Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 37, No. 1, July 1975

The Apple Orchard Murder Case by Joseph Payne Brennan

Mother Nature, Lucius Leffing knew, is a woman to be counted on, not trifled with. It was, of course, only natural for a man who hoarded every scrap of paper to find something deadly precious.

One September evening a few years ago, my investigator friend, Lucius Leffing, telephoned to tell me that he expected a prospective client to visit him the following day, adding that he would welcome my presence, if my work schedule permitted.

After lunch the next day, I drove over to Seven Autumn Street. When I was seated in his quaint Victorian living-room, Leffing leaned back in his worn but still comfortable Morris chair.

“The case concerns the murder of an old man which occurred about a month ago in the town of Cresswood, Connecticut,” he informed me. “I know little more than that. I have not yet agreed to accept the case. My caller is the murdered man’s sister, a Mrs. Lorna Kelvin.”

A few minutes later the door chimes sounded. Leffing introduced me to a middle-aged woman, grey-haired and somewhat too thin for her height, but fashionably-dressed and by no means unattractive. She was friendly but reserved in manner. She looked depressed and rather tired.

Leffing’s manner, courtly and considerate, appeared to lessen the tension which possessed her; she seemed to relax a little as she sat down and removed her gloves.

“Violent crime is so commonplace these days,” she began, “I don’t know if your local paper even mentioned the murder of my brother in Cresswood. He was an elderly eccentric, a sort of hermit I suppose you’d say, and I presume his murder wasn’t considered important enough for headlines.” She looked at him almost defiantly.

Leffing frowned as he racked his memory. “I do not recall the crime, Mrs. Kelvin. If the local paper carried an account, it seems unlikely that I would have missed it.”

Mrs. Kelvin nodded. A look of bitterness shadowed her face. “He was just an old man, living alone in a one-room cabin.” She bit her lip but quickly regained her composure.

“Since I know nothing concerning the case,” Leffing told her, “suppose you give me whatever details you possess. How and where was your brother murdered?”

“My brother, Franklin Selk, was strangled in an apple orchard on the outskirts of Cresswood. Apparently he had gone to the orchard to gather apples. He had been seen, carrying a sack of some kind, walking in that direction. The murder was brutal and entirely senseless. My brother had no money left — in fact, the town people can’t recall that he even carried a wallet. He lived in a — well, a shack, I guess you’d call it — and just managed to exist by doing a few chores and odd jobs for the people around there.”

She sighed and shook her head. “For years we — my brothers and I — tried to help him, but it was useless. Where money was concerned, he was like a child. He just lost it or wasted it and never seemed able to give a coherent account of what had happened to it. He went through his inheritance in a year or two.”

“Did your brother receive a substantial inheritance?” Leffing asked.

“My father was quite wealthy. After my mother had been provided for, all four children received fifty thousand dollars upon reaching the age of twenty-one. Franklin was the eldest and he ran through his money in no time at all, as I have just said. He got involved in all sorts of harebrained, speculative schemes. For years my two brothers and I tried to get him back on his feet financially, but it was useless. At length, as our own resources declined and our responsibilities increased, we gave up. We were merely tossing our money to the winds.”

Leffing was silent for some time. “A familiar and unfortunate state of affairs,” he commented at length, “but it certainly gives us no motive for murder!”

“That is what baffles us, Mr. Leffing. In spite of his meager mode of existence, Franklin was always amiable and friendly. Always likable. It doesn’t seem possible that he could have made any enemies. The people in Cresswood may have, well, made fun of him at times, but they were fond of him just the same. They were shocked at the manner of his death and really quite angry — but of course that is of no help to us.”

“Did the local authorities uncover any clues or any evidence which might suggest a motive?”

An expression of exasperation overspread Mrs. Kelvin’s face. “The coroner’s inquest decided that my brother had ‘come to his death my manual strangulation at the hands of a party or parties unknown’ — or some such routine jargon. I can’t recall it word for word. But in my opinion the police investigation was perfunctory. They poked around the orchard a few times, looked into my brother’s shack, asked us a few rather silly questions — and then dropped the whole matter. At least it would appear so.

“I believe their favorite theory is that a stranger, a hitchhiker probably, got into an argument with my brother and strangled him. They said the killer might have been ‘high’ on drugs. But we aren’t satisfied, Mr. Leffing, and that’s why I’ve come to you.”

