The Toff on The Farm

“Who?”

“A man who calls himself William Brandt, from Abilene, Texas,” said Grice. “Your guest, in other words. He could have killed both Lodwin and Habden, and he had motive, because he wants to buy the farm. He could be fooling the great Toff.”

“Oh, that’s simple,” agreed Rollison. “How?”

“Work it out.”

“Using the rest of the Lodwin gang to exert pressure on the Selbys, while he makes friends with Gillian on the side, so that if anything goes wrong he can get the farm that way.”

“At least you can still think,” conceded Grice. “Like to be present when we charge Brandt ?”

“With what?”

“Habden’s murder.”

“Poor Charlie,” said Rollison, as if sorrowfully. “Yes, I’d like to be there; I’d like to see how Tex handles a situation as bad as that. On the whole I think I’d be prepared for some surprises. Bill. He is an unexpected young man.”

“As Mome came to see you we guessed you’d fall for this job,” Grice said, dryly. “Your flat has been watched since mid-day, and we knew the minute this stranger arrived; obviously he’s Brandt. The flat’s been watched back and front ever since,” went on Grice. “I’d like to see him handle this situation!”

“So would I,” murmured Rollison, and sounded as if he meant it. “Bill.”

“Yes?”

“You wouldn’t know why everyone wants Selby Farm, would you? You wouldn’t know what makes it so valuable ?”

“I don’t know yet,” answered Grice, “but it’s one of the things I’m going to find out. Now, let’s go downstairs.” He pressed a button for the lift. “On the way, you can search your conscience and decide what you’re going to put in the statement you’re going to make when we all get to the Yard.”

“Me too?”

“You especially.”

The lift came up, and the doors opened automatically. Rollison stood aside for Grice to pass, then followed him, and Grice pressed the button for the ground floor. After a pause, the doors began to close.

“Well, I didn’t think I’d be reduced to this,” said Rollison. He beamed, shouldered Grice to the back of the lift, and squeezed out between the closing doors. He had to pull his arm free to let the doors close. He pressed the button of the other lift, saw the Lift Coming sign light up, and wondered whether Grice would go down, stop at the next floor or press an alarm button and come back here. In either case Rollison had only a few seconds grace.

The second lift opened.

He stepped in and pressed the sixth floor button, to take him three floors up, and as he waited while the doors closed and it moved, he took out a cigarette and lit it. His expression was very bleak. The lift stopped and the doors opened. He stepped out swiftly and hurried along a passage towards a window which overlooked the street, then pressed the door-bell of the nearest flat. There was hardly a pause before footsteps sounded. An elderly man holding a book opened the door.

“I’m so sorry to trouble you,” said Rollison, “but I need to make an urgent telephone call. I wonder if you’d be good enough to allow me to?”

“Why, glad to,” the elderly man said, and stood aside; as Rollison stepped past him, he closed the door.

16

WARNING

Tex Brandt was still fascinated by the Trophy Wall. He would read a newspaper, put it down, and step across and study the articles on it; the rope, some chicken feathers and a cuckoo clock which cucked bullets seemed to hold his attention most. He would switch on the television, watch for ten minutes, and then with the singing or the dancing, the talking or the acting going on behind him, he would return to the trophies. He would open a book, pour himself a drink, light a cigarette; and keep looking at the wall. Jolly came in to ask him if he would like some coffee. “Sure, let’s see how you can make it,” Tex said, and stood up, drawn as if by magic to the wall. “You didn’t tell me what that top hat is doing on the top of the heap,” he went on. “Is that a bullet hole through the crown?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jolly, “and the bullet actually tore away some of Mr. Rollison’s hair, but did no harm. It was the first souvenir, and it amused Mr. Rollison to hang it on a nail in the wall. Then this collection somehow grew of itself. I confess”—Jolly was talkative, which showed that he also liked the Texan—”I was not enthusiastic at first, it had a melodramatic touch, if I may put it that way, and a kind of flamboyance. However, Mr. Rollison is a little melodramatic, and he also has a touch of the flamboyant, so it was in character.”

“And now you approve?”

“You might say that I am the curator, sir.”

“Is that so? Do you keep a catalogue ?”

“Yes, sir. I have always felt that the time would come when an eminent biographer would like to write Mr. Rollison’s life story, and I felt that the least I could do was to keep a brief, detailed account of each of the causes celebres which are indicated here.”

“I’d sure like to see that catalogue.”

“I will have to obtain Mr. Rollison’s permission,” Jolly declared. “He is a little reluctant to allow anyone but his closest friends to see it.”

“So he’s not so flamboyant after all,” observed Brandt. He looked at his watch. “It’s after eleven, I wonder how much longer he’ll be?”

Then the telephone bell rang.

“With your permission I will answer it here, sir.”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

Now the Texan seemed as fascinated by Jolly, who was so doleful looking in repose, so full of vitality when talking about the Toff.

“This is Mr. Richard Rollison’s residence.” There was a brief pause, and then Jolly’s eyes kindled. “Yes, sir, he is still here . . . What is that, sir?” Jolly glanced at the American, and his manner changed noticeably. He listened intently, said : “At once, sir,” and put down the receiver quickly. “You are to leave immediately by the roof,” he told Brandt. “The police are on their way to arrest you. This way, if you please.”

Jolly did not utter another word, showed no sign of surprise or alarm, just turned and hurried out of the room, with the Texan close behind him. Yet Tex cast a last glance at the Trophy Wall. Jolly led the way along a narrow passage and into a spotless kitchen, where chromium and tiles seemed to live together harmoniously. He opened a door which led to another door, and then said : “Excuse me, sir, we had better put out the light.” He flicked a switch, and everything went into darkness. He opened the outer door, and the grey light of night filtered in.

“Step very cautiously here,” he cautioned. “It’s an iron fire escape.”

“Sure.” Tex’s voice barely disturbed the quiet.

There was a faint sound, like an echo, as they stepped on to the iron platform. The outline of the steps leading downwards showed clearly, and below there was a pale courtyard. A shadow which might be the figure of a man was stationary at one corner.

Tex followed Jolly closely, to the wall.

“There are iron rungs here, sir. If you climb up them you will reach the roof of the building. The best way to turn at the top is to the left. It is a light night, and you will have no difficulty in seeing where you are going. The houses are all’ terraced, but the ninth one along has a very narrow gap. You will find more rungs, like these, leading down from the roof at this side of the gap, and leading to the fire escape. Anyone watching this house will be behind you then, and you need only take reasonable precautions to get away.”

The Texan whispered : “Sure, I understand.”

“When you reach the ground, you will find the narrow gap between the houses on your right. Take that, sir. Turn left, and then left again. It will bring you into Piccadilly Circus, with which I imagine you are familiar.”

“Sure, I know Piccadilly Circus,” said Tex, in a strangely subdued voice; it was not simply that he was whispering, it was as if he hardly knew how to find words. “Let me make sure I have it right. I turn right at the top, I climb down at the house this side of the gap, I go into the gap, I turn left and left again, and I’m right in Piccadilly.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Fine,” said Tex, with a little more vigour. “Jolly, will you tell me one thing ?”

“If I can, sir.”

“Why is Mr. Rollison doing this for me?”

“I have no doubt at all that it will serve an admirable purpose, sir.”

“Which means you don’t know,” said Tex. “I guess I don’t know, either.” He took Jolly’s hand. “Tell him I think he’s a mighty fine guy, will you ?”

“I will, sir.”

Now Tex gripped his shoulder, and there was fierceness in his whispered words.

“I want him to get that message verbatim. You understand?”

“Perfectly, sir. In your opinion, Mr. Rollison is a mighty fine guy.”

Tex choked back a laugh.

He turned, and began to climb up the iron rungs, going very cautiously first, but much faster before he reached the top. Jolly waited until he had disappeared, and marvelled that he hardly showed himself against the grey sky; it was unlikely that he would have been seen from the ground, even if someone had been watching all the time.

Jolly went back into the flat, closed both doors, and turned on the light. Then he went into the kitchen, and began to get the morning tea-tray ready. He was putting the finishing touches to it when the telephone bell rang. He moved to an extension which was just outside the kitchen door, and lifted the receiver.

“This is Mr. Richard Rollison’s residence.”

A man said: “I want to speak to Mr. William Brandt, sir,” in a very clearly defined Southern drawl: so much of a drawl that it seemed almost affected. This was the American who had called before, and the drawl was very different from Brandt’s.

“I’m sorry, I know no one of that name,” lied Jolly.

“What did you say, sir?” The caller made the ‘sir’ sound like ‘suh’ and there was a sharper note in his voice.

Jolly repeated the answer.

“You must have made a mistake,” the American said. “I was talking to Mr. Brandt only this afternoon. He told me that he was staying at the apartment of an English gentleman, and that the gentleman’s name was Rollison. If you care to hold on a moment, I’ll spell that out to you.”

“There is no need I assure you,” Jolly said. “This is Mr. Rollison’s residence, and I am Mr. Rollison’s personal attendant, but I do not know a Mr. Brandt.”

“That 5a?” The man sounded astonished.

