So long as he stayed in this country he would have to be content with Celie when he wanted sensation. He got two separate and distinct bangs out of his association with her. One was Celie herself. An affair with her was like an affair with a tigress. She was likely to sink her nails into your neck if she was in that kind of a mood. Then there was Rollo.
Rollo kidded himself that Celie regarded him as a god; that her whole world revolved around him and that there never could be any other man in her life. That was a laugh. Butch didn’t kid himself that he was the only other man in Celie’s life. He was too smart for that. He knew the way things were; although she never talked and he didn’t ask questions.
There were nights when he gave her the high sign and she just looked blankly through him, her dark eyes expressionless as wet stones. Some other guy, he would think, and grin. She was certainly stacking the deck against Rollo.
Yes, he got a bang out of cheating Rollo. The guy was dangerous. Butch admired him because he wasn’t like Legs Diamond or Al Capone or Bugs Moran.
He slowed down as he came to Victoria station and then opened up again once he was clear of the omnibuses that were pulling out of the station yard on their last journey for the night. He kept on up Grosvenor Place, past Constitution Hill and into Piccadilly.
He nodded to himself. Just about right, he thought as he turned into Berkeley Street. He touched the accelerator pedal and the big Packard swept up the street with a rush. Then he braked and edged cautiously into Bruton Place, drove a few yards down the dark mews and stopped.
He leaned out of the car window and glanced up at the garage apartment. A light came through a chink in the curtain and he grunted with approval. She was there.
Even then, he did not immediately get out. There were certain moves in the game that had to be observed. Moves that excited and amused him.
He touched the horn button lightly, paused and then touched it again. The deep note of the horn made only a choked, faint splutter, but it was enough. Celie had learned to listen for this sound.
He leaned out of the car window again and waited. The curtains opened and then closed. That was the signal which told him she was alone.
He grinned, opened the car door and slid out. While he was opening the double garage doors, he remembered the time when the curtains had not moved. It had only happened once, but it showed how careful they had to be. Rollo had insisted on returning with Celie that night and if they had not arranged the curtain signal weeks before, Butch would have walked in on them. It would have been a sweet situation to try to explain away.
He went back to the Packard, drove into the big garage, snapped off the headlights and turned off the ignition. Then he got out of the car, shut the garage doors from the inside and turned on the electric light by the door that led to the apartment.
Whistling softly he climbed the almost vertical stairs to the little hall which was panelled in oak and carpeted with an ivory-coloured, fitted carpet that was as springy to the tread as a lush lawn.
On a richly carved ebony pedestal stood an obscene bronze statue of a woman. It never failed to make Butch blink and he had often asked Celie to get rid of it. But she wouldn’t. She said it amused her.
Butch hung his hat on the statue and wandered into the front room which Celie used as her bedroom.
Celie was lying across the bed. She wore flame-coloured satin pyjamas and a heavy gold bracelet on her wrist and gold sandals on her feet. Her head was covered by a little bathing cap affair made of white silk. On any other woman it would have looked ridiculous, but it suited Celie.
Butch took out a packet of Camels, shook two cigarettes out on to the cream corduroy bedspread, put the packet back into his pocket and offered one to Celie.
When they had lit up, he said, “That’s Kester Weidmann, the millionaire.”
Celie’s eyes opened a shade. “Are you sure?”
Butch nodded.
“Rollo will be pleased.”
“What’s the idea? What did he want?”
She rolled on to her back and stared up at the ceiling. It was an ornate affair, deep blue with large silver stars. Celie suffered from claustrophobia and she liked to think she was looking at the sky when she was in bed.
“He’s crazy,” she said. “Did you know? Insane. I could tell that by his eyes.”
Butch reached out and touched her shoulder, but she pushed his hand away.
He grimaced and shrugged.
“What’s on your mind, Celie?”
“Kester Weidmann,” she said softly.
“Open up, will you?” he said, a little sharply. “What’s cooking? What did Weidmann want with Rollo?”
She smiled secretively. “Why don’t you ask Rollo?”
He reached out and taking her arm, pulled her roughly towards him. “I’m asking you.”
A small coffee-coloured claw flashed towards his face, but he was expecting it. He caught her wrist and held her, grinning down at her.
“Cut it out, honey,” he said. “You know it don’t pay to get tough with me.”
“Let me go.”
He looked down at her, seeing the spiteful, furious look in her eyes and her white, even teeth as she drew her lips back like a snarling cat.
“Aw, you’re nuts,” he said, letting her go and getting to his feet. “Why the hell are we always fighting? Ain’t there enough trouble without you and me going on like a couple of savages?” He wandered to the fireplace and put his elbows on the mantelpiece, staring at his lined, hard face in the mirror.
“What are you sore about anyway?”
She rolled over on her back again and rubbed her arm where he had held her.
“I’m not sore.”
He grinned at himself in the mirror. “Okay, you’re not sore,” he said, turning.
“Well, come on. Don’t be mysterious. What did Weidmann want?”
“He’s crazy,” she said, “Something about voodooism. I didn’t pay much attention.”
Butch suddenly knelt across her on the bed. He caught her two wrists and pinned her arms to the corduroy bedspread.
“Like hell you didn’t,” he said, his face cold and forbidding. “You never miss a thing. What are you up to? Trying to play it on your own?”
She stared back at him, making no attempt to free herself. “Don’t be so suspicious,” she said and smiled. “I tell you he’s crazy. I’m not interested in crazy people.”
“Well, I am,” Butch said, still keeping her pinned to the bed. “What’s this about—what did you say it was?”
She made a little face. “Voodooism.”
“That’s not a word—it’s a noise. What the hell does it mean?”
“To do with the occult.” She was laughing at him now.
“Occult?” Lines appeared on his forehead. “What’s that?”
“Don’t you know anything?”
“Never mind that. Tell me.”
“It’s to do with the supernatural.”
Butch released her and stood away. There was disgust on his face. “If you’re kidding me . . .” he began.
She sat up and yawned. “He wanted Rollo to find him someone who knows about voodooism.”
“Rollo tell him to go to hell?”
She shook her head. “Rollo’s smart. He’s going to fix something. Eleven thousand pounds is the rakeoff.”
Butch sucked in his breath sharply. “That’s a lot of dough,” he said. “He must be awfully interested in this voodoo stuff.”
Celie got to her feet and wandered over to the dressing table. “He is,” she said quietly. “So am I.”
“Anything in it for us?”
“Eleven thousand pounds.”
“I mean—us. You and me.” She pursed her lips. “I don’t know.”
“Then you’d better start thinking. We’ve been looking for a break like this, haven’t we?”