At this point our visitor took a handkerchief from her bag and dabbed at her eyes. “In spite of my brother’s faults and his way of life, I loved him — we all did — and we want a thorough investigation. It was a horrible way for a poor old man to die. The thought of his murderer running around loose, enjoying life, makes me furious!”

For some minutes Leffing sat without speaking, his fingers tented together. “I will accept the case,” he said finally, “but it is only fair to warn you, Mrs. Kelvin, that I may be no more successful than your local police. If a psychotic hitchhiker killed your brother, he may be hundreds or possibly thousands of miles away by now. If he was a drug addict, he may not even have any memory of the murder!”

Mrs. Kelvin got up, visibly relieved. “I am aware of your reputation, Mr. Leffing. All the family asks is that you do your best. Your fee will be paid without question whether or not you succeed in tracking down the killer.”

After our visitor had left, my friend glanced at me quizzically. “Well, Brennan, what is your opinion of the case?”

“I hate to be eternally pessimistic, but I think you’ve taken on a tartar this time! The odds against a successful solution would seem to be astronomical!”

Leffing picked up an antique pearl-ware epergne and inspected it lovingly. “You may be right, but we can no more than try. In any event, no other business is pending at the moment. I’ll plan to get up to Cresswood tomorrow. Will you care to come along?”

“Name the time,” I told him, “and we’ll drive up together.”

Cresswood is a typical small New England town located in the northeastern part of Connecticut. Parts of it are picturesque and of great interest to antiquarians such as Leffing and myself, but the very center of the town is marred by a hideous new shopping-center surrounded by blistering acres of blacktop parking lots.

After signing in at the local hotel, The Carriage Care, we walked the few blocks to the police station and asked for Chief Warwick.

Warwick was a lean individual with a lined, leathery-looking face which remained somehow expressionless in spite of its many wrinkles. I judged him to be of retirement age, or nearly so. His close-cropped profuse grey hair stood up straight like so many little spikes.

After shaking hands, he motioned us to chairs and sprawled back in his own, his long legs stretched out under a neat metal desk virtually bare of papers or other impedimenta.

“I know Mrs. Kelvin isn’t satisfied with our investigation of old Franklin’s death,” he admitted, “but we’ve been as thorough as we know how. We just can’t come up with a suspect or a motive. Everyone in town liked the old man. As far as money goes — pshaw! If Franklin had a quarter in his pocket, it burned a hole before the day was over!”

Leffing nodded sympathetically. “I must agree you appear to have precious little evidence to act upon. You don’t object to a few questions however?”

Chief Warwick shook his head. “Fire away! We’d be happy to have you solve the case. It was a savage murder and we don’t like the idea of some psycho wandering around here.”

Leffing thanked him and resumed. “I understand the autopsy indicated manual strangulation. Were there any other injuries?”

“No other injuries. So far as we can reconstruct the crime, the old man was suddenly seized from behind and throttled to death within minutes. Whoever strangled him had strong hands. Crushing pressure was applied. A little more and I think his spine would have snapped.”

“And you can suggest no motive whatever?”

“I can’t suggest any motive that begins to make sense. There was one odd circumstance which I’ll mention, though I’m convinced it’s without significance. A woman who lives about a mile from the orchard, a Mrs. Conliff, saw old Franklin trudging along the road in front of her house carrying a sack or bag of some sort. She assumed, correctly I’m sure, that he was going to gather apples in the old orchard. Yet when we found the body, the sack was missing.”

The Chief leaned forward in his chair. “Can you seriously entertain the notion that anybody would kill a helpless old man for a sack of apples? Especially when there were still plenty left on the trees?”

“Murders have been committed for less, Chief, but I find it difficult indeed to believe that was the true motive in this case. Another question. Who owned the apple orchard? Whose property was it located on?”

“Town property and the town didn’t give a hoot who took the apples. Whoever got there first. The trees hadn’t been pruned or sprayed in a decade or more and the apples got worse every year. Small and wormy. Most years they rotted on the ground.”

“Who discovered the body and under what cirbumstances?”

Chief Warwick shifted restlessly. “Old Franklin wandered about quite a bit. After he wasn’t seen for a couple of days, I had Sergeant Quinn check his shack and then inquire around. Quinn questioned Mrs. Conliff, among others, and that led him to the orchard where he found the body.”

