came to a sudden stop.