Butch ducked into a doorway as he saw Long Tom approach. Should he tell Long Tom about Adams? Should they both go back and finish Adams and then help Rollo? He shook his head. He didn’t trust Long Tom. He was Rollo’s man. If Rollo knew about Celie, he would twist Butch out of his share. No, it would be better to get Long Tom out of the way and then settle Adams and then Rollo.

Jack Fresby opened his front door, entered and hung his bowler hat on the hallstand. He yawned and walked into his small sitting room. His back ached from his exertions of carrying the heavy trunk. After Susan had run away, he had gone back and made a good job of Cornelius. It had been a gruesome task, but if he was to get some money out of this business it was no use letting anyone find the body until he was ready to negotiate terms.

He went into the kitchen and put on the kettle. The little house was quiet.

Except for the daily charwoman, no one came

near Fresby. He had lived alone now for more than five years and had grown accustomed to looking after himself. He was not a sociable sort of person. Fortunately for him, the next door house was empty and on the other side was a large vacant building lot. Fresby’s only companion was a thin, ginger cat which now came in through the open window and began to twine itself round Fresby’s legs.

“There you are,” Fresby said, looking down at the cat affectionately. “I’ve got something for you. A bit of fish. You’ll like that, won’t you?”

As the kettle boiled, Fresby collected a cup and saucer and prepared the tea.

He carried the tea into the front room and sat down limply in the big armchair. The springs creaked under his weight, but tonight he didn’t care about the gradual wearing out of his furniture. With five hundred pounds, he could leave the country. He had wanted to leave the country since that ghastly night when had had dragged Vera Small’s body down into the basement and buried it. He sipped his tea. Mustn’t think about that, he told himself. It did no good.

There were other things to think about. His mind wandered, like groping tentacles, in the grime of eroticism. He thought of Susan and his big, flaccid hands grew damp.

To think that he had her alone in that empty house. What a fool he had been to miss such an opportunity.

Then suddenly he stiffened. What was that? He listened and a light knock came again on his front door. He glanced at the cheap little alarm clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly half-past twelve. Who could it be? he wondered, frowning.

No one ever came near except the milkman, the newspaper boy and the charwoman. He waited. Perhaps whoever it was would realize that this was the wrong house and go away. But again the knock sounded, louder and impatient.

Muttering to himself, Fresby walked into the little hall and opened the front door.

“Are you alone?” Celie asked, stepping into the light.

Fresby stared at her. She made a striking picture, dressed as she was in a three-quarter white coat, a highwaisted skirt of midnight blue barathea and a black and white turban.

“Hello,” he said, aware that his voice had become husky. “Did you want to see me?”

She looked at him, her great eyes uneasy and watchful.

“Yes. You know who I am?”

He nodded. “It’s Mademoiselle Celie, isn’t it?”

“Can I come in?”

He stood aside and as she walked past him, the smell of her perfume made him feel weak.

“In here,” he said, trying to steady his voice. What did she want? he asked himself. What would Rollo think if he knew she had come here—or had he sent her?

Celie was now standing in the shabby little room, her back to the fireplace.

Fresby waved his hand to the bartered armchair. “Won’t you sit down?” he said awkwardly. “I apologize for the squalor; not what you’re used to, I’m sure.”

“What do you know about this Hedder woman?” Celie asked abruptly, taking no notice of his gesture towards the chair.

Fresby shifted his eyes. He hadn’t expected such a direct approach. “Butch was asking about her,” he mumbled, and to give himself time, he poured out another cup of tea. “Will you have a cup? I don’t suppose you will. A cocktail is more in your line, isn’t it? But I don’t have such things.”

Celie’s eyes darkened. “I don’t want anything,” she said shortly. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Why should I answer it?” he asked, smirking at her. The tea no longer interested him. He left it on the table and came close to her. “I’m tired,” he went on. “If you don’t mind, I’ll sit down.” He didn’t wait for her permission, but sank down into the chair and looked up at her. She was only a few inches away from him and with a slight movement he could have touched her skirt.

“I haven’t much time,” Celie went on, sensing his confused desire for her. “It would be better if you answered my question.”

“Didn’t Butch tell you? “ Fresby asked, trying to look unconcerned. Was she threatening him? “I told Butch all I know about the girl.”

“No, you didn’t,” Celie returned. “You had better tell me the truth.” She stared at him for a long moment, and then went on, “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Fresby gnawed at his moustache. He found it difficult to concentrate. What nice feet she had and how extraordinarily long her legs were. He found that rather exciting. He eyed the contours of her buttocks under her tight skirt. How he disliked women who were as flat as a board. What was she saying? He jerked his mind out of its grimy corner. Worth my while. Did she mean she would pay for information?

“I don’t understand,” he said and again his mind crept back into its dusty corner.

“Tell me what you know about this woman and I’ll give you a hundred pounds,” Celie said. “Only you must hurry.”

Fresby pondered. A hundred pounds! That was what Butch had promised him. Anyway, it was a figure on which to bargain.

“Five hundred pounds would be more like it,” he said and pushed his hands deep into his pockets. He suddenly had a desire to reach out and touch her.

She laughed. “Don’t be a fool.” There was doubt and anger in her voice. “A hundred pounds is all you’ll get, so you’d better make up your mind.”

“Five hundred,” he repeated. He would be glad to argue with her all night.

He hated to think of this room without her.

She moved impatiently and the hem of her skirt touched his knee. His thin, muscular body reacted as if he had touched a live wire.

“Do you know where the body is?” she said, after a pause.

He stiffened. It was a movement beyond his control and it betrayed him as sure as if he had spoken.

“So you do,” Celie went on, her voice hardening. “You fool! You’re wasting time. Tell me where it is and I’ll give you a hundred pounds.” She opened her bag and showed him four thin white notes. “Look, I have it with me.”

He crossed his legs. “Not nearly enough. Rollo would give me a thousand.”

Celie turned away so that he could not see the look of frustrated fury on her face.

Any moment Rollo might, somehow or other, find the body. This was no time to bargain. Even if it meant giving Fresby half the fantastic sum, it would be better than letting Rollo get his claws on the lot. It might even be possible to engineer a little accident for Fresby after he had shown her where the body was. If only Butch were here! They might have persuaded Fresby to talk by other means than bribery.

She turned back to Fresby. “There’s money hidden on the body,” she said, clenching her fists. “Now do you understand? If anyone finds it while we are arguing, you’ll be sorry.”

Fresby’s eyes narrowed. So that’s why Rollo was so anxious to find Cornelius. And to think he had spent all that time putting wax on the dead man’s face and it had never occurred to him to search the body.