“Nothing in the way of clues was found either in the orchard or in the old man’s shack?”

“The orchard didn’t give us so much as a single hair, footprint, button, thread — or whatever. Old Franklin’s shack contains nothing but the bare essentials; a cot, table, two chairs, a few dishes and pots. In one corner we found a few books, newspapers and advertising circulars, plus a four-year-old Sears and Roebuck mail-order catalogue.

“Nothing was broken and nothing appeared to have been disturbed. If anybody ransacked the shack, they even managed to replace the dust! Dust coated everything except the cot, one chair and part of the table-top.”

“There does not appear to be much to work with!”

Warwick nodded vigorously. “Exactly! We tried to explain the complete lack of clues to Franklin’s family, but they wouldn’t listen. They seem to think you can solve a murder by waving some kind of magic wand!”

Leffing got up. “That day may come, Chief, but I fear it is still some distance in the future!”

Warwick smiled for the first time. He arose and shook hands with us again, wished us luck and promised to alert us at once if there were any new developments. He also loaned us a key which opened a padlock which the police had placed on the door of the murdered man’s shack.

After lunch at The Carriage Care, we drove out to the apple orchard where Franklin Selk had been found strangled.

The orchard, screened by unknown meadow grass and straggling sumac bushes, was not visible from the road. After pushing through the fringe of brush, we saw before us some twenty neglected apple trees spread over about an acre of ground. Fallen apples, grubby and half rotted, littered the ground. Bunch grass, juniper bushes and a few stunted birch saplings grew here and there.

As we walked toward the trees, a grey squirrel which was busily burying an acorn or some similar treasure, scampered away, scolding us angrily.

Leffing prowled about restlessly, inspecting the ground and peering up into the trees. I sat in the shade of one of the larger trees and leaned back against the trunk.

About a half hour passed before my friend finished his tour of the orchard. It looked to me as if he had peered at every blade of grass and every bush.

He seemed disappointed as he sat down nearby. “I suppose,” he suggested, “we ought to have a look in the adjacent fields, but perhaps that can wait.”

The orchard was surrounded on three sides by the scattered remnant of an old stone wall, fast sinking into the earth. Small trees and brush grew along this vanishing stone boundry, obscuring the surrounding terrain.

“That might prove quite a strenuous expedition,” I commented. “I assume Chief Warwick’s men have combed the nearby areas.”

“Such assumptions,” Leffing observed acidly, “are not always warranted by the facts!” He did not press the matter, however, and presently we went back to the car. “Where to?” I inquired.

“Our next stop is Franklin Selk’s shack. Let us hope we have better luck!”

The shack was located about two miles from the orchard on a grass-grown dirt road which ran off the main highway. It was a small dilapidated structure, patched and plugged with tarpaper, strips of roofing tin and pieces of unpainted plywood.

We unlocked the padlock and entered. It was just as Chief Warwick had described it, scantily-furnished, dust-coated, and yet more or less orderly in appearance. A stack of books, pamphlets and newspapers was heaped in one corner.

Leffing looked at everything with his usual deliberation. I waited patiently, but when I saw that he apparently intended to inspect each item in the stack piled in the comer, I strolled outside and sat down on a stump. The air in the shack was too hot and dust-laden for comfort.

He emerged after what seemed an interminable time and padlocked the door.

“Any leads?” I asked.

“I’m beginning to see what our client, Mrs. Kelvin, had in mind when she mentioned that her unfortunate brother ‘got involved in all sorts of harebrained, speculative schemes.’ He owned books on vanished pirate treasure, the Lost Dutchman gold mine, hidden uranium sources just waiting to be discovered, and so forth. There are any number of books and leaflets on treasure-hunting projects, equipment and devices.”

“Small wonder he dissipated his inheritance with that kind of adolescent approach,” I commented.

“He never grew up, I presume,” Leffing agreed. He turned and waved toward the forlorn shack as we walked away. “And this is what came of it.”

After dinner at The Carriage Care, we went up to our rooms. “I don’t want to be the proverbial wet blanket,” I said presently, “but we seem to have come up with precious little that will lead us to Franklin Selk’s murderer. Are we staying on after tonight?”

“I think another day would do no harm. For one thing, I want to look in on Mrs. Conliff.”

“Mrs. Conliff?”

