Weidmann was sitting in the chair. He sprang to his feet when he saw Rollo.
“You’ve got to do something,” he exclaimed. “If you don’t find Cornelius before tomorrow, I’m going to the police!”
“The police can’t help us,” Rollo returned, choking down his fury. “There’s only one thing to be done. Write me a cheque for ten thousand pounds and I’ll have your brother here tomorrow. I’ve found out where he is, but it’ll cost me that amount to get hold of him.”
Weidmann screwed up his face. “I haven’t any money,” he explained in his soft voice. “Cornelius has it all. He will give it to you.”
Rollo straightened his giant frame. “You haven’t any money?” he repeated stupidly.
Weidmann shook his head and smiled. “I gave it all to Cornelius. Three million pounds in bonds. It’s in a belt round his waist. He is so much better at keeping money than I am.”
There was a grumbling of thunder in the distance and a vast black cloud hung over the city. For several hours now the air had been close and oppressive and once it had tried to rain.
“I don’t want to come in,” Susan said, hanging back. She could just make out Fresby’s bowler hat outlined against the sky and hear his laboured breathing. The exertion of dragging the heavy trunk from the taxi down the dark alley had taxed even his great strength.
“You’ll do what I tell you,” Fresby returned irritably, “or I’ll wash my hands of the whole business.”
“I can’t do this on my own,” Fresby went on, in a low nagging voice.
“You’ve got to help me.” She was aware of the sound of jingling money as he fumbled in his pockets. “I’ve got it,” he said finally, and a moment later a key grated in a lock.
A door swung open and then a ray of light sprang into the alley as Fresby turned on a switch.
“Where are we?” Susan asked, her voice scarcely above a whisper.
“This is Ted Whitby’s workshop,” Fresby returned, catching hold of one of the trunk’s handles. His face was damp with sweat. “Come on, give me a hand. We don’t want anyone to see us.”
The thought of being caught with the trunk galvanised Susan into action. She helped Fresby lever the trunk into the passage of what appeared to be a dilapidated house. There was a curious odour about the air, sweet, musty, sickish; an odour of slow decay. Thunder rumbled again as Fresby closed the street door.
Susan, wide-eyed with fear, huddled against the wall, away from the black trunk. The loose wallpaper rustled as she touched it and plaster ran down the wall behind the paper making a sound like the scurrying feet of mice.
Fresby scowled at her and pushed his hat to the back of his head. He wiped his damp forehead. “Come on,” he said impatiently. “We’ll get this little lot down into the cellar.”
Susan helped him pull the trunk to the head of the stairs. He went first while she hung on to the trunk to prevent it from sliding down too quickly.
“Now, where’s the switch?” Fresby muttered as they both reached the bottom of the stairs. “Have you a match?”
Susan, in a quavering voice, said she hadn’t. It was dark in the cellar and the light from the passage upstairs only lit part of the stairs. She hated being in the dark with Fresby. She expected him to creep up to her and seize her again. She knew if she lost her head, he would become more excited and dangerous. In sudden panic as she heard his shuffling step nearer to her, she too moved forward in the hopes of finding the light switch.
As she did so, she brushed against something and she came to a sudden stop.
“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.