You can do it, but you mustn’t go to the police. They’ll put him away and he’s harmless. He’d die if they put him away.
The money in the box is all yours. It isn’t much, but it ought to be enough.
Anyway, it’s all I have. I suppose you’ll ask yourself why you should help Mr. Kester. There isn’t any special reason except he is not well and can’t help himself. It’s pathetic, because he’s been a good man. I wouldn’t want you to do anything more than you have done already, but I’ve got no one else to turn to except you. You’re no fool and I know, if you keep out of sight, you can upset their apple cart.
Fresby will help you. He won’t want to, but he will if you threaten to give him away to the police. He’s done something bad. I won’t tell you what it is because it would make you an accessory. He’ll try to frighten you with that, as he tried to frighten me, but I don’t care and you don’t know, so he can’t frighten us, can he? Take care he doesn’t think you’re bluffing. He’s dangerous. Tell him that you know where Vera is and that’ll be enough. Don’t try to find out anything more about Fresby. It’ll only get you into trouble. If you can’t stop them milking Mr. Kester then there’s nothing more you can do. Whatever you do don’t go to the police. One more thing, if you don’t help Mr. Kester, remember there is no one else to help him. That’s why I’m giving you the money.
Joe Crawford.
Susan read this note several times.
Fresby would have to help her. She would go to him and tell him the whole story. She would give him money and threaten him at the same time. Yes, she couldn’t move without Fresby’s help.
She’d have to be careful. There was something frightening about Fresby.
“Don’t blame me if something happens to you,” he had said. Well, she’d take precautions.
She took a fountain pen and a sheet of notepaper from her bag and wrote a letter. She put the letter together with Joe’s note in the steel box and locked it.
It was half-past three before she again climbed the dirty stairs that led to Fresby’s office. This time she entered his room without misgivings.
He was making himself a cup of tea and he glanced round sharply as she came in.
“So you’re back,” he said, frowning at her.
“Yes,” she said and sat down by his desk. “There’re things I want you to do.”
He poured the tea into the cup, added milk and sugar and came back to his seat.
“Me to do?” he repeated. “You’ve come to the wrong shop, young lady. I’m busy. I’m not doing anything for you.”
“Joe’s dead,” Susan said, watching him closely. She shivered when she saw the look of intense satisfaction that came into his eyes.
“Oh,” he said, fingering his moustache, “so Joe’s dead.” He smiled. “You don’t expect me to say I’m sorry, do you?”
Susan shook her head. “I’ve taken his place,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “He told me where Vera is.”
Fresby sank down into his chair. “He told you that?” he said. “Has he told anyone else?”
Susan shook her head.
“Have you?”
Again Susan shook her head.
He eyed her for a long time. “I don’t think you’ll live much longer,” he said, his fists clenching. “I’m tired of being blackmailed.”
“I’ve taken precautions,” Susan returned, stifling a desire to run from the room. “I’ve written it all down and I’ve given the letter to my bank manager to be opened if I don’t see him in a week’s time. I didn’t think they’d do that sort of thing, but when I deposited the money, they were most helpful.”
Fresby scratched his head a little helplessly, relaxing once more in his chair.
“You’re a fool to meddle with this,” he said. “The cops’ll make you an accessory.”
“What do you want me to do—tell them?” Fresby shrugged. “All right,” he said, “Joe told you about that one, I suppose. It didn’t cut any ice with him.” He sipped his tea. “Well, what do you want?”
Susan told him about Cornelius, Kester and Rollo. She explained everything as clearly as she could. Fresby sat hunched up, his tea forgotten, his eyes intent on her face. When she had finished, he drew in a long, deep breath.
“What a yarn!” he said. “It’s true, every bit of it!” Susan retorted. “It could be,” Fresby said, chewing the ends of his moustache. “Kester Weidmann, eh? The millionaire.” He grunted, crossed his long, spindly legs and placed his fingertips together. “There’s money in this,” he went on and two spots of red showed in his cheeks. “That’s what Rollo thinks.”
“Well, where do I come in?” Fresby asked abruptly. “What’s all this got to do with me?”
Susan screwed up her courage. “You’ve got to hide the body,” she said with a little shiver. “I can’t keep it in my room. Mr. Smythe—he’s my landlord—might get suspicious. If he found it, he’d send for the police.”
Fresby stared at her. “Hide the body? Where do you think I’d hide it? I’m not going to do that.”
Susan opened her bag and took out the slim roll of notes she had put aside for Fresby. “I don’t expect you to do it for nothing,” she said. “But you’ve got to do it. I’m desperate. I’ll pay you for the trouble, but if you won’t do it, I’ll have to tell the police about you.”
“That won’t get you anywhere,” Fresby returned, eyeing the roll of notes with interest. “I’ll tell them you’re hiding a body in your room. What do you think of that?”
“If you won’t do it, then they’ll have to know anyway,” Susan said, hoping that he’d believe her bluff. “I can’t keep such a thing in my room. If you don’t take it away, I don’t care what happens.”
Fresby gnawed at his moustache. Maybe she meant what she said, he thought. He couldn’t afford to take the risk.
“How much?” he said. “What have you got there?”
“Twenty-five pounds.”
“Don’t be a little fool,” Fresby returned scornfully. “I’m not going to risk my neck for that. How much more can you pay?”
Susan put the money back in her purse. “All right,” she said. “I needn’t give you anything. If you’re going to be like that, I’ll just tell you to do it and if you don’t, I’ll go to the police.”
It was Fresby who at last broke the silence. “Very well,” he said, “give me the money.”
“Where will you hide it?” Susan asked. “I’m not giving you the money until you’ve thought out a plan.” Fresby came back to his desk and sat down. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll have to think. Give me half. I won’t do it unless you give me something.”
She hesitated and then counted twelve pound notes from the roll. “Here,” she said, pushing them across the desk. “But, you’ve got to do something quickly.”
He snatched up the money and put it into his waistcoat pocket.
“A trunk?” he said. “Well, that shouldn’t be difficult. I could take it to Charing Cross.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “You don’t understand. It—it smells.”
Fresby scratched his head. “Well, I can’t have it here,” he said. “Maybe I could drop it in the river.”
“No! We’ve got to give it back to Mr. Weidmann when all this is over,”
Susan said, and then she held up her hand.
“What was that?”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
Susan got up and went swiftly to the door. She listened and turned a white, frightened face towards Fresby. “Someone’s coming up the stairs,” she whispered.
Fresby shrugged. “It doesn’t matter,” he returned indifferently. “They won’t be coming here. They seldom come—”
Susan didn’t wait to hear what he was saying. She crossed the outer room, opened the door softly and went out on the landing. She did not know why she had taken fright, but the faint scrape-scrape of shoe leather on the stone stairs below filled her with sudden dread. She peered over the stair rail and instantly recoiled. The man in the black shirt was coming up the stairs. He was already on the second landing and preparing to mount the stairs leading to Fresby’s office.