Butch shrugged. “A little guy, well dressed, rich looking.”

Rollo picked up the treasury note, held it up to the light, grunted. “I’ll see him,” he said. “I might want to know something about him. If I ring twice, follow him. Find out who he is.”

Butch nodded and went away.

“A hundred pounds,” Celie said softly and moved to her position by the fireplace. “I wonder what he wants.”

Rollo lifted his great shoulders. “We shall see,” he said, and folding the treasury note, he slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.

They remained motionless, staring at the door.

Butch came in again. He stood on one side and the little man who had come in the Rolls-Royce took off his hat.

Rollo regarded him with carefully concealed interest.

The little man crossed the room. “My name,” he said, “is Dupont. I wanted to see you.”

Rollo rose to his feet. “You have an expensive way of introducing yourself,” he said. “Sit down, Mr. Dupont.”

Butch glanced at Rollo and then went out. The door closed silently.

The little man sat down. He looked at Celie and his deepset eyes glowed.

“Perhaps we might be alone,” he said to Rollo.

Rollo lowered his bulk into his chair again. “We are alone, Mr. Dupont,” he said.

There was a long pause. Celie remained like a pale bronze statue, her eyes on Mr. Dupont.

“You wanted to see me,” Rollo said at last. “Why?”

Mr. Dupont folded his hands on top of his stick. “I have heard about you,” he said, his eyes still on Celie. “You may be able to help me.”

“It is not my habit to help people,” Rollo said frankly. “I have many things which occupy me.”

“I should be prepared to buy your help.”

Rollo spread his hands. “That is different.”

Again there was a long pause, Mr. Dupont nibbled the top of his stick, reluctant to commit himself, uncertain of Celie, aware of her disturbing gaze.

“It would, I think, be better if we were alone.”

“You mustn’t mind Celie,” Rollo said. “She is important to me.” He smiled. “She knows no English.”

Mr. Dupont was not deceived by the lie, but he decided that he could not afford to be too particular.

“Very well,” he said, putting his stick on the floor beside him. “What I have to say is, of course, in confidence.”

“Of course.”

Mr. Dupont examined his fingernails for a moment. “I am interested in voodooism’ he said.

“You are interested in—what?” Rollo asked, leaning forward, his hands spread out on the green blotter.

Mr. Dupont did not meet his eyes. “Voodooism,” he repeated, his voice low and suppressed.

Rollo’s face took on a dusky, purple hue. His little eyes snapped angrily, but he was still cautious. His instinct told him that the hundred pound treasury note was one of many. If this odd little man wished to make a fool of him he could do so—at a price.

“I don’t understand,” he said, gently.

“I wish to be put in touch with someone who knows about voodooism,” Mr. Dupont said, fiddling with his gloves. “I thought perhaps you might know. I would pay for information.”

Rollo had only a vague idea what voodooism meant. He most certainly had no idea whether anyone in his unusual circle knew any more about it than he did, but since there was money to be made from this extraordinary request, he was not prepared to turn it away.

“There’s not much I don’t know,” he said, looking at Mr. Dupont with an encouraging smile. “But before I commit myself, perhaps you would care to give me more details?”

“I don’t think that is necessary,” Mr. Dupont said, a little curtly. “You either know or do not know anyone who understands the ritual ceremonies of voodooism. If you know, tell me who it is and I will pay you. If you do not know, then we are wasting time.”

“It is not a cult that is encouraged in this country,” Rollo said, feeling his way,” unsure of himself. “I should have to know why you wished such a thing.” He raised his shoulders apologetically. “One has to be careful.”

“Shall we say one thousand pounds and no questions?” Mr. Dupont asked, looking at Rollo fixedly.

Rollo had difficulty in controlling his surprise, but he succeeded. “That is a lot of money,” he said. “Yes, perhaps I can help you.”

“Very well, give me the name and address of this person and I will give you the money. Nothing could be more simple.”

Rollo mentally agreed that it was simple enough if he knew this person’s name and address. Unfortunately, he did not.

This situation would need a little generalship.

“There is a man,” he began, weighing his words carefully, “who understands voodooism. He has produced some extraordinary results.” He paused and touched his waxed moustache. “Some extraordinary results,” he repeated to give himself confidence. “I know him well. In fact, I was only talking to him yesterday. Wasn’t I, my dove?”

Celie said nothing.

“What results?” Mr. Dupont asked quickly. “You mean materialization?”

This was beyond Rollo’s knowledge or imagination. He waved his hands airily. “I don’t think he would like me to give away confidences,” he said, “but if I could interest him in helping you, then I am positive he would be the right choice.”

“His name?” Mr. Dupont was sitting forward. His gloves slipped off his small bony knees on to the floor. He did not notice them.

“I must speak to him first,” Rollo said. “He may not care for me to reveal his identity. You understand?”

Mr. Dupont sat back. His small, elfish face revealed his disappointment.

“Yes,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “That is reasonable.” He stood up. “You will consult him and I will come again.”

Rollo looked up searchingly. “But you haven’t told me what you want him to do?”

“Tell him that I am interested in seeing the ceremonial ritual performed. It will be carried out in the strictest privacy but it must include zombiism. Tell him that. He will understand. The fee will be a large one.”

Rollo searched in his waistcoat pocket and found a pencil. He wrote zombiism on his blotter. That was a word he had never heard of, nor could he guess its meaning.

“What would the fee be?” he asked. “Forgive my curiosity, but a large fee to some might be a small fee to others.”

Again Mr. Dupont ducked his head in agreement, “Ten thousand pounds,” he said, his full red lips twitching. “But it would have to be successful for that amount of money.”

Rollo’s eyes showed respect. Obviously this little man was going to be worth cultivating.

“Thursday this time?” he said, standing up. “I will have the man here—if he agrees.”

Mr. Dupont nodded. “It is understood?” he asked. “A thousand pounds for you for the introduction. Ten thousand pounds for him for the work?”

Rollo kept his fat face expressionless. “It is understood.”

Mr. Dupont held out his hand. “May I have my visiting card back?” he said softly. “I merely used it to gain an entrance.”

Not for one second did Rollo hesitate. He took the folded note from his pocket and handed it to the little man. It was like drawing one of his great yellow teeth, but Rollo knew instinctively that it was worth the gamble. If the little man did not trust him then he would never see him again, and Rollo was most anxious to see him again.

Mr. Dupont went to the door, opened it and went out. They heard him walk down the corridor that led to the restaurant.

“He is mad,” Celie said. “Did you see his eyes? He is quite insane.”

Rollo lifted his shoulders. “I thought so too,” he said, “but he is rich,” and he put his great thumb on the bell push on his desk and rang twice.

* * *

Susan Hedder walked down Shaftesbury Avenue and paused at the corner of Denman Street as a taxi cautiously edged into the stream of traffic flowing towards Leicester Square.