“The woman who saw Selk walking toward the orchard. You will recall that Chief Warwick mentioned her. She lives about a mile from the orchard.”

I apologized for my poor memory and let it go at that. I found it hard to imagine that Mrs. Conliff could provide us with any constructive leads.

About mid-morning the next day we drove over to talk with the elderly widow who lived alone in a tidy frame house just outside the center of town. She was startled but not displeased by our unexpected visit.

She sat down with us in her rather cramped little living-room. “I’ve been so nervous since that terrible thing happened! Imagine a maniac like that prowling around here! Oh, I do hope you’ll find him out, Mr. Leffing!”

“We shall do our best, Mrs. Conliff! And now would you tell us exactly when and how you saw Franklin Selk walking toward the orchard the day of his tragic death?”

Mrs. Conliff brushed aside a straggling lock of grey hair and folded her hands on her apron. “It was a little before eleven o’clock in the morning. Just by chance I was sitting here sewing. I happened to look up and glance out the window. Mr. Selk was walking past. He was carrying a sort of greenish-colored bag over one shoulder. He didn’t look frightened or worried or anything. Poor man! And he was going to his death!”

“Was he walking slowly, at a brisk pace, or about as he customarily walked, Mrs. Conliff?”

She hesitated. “For an old man he usually walked along at a good average pace.” She paused. “I’d say, that morning, he was walking a little more slow than usual.”

“You say that he was carrying this green bag over his shoulder. Which shoulder?”

“His left shoulder.”

“Could you get a good clear view of the bag, Mrs. Conliff?”

“Well, not a good view, no. You see as he walked past here, heading south, his left shoulder was on the other side. I mean his right arm and shoulder faced my window here.”

Leffing nodded. “I see. I believe you and the police assumed that Mr. Selk was heading for the orchard to gather apples?”

She looked puzzled. “Well, of course! He was carrying the bag and they found him in the orchard. Everyone here knows that he scrounged around the fields and orchards for whatever food he could pick up.”

Leffing persisted. “Does it not strike you as somewhat odd that he should be carrying an empty bag over his shoulder? Do you think it possible, Mrs. Conliff, that the green bag was not empty? — and that was the reason he was carrying it over his shoulder and the reason he was walking more slowly than usual?”

Mrs. Conliff’s hand flew to her mouth. “Mercy sakes! I never thought of that!”

She pondered a moment and shook her head in bewilderment. “But if he was going to gather apples, Mr. Leffing, he’d go with an empty bag! Oh, I just don’t know what to think now!”

Leffing arose and patted her shoulder. “Do not trouble your mind about it, Mrs. Conliff. It may mean nothing at all. We are merely trying to follow through on every possible aspect of the case! So far, the pickings have been meager.”

She conducted us to the door, shaking her head. “I’m afraid I’ve just caused confusion, Mr. Leffing. I do so wish I could help!”

Leffing turned to thank her. “You may have helped immeasurably, Mrs. Conliff! Do not upbraid yourself for one moment!”

“I honestly can’t see that the bag business will get us anywhere,” I remarked as we drove off. “The old man may merely have been carrying a few sandwiches or a box of crackers and a container of tea!”

“You may be correct,” Leffing replied, “but it seems unlikely that such items would weigh so much he would walk more slowly than usual.”

I had to concede this point, but I could suggest nothing further.

After lunch, Leffing informed me that he intended spending a good part of the afternoon “rummaging around among the records” in the town clerk’s office.

I knew better than to question him, and since it was a clear, bright autumn day, I climbed into the car and started out on a leisurely tour of the surrounding countryside;

I arrived back around four o’clock to find my friend had already returned to our rooms. “Any luck?” I asked.

“It would not appear so. I thought that at one time a farmhouse might have stood in the apple orchard. I could find no reference to one. According to town records, the only building which ever existed there was a small schoolhouse. It burned down over fifty years ago, a few years after World War I, and was never rebuilt.”

“You are going ahead with the case?”

“Tomorrow morning, if it suits you, we will drive back out to the orchard. I want another, more careful look.”

I agreed readily enough, although when I recalled his previous inspection of the orchard, a further survey seemed pointless.

The next morning, after the dew had burned off, we drove back out to the scene of the murder.

Leffing, with a powerful magnifying glass in one hand, got down on his hands and knees like the traditional sleuth of fiction, and began a systematic search of the ground. I poked about among the trees, looking for the site of the old schoolhouse which had burned down so many years before.