“Yes, sir. Mr. Rollison may be able to help you, but I don’t think he is likely to be in tonight. He might be in tomorrow morning. Would you care to leave a telephone number, so that he is able to get in touch with you ?”

“I guess I’ll call him again,” said the American, and rang off.

Jolly put the receiver down quietly, went back and finished the tea-tray, and then went to his own bed-sitting room, which was small but extremely well-furnished, and poured himself a whisky and soda: he used plenty of soda. He kept listening for sounds at the front door, but for a long time there was silence. Then he heard the expected footsteps, jumped up, and hurried to the door. He opened it before Rollison had his key out, and stood aside.

Rollison was with Grice, whom Jolly knew well. “Hallo, Jolly,” Rollison said. “Not in bed yet?”

“I was about to retire, sir.”

“I’ll have a look round before you do,” said Grice, and as he spoke two plain clothes men came up the stairs; it was obvious to Jolly that he was not doing this by halves. Grice looked grim, almost angry. He strode into the big room, ignored the Trophy Wall, then went into the spare room, next the kitchen, finally the bathrooms and Rollison’s bedroom.

Rollison and Jolly were together in the large room when he came striding in.

“Come on,” he barked. “Where is he?”

“If you mean Mr. Brandt, sir, he left some time ago,” Jolly answered promptly. “I understand that he was to stay here until Mr. Rollison returned, but he said that he had some urgent task to perform, and that he would call or telephone in the morning. If I’d known he should have been detained, sir, I would have done my best.”

Grice said harshly: “Roily, you’re a damned fool. That man’s almost certainly a killer. Where is he ?”

Rollison was meek.

“You heard what Jolly said. Bill.”

“If anyone else gets killed in this affair, you’ll be to blame,” Grice said. Jolly had seldom seen him nearer to losing his temper. “Now, let’s have the truth. How much do you know about this business? What’s the secret of Selby Farm?”

“If I knew that, I’d be on top of the world,” Rollison replied quite honestly. “Bill, I didn’t know a thing about all this until this morning. I know less than you. I told Brandt to come here, and he came, but he probably got worried because I was away so long.”

“You mean you telephoned him and told him to climb over the roof,” said Grice. “I ought to take you to the Yard for assaulting a police officer.”

“In a lift? With no witnesses? And when the so-called assailant was waiting downstairs for you, all ready to come quietly ?” asked Rollison. “Think again, Bill.”

“Roily,” said Grice, softly now, “you’re the man who ought to have second thoughts. The man named William, alias Tex Brandt, is a killer. I had that information over the radio telephone from New York this morning. That’s why I took so much trouble to make sure he couldn’t get away. That’s why I was going to hold him tonight. He’s wanted for several murders in America. He calls himself an inquiry agent, and once upon a time he had a licence, but he lost that when he first went to jail. He missed the electric chair by a hair’s-breadth. That’s the man you’ve befriended; that’s the man you’ve allowed to escape.”

It was almost the only time Jolly could remember seeing his employer look really taken aback. That showed in Rollison’s expression, in his eyes, in the way his mouth went slack. He recovered quickly, but that didn’t alter the fact that Grice had really shaken him.

Grice said: “I’ll let you stay here for the night because I hope he’ll try to get in touch with you. If he does, I want the Yard to know at once. Don’t take any more chances, because you might be the next one to get a knife between your ribs.”

Grice turned away, and went out, taking his two men with him.

“Jolly,” said Rollison, very quietly, “you’re slipping.”

Jolly stood looking at him, as he in turn looked at the Trophy Wall.

“I’m extremely sorry, sir.”

“You should keep a closer eye on me. You should have told me I was due for retirement months ago. All these souvenirs, and not another to add.”

“I shouldn’t be too despondent, sir.”

“You wouldn’t, but I think I should,” said Rollison. “I have been too slow and too late from the beginning of this affair, and——” he broke off and smiled faintly; and then actually chuckled. “Well, I didn’t exactly crawl this morning, but ever since then I’ve been running after suspects, peeking through keyholes, and generally trailing my coat. I haven’t answered the main questions either. Why has M.M.M. changed so remarkably? And why did two people try to kill him ? I’m beginning to see daylight—I think. But I really ought to take a nice long holiday. Yes,” he went on, his eyes kindling again, “a nice long holiday, perhaps down on a farm. How does it sound. Jolly ?”

“I think I ought to stay here, sir,”

“You’re probably right. Apart from getting our electric chair candidate away, have you done anything tonight?”

“Very little, sir. There was one message.” Jolly reported on the American’s second call, and then added : “I think you would be wise to stay here until hearing from Mr. Grice in the morning. If you leave now, then it might really exasperate him, and there is no point in being incarcerated, is there? It wouldn’t help anyone.”

17

DOWN ON THE FARM

“No,” agreed Rollison, slowly, “it wouldn’t do anyone any good if I were to be what you call incarcerated, Jolly, but have you weighed up all the pros and cons?” He sounded solemn and yet somehow more cheerful.

“I think so, sir.”

“You forget the vigour with which I poked my elbow into Grice’s ribs.”

“That would annoy him for the moment, but he is the last person in the world to bear a grudge. Whatever else,” added Jolly sententiously, “Mr. Grice knows that whatever you do is for the best, and he would not hold anything you did against you for long.”

“He has bosses,” observed Rollison.

“But he also has the power of discretion.”

“Jolly,” said Rollison, “I must rehabilitate myself. It must not be said that the pace of events out-ran me. I will not listen to reason. Come into my room, will you?” He led the way, a gleam in his eyes, and Jolly followed sedately, keeping a straight face when Rollison opened the wardrobe and took out a strangely ragged suit: it was a remarkable one, in that although it was clean, it looked filthy. Jolly took this from him and laid it out as carefully as if it had been the civil uniform for a royal garden party. As Rollison unfastened his collar and tie and began to slide out of his clothes. Jolly brought other things from the inner recesses of the wardrobe. Among these were thick, heavy shoes, a cloth cap which looked as if it had come from a stevedore who had been working on a collier, a white silk scarf and a striped shirt of the kind commonly bought at the smaller departmental stores. “You see,” went on Rollison, changing into these clothes dexterously, “Grice is not only annoyed, but he is sure that Tex Brandt is the murderer. He has good reason to be sure. He’ll be equally positive that I know all about Brandt’s wickedness, and yet want Brandt free to carry out some perfidious purpose of my own. To stop me, he’ll shop me, and probably pop me in clink.”

“As you have made up your mind, sir, there is little point in making alternative suggestions,” Jolly said mildly. “May I ask where you are going ?”

“No. You can even forget what I burbled just now. If Grice comes and wants to know, you can put your hand on your heart and say you know nothing. That might keep you out of quod, too. If Miss Selby, Mr. Selby or Mr. Morne call or telephone, you haven’t the faintest idea where I am, or where Tex Brandt is.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Oke,” said Rollison, and then he stooped down, opened a drawer which had been locked, and did a remarkable thing. Inside this box were two knives, attached to steel clasps. One he clipped round his right forearm, the other round his left leg, just above the calf. Had he made any fuss about this it would have been melodramatic, but he took it all for granted, and Jolly did exactly the same.

From the box Rollison also took what looked Uke a palm gun, not much larger than a pocket watch, and a small phial of slugs or pellets.

“And to think there was a day when I preferred to use lethal bullets,” he murmured, almost blithely.

“I’m not sure that you wouldn’t be wiser to have some now,” Jolly said.

“The gentlemen having killed twice and ruthlessly,” mused Rollison. “Yes. But I’ll make the cutlery and the gas pistol do, I think.”

“I wish you would tell me where you are going and what you propose to do,” said Jolly, and he managed to sound indifferent, although his anxiety crept through. “If you should need any assistance, I might be able to procure it.”

“Yes. I’ll telephone. This is a one-man job,” declared Rollison, “and if I’m right, even half a man would be enough to do it.” There was a glint in his eyes, and evidence of a remarkable change in the last ten minutes : as if he had lost ten years, and full youth was his again. “I’d better nip off before Grice arrives. Behave very nicely with him, and don’t aggravate the situation.”

“Be sure I won’t, sir.”

Rollison left the flat by the same way as the Texan, moving much more quickly. He could not be sure whether the roof was watched now: he was sure that no one followed him when he reached the ground again, and then strode towards Piccadilly. No one who knew Rollison would have dreamed that the big, burly man with the patched clothes and the cloth cap pulled low on his eyes, was the Toff in person.

It was not surprising that he travelled first by Tube to the East End of London, for that was where he obviously belonged.

Old Smith sat in the kitchen of Selby Farm, staring at the red glow of the wood fire. He was warm in front and cold behind, but he hadn’t stirred for the past half hour, and it looked as if he was asleep.

Now and again, embers settled.

Outside, he knew, there was a policeman patrolling the farmhouse garden. Now and again he passed so near the window that his footsteps were clearly audible. Apart from that, there was no sound. The blinds were down, for Old Smith had been frightened of burglars for many years, and gave no-one a chance to glance inside and see his loneliness.

Occasionally his lips twisted in what might have been a smile, and as easily a spasm of indigestion.

