door. Then she stiffened, startled.
A small, slimly built clergyman stood on the doorstep. He was carrying a shabby suitcase and he looked at her, his grey eyes mild behind the lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses. His shock of white hair made two big wings under his black hat.
'Mrs. Whiteside?'
'Yeah, but I'm busy,' Sheila said, curtly. 'Sorry, we don't give to the church,' and she began to shut the door.
'I have come about the money, Mrs. Whiteside,' Maisky said gently. 'The money you stole.'
Sheila turned to stone. She felt the blood drain out of her face. The shock of his words made such a devastating impact on her, she thought she was going to faint.
He watched her reaction with a cruel little smile.
'I am so sorry to upset you like this.' His cold, snake's eyes moved over her body. 'May I come in?' He moved forward, riding her back down the passage. He closed and locked the front door.
Sheila pulled herself together.
'Get out or I'll call the police!' she said huskily.
'That would be a pity, Mrs. Whiteside. Then neither of us would have the money. After all, there is enough for us to share . . . two and a half million dollars. Is this your living-room?' He peered into the room, then entered, setting down his suitcase. He took off his hat and walked over to the lounging chair, noticing with distaste the ashtrays spilling cigarette butts on to the floor, the used glasses standing on the sideboard, the film of dust everywhere and he grimaced. He had high standards of cleanliness. He decided this beautiful looking girl was a slut. 'Do you mind if I sit down? I haven't been too well recently . . . exciting times.' He looked slyly at her and laughed.
She stood in the doorway, watching him, wondering what she should do. He must be the fifth robber the police were looking for, but got up like this! A clergyman! Then she realised his cleverness. No policeman would give him a second glance.
'I don't want you here,' she said, trying to steady her voice. 'I know nothing about the money . . . now, get out!'
'Please don't be stupid.' He crossed one thin leg over the other. 'I saw you and your husband take my car. The money was in the boot. When you brought the car back, the money wasn't in the boot. So .' He lifted his hands. 'I don't blame you for taking it. What have you done with it?'
'It's not here. I—I don't know what you are talking about.'
Maisky studied her. She moved uneasily as their eyes met. She had never seen such malevolent eyes. They sent a chill through her.
'Mrs. Whiteside, when I play a role, I like to remain in character. At the moment, as you can see, I am playing the role of a kindly, harmless clergyman.' He paused, then leaning forward, his face a sudden mask of terrifying, snarling fury. 'You had better make sure I remain that way, you stinking whore, or I'll teach you such a goddamn lesson you won't ever forget it!'
She was appalled at his viciousness and shrank back, her heart pounding. He stared at her, then relaxed. Suddenly he was mild and all smiles again.
'Do sit down, my pretty.'
Unnerved, Sheila moved into the room and sat opposite him. She was really frightened. She felt this little horror would murder her at the slightest encouragement.
'What is your name?' he asked, mildly.
'Sheila.' The word came reluctantly.
'A nice name.' He put his finger tips together and peered at her over them, then he giggled. 'You see, I am back in my role. Have you noticed the way clergymen use their hands? I should have been an actor. I watch people. I make a note of how they behave.' He continued to smile his sly, cruel little smile. 'But we were talking about the money. Where is it, my pretty?'
She thought of the soil on the garden path. He had only to look out of the kitchen window and he would know.
'We buried it in the garden last night,' she said through dry lips.
'How clever of you! I think I would have done exactly the same.' His eyes ran over her, lingered on her long legs, then he asked, 'All of it?'
'Yes.'
'Neither you nor your husband kept a few bills for your personal use?'
'No.'
'Very sensible.' He looked around the lounge and grimaced. 'As I intend to stay here for a month or so, my pretty, I must ask you to keep the place cleaner. It is very sordid, don't you think? I am used to cleanliness.'
Sheila felt blood rush to her face. Forgetting her fear of him, for this really touched her on the raw, she burst out, 'You go to hell. I don't want you here! I won't have you here!'
He regarded her, his snake's eyes suddenly cold.
'Oh . . . so you are still unco-operative?' He shook his head. 'What a pity.' His clawlike hand dipped into his pocket and he produced a small gun. He pointed it at her. Sheila drew in a hard, quick breath and pressed herself back against the chair. 'Well now, my pretty, perhaps after all, I had better teach you a lesson. This little gun contains a strong acid. It is extremely effective at short range. It can peel the skin off your pretty face the way you peel an orange. Look . . .' He aimed the gun at her feet and squeezed the trigger.
A tiny cloud of white smoke appeared at her feet. When it had cleared, she saw with horror a small hole had been burnt in the carpet. She reared back as the fumes of the acid bit into the back of her throat.
