Corpses in the Cellar by Brad Latham

see him staring at us sometimes, him
     sitting in the office, door open, watching us, eyes almost glowing back there in the dark.”
    “He never said anything to you?”
    “Why? Why would he say anything? That would be like admitting something to himself. Instead, he just watched us. I have to
     admit, I enjoyed seeing him do it, enjoyed seeing him squirm. I’d even go out of my way to talk to her, just to jam it to
     him. And then one night, I guess he’d had enough, and he canned me,” Claypool concluded, eyes bleak, and despairing.
    “Have you worked since?”
    “One night. Saturday. Made $3.50.”
    “Things are tight.”
    “I’ll manage. I always do.”
    Lockwood looked around him. There wasn’t much evidence of that. He rose. “Who do you think did it?” he asked.
    “Who else? Grand never left the club till four A.M. Always in the back, counting his money. So why’d he leave that night? What other reason?”
    “Anyone else you can think of doing it?”
    “Yeah,” Claypool said. “Yeah, everyone who ever worked for him. Only they’d have been goddamn sure first that the bastard
     was locked inside.”
    Before Lockwood was halfway out the door, Claypool had turned away from him, his face up to the mirror, staring at himself,
     staring with a ferocious intensity, anger and frustration written all over his face.

Chapter Seven
    Bill Lockwood fixed his eye on Mr. Gray, the head of claims at Transatlantic Underwriters. He wondered how many of Gray’s
     employees had thought of burning his house down—with their boss locked inside it. The concept, he decided, was an appealing
     one.
    “Bill—” Gray’s thin, annoyingly insinuating voice came at him—“Bill, I have to tell you, I’m doing all I can to protect your
     job.”
    Lockwood stared at him. “May I ask why?”
    Gray snorted genteelly and handed him a press clipping. “This.”
    It was a Broadway column. “Insiders wonder why Transatlantic Underwriters is stalling on forking out the insurance mazuma
     for the tragic fire at Mack Grand’s Palms nitery.”
    Lockwood looked at Gray. “So?”
    Gray’s lids dropped. Eye contact wasn’t his thing. Unconsciously, he began to fiddle with his gold pince-nez, a habit that
     invariably put a razor edge to Lockwood’s nerves.
    “So, Bill, the Board isn’t happy about this kind of publicity. They are made uncomfortable by any implication that Transatlantic
     isn’t prompt and just in its payments.”
    “There’s no such implication there,” Lockwood snapped. “You know what gossip columns are about. They don’t give a damn about
     insurance companies. They
do
give a damn about suspicious nightclub fires.”
    “Bill,” Mr. Gray started, doing his best to sound gentle and fatherly, unknowingly giving a fine imitation of Lizzie Borden’s
     dad, “you know that and
I
know that. But try to convince the
Board
of that.” His fingers were scurrying over the pince-nez again. “They want action, Bill. Mr. Immelman was all for pulling
     you off the investigation. I really had to fight him.”
    Lockwood stood there and looked at the man whom he knew had never fought a superior in his life. Again the directness of his
     stare made Gray fidget, look off into the distance, then to his desk. “Anyway, you’re all right for the time being,” he finished,
     lamely. “But you’ve got to get cracking on this, Bill, you really do.”
    “You know I’m doing the best job possible,” Lockwood told him, pulling out a pack of Camels and offering one to Gray, who
     curtly shook his head no. Lockwood smiled to himself, knowing Gray’s secret fear of germs, of anything that remotely resembled
     germs. When he lit up, he made sure the smoke drifted in Gray’s direction.
    “I
don’t
know that,” Gray dissented, unsuccessfully trying to avoid the smoke without tipping off his discomfort. “I haven’t seen
     any reports from you.”
    “I’m talking about the job I do for you every time you give me an