Suddenly, he got up, went out of the kitchen into the big front room, went to the window, moved the blind a fraction, and peered out. He could see a light in the sky, and knew that car headlamps were still on near the cottage, with the proof that the police were still there. He let the blind fall and returned to his chair, dropped heavily into it, and then took out a large silver watch from his fob pocket, thumbed the glass, and peered at the hands. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning.

He yawned.

Then he heard a creak of sound and darted a suspicious glance towards the ceiling. The creak wasn’t repeated. He continued to glare upwards until his head drooped, and his chin almost touched his chest. His breathing was heavy and rasping, now and again he snored.

He was not aware of the man who appeared in the doorway, silent as a wraith but nothing like a wraith to look at. In fact he looked like an East End dock worker who had lost his way. He stared at the old man’s bowed head and bent back, and smiled faintly at the snoring. He stepped closer, taking the palm gun out of his pocket as he did so.

He stood looking down at Old Smith, who had been so adamant about leaving Selby Farm.

“Now why don’t you want to leave, Smithy?” asked Rollison, and continued to stare at the old man’s head. He asked the question silently, and the only sound was Smith’s breathing. The night was silent, too. Rollison had got in at a window. He had seen a policeman in the garden, but the man had been easy to evade. In the morning he would get into trouble from Keen or Bishop, but he would get over that.

Rollison moved the palm gun until it was just at the side of Smith’s face, and pressed the trigger gently. There was scarcely a hiss of sound, and no more vapour than there would have been from an atomiser. The old man paused in his breathing once, and after that appeared to breathe steadily and silently,

Rollison put the gun back into his pocket.

He stepped to the back door, and saw that the huge key had been turned in it, and that it was bolted and chained. With extreme care, he drew bolts and pulled the chain out, then turned the key: and the turning made the greatest sound. He opened the door a fraction and listened, but saw no sign of the patrolling policeman, nor did he hear him. He stepped into the garden, and drew the door to behind him, without closing it. He looked towards the cottage. No lights showed above the trees now, for except for a guard back and front, much more thorough than the guard at the farm, no police were there.

Footsteps sounded.

Rollison waited in the dark shadows. The policeman, in plain clothes, was angled for a moment against the sky. He drew nearer, glanced at the door, but did not think of trying it or of going nearer.

He passed, slowly.

Rollison went back inside, hurried to the old man, and lifted him bodily: Smith did not stir or make a sound, he was in a drugged sleep now. Rollison took him outside and across the farmyard with its earthy and its animal smells. Just behind a gate in a nearby field there was a rustle of sound.

“That you, Mr. Ar?” a man inquired in a rich Cockney voice.

“Hallo, Sam,” said Rollison. “How would you like to be a farmer?”

“Not so-and-so likely, the smell’s more’n enough for me,” said the man named Sam. “I’ll buy me eggs from the shop, ta. Got ’im?”

“Yes. Take him and look after him well, he might be precious,” Rollison said. “You know where to go with him.”

“Everything’s okay, Mr. Ar,” said the man named bam, and another man appeared by his side and echoed : “Sure, it’s okay.” Rollison handed over the unconscious man, and then stood and watched the two men from London’s East End as they carried Smith on a chair which they made with their arms, until the strange little group disappeared from his sight.

Ten minutes afterwards, some distance off, a car engine started up, whined for a few moments, and then moved off; but oddly, there was no light in the sky to show the beam of head-lights.

Rollison turned back to the garden. The policeman was on the way round again, and this time smoking a cigarette : the smell of tobacco smoke came temptingly, but Rollison resisted temptation, and waited until the man was round the nearest corner. Soon he went to the kitchen, locked up as securely as Old Smith, then turned out the oil lamp and, using a torch, went up the narrow stairs. He had seen the condition of the farmhouse during the day, and knew that it was messy enough, but he pulled off his boots, loosened his collar and tie, then sat down in an old armchair, and closed his eyes.

“Six o’clock should be early enough,” he said in a soft whisper. “I’ll wake at six.” Soon, he was asleep.

He slept with the door open, and the knowledge that he would wake at the slightest sound, for the years had taught him how to be asleep one moment, and wide awake the next. No sound disturbed him. At two minutes to six by the watch on his wrist, he began to stir, his eyelids flickered, and he moistened his lips. At one minute past six he opened his eyes wide and stared about him : then grinned.

“I’ll bet there’s no hot water,” he said, and pushed back a blanket he’d pulled over him, and got up. He washed in cold water, but made no attempt to shave. He put a kettle on the oil stove downstairs, and then went into Smith’s room and examined his wardrobe. It wasn’t extensive, but there were two jackets and three pairs of breeches. He found the breeches a little too big round the waist but the Norfolk jacket wasn’t a bad fit. He took off his scarf, but did not put on a collar and tie : Old Smith didn’t wear one.

Smith’s shoes were much too small for Rollison.

“Mine’ll have to do,” he said aloud, and then pulled his own cap over his head, for he could not persuade himself to wear the old man’s. By the time he had finished, the kettle was singing downstairs. He made himself tea, found biscuits and ate two, and then went into the big room. He pulled the blinds up sufficient to allow light in, but not to permit anyone to see inside, and then he began to search the room.

A squad of police would not have been more thorough.

He moved furniture and pictures, stepped inside the huge fireplace, put his head up the chimney, and tapped the inside walls. He felt every wall for loose bricks or loose plaster, and tapped the floor of the fireplace, too. Everything seemed solid. He went down on his knees and tested the floorboards, seeking any evidence that one had been taken up lately. He found none. He studied the furniture, trying to judge if any had a false drawer, or other secret hiding-place. All this took him over forty minutes, and at the end of it he was frowning.

“That’s one blank,” he said sotto voce, and then went into the kitchen and did exactly the same thing.

He found nothing.

He searched the pantries and the cupboards, then turned his attention to the stairs. There was a narrow cupboard underneath them, but it contained only a few old boxes and old clothes. The floor was solid, and looked as if the boards had been undisturbed since they’d been laid, over a hundred years ago.

“Two blanks,” he said, a little less cheerfully, as he went upstairs.

At half past seven he had finished his search of the farmhouse, and had found nothing to explain the sensational interest in it. He was hungry as well as disappointed when he went downstairs. He drew the blinds a little, so that anyone who wanted to see inside would have to come close to each window, and then went into the kitchen, opened the back door, and hobbled out, shoulders bent and head towards the ground. A man called : “Good morning, Smith.”

“‘Morn’n,” Rollison grunted, without looking up. He shuffled across to the hen coops and unfastened them, and was on his way back when the first hen was sprawling about the muddy yard. The policeman who had spoken came no nearer. Rollison went back into the kitchen and closed the door. Out of the line of vision of anyone at the window, he straightened up, and raided the larder. There were plenty of eggs, a piece of bacon, bread, butter, everything he wanted. He found the frying slow on the oil stove, but eggs and bacon as succulent as Jolly’s at his best. The bread was stale and chawy, and he missed toast. He brewed strong tea, pondering the mystery all the time, and wondered how long it would be before someone called.

He couldn’t face the scrutiny of anyone who knew Smith, or even of anyone who knew that he was old, but the half-drawn blinds made it so gloomy in here that he might get away with a brief encounter.

One question was on his mind all the time. If the value of Selby Farm wasn’t in the farmhouse, where was it?

He was fooling himself, of course; there was no way of being sure that he’d searched everywhere. The roof might hold the secret. If he took up the floorboards in any room he might find what he wanted. That was like asking for the moon.

He wondered where Brandt was : who was the American who had telephoned the previous night: what Grice was thinking, and more important, what he was planning to do ? He wondered how well Gillian had slept, and where she was now : and whether she was with her brother and M.M.M.

Peculiar character, Montagu Montmorency Mome.

Rollison was picturing M.M.M. telling him that he wasn’t wanted, when he heard the sound of a car engine. He hurried to the front room to peer out, and saw Morne’s car. Getting out of it was Gillian, and at the wheel was M.M.M. himself.

The police wouldn’t be far behind.

18

FORLORN HOPE?

ROLLISON would not be able to fool Mome, and dare not let the girl come face to face with him. He saw Gillian’s pale face, and guessed from the brightness of her eyes that she hadn’t slept much. M.M.M. looked pale and tired, too. He was getting out of the car clumsily, and Rollison thought back to the accident, and wondered whether the change in him had started from the time of that dread happening.

Gillian had come on ahead, and was at the door and out of Rollison’s sight. She knocked. Odd; one would have expected her to go to the back entrance for she knew Smith well enough. She knocked again, as M.M.M. called out:

“The old devil will pretend he can’t hear. Go round to the back.”

“He won’t talk to me if I do, he’s always ordered me to knock at the front door.”

‘‘Ordered you,” choked M.M.M.

“It isn’t any use getting bad tempered or blinking at facts,” said Gillian, in a voice which suggested that she would easily get out of patience. She knocked again, and this time Rollison stepped towards the door, banging against a chair to make sure that Gillian knew he was coming. This door was bolted. He opened it a fraction, but left it on the chain. He could just see the girl, as he stood on one side. She seemed to expect to be kept waiting there, and said quite patiently:

“Mr. Smith, please open the door. I want to talk to you.”

Rollison said in a harsh, sour voice : “Well, he can’t.”

