“Was that you, Mr. Fresby?” she asked. Her hands clenched until her nails bit into her palms. She held her breath until her lungs throbbed with pain.

“What’s the matter now?” Fresby asked from the other side of the room.

Reluctantly, fearfully, she put out her hand. The darkness, as black as liquorice, felt almost solid as she groped. Her heart pounded. Then her hand touched something.

She felt the rough cloth of a man’s sleeve in her trembling fingers. She knew it wasn’t Fresby. He was on the far side of the cellar, still fumbling for the light switch. Paralysed with terror, she could only stand motionless, her fingers touching cloth. Thunder crashed suddenly overhead, drowning her wild scream.

“What the hell’s the matter?” Fresby grated, out of the darkness.

“There’s someone here,” Susan cried and pressing her hands to her face, she screamed again.

“Keep your hair on,” Fresby said crossly. “They’re only dummies,” and his questing fingers came upon the light switch.

The cellar was suddenly flooded by a hard, bright light.

Susan started back as she found herself confronted by a grinning, evil figure of a man. The wax features and glassy eyes seemed to be sneering at her. She caught her breath, still not quite realizing that this was only a wax effigy.

“Don’t get excited,” Fresby said, laying a hand on her arm. “I tell you they’re only dummies.”

She clung to him, staring round the vast cellar with startled eyes. The room seemed full of wax effigies. It looked like Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors. Some of the effigies stood, some sat. All were hideous, evil, frightening.

“I ought to have warned you,” Fresby went on. “Whitby supplies the Museum of Horrors at the Elephant and Castle. His stuffs pretty good, isn’t it? Look, that’s Crippen. Over there’s Jack the Ripper. Nice-looking chap, isn’t he? How would you like to spend a night with him?” He chuckled nervously. “I told you I was smart, didn’t I? No one would think of looking for a corpse among all these dummies, would they?”

Susan shuddered. She didn’t dare to look at the still, wax figures. Any moment, she thought, I’m going to start screaming and if I do, Fresby will attack me. I must control myself. I mustn’t look at these horrible figures.

“Ted works here on his own,” Fresby went on, glancing round, feeling a little uneasy himself. “Creepy, isn’t it? I don’t think I’d like to be here on my own.”

“Why did you bring me here?” Susan asked, fixing her eyes on Fresby’s waistcoat.

He moved away and began to poke around at the long bench on which stood a row of half-finished wax heads.

“All we have to do is to put a wax covering on his face and hands,” he said, jerking his thumb towards the trunk, “and he then becomes just another dummy. I bet even Ted wouldn’t spot him amongst all this mob.”

“A wax covering?” Susan repeated, going cold.

“It shouldn’t be difficult. You melt the wax and pour it on his face. It’ll form a kind of mask.” He looked at her sharply.

“But you’ll have to help me.”

“No!” Susan cried, backing towards the stairs. “No! I can’t stand any more of this.”

Fresby cursed under his breath. “Pull yourself together, you little fool,” he said savagely and began to move towards her.

Susan, now completely terrified, turned and raced for the stairs.

Fresby dived after her. “Stop!” he shouted. “Come back!”

She blundered up the stairs and into the dark passage. Fresby reached the head of the stairs as she flung open the street door. He was too late to catch her and he watched her running blindly down the alley into the street.

Only a few miles away, a green Packard drew up outside Doc Martin’s little house, tucked away in a Mews off Grosvenor Street.

Rollo eased his bulk out of the car. “Wait for me,” he said to Long Tom. “I shan’t be long. If you see a copper, sound your horn.”

He spent a few moments trying to open the front door with a bunch of keys.

One of them finally succeeded in opening the door.

He entered the small hall, shut the front door and walked into the living room. His urgent, expert search did not last long. He found what he wanted. At some time or another, Doc had told him that he kept a diary.

Rollo never forgot little things like that. It was Doc’s diary that Rollo wanted. As soon as he found it he left the house, locked the door and climbed into the Packard.

“Drive around slowly,” he said to Long Tom. “I’ll tell you where to go in a little while.”

Then he sat back and hurriedly thumbed through the pages of the neatly written diary.

The last entry told him what he wanted to know.

Tonight, I call on Celie, wrote Doc Martin, it is now or never. She will get a big cut from Weidmann’s money. If Rollo learns that she and Butch are lovers, she won’t get anything. She’ll be glad to pay me to keep my mouth shut. I’ll surprise her tonight after the meeting.

A red mist hung before Rollo’s eyes. Slowly he shut the diary and slipped it into his pocket. She and Butch were lovers . . . He might have guessed it. Well, now he knew. He drew in a sharp breath and clenched his great fists. Doc had gone to Celie and Butch had been there. Butch had killed him. No wonder Celie was behaving like a scalded cat. He’d make them both suffer. Then he remembered Weidmann. Three million pounds in bearer bonds! It was incredible. He had to find the body. That was the first thing to do. Later he would think of a way of revenging himself. At the moment he needed Butch. One thing at the time, he thought, and closed down on his rage, forcing it back into his subconscious.

The girl must be found. Butch was already searching the streets for her. That would take too long. London was a big place. He might never find her.

“Gilroy’ s,” Rollo said through the speaking tube and Long Tom nodded.

In a few minutes, the Packard pulled up outside Athen Court.

“Wait,” Rollo said and walked across the enclosed courtyard.

He stood in the lift while it creaked its way to the fourth floor; half his mind brooded about Celie, the other half was concentrated on the means to find Cornelius’ body.

He was glad he had urgent work to do. Otherwise he knew he would have done something hasty and vicious. He had never been so provoked and never before had he felt the need for instant revenge. That would not do. He had always made plans. If Celie and Butch were to be punished, he would make certain that the police would not come to him for payment.

He rang the bell, pressing the bell push impatiently. The door opened almost immediately and Gilroy stared at him in surprise. Although it was past one o’clock, Gilroy was still wearing his oyster-coloured lounge suit. “You have never been here before,” he said, standing to one side. “There is something wrong?”

Rollo entered the large sitting room. He walked over to the empty fireplace, took out his cigar case and selected a cigar from it. After he had lit it, he looked thoughtfully at Gilroy. “We must find Cornelius’ body immediately,” he said.

Gilroy shrugged. “How do we do that?”

“I have come to you,” Rollo went on, watching the negro intently. “I believe you can find the body. You say you owe me something. Well, I’ve come for payment. Give me the body.”

Gilroy wandered across the room. “The girl knows where it is,” he said, picking up the little wooden doll and stroking the gold threads that were glued to its head. “She could take us to it.”

“Butch is looking for her, but I can’t wait. You must do better than that.”

“She will come,” Gilroy said indifferently, “if you wait long enough.”

Rollo grunted and left the flat. As he reached the ground floor, he paused and listened.

From upstairs there came the sound of a drum being softly beaten. At first, he thought it was the distant thunder, but as he stood there listening the sound became unmistakable. The steady boom . . . boom . . . boom . . . seemed inside his own head or in his veins like a pulse beating. There was something cosmic in the sound, like the rolling of mighty waters.