Butch groped in his hip pocket and pulled out a .38 police special. Holding it by the barrel he began to club Marsh’s neck and shoulders, dragging him round the room by his hair as he did so.
Celie hid her face. She couldn’t stand much more from Butch. She was beginning to realize what a dangerous game she had been playing in trying to double-cross him. She now saw him for what he was, a coldblooded killer without a spark of feeling in him.
The thudding of the gun butt on Marsh’s fat neck and shoulders, his strangled screams and the stumbling, scraping feet round the room filled her with sickening terror. If Butch found out about Gilroy, he would do that to her!
Suddenly Rollo said, “Stop!”
The sudden sharpness in his voice jerked Butch round. He shoved Marsh away, slapping him across his face with the barrel of his gun as he did so.
Marsh, his face and neck black with bruises, two or three patches of hair torn from his scalp, fell forward on his knees and rolled on his side. He lay gasping and moaning, but Butch paid no attention to him. He was staring at Rollo.
“The police,” Rollo said thickly.
On his desk a red light was glowing. It flickered off and on as the doorkeeper downstairs flashed the warning.
“Get him out of here,” Rollo went on urgently. “Quick!”
Butch grabbed hold of Marsh. Half carrying him and half dragging him, he took him from the room.
“Get out!” Rollo said to Celie. “God knows what’s the matter with you, but if the cops see you they’ll know something’s up.”
Rollo was alarmed. The police had only once before come to the club and that was more than a year ago. Since then he had taken the greatest care not to give them an opportunity to come again.
Now, when he had Kester Weidmann securely locked up in one of the rooms upstairs, they had to poke their noses into the club again. Had Joe’s girl tipped them off? If they had a search warrant and found Weidmann, it’d be difficult to explain what he was doing in a club like this. He could rely on Weidmann, of course, but the police might spot the little man was crazy and suspect what was going on.
As Celie slipped through a concealed door that led to her own apartment, Rollo opened a drawer and took from it a big ledger. He picked up a pen and began entering figures in the endeavour to create an atmosphere of a business man engaged in honest work.
A rap came on the door and a tall, clean-shaven young man came in. He was wearing a shabby, but well-cut lounge suit and in his hand he carried a brown felt hat.
Rollo looked at him with a bland, enquiring expression on his fat face.
“Yes?” he said, pushing the ledger aside and laying down his pen. “You wanted to see me?”
The young man glanced round the room and pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. “I’m Detective Sergeant Adams,” he said, “of Vine Street. You’re—er—Mr. Rollo?”
Rollo nodded. This debonair young man certainly did not look like a police officer, he decided, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t be troublesome. He waved his fat hand to a chair.” Sit down,” he said affably.” Have a cigar?”
Jerry Adams shook his head. “Don’t use ‘em,” he said, sitting down. “One doesn’t make much money in the police force, you know.” He glanced round the room again. “The night club world seems far more profitable.”
Rollo sniffed. “We have to make a show,” he returned, shrugging his shoulders. “My overheads are enormous. But you didn’t come here to discuss night club profits, did you?”
“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.