“Please open the door,” said Gillian, with a pleading note in her tone. “I’ve got to talk to you.”

“I’ve told you I’ll never step outside this house while I’m alive, when I’m dead he can carry me out,” Rollison said, mumbling, and hoping that it sounded like Old Smith talking ; certainly the girl seemed to suspect nothing amiss.

“You’ve got to be reasonable,” she said, and it was even more obvious that desperation and fear had driven her here. “My brother’s in grave danger, and “

“It’s naught to do with me.”

“Mr. Smith, please listen to me !”

“I’ve listened to the nonsense from you and your good-for-nothing brother for too long already, why don’t you go and talk to someone who wants to hear from you.”

“You’re going to open that door and you’re going to listen to me,” Gillian cried, and Rollison had never heard her more shrill, was glad that anger had broken through, “Don’t stand there behaving as if you were a lunatic. Alan’s in deadly danger, and you’ve got to help him. Get that into your head.”

A murmur from outside sounded like M.M.M. saying: “That’s better,”

Rollison had to slam the door and refuse to talk any more, or else make some kind of a gesture. He wanted to know what Gillian had to say, and there seemed only one way of finding out.

He mumbled : “Say what you have to say, I’ll listen to you,” but he didn’t open the door, and leaned back against a chair so that Gillian couldn’t possibly see him. He wondered what she felt like, standing so close to the door and yet shut out: and what M.M.M. was doing : and whether the police were within earshot.

He could hear the girl’s heavy breathing, as if she was trying to regain her temper.

“Please listen very carefully,” she said, at last. “My brother has been threatened with murder—do you understand, murder—unless I sell this farm with vacant possession. You must leave here, Mr. Smith. We will pay you anything you ask, we will even buy you another farmhouse if you want it, but you must leave here.”

“I will, when I’m dead,” Rollison said harshly. “Don’t come whining to me with a lot of lies.”

“But they’re not lies! Alan told me this last night. Mr. Morne and I left him in a drugged sleep, hiding—hiding from his enemies.” How true was that? “Mr. Smith, I’ve come to beg you to do what I ask. I’ll give you everything I possess, if only you’ll leave the farm.” Rollison didn’t answer.

M.M.M. said roughly : “It’s no use banging your head against a brick wall. If I could get in there I’d knock some sense into him.”

The girl was almost in tears.

“Mr. Smith, you mustn’t stand out any longer. I can’t do more than I have.”

“Come back again tomorrow morning,” Rollison said abruptly, and tried to sound like Smith at his harshest. “I’ll think about it.”

He heard the girl draw in a sharp breath. “But we can’t wait until morning!” M.M.M. protested angrily,

“Mr. Smith,” said Gillian, and there was a new note in her voice, as of hope replacing despair, “will you let me come and talk to you this evening? I’m so worried for Alan, and I daren’t leave it any longer.”

“A’right,” Rollison conceded. “I’ll expect you at six o’clock.”

She said: “Thank you,” in a way which was oddly touching, and then there was a pause before the sound of footsteps suggested that she was walking away. Rollison went closer to the door. She was moving towards the car, and M.M.M. had his arm round her, but not very tightly. It was easy to believe that Gillian was crying. It was as easy to believe that she felt sure that her brother’s life depended on getting the farm house empty, so that she could sell it. Whatever the police had said, whatever offers she had had of larger sums of money, and in spite of his, the Toff’s, advice, Gillian Selby would sell the farm in order to help her brother.

Did it make sense ?

Who would buy it ? Who dare buy it, in view of what had happened? The police would be after a purchaser like a flash, and even if he was a cover for the principal, they would soon get to the real man.

Wouldn’t they?

Rollison heard the car move off, with M.M.M. driving, and a moment afterwards saw two plain-clothes men step from a corner of the farmhouse; so the police had heard every word. One of them hurried across towards the cottage, which was cut off by the trees, as if to take his report to the policeman in charge.

The other went off on his patrolling again.

Rollison knew a little more. Alan Selby was still free, and it looked as if he would remain free for a while, to give his sister a chance to sell the property. Whoever had released him had taken a big chance—or else they had known their man, and were sure that Selby wouldn’t fight.

Why wouldn’t he ?

Was he just a craven, or had someone been working on his nerves for a long time ?

Rollison walked briskly to the kitchen and then into a big larder-like cupboard where he had seen a good set of carpenter’s tools. He selected a screw-driver, a saw, a claw hammer, a brace and bit and some oil, and went back to the big front room. This time he really meant to search it so that there could be no possibility of a mistake.

But within half an hour, he felt sure that there was nothing buried under this floor.

He went moodily into the kitchen, sat in the old man’s chair, ht a cigarette, and studied the floor there. He had seldom felt so nearly despondent, seldom been without a real clue. Usually he could guess at the truth, even if he couldn’t prove it. Now his own mind as well as the circumstances seemed to be going round in circles.

He noticed the flagstoned floor was very uneven, especially in one corner. He looked at the wall, and saw that there was a pale patch in the plaster. He stared at this for some minutes, then stood up and went closer. About a dozen flagstones were raised higher than the others, and he scrutinized the little gaps where they were fitted together. These had been cemented in much more recently than most of those in the rest of the room. Rollison began to feel a glow of excitement, but before he did anything to the stones, he went to each window and looked out.

The plain-clothes policeman was standing and talking to a uniformed constable by the farmyard itself, and two white leghorns were pecking close to their feet. No one else was in sight. Rollison chose the longest and strongest screw-driver in the tool drawer, and then went to the raised flagstones. He dropped a cushion on the floor, because the cold stone was hard on his knees. He scraped at the cement pointing, but quickly realised that he would get no result that way: it didn’t crumble at all.

He used the screw-driver as a cold chisel, and hammered the handle. He chipped a little away, but knew that he couldn’t do that for too long, because it would be heard outside. He spent five minutes at it, and had about half an inch clear of cement. Once he was able to get some leverage, he might get a stone up without too much difficulty.

He was sweating.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and then stood up, to ease his legs; and as he did so, he saw a shadow move in the doorway between here and the larders and pantries.

Pretending to notice nothing, he took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead more thoroughly. Then he stepped to the window, as if for a rest. He heard no sound except the crowing and cawing, the grunting and the movements of the farmyard. A pig appeared on the overgrown lawn at the back, as if it owned the place. Rollison stared at the glass of a picture near the window, watching the doorway.

A man appeared.

He was standing quite still. Rollison could not see what he looked like, could not even be sure that he was a big man, for the glass distorted. But he was there. He was moving, creeping forward. Creeping. Rollison could see as well as sense the stealthy approach, and he stood there very tense.

What did the man have in his mind ?

That wasn’t the only question, although it was the most urgent. How had he got there ? A policeman wouldn’t have allowed him to pass. In any case, back and front doors were locked and the windows were closed, too.

What did he have in his hand?

It looked like a piece of rope.

Why rope ?

How had he come in ?

And remember—he was coming stealthily upon the man he believed to be Old Smith, he couldn’t suspect that it was anyone else.

Could he?

He was half way across the room, and now Rollison knew that it was thick string in his hand; at closer quarters, the window glass did not distort so much. The man was still fearful of making a sound, and moved with remarkable silence. He was biggish, youngish, plumpish.

He held the string stretched between his hands, thrust out in a way which now made his purpose quite unmistakable. He was coming to twist that rope round ‘Smith’s’ neck, and probably to pull it tight until the life was choked out of the old man.

Why?

How had he got in ?

He was raising his hands, and it was obvious that he was coming in a moment. One leap, one twist, and he would expect an easy victim.

Rollison tensed himself, and then swung round.

He didn’t know the man, and had never seen him before. He saw the hard face take on a look of unbelief, saw the big mouth gape open. The man leaped forward in a desperate effort, but something checked him, and he didn’t finish his attempt. In the split second before Rollison hit him, he looked as if he was seeing a ghost.

Rollison’s fist caught him beneath the chin, and actually jolted him off his feet and sent him falling backwards. He struck the back of his head against the stone floor, and the dull thud told its own tale. He sagged, his head lolled to one side, and there was no pretence; he was unconscious.

But . . .

How had he got in?

19

WAY IN

ROLLISON Stepped over the unconscious man, to the door, and then into the passage which served the larders and the pantries. He felt a draught which he hadn’t noticed before. The obvious explanation was a forced window, of course, although all the windows here were small, and the man biggish, if not actually hefty. Then Rollison stopped short.

The door of a fruit storage room was open, and he could smell the sharp, almost cidery smell of last year’s apples; he had already seen some wrinkled and brown, on the shelves. He didn’t see so many, now. Part of the shelving and part of the wall had swung open, so that there was a hidden doorway. It hinged at a comer, and it wasn’t surprising that he had not found it.

Beyond, was darkness.

Rollison went back, made sure that the man was still unconscious, then came back. He stared down into a hole large enough even for a big man, and to three or four steps which looked as if they were made of cement. A fresh breeze was coming up the steps, nothing was dank and smelly. He went back again, found the string which the man had held out ready to strangle him, cut it in two, and bound the wrists and ankles. Now he had a little time to spare. He felt the choking excitement which often came with a discovery as he crouched down and entered the little staircase.

He shone his pencil torch.

