“I suppose so,” he said doubtfully, standing to one side. “It’s very late for business.”
“Better late than never,” Tim said for something to say.
We entered the passage and followed Maxison into the green-carpeted reception-room. The air in there smelt musty. There was also an odour of floor polish and embalming fluid, aromatic, sweet and sickening.
Maxison turned on a few more lights, and took up his stand by a large glass showcase full of miniature coffins.
“Now, gentlemen,” he said, pulling nervously at his faded purple and white tie. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m Chester Cain,” I said.
He took an abrupt step back, his hand jumped to his mouth. Fear made him look old and stupid. His thin, almost skull-like face turned the colour of ripe cheese.
“You don’t have to worry,” I said, watching him closely. “I’m here on profitable business… profitable business to you.”
His teeth began to chatter. “Please,” he stuttered, “you mustn’t stay here. I can’t do business with you…”
I jerked a straight-back chair towards him. “Sit down,” I said.