“I can’t find a trace of it,” I informed Leffing a few minutes later. “Not a single foundation stone nor even a stick of charred wood.”

Leffing stood up to relieve his cramped muscles. “Hardly surprising, Brennan. The school stood on supports, with no cellar underneath. It was built almost entirely of wood. Probably the natives carried off whatever nails, metal and so on which could be put to further use. And that was over a half century ago.” He bent to resume his labors.

I sat down under a tree and munched on an apple which hadn’t yet started to rot. It was somewhat sour but not unpleasant tasting.

Although I didn’t time him, I believe Leffing spent at least an hour crawling about the orchard, magnifying glass in hand.

At length he appeared satisfied. He put away his glass and began humming an old-time English music-hall ballad whose title forever eludes me.

I knew this was a sign that he was “onto something”, or at least believed that he was, but he volunteered no information and I stubbornly refused to question him.

After we arrived back at The Carriage Care, he told me that he expected to spend a good part of the afternoon making various telephone calls.

Since the weather remained fine, I put on a pair of old shoes and started out on a rambling hike. It was a pleasant interlude; the air cool, the rolling hills edged with ochre and scarlet.

When I arrived back at The Carriage Care, late in the afternoon, Leffing was packing his bag.

“You have quit the case?” I asked.

“We can return to New Haven tomorrow, Brennan. I have turned all the facts over to Chief Warwick. I believe an arrest is imminent.”

I stared at him in amazement. “You have solved the old man’s murder then? I had no idea there was a suspect anywhere in sight!”

He smiled. “Had you observed my inspection of the orchard more carefully this morning, instead of prowling about among the trees, you yourself might have set your sights on the solution!”

I sprawled in a chair with a sigh of resignation. “Enlighten me, please! I watched you crawling around but I saw nothing except rotting apples and tufts of bunch grass.”

Giving his bag a final tug, Leffing sat down. “You know my methods, Brennan. You have the basic facts. Come, come, you must have some inkling, at least, of the solution!”

I shook my head. “I don’t have even the inkling of an inkling! Stop tormenting me, Leffing! What did you discover in the orchard?”

“I discovered what I should have noticed the first time we visited the orchard. That frisky squirrel, whose acorn burying we interrupted, put me off the scent!”

“What in blazes has the squirrel to do with anything?”

“The first time we looked about the orchard, I observed that in a few spots the turf appeared to have been torn up and then patted back into place. When I saw the squirrel secreting his acorn, or whatever it was, I concluded that all the little areas of disturbed turf could be blamed on the squirrel or his cohorts. This was foolish. I did not finally understand the significance of these broken patches until I had inspected the old man’s shack, talked with Mrs. Conliff — and made a second careful tour of the orchard.”

I groaned. “I still don’t see a glimmer of light.”

“You will recall, Brennan, that I mentioned the treasure-hunting books and leaflets which I found in the shack books about buried pirate jewels, gold mines and so on, and pamphlets describing equipment and devices which might be used in a search for such things?”

“Yes, I remember that.” I told him.

“Among the various pamphlets I noticed a recent sales catalogue issued by a company which specializes in mineral and metal detecting devices. Some of these devices are relatively light and portable, easily carried by one person.

“The discovery of this sales catalogue meant little to me until our talk with Mrs. Conliff. Her remarks convinced me that the murdered man was carrying something in his sack when he walked past her house toward the orchard.

“I was still uncertain that these circumstances held any meaning until our second trip to the apple orchard. I then observed what I should have seen the first time; that a good number of the broken turf patches were definitely not caused by a busy squirrel’s paws! In places the turf had been cut through in a straight line, and then carefully replaced. I submit that no squirrel could accomplish that!”

“You are saying, then, that old Selk had gone over the orchard with a mineral-detecting device?”

Leffing shook his head. “Not mineral, Brennan, metal! There are no worthwhile mineral deposits in this area.”

I frowned. “But what could he find? You said yourself that the only building which ever existed in the apple orchard was a schoolhouse which burned down half a century ago.”

“The long handle, on the newer models at least, disassembles into two or three sections. The disassembled handle, transmitter-receiver disc and battery box, could easily fit into an average-sized sack.”