There were cobwebs, and the walls were rather damp, but that was all. He had to bend his head very low so as to get along. Then the torch light fell on a wall in front of him, and revealed a comer. He turned this, and saw daylight coming from a hole about head height. He reached the hole and, moving with great care, hauled himself up so that he could see about him.

There were the trunks of trees, some undergrowth, some grass. This came up in the middle of the copse which made a kind of wall between farmhouse and cottage. No one else was near. The copse stretched for some distance, and anyone who kept his eyes open would be able to approach it from one side without being seen and, even with the leaves off the trees, reach the hole without being observed.

It was a discovery, but not the one which mattered most.

At one side of the entrance was a square of wood with earth and dead leaves on it. Rollison pulled this over the hole, and it left him in near darkness. He used his torch again, then found his way back to the storage cupboard and the door which he hadn’t seen. He examined it, and saw that it could be opened from the inside as well as from the outside. He closed it, and went back to see if his prisoner had started to come round.

As he reached the kitchen, a trick of the light seemed to throw a shadow, as of a knife, on the man’s chest, Rollison had a bad moment, and his heart thumped. Then he drew nearer, and saw that there was no knife. He went down on one knee, and began to go through the man’s pockets. His wallet contained only money: no driving licence, nothing to give his name away. He carried keys, two handkerchiefs, a comb, two studs, and a freshly opened packet of American Camels, with two books of matches. The cigarettes indicated nothing, but the book matches carried an American Motel slogan—

The Best in the South Atlanta’s Biggest Motel Rollison stood up, the matches in his hand. They proved little, but they could mean a lot. A man with a southern accent threatened both him and Morne, and had telephoned Jolly, asking for Brandt, someone who knew that Rollison and Brandt were together on this; and here were matches, which looked fresh and new, as they would if they had been brought from the motel only a day or two ago.

Yet this man’s clothes and appearance were as English as could be.

Rollison eased him over on his side, and examined the bruise at the back of his head. The skin was broken, but there was a little bleeding, nothing to suggest that it was too serious, but he was likely to be unconscious for some time longer.

Rollison went to the secret doorway, blocked it so that it couldn’t be opened from the tunnel and stairs, and then went back to the flagstones. As he banged and chipped, his chief worry was the noise—if he kept it up too long, the police outside might come to see what the ‘old man’ was doing. The chance had to be taken. In ten minutes, enough cement was out of a crevice to push the end of the chisel down into the earth below, and Rollison began to lever at a slab.

The screw-driver steel bent, slowly, softly, uselessly. Rollison drew back, unsmiling. He needed a spanner or a crowbar. He needed a lot of things—including news from outside—but above everything was the secret hidden beneath this floor.

The man behind him grunted.

Rollison turned to look at him. The man’s eyes were flickering and his lips moving, as if they were very dry. Rollison fetched water in a cup and moistened his lips, and knew the moment that the other really came round : the sudden tension in the body and the hands, the abrupt tightening of the lips, told their own story. Then he tried to free his ankles and wrists but realised that he hadn’t a chance. He opened his eyes wide and stared at Rollison’s face, and the fear was deep in him.

“All you have to do is answer questions,” Rollison said, and gave that a moment to sink in. “Who sent you to kill Smith?”

The man gulped, and his eyes showed the same kind of bewilderment as they had just before he had been knocked out.

“You—you’re not Smith,” he said hoarsely.

“You’ve got that right. Now don’t waste time : who sent you to kill Smith?”

The man began to breathe very hard.

“I didn’t come to kill him, he wouldn’t be any good if he was dead. I came to scare the wits out of him.”

“That might sound good in court, but it doesn’t make much impression on me,” Rollison said sharply. “Who “

The man cried : “You’re the Toff !”

“That’s right, but I don’t feel like one at the moment. I feel like breaking your neck.”

“Where—where’s Smith ?”

Rollison said: “All right, you really want trouble.” He glanced round as if for a weapon, and the hammer was within reach. He stretched out for it, and the man’s body seemed to give a convulsive leap.

“No, don’t hit me, don’t hit me !” There was the voice of fear. “I had to come and frighten Old Smith into doing what we wanted.”

“Who are ‘we’ ?”

“The—the boss and me.”

“Who’s the boss?”

“Will Brandt,” said the helpless prisoner, who looked too terrified to lie. “Will Brandt’s the boss, he wants the farm. After what’s happened, he wants to buy it in Smith’s name. That way he would be able to get it without trouble from the cops. Don’t stare at me like that!” The man’s voice rose so loudly that Rollison was afraid that he might be heard outside. “I tell you Brandt’s the boss.”

That made Grice right. Which made the Toff wrong.

“Now you’ve started, keep it up,” urged Rollison, and he weighed the hammer in his hand as if wondering whether it would be a good idea to use it after all. “You came to soften up Old Smith and make him buy the farm as a cover for Will Brandt of Abilene, Texas, is that it?”

The prisoner said : “If you know where he comes from, how much more do you know ?”

“Enough to be sure when you’re lying,” Rollison replied. “Why is he so anxious to get the farm ?”

He was watching the other closely, and saw the change in his expression. For a few minutes, fear had faded, as if he knew that there was nothing to fear provided he answered questions. Now, the fear was back. His prisoner spoke flatly, and it was obvious that he didn’t expect to be believed.

“He never told me,” he said. “It’s no use asking me that you could break every bone in my body, and I wouldn’t be able to tell you. All I know is that he’s had a spy watching the Selbys, he knows every move they make. I just don’t know anything else.”

“You know other things. What’s your name?”

“Freddie Littleton.”

“Were you with Brandt in Atlanta recently?”

“Sure. We flew from New York three days ago.”

“What were you doing with him ?”

“Rollison,” said the man who called himself Littleton, “he’s a buyer of all kinds of jewellery, and he isn’t particular where it comes from—and I know my way about. I’ve been going to and from America with jewels in my baggage for over a year now. Will gets a better price than I could get here.”

“Do you steal them first ?”

“Don’t make me laugh,” Littleton said, and he did in fact give a little giggle. “I’m on the receiving end. I don’t take big chances. I buy from the bright boys in this country and take the stuff over to the States, and Will sells it there. That way I pick up five thou, a year and all expenses.” He was sweating a little now, but the fear seemed to have gone for good : as if he thought that Rollison believed he did not know why Will wanted the farm so badly.

“I should think the police would like to know about you,” Rollison murmured.

“I’ll take my chance with the cops,” Littleton said, quite perkily. “You can’t prove anything against me.”

“Freddie, you’re quite a bright boy yourself. Be brighter. Where is Brandt now ?”

“Don’t ask me. He went off on his own yesterday morning, and called me by telephone a couple of hours ago. Maybe it’s three hours now. He had some other people working for him, but they fell down on the job. So he told me to come down and soften up Old Smith, that’s all I came here for.”

“You told me that once before,” said Rollison. “What about Lodwin and Charlie?”

“They were the other guys who fell down on the job,” Littleton said.

“Is that why you killed them?” Rollison demanded.

He had never seen a man change so quickly; never seen horror spring into a pair of eyes as it did in Freddie Littleton’s then. There was a long silence, so long that Rollison heard the ticking of his watch, as if it was willing the seconds away. Then Littleton said in a gusty voice:

“So Brandt killed them both. He always said he would if they tried to muscle in. They thought they could get the stuff at the farm, and get away with it.”

“What stuff?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t know anything about it. If it’s a murder rap, I’d rather you took me straight to the cops and let me make a statement before they pick me up. Brandt always said he’d fix them. What did he use? A knife?”

Rollison seemed to see the smiling eyes of the tall Texan, and to feel the icy coldness of death.

He nodded.

“He was always playing around with that knife,” Littleton said. “It wouldn’t surprise me to know he’s used it plenty of times.”

“Did he put anyone else on his black list?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Littleton answered, and went on hurriedly: “Rollison, get me out of this. Send for the cops, and I’ll come clean. I didn’t know anything about the murders, I swear to that.”

“You’re not going to the police or anywhere yet,” said Rollison, “you’re going to stay here. Brandt may turn up if you’re missing long enough, or he may send another stooge or two.”

“What are you going to do with me?”

“You can have a snack, and then you’re going to rest for the day,” Rollison said.

He did not add that Charlie had been murdered while resting.

Twenty minutes later, Freddie Littleton was locked in a small upstairs room, and Rollison made another tour of the farmhouse. He satisfied himself that no one was here, checked that the door leading to the tunnel was still closed, and couldn’t be opened except from the house, and then watched the patrolling policeman stroll past the front door. A moment afterwards, Rollison nipped out of the back door. No one else was in sight. He shuffled along and kept his shoulders bowed, in case someone was watching from some distance off, and then reached the spot from which he could see the cottage.

There were no cars outside, except Monty Morne’s.

No policeman appeared to be there.

Smoke coiled upwards from a chimney, which suggested that Gillian and M.M.M. were there. Was Alan Selby? Had the police detained him when he had come round from that drugged sleep, or would they let him go free, and follow him in the hope that he would lead them to the murderers ?

