Fletcher looked up. His one eye burnt fiercely. “You don’t believe that rubbish, do you?” he said. “That’s what the police said.”
Jay shifted. “Well, what else could have happened to her? You don’t think she’s dead, do you?”
“I wish to God she was!” He beat his fist on his knee. “The Slavers have got her!” he shouted. “Do you hear? The Slavers have got her.”
“You don’t know that. You only think they have. There ain’t much of that stuff going on now. We’ve cleaned it up.”
“You’re wrong. It’s going on every day of the year. Decent girls leaving their homes and being trapped.
Decent girls forced into brothels. Any amount of them. And there’s nothing done about it. The police know all about it, but they keep their mouths shut. Anyone who gets to know about it is given money to keep his mouth shut.”
“You can’t talk like that unless you’ve got some proof. Why did you kick up that row at the 22nd Club?”
“Can’t you guess? Grantham’s working the racket.”
“You’re crazy. Grantham? Don’t talk bull.”
Fletcher lay back on his elbow. “I’ve been watching him,” he said. “One night, when the Club was closed, I saw a car draw up outside the Club. The street was empty. No one saw me. They took a girl out of the car. She had a rug over her head. Just as she got to the door she got the rug off and she screamed. They hit her on the head with something. They hit her very hard. I could hear the sound very distinctly from where I was standing. Then they carried her inside. You don’t think anything of that? Well, I’ll tell you some more.” There was a crazy gleam in his eye. “Another night I got on the roof. You’ve never been on the top floor of the Club, have you? Nor have I. But I’ve been on the roof. I’ve listened, lying on the tiles with my ear close to the roof, listening. I’ve heard things. I’ve heard girls screaming. I’ve heard the crack of whips. I’ve heard a lot of horrible things.”