Taken at the Flood by Agatha Christie

cheques,” he said. “To be paid in notes!”
    â€œYou’ll have to give us time—to get hold of the money.”
    â€œI’ll give you forty-eight hours.”
    â€œMake it next Tuesday.”
    â€œAll right. You’ll bring the money here.” He added before David could speak, “I’m not meeting you at a lonely copse—or a deserted river bank, so don’t you think so. You’ll bring the money here—to the Stag—at nine o’clock next Tuesday evening.”
    â€œSuspicious sort of chap, aren’t you?”
    â€œI know my way about. And I know your kind.”
    â€œAs you said, then.”
    David went out of the room and down the stairs. His face was black with rage.
    Beatrice Lippincott came out of the room marked No. 4. There was a communicating door between 4 and 5, though the fact could hardly be noted by an occupant in 5 since a wardrobe stood upright in front of it.
    Miss Lippincott’s cheeks were pink and her eyes bright with pleasurable excitement. She smoothed back her pompadour of hair with an agitated hand.

Ten
    S hepherd’s Court, Mayfair, was a large block of luxury service flats. Unharmed by the ravages of enemy action, they had nevertheless been unable to keep up quite their prewar standard of ease. There was service still, although not very good service. Where there had been two uniformed porters there was now only one. The restaurant still served meals, but except for breakfast, meals were not sent up to the apartments.
    The flat rented by Mrs. Gordon Cloade was on the third floor. It consisted of a sitting room with a built-in cocktail bar, two bedrooms with built-in cupboards, and a superbly appointed bathroom, gleaming with tiles and chromium.
    In the sitting room David Hunter was striding up and down whilst Rosaleen sat on a big square-ended settee watching him. She looked pale and frightened.
    â€œBlackmail!” he muttered. “Blackmail! My God, am I the kind of man to let myself be blackmailed?”
    She shook her head, bewildered, troubled.
    â€œIf I knew,” David was saying. “If I only knew! ”
    From Rosaleen there came a small miserable sob.
    He went on:
    â€œIt’s this working in the dark—working blindfold—” He wheeled round suddenly. “You took those emeralds round to Bond Street to old Greatorex?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHow much?”
    Rosaleen’s voice was stricken as she said:
    â€œFour thousand. Four thousand pounds. He said if I didn’t sell them they ought to be reinsured.”
    â€œYes—precious stones have doubled in value. Oh well, we can raise the money. But if we do, it’s only the beginning—it means being bled to death—bled, Rosaleen, bled white!”
    She cried:
    â€œOh, let’s leave England—let’s get away—couldn’t we go to Ireland—America— somewhere? ”
    He turned and looked at her.
    â€œYou’re not a fighter, are you, Rosaleen? Cut and run is your motto.”
    She wailed: “We’re wrong—all this has been wrong—very wicked.”
    â€œDon’t turn pious on me just now! I can’t stand it. We were sitting pretty, Rosaleen. For the first time in my life I was sitting pretty—and I’m not going to let it all go, do you hear? If only it wasn’t this cursed fighting in the dark. You understand, don’t you, that the whole thing may be bluff—nothing but bluff? Underhay’s probably safely buried in Africa as we’ve always thought he was.”
    She shivered.
    â€œDon’t, David. You make me afraid.”
    He looked at her, saw the panic in her face, and at once his manner changed. He came over to her, sat down, took her cold hands in his.
    â€œYou’re not to worry,” he said. “Leave it all to me—and do as I tell you. You can manage that, can’t you? Just do exactly as I tell you.”
    â€œI