Rollison went back into the farmhouse, locked and bolted the back door, and then started work again on the flagstones, this time using a steel poker from the big room. It didn’t bend so easily as the screw-driver, but the task still wasn’t going to be easy. He wanted those flagstones up and the truth revealed before there were any more interruptions. It couldn’t be long before the police came to question Smith, and to search, to try to find out why the farmhouse had become so valuable. Every lost minute might be vital.

He eased the flagstone up at last so that he could get his fingers under it at two places. He bent down, to get the greatest possible leverage with his arms, and heaved. He felt the great stone coming upwards. He exerted all the strength he had, and sweat began to trickle down his face, while the strain at arms and stomach seemed too great.

Then, he heard a banging on the front door.

20

CALLER ON A BIKE

ROLLISON had heard no one approach, was sure that there had been no car. He held the stone about four inches off the floor at one side, hesitated, and then heard more sharp rapping. It might be the police, this could be his cue to run. But he couldn’t run unless he were positive that the police were here; he wanted to see what was buried under this floor.

He pushed the hammer underneath the stone with his foot, then gradually lowered the big slab; it would be easy enough to start again. As he went into the big room, shuffling noisily, he wiped his forehead, and was surprised that he felt clammy all over. He peered out from the side of the window, and saw no car, but also saw the uniformed policeman at the gate, watching but making no attempt to interfere.

He undid the chain.

“It’s okay, Mr. Ar.,” a man said in whispered Cockney, “Mr. Jolly sent me. Let me in.”

He was short and very thin, with a leathery face and very bright blue eyes; all of this was visible through the narrow opening of the door. After the first moment of tension, Rollison drew the chain out of its socket, but he kept his foot against the door in case there were others beside this man, whom he recognised as a friend of the Sam who had taken Old Smith away.

As the man came in, the wheel of his bicycle showed where it leaned against the wall. Then Rollison closed the door, and the little man grinned crookedly up at him.

“If I ‘adn’tve known, I wouldn’tve recognised yer,” he said, and thrust a small packet into Rollison’s hand. “Mr. Jolly sent these, in case you run aht’ve your fave’rit fags.”

Trust Jolly to feel quite sure where he had come !

“An’ ‘e give me a letter, said I wasn’t to ‘and it to no-one but you in person,” went on the Cockney, and looked about him. “Creepy sort ‘o place you got dahn on the farm, ain’t it?”

“You get used to it,” Rollison said, and offered cigarettes from a nearly empty packet: he had left his case at the flat. “Quiet a minute, Lionel.”

“Okay.”

Jolly had realised whose help he had sought the previous night, of course; had assumed that he would go to the East End, where a certain Bill Ebbutt, who ran a boxing gymnasium as well as a pub, could always be relied on for help. Jolly had almost certainly persuaded Ebbutt to put him on to Sam who had come down here with a crony, and had taken Old Smith away. That much was easy to understand. But why had Jolly thought it essential to send a message ?

Rollison unfolded the letter.

Jolly had written :

“I think you should know at once, sir, that there is a warrant out for your arrest . . .”

Rollison caught his breath. Lionel looked at him through his lashes, and drew deeply on the cigarette. Someone walked along the path outside, and Rollison looked sharply towards the sound.

“. . . I was told of this by Mr. Grice, who called at six-thirty this morning.

“There is also a warrant out for William Brandt, who appears to be quite notorious in the United States. The newspapers have this story and are using it extensively, but as yet there is no public announcement of the warrant for you.

“Mr. Grice made it clear that he believes you have been deceived by William Brandt, and says that it is absolutely essential for you to give yourself up and to make a statement explaining your association with the man. He says that in his considered opinion, the longer you leave it, the more dangerous will be your own position.

“I understand that Mr. Alan Selby, who was detained for some hours, has been released, and also that Miss Selby and Mr. Mome are on their way to the cottage. I cannot be sure, but I have reason to believe that the police suspect that some attempt will be made to take possession of the farmhouse during the day, and the police are watching from a distance, ready to move in if that appears to be necessary.

“If I am right in this surmise, I cannot too strongly urge you to leave.

Respectfully as always, sir, Jolly.

P.S. William Brandt telephoned me twice in the course of this letter, and each time said that he wanted to talk to you urgendy. I refused to give him any information.

Rollison lowered the letter.

Lionel White moved across to the hearth and tossed the end of his cigarette into it.

“In a bit’ve a spot, aincha?” he inquired. “Just before I left there was a buzz that the busies were after you, serious this time. Anyfink I can do?”

“Did you see any police on the way here?” asked Rollison.

“Copper at the front, that’s all.”

If he had seen only the one man, then the other police were keeping out of sight, but there was no reason to doubt

Jolly; it all added up. So did other things. If the police were after him in earnest, they would soon have every newspaper in the country screaming the news,

“One ovver fing,” went on Lionel, “Sam said the old geezer’s okay.”

“Where is he being kept ?”

“At the home of a pal of Sam’s, Mr. Ebbutt didn’t fink ‘e ought to be kept at the pub or the gym.”

“What’s the address?”

“27, Russett Grove, Wapping.”

“Thanks,” Rollison said. “I may want to see him in a hurry, and I may want him brought nearer here. Get off, telephone Sam, tell him to be all ready to move if he gets a message, but to keep Smith where he is if he doesn’t hear from me. Okay?”

“Sure, I’ve got it,” said Lionel.

“And tell him to tell Jolly to send Will Brandt to the farm if he rings again. He can tell Brandt that I know the secret of the farm. That’s urgent.”

“I’ll fix it quick,” promised the little Cockney.

“And if the police pick you up on your way out, tell them you came from me to see Old Smith,” Rollison said, “They’ll swallow that.” He saw Lionel grin as if he relished the trick. “Say I talked to you last night, near Ebbutt’s place, and told you to come and try to make Old Smith explain why he wouldn’t move from the farmhouse. All clear?”

“You don’t get any slower, do you?” Lionel observed, “Anyfinkelse?”

“Yes. Tell them you were to report to Jolly by telephone. That’s the lot.”

“And do I ‘ave to report that I found Mr. Smith in the best’ve ‘ealth an’ spirits ?” demanded Lionel, and was chuckling when Rollison opened the door cautiously, and let him out. “Come by van as far’s the village and push-biked from there,” he said, “best way to avoid being noticed, I thought.”

“You’ll go a long way,” Rollison told him. He closed the door as he saw the uniformed policeman at the gate staring at the little Cockney. The policeman didn’t stop Lionel White, who swung on to his bicycle and pedalled off at a good pace. Then the uniformed man plodded after him. In spite of the desperate urge to raise that flagstone and check what was buried there, Rollison watched the man until he disappeared.

He went to the back, and saw no one there. “They’re really going to make it easy for anyone to come here,” he said. “I wonder where they’re watching from?”

At least it was safer to go outside, provided he shuffled about with bowed shoulders. He dared to go further this time, and found a tool shed. He selected a fork, a spade and a short bar of iron, and went back to the farmhouse. It was a lovely morning, and when he closed the door it was like stepping into a funeral parlour. He locked and bolted it again, and then began work. The iron bar was exactly the lever that he needed. It was the work only of a few minutes to lever the flagstone up, then send it falling to one side. It clattered noisily, and rumbled for a long time. With the better tools, Rollison prised up three more stones, and so laid bare about two square yards of dark earth, dusted with sand and cement.

Now he felt a surge of excitement.

He prodded the earth, and it was fairly easy to pierce with the fork. He dug it over quickly, then began to use the spade, shifting earth to one side; it was heavy and nearly black. He reminded himself that he couldn’t be sure that he had found the secret of the farmhouse; that floor might have been repaired.

Would he find jewels? Or would he find a body ?

He had a hole nearly three feet deep, and a half an hour later was sweating and tired from the unusual exercise. Every time he drove the spade in, the earth seemed to be heavier and more difficult, and there was clay here. He was standing in the hole, and felt like a grave-digger, but by far the worst thing was the sense of failure and frustration. No-one would go any deeper than this, and re-pave that floor. There was a limit to precautions.

He drove the spade in again.

It struck something hard.

Thought of everything but the discovery faded from Rollison’s mind. He tried several times, always with the same result. He cleared the soil away slowly and carefully, determined not to let himself be too excited. Odd, how excitement affected him in this case.

There was a metal box.

It was like coming upon hidden treasure, and easy to picture the box with the lid thrown back, gold and jewels heaped inside. They wouldn’t be, of course, this wouldn’t be so obvious.

He cleared soil away from two sides of the box. At least it wasn’t large enough for a coffin. He cleared the third side, saw the hinges, and was able to study the box more carefully. It was fitted with thick hinges and a clasp, and was more than a metal box; it was a Landon safe, quite small and very nearly impregnable. If he worked on this for the rest of the day he wouldn’t be able to open it. To blow it open he needed T.N.T. and to cut it open, an oxy-acetylene cutter. In spite of that fresh disappointment, he cleared all the earth away, so that the safe stood like a little tomb, the sole result of an excavation.

He left it, pushed the loose earth as far into a comer as he could, and then went into the scullery and put on a kettle, for hot water; now he really needed a wash. He washed his hands in cold water, rummaged round, and found that Old Smith kept some beer and whisky in a cupboard in the big room. He felt like a whisky, and didn’t drown it. He felt a strange sense of anti-climax, for when the police saw Brandt come here, they would move in. At least he would have the satisfaction of knowing that he had lured Brandt into their hands.

