In five days. If he came back . . .
“Where does he live?”
“I don’t know,” she said, nervously. “I’d have to look at the staff records.”
“And where are these staff records?”
“B—behind the desk.”
Osborne motioned her to find them. She obeyed while Doug looked on gloomily.
Will Tagaloa, the paper said.
Osborne stuffed it in his pocket and turned to the girl, still petrified behind her counter. “Did the police question you about the murder of Ann Brook?”
“No,” she replied.
“Really?” Osborne gave a nasty smile. “Now listen. If you lie to me once, just once, I’ll smash your face in. Did Ann Brook come here often?”
The girl felt an urge to urinate. “She . . . she came from time to time . . . Especially on Fridays.”
“Why Fridays?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she meet up with old friends here?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
With the grip of his gun, Osborne broke her nose. The doorman made as if to move, until he saw the barrel of the .38 aimed at his stomach.
“You, get out of here!”
Doug obeyed. The cloakroom girl was weeping hot tears, crouched at the foot of the counter, her hands clasped over her injured nose.
“I did warn you, you stupid bitch,” Osborne hissed. “Now answer me before I start on your teeth.”
She bent double, blood like lines on her fingers.
“There must be a good reason why the police didn’t question anyone here,” Osborne went on. “And that can only be because some very respectable people come here, but like to keep quiet about it. Did they come with Ann Brook?”
“No!” she said, entreaty in her voice.
“But did she know them?” he said, grabbing her. “Answer me, if you want to keep the rest of your face!”
She twisted a little on the carpet. “Yes,” she murmured.
“Who?” He was almost shouting.
She shook her head. “Lots of people!” Cornered against the foot of the counter, she didn’t know what to say anymore.
Osborne gave her a little help. “Who comes here? Michael Long?”
“Yes!”
The mayor’s advisor. A shiver went down Osborne’s spine. “Who else?”
“I don’t know,” the blonde stammered. “I can’t remember.” She covered her face with her hands as if to stop it falling to pieces.
“Samuel Tukao?”
“No!”
“Nick Melrose?”
“I don’t know anyone of that name,” she squealed. “I swear!”
The girl let herself fall full-length on the floor, almost rolling under the drapes. Osborne wiped the sole of his shoe on her dress. She writhed on the floor.
“How about O’Brian?” he growled. “Is he a regular, too?”
“Yes,” she moaned.
“The father or the son?”
“The sons!”
She burst into tears.