“Do you think Amery trailed Selk to the orchard deliberately with the intention of seizing whatever the old man found?”

“Possibly — but I doubt it. No one in Cresswood, including Chief Warwick, seemed aware that Selk possessed a detector. Apparently the old man always carried it in a sack and used it only in out-of-the-way places which were not easily visible from the road.”

Leffing paused and resumed. “I think your Amery was just rambling around the orchard, probably filling his pockets with a few of the better apples, when Selk appeared with his detector. Unquestionably the detector fascinated Amery. He was probably quite friendly with the old gentleman — until Selk refused to hand over the nickel!”

Shortly after our return to New Haven, we learned that Leffing’s conjectures were entirely correct. After sulking for a few hours, young Amery finally confessed that he had strangled Selk when the old man stubbornly declined to sell him the nickel for five dollars. After taking the rare coin, he had disassembled the detector, stuffed it in the sack and pitched it down a deep gully about a mile away. Subsequently he had returned to Cresswood unobserved via various back roads and fields.

Following his confession, he led a searching party to the gully where he had tossed the sack. After some difficulty, the green canvas bag was located. Inside police found the disassembled detector along with an old chisel which Selk had apparently used for turf cutting and digging.

A few evenings after the confession, I lounged in an antique chair in Leffing’s gas-lit Victorian living-room at Seven Autumn Street while my friend stood at the sideboard, pouring two glasses of choice Folle Blanche cognac, cask-mellowed for thirty years.

“It’s certainly ironical,” I commented, “that after a lifetime of foolishness and failure, poor old Selk should have been strangled to death when he at last — literally — held a fortune in his hands!”

Leffing turned. “I have found, Brennan, that irony is one of the few consistent elements in many sad lives!”

I accepted a brandy with a shake of my head. “I don’t deserve this, you know — your best brandy. I advised you not to take the case and I’m afraid I discouraged you all the way!”

“On the contrary, Brennan! Your presence proved invaluable! And don’t concern yourself about my cognac supply. I have no doubt Mrs. Kelvin’s check will replenish my stock many times over!”

“Exactly right. I had hoped for a farmhouse, but I had to settle for a schoolhouse! However, I persisted. I reasoned that children running about near a schoolhouse over fifty years ago could have dropped coins which, though of little worth then, might have become quite valuable over the years. Apparently the same idea struck old Selk. At various times he must have talked to elderly residents of the town who mentioned the old schoolhouse.”

“How did you proceed from that point?”

“I telephoned the company which issued the sales catalogue and learned that Selk had indeed ordered a metal-detector from them only a few months ago. He was paying for it by the installment plan, incidentally, and was already in arrears on his payments.

“I then began telephoning coin dealers in nearby towns. After several unsuccessful tries, I spoke to a dealer in Manchester who told me that a young man from Cresswood, Charles Amery — a strapping six-footer — had walked into his shop with a coin which, as he expressed it, ‘made his head spin’!”

“What on earth was it?”

“A 1913 Liberty-head nickel!”

Leffing smiled at the blank look which spread over my face on hearing this.

“Until this latest find, Brennan, only five 1913 Liberty-head nickels were known to exist. There were all minted by mistake. They are, obviously, incredibly rare.”

“What are they worth?”

“One of them sold in 1972 for $100,000!”

“Surely you are pulling my leg, Leffing!”

“Absolutely not. The dealer in Manchester was stunned. Of course he didn’t have funds on hand to purchase the coin. Also, in view of the coin’s scarcity, he was immediately suspicious that it might have been stolen. Young Amery, an avid coin collector by the way, told him that he had found the nickel underneath a rotting board which he was replacing in his father’s barn.

“The dealer gave him a signed receipt for the coin, a down payment of one thousand dollars, and locked the coin in his safe. Amery, who was well aware of the value of the coin, insisted on eighty percent of the sum which the coin will bring in at a future auction or private sale, whichever takes place.”

“You believe that Selk found the coin in the orchard and that young Amery killed him to get it?”

“Exactly. Selk himself may not have realized the value of his find, but Amery’s excitement must have made him suspicious. Probably Amery tried to buy it from him for a nominal sum. When this failed, he strangled the old man, took the coin, and probably carried the metal-detector in the sack to some secluded ravine or gully and hit it from sight.”

“How could a long-handled metal-detector be carried in a sack? This has been troubling me since you first mentioned it.”