He didn’t like it.

He would probably be wise to get a message to the police before Brandt arrived, so that it wouldn’t look as if they had caught him and Brandt together with the boodle.

It would be two hours at least before Brandt could get here, even if he did what he was told; but anyone who wanted the contents of that safe as badly as Tex Brandt would almost certainly take a chance in coming.

There was more than the Brandt angle, though: there was the ‘rival’ apparently working through Selby, and using Gillian and M.M.M. to help. Had Tex built up that rival and also his client ? Did it make sense that Tex should first employ and then murder Lodwin and Charlie Habden ?

And what of Gillian and M.M.M. ? They might be patient enough to wait until six o’clock for the promised interview from Old Smith, but no one would want to wait long for the sake of it.

“If I were in their shoes, what would I do?” asked Rollison of himself, as he washed with thick lather from the hot water, and then towelled vigorously. It was odd to feel the stubble on his cheeks, and to see the white bits of the towel sticking to it.

It was nearly twelve o’clock, and he could see the brightness of the sun at the sides of the windows. He looked out of each of the top floor windows, and saw no sign of anyone; the policeman had certainly been moved. He checked all the windows to make sure they were securely fastened, and also checked the doors.

He went upstairs to do the same thing, and looked in at Littleton, lying bound hand and foot on the narrow bed.

He stood over the man.

“Just refresh your memory,” he said, mildly. “Did Brandt threaten to kill anyone else?”

Littleton tried to meet his eyes, but couldn’t.

“You said you’d come clean, remember?” Rollison reminded him, in a harder voice. “But make it really clean. Who else was on his list ?”

In a hoarse voice, Littleton said: “The Selbys, if they wouldn’t play. He fixed the kidnapping of Alan Selby, they’re all ready to sell now—I fixed that myself. If I were you, I’d look after the Selbys before I did anything else.”

Rollison went to the apple storage room, opened the secret door, and crept inside. He switched on his torch, then closed the door behind him. He went along, crouching until he saw the haze of daylight, and stood beneath the opening, listening.

He heard the ordinary sounds of the wooded land; birds calling, small animals rustling, and also heard the drone of an aeroplane. He pushed the cover aside, very cautiously, and looked out. The police might have stationed a man inside this copse of trees, making it as dangerous a place as there could be.

He saw no-one.

He hoisted himself up and on to the ground, pushed back the camouflaged cover, looked round to make sure that he could find the spot again, and slashed a sapling which stood close to some brambles, not far from a fallen birch tree, victim of a storm. The sun was bright against the leaves above him, and he could get his direction from that. Still moving very cautiously, he went towards the cottage. Soon, he was close to the edge of the trees, and here was the moment of greatest danger.

He could see the cottage, the back garden, the smoke— and a man on the roof of the cottage, squatting by the chimney stack, with a pair of binoculars at his eyes. He was watching the farmhouse, and the last place he would look for marauders would be in the copse. But he might glance down. Rollison moved round a little, so that the chimney stack hid him from the watching policeman, and studied the nearby fields and hedges, wondering where other policemen were.

He saw none.

He was fifty yards from the cottage, but as he stepped out of the cover of the trees, he felt as if a thousand eyes were watching him. There was grass land right up to the edge of the drive, so he made no sound.

It was easier than he had realised to get to and from the cottage.

Should he go and see Gillian ?

The thought was hardly in his mind when he saw her coming this way.

21

THE COTTAGE AGAIN

The small kitchen of the cottage was spick-and-span. There was an appetising smell of stewing meat, and a large saucepan was on the big oil stove, steam rising from it, and a slight bubbling sound audible all the time.

M.M.M. was standing by the window and looking out, his whole attitude apparently one of utter dejection. Alan Selby was sitting on the arm of a chair, smoking, staring at M.M.M.’s back. Alan looked much more rested, as if he had slept well, and as if there was an easing of the load on his mind. Gillian thrust open the door which led from the foot of the stairs, and entered the big room.

She stopped.

“Monty, it’s no use standing there and moping,” she said with asperity. “We’ve got to wait until six o’clock and pray that Old Smith will change his mind. Until then, there isn’t a thing we can do.”

M.M.M. looked at her morosely.

“I think it’s just a stall,” he growled. “He’ll never get out, and until he does there’s this danger hanging over us. Gillian, why don’t you do what I advised ? Sell to the first one who makes an offer, and let him deal with Old Smith. That way you’ll be out of danger, the danger’s only here because you own the damned house.”

Alan Selby stood up briskly.

“I think you’re wrong. I think the old idiot realises that he’s got to give way at last, but he won’t do it easily. When he’s agreed to go, I can finish this deal with the man Littleton.”

“You seem to think that because these swine make you promises, they’ll keep them,” M.M.M. said acidly. “Well, I don’t think anyone will keep promises. I think you’ve got to sell out—and I’ve told you I think you ought to sell to Old Smith.”

“You’re just being silly,” Gillian said. “Old Smith couldn’t find enough money to buy the cottage, never mind the farmhouse.”

“He could get a mortgage, you’d get your money, and then the swine want the farmhouse would be forced to deal with him,” said M.M.M. “It’s so obvious it sticks out a mile. You ought to go over again and ask him if he will buy it from you. And he may not be so near the poorhouse as you think, some of these old peasant types have been putting money away for most of their lives. The least you can do is try it. If he owns the place, then Littleton and Brandt will have to deal with him, and you two will be in the clear.”

“If we can get Smith out, and sell ourselves, we’ll get a much better price,” said Alan, still quite briskly. “I think we ought to hold out for as long as we can. Now I’ve had a chance to look at the whole situation clearly, I’m sure that’s the right thing to do. The police will make sure that we don’t run into any more danger. I didn’t realise that until I had a talk with the policeman Grice. I wish to heaven I’d talked to the police before, instead of being so scared.”

“You didn’t tell the police because they threatened me,” said Gillian quietly. “It’s no use blaming yourself, Alan. And I’m sure Alan’s right, Monty. We’ve been through a great deal, and it seems absurd to lose a small fortune because we can’t hold out for another few hours.”

“Gillian,” M.M.M. said in a strangled voice, “I’m asking you for the last time to go and see Smith and offer to sell him the house, as you’ve positively got to get rid of it. That way, he’ll be in trouble, and you won’t. Before you say no again, remember that we’ve been lucky so far—but two people have been killed. Or had you forgotten that? There have been two murders, and there might easily be more. It’s red-hot. And you may not believe it, but I don’t want you to die. In case you’ve forgotten another thing, I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time. I know you’ve never cared a hoot for me. After I lost my leg you softened a bit, and felt almost sorry enough for me to marry me, but thank God I didn’t let myself take advantage of that. Now, I’m telling you that I’m as desperately in love with you as ever—and I don’t want you to run another risk. Go and see Smith. Offer to sell him the house. There’s no other safe thing to do.”

Alan, behind him, was shaking his head at his sister.

Gillian did not appear to notice that. Her expression was very much softer, and there was a glow in her eyes such as Rollison had seen, quite unexpectedly, when she had talked to Tex Brandt.

“All right, Monty, I’ll go over and see him right away.”

“If you sell for less than fifteen thousand pounds, you’ll be crazy!” Alan burst out, but that seemed unimportant: the important and the peculiar thing, in view of what he knew, was the smile on M.M.M.’s face. It was almost radiant. He could hardly have looked more delighted if Gillian had promised to marry him.

Rollison turned and went back the way he had come.

He was five minutes getting to the farmhouse, and had been there for five minutes when he heard the knock at the front door. He shuffled to the window and looked out as best he could; Gillian seemed to be alone. She was hatless in a linen dress with three-quarter length sleeves, and the dress was as green as the leaves of a tree in spring. He couldn’t see her well, but there was youth and beauty in her, and he already knew of her great compassion.

He knew what had happened between her and the Texan, too; whichever way this went, she would get hurt.

He unfastened the chain.

“Who is it?”

“I’m sorry to worry you again, Mr. Smith,” she said, in a more confident voice than she had used before, “but I’ve another suggestion to make, and I think you might like it. May I come in?”

Rollison opened the door wider, standing to one side. She stepped forward, and then realised that it wasn’t Smith. She stopped, but his hand fell on to her wrist and he drew her in swiftly, closed the door, and then let her go. Fright and surprise put colour to her cheeks and brightness into her eyes, in spite of the dullness of the room.

Then she recognised Rollison.

“What on earth are you doing here? Why are you wearing Smith’s clothes?” She was breathless and bewildered.

“I thought I’d keep them aired for him,” said Rollison lightly, and gripped her arm again and smiled, as reassuring a smile as a man could give. “Don’t get worked up, Gillian, we’ve things to talk about.”

“But when did you get here? Was it you I talked to earlier this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Then where is Smith? I’ve got to see him, I’ve got to talk to him !”

“You just have to take it easily for a few hours,” Rollison soothed, “and you’ve got to get used to some unpleasant facts. Remember the tall Texan man, William Brandt ?”

She looked at him warily.

