Although his fingers counted the guest tickets, his mind was elsewhere. He was thinking of Fresby. Who was this Susan Hedder? Why did she want a job at the Club? He scowled down at the tickets. It’d mean he’d have to pay her out of his own pocket. Rollo would never agree to extra staff. Damn that snake Fresby!
He would have to do it because Fresby could shop him. He had only to tell Margaret and May about Joan and the balloon would go up. Just the kind of rat’s trick Fresby would play.
How he found out about Joan, Marsh couldn’t imagine. A couple of months ago he had met her walking up and down Old Burlington Street. She seemed a nice kid, new to the game. Marsh had fixed her up in a flat in Conduit Street.
Before, she had a place in Pollen Street which was a pretty awful dump, but the Conduit Street flat was all right. She’d do well there. Of course, he expected something for his trouble. She didn’t seem to mind giving him fifteen quid a week.
He only had to see her once a week, so if it wasn’t for Fresby, neither Margaret nor May would ever know about her.
Now, unless he gave this Susan Hedder a job, Fresby was going to blow the gaff. If Margaret knew, she’d shop him to the cops. She was a vicious little bitch when she got her rag out. May wasn’t so bad, but even then, she might turn nasty too.
Marsh sighed. Oh well, he thought, it won’t cost me more than three quid a week and it’ll give me more time to myself.
The hall porter, in shirt sleeves and holding a broom, put his head round the door. “Young lady asking for you, Mr. Marsh,” he said and winked.
Marsh sniffed, “Well, tell her to come in,” he said stiffly, “and take that silly look off your face.”
The hall porter stood aside. “There you are, love” he said to Susan Hedder.
“That’s ‘is lordship over there. ‘ im in the fancy weskit.”
Susan advanced across the wine-coloured carpet. She looked at Marsh nervously and disliked him on sight. “Good morning,” she said in a small voice, “I’m - I’m Miss Hedder.”
Marsh compressed his thick lips. “Oh, are you?” he said. “Hmm, yes, I was expecting you. Mr. Fresby recommended you, didn’t he?”
Susan said, “Yes. Mr. Fresby thought you might have a vacancy.”
“Mind you,” he went on, coaxing a smile to his fat face, “the pay won’t be very good, but then, of course, the hours are easy. You need only come in at seven every evening and you can get off at midnight. Would three pounds do?”
“Oh yes,” Susan said so promptly that Marsh realized in dismay that he could have got her for less. “Yes, that would do splendidly. What should I have to do?”
“Rollo likes the place to have tone. It’s half the reason why it’s so successful.”
“Who is Rollo?” Susan asked, anxious to begin to learn.
Marsh sniffed. “He’s the owner of the club. I don’t suppose you’ll ever see him. He never uses this entrance.”
As he was speaking Doc Martin wandered in.
“Good morning,” Marsh said, scowling at him.
“Hello,” Doc replied, looking at Susan with surprise. “God bless my wicked soul, what have we here?”
“This is Miss Hedder, the new receptionist.”
“Good Lord!” Doc exclaimed, “we are getting important.” He smiled at Susan. “How do you do? Be careful of that young man. His hands are only safe when they’re in his pockets.”
Susan blushed and murmured something unintelligible while Marsh glared angrily at Doc.
“There’s no call for coarse remarks,” he said reprovingly. “Did you want anything?”
Doc jerked his thumb to the ceiling. “Rollo’s calling a meeting,” he said with a grimace. “Too bad you’re not included, but it’s only for the elite.” He winked at Susan and whistling softly under his breath, ambled up the stairs that led to Rollo’s office.
Marsh looked after him and compressed his lips. “Now he’s nobody you need worry about,” he said spitefully. “I’d like to know what he’s supposed to be doing here. Calls himself a doctor. Why should we need a doctor here anyway? The food’s not as bad as all that.”
Susan laughed dutifully while her mind was busy wondering why Rollo had called a meeting and whether it had anything to do with Kester Weidmann and whether she could think of an excuse to get upstairs.
“Well, new Miss—er—Hedder, let me see what else you can do.” Marsh looked vaguely round the little office. “As a matter of fact the work’s very light. You’re really only getting the job because I want to do Jack Fresby a favour and— well, after all you are a pretty little thing and I’ve a weakness for blondes.”
He leered down at her. “You might have to see the members pay for their guests. You’ll have to be pretty slippy getting to know who they are. I hope you have a good memory.”
“Oh yes,” Susan said, sure on that point. “I’m very good at remembering faces.” She stopped short, feeling herself go cold.
Butch had come in and was staring at her with empty eyes.
Marsh glanced up, smiled in a vague, sickly manner at nobody in particular, and hurriedly opened a ledger which he placed before Susan.
“In this ledger,” he flustered, “we enter—” He broke off as Butch came up and rested his elbows on the counter. He still stared at Susan who felt herself cringing inside although she managed to meet his stony eyes without flinching.
“This is Miss Hedder, our new receptionist,” Marsh said, a sudden squeak in his voice.
Butch tipped his hat over his nose. “Yeah?” he said, “I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
“Oh?” Susan said coldly and looked away, conscious that her heart was pounding.
“Who said we wanted a new receptionist?” Butch asked, looking at Marsh.
“It’s a private arrangement,” Marsh said, with a ghastly attempt at being at ease. “Miss Hedder wanted a job and I wanted a little freedom. If I like to pay her, it’s my business, isn’t it?”
Once more Butch turned to Susan. “I remember now,” he said and there was a look of sudden suspicion in his eyes.
“And so do I,” Susan said quickly. “I remember that shirt. I saw you in a little cafe in Glasshouse Street last week, didn’t I?” Her hands were clenched tightly behind her back, but, somehow or other, she managed to sound very casual.
Susan drew a deep breath. She felt cold, excited and scared. No wonder Butch had reminded her of Humphrey Bogart, she thought. He was just how she imagined an American gangster would look.
“You keep out of his way,” Marsh advised. “He doesn’t trust anyone and he might make trouble. You see,” he went on, with a sudden burst of uneasy confidence, “I don’t know what Rollo says when he hears you’re working for me. He might even throw you out.”
For a moment an ugly look came into Marsh’s eyes, but it went immediately.
He stepped round the counter and left her the little office to herself.
“All right, Miss Hedder,” he said, with an ingratiating smile, “I don’t think you need stay any longer. Your hours are from seven to midnight. I’ll be seeing you tonight?”
The outer door opened and Celie came in. She swept across the hall and up the stairs without looking either to right or left. She was wearing a silk ivory-coloured turban, a black water-silk coat and round her neck was a heavy gold collar.
Marsh looked after her with admiring eyes.
“Who’s that?” Susan asked, impressed in spite of herself.
“That’s Mademoiselle Celie,” Marsh said. “A stunner, isn’t she?” He heaved a sigh. “Rollo’s little piece.” He winked. “Dark but tasty.”
Before Susan could think of a suitable snubbing retort, Gilroy came in. He was halfway across the hall before he noticed Susan and then he stopped short. He looked at her with intent, interested eyes, then he went on, up the stairs and out of sight.