“Of course I do.”

“Have you seen the newspapers?”

“No.”

“He is wanted for the two murders. He is also wanted for murder and other crimes in the United States. He is what we call a very bad man, Gillian.”

Her eyes began to storm.

“I don’t believe you.”

“There’s just one slim chance that I’m wrong and the police are also wrong,” said Rollison. “If I’m right, then Tex fooled me completely, I’ve never met a man who seemed so sane and soundly honest. I’ll ask Jolly to try to get a photograph of Tex Brandt radioed from the United States, so that we can be sure,” Rollison went on. “Meanwhile, we may have misjudged someone else. Did you know that every move you’ve made, for weeks, has been watched and reported to this William Brandt and those who work for him ? In short, that you’ve been spied on.”

“That’s impossible,” Gillian declared. “Alan and I have been living down at the cottage most of the time. We’ve had hardly any visitors, except Monty.”

“That’s right,” said Rollison.

“What on earth are you saying now ?”

“That you’ve been spied on and your movements reported, that Alan’s been watched, threatened by letter and telephone, both at the cottage and in London. Isn’t that true?”

Gillian would never know just how beautiful she looked in this half light: or how young and unsure of herself.

“Yes, everywhere he’s been he’s received threats, he told me so this morning but “ she hesitated, while he stood waiting for the obvious to dawn on her. She went on abruptly : “If you’re suggesting Monty, it’s ludicrous.”

“Who else could it be?”

“It couldn’t be Monty! Why he’s my closest friend, Alan’s too. He “

“He’s been desperately in love with you, and you’ve kept saying no,” Rollison reminded her, “and thwarted love can do queer things to human beings.”

“I simply cannot believe it,” Gillian insisted, and her honesty and her loyalty glowed, “You must be wrong.” Then she changed the subject, and swung into the attack. “It’s all very well standing there in Smith’s clothes and throwing these accusations about, but what about you yourself ? What do you think you’re doing? Where is Smith?”

“He’s resting.”

“I’m in no mood for joking !”

“Gillian,” said Rollison, very quietly, “I’ve never been less like joking, either. Come with me.” He took her arm, and she went with him without protesting, but freed her arm as soon as they were in the kitchen. At first she didn’t see the heap of dirt and the hole in the corner, and when he moved, to let her see it, she exclaimed:

“What is that?”

“A safe containing the secret of Selby Farm, I fancy. The explanation of all the threats and violence. Now we know that, we can make a move forward. Will Brandt will probably be coming here within the next hour or so. We must have Monty here when he arrives. We can accuse them of working together and we can show them the safe. We should get a good idea of who is guilty and who isn’t, shouldn’t we?”

She didn’t answer at once.

Rollison left it to her.

“I suppose we would,” she said at last. “And at least it would be over, and we’d know the best and the worst.”

“I’ll go and get Monty,” Rollison said, “and your brother —if he wants to come.”

22

THE COMING OF WILL BRANDT

“I don’t know what the devil you’re playing at,” M.M.M. said. “I thought you’d have the sense to keep off the case now, Rollison.”

“You certainly made it clear that you wished I hadn’t been invited,” Rollison said mildly. “What changed your mind so much?”

“The crazy way you behaved.”

“There was something else.”

“I tell you I got fed up with you, and decided you were more dangerous than helpful to Gillian,” M.M.M. insisted. He was in the main room of the cottage, and the smell of the stew was much stronger now, making Rollison feel positively hungry. “Now you say she’s at the farmhouse, and Smith isn’t.”

“That’s right.”

“Why should I come, just because you want me to ?”

“You don’t have to come because I want you to,” said Rolliison, “you have to come because I’m going to make you.” He beamed. “You could spare a thought to the fact that Gillian might be in acute danger, and you——”

“I’d do anything in the world to help Gillian,” growled M.M.M., “but I’m not sure that coming with you will help her. Just because Alan’s gone into the village, that’s no reason to think you can force me to do anything, either.”

“Monty,” murmured Rollison, “you’re going to walk across to the farmhouse, and go in at the front door. That’s the easy way. Or you can come the way I did, which will be uncomfortable to say the least.”

“I’m damned if I will!”

“Because I want you to be present when the Texan comes to see Gillian again.”

M.M.M. exclaimed : “The man Brandt?”

“Yes.”

“But he’s a killer! The police are after him. It’s in all the newspapers.”

“And he’s likely to be here soon. The police will know when he arrives, and they’ll close in soon afterwards, but we’ll have time to find out just what he’s up to, and what’s been going on. You want to find out the secret of the farm, don’t you?”

“I don’t give a damn about the secret, provided I can get Gillian out of this spot,” M.M.M. growled, and then gave in. “All right, I’ll come. We’d better leave a note for Alan.”

Rollison watched while M.M.M. scribbled a note and put it on a table near the door, where Alan Selby couldn’t fail to see it. Then M.M.M. asked Rollison to hand him his jacket. Rollison felt something hard in the pocket, and slipped his hand inside.

M.M.M. carried a gun.

Rollison made no comment, and M.M.M. moved towards the back door, using a walking stick. It would take him longer to walk to the cottage than it would take Rollison to go by the copse and the tunnel.

Rollison let him go ahead, and then hurried up the stair and to the loft. He spotted the open rooflight, through which the policeman on the roof must have climbed: and there was a pair of steps immediately beneath the rooflight. Rollison went half way up, and put his head through the opening. A man—Bishop himself—was staring downwards, and had obviously seen M.M.M.

“Had any luck in spotting the bad men?” asked Rollison, sotto voce.

Bishop was so startled he nearly slipped. He turned his head, with the binoculars hanging round his neck, his face red as much from the sun as from annoyance at being caught out.

“You’ve got a nerve !”

“Don’t blame me, it was hereditary,” said Rollison, and went on almost in the same breath : “Two things, quickly. I’ve dug up a safe and it’s over in the kitchen of the farmhouse now. Lay on someone to force it, will you? And I’m expecting the notorious William Brandt at the farmhouse before long. Will you give me half an hour alone with him and the others?”

“Goddammit man, there’s a warrant out for you !”

“I could save myself by pushing you off the roof,” said Rollison, “but I’m going to risk being charged.” He saw the small walkie-talkie radio set standing on a ledge close to the detective. “Check with Grice, and ask him if it isn’t worth a smile. If you hold Brandt before he gets here and I’ve had a talk with him, let failure be on your own head.”

He dropped out of sight.

For fear Bishop would be over-zealous, he lowered the rooflight and latched it from beneath, and moved the steps. By the time he had finished, Bishop was talking to someone on the radio. Rollison hurried downstairs, went out the back way, then to the trees and the tunnel. He reached the farmhouse as M.M.M. was being admitted by Gillian.

“Hallo, folk,” greeted Rollison, making M.M.M. look round with a frown. “It shouldn’t be long before the bait brings the bad men. Seen the safe, Monty?”

“I don’t believe it exists.”

“Come and look,” invited Rollison, and took them both in to the kitchen. M.M.M. stood and stared, and looked as if he didn’t really believe what he saw. If that was an act, he did it very well indeed.

He swung round on Rollison.

“Now what makes you think that Brandt will come here?”

“I invited him.”

“You’re the biggest bighead I’ve ever met in my life ! You think you’ve only to snap your fingers, and people come running. Why, you’re crazy. He’ll never come here, and you know it.”

“I told him I’d unearthed the deadly secret,” declared Rollison in overtones of drama. “If anything will make him take a chance, that’s it.”

M.M.M. found nothing to say in reply, but poked at the safe with his walking stick.

“I’d like to know what’s worth two lives and all this fuss,” he said. “And I’ve been thinking. I’m not a bit sure that it’s any use waiting for this murderer, Brandt.” He shot an almost vindictive glance at Gillian. “He’s a smooth-tongued devil and will probably try to persuade us that black’s white. I think we ought to get out, and let the police wait here for him.”

“I think we ought to hear what he has to say,” said Gillian.

“Oh, no doubt you’ll get your way,” growled M.M.M. “I wish to God I’d never had anything to do with this. I wish I’d never fallen in love with you, too.” In that moment, he sounded almost as if he hated Gillian.

Rollison bumped against M.M.M. a moment later, taking the gun out of his pocket. It was a moment’s work to empty it.

They heard a motor-cycle outside, its engine roaring. M.M.M. turned with surprising agility towards the window, and hobbled towards it and wrenched the curtain aside. Gillian followed him. Rollison slipped the empty gun back into the other man’s pocket, then watched from the side of the window, and saw the motor-cyclist coming towards the farm, slowing down. He stopped at the gate, jumped off, and propped the machine up against the hedge. He was very tall, and his uniform suited him.

“Well, it looks as if I’m going to get my way for a change,” said M.M.M. “But why have the police sent a copper on a motor-bike ?”

“I wonder where Tex the Texan got that police constable’s uniform,” Rollison murmured.

Gillian exclaimed : “It’s Tex!”

Rollison was behind them, and saw the light which leaped into Gillian’s eyes, and noticed the glint in M.M.M.’s. Of hatred ? He saw the one-legged man drop his right hand into his pocket, and keep it there. He moved forward towards the door, glancing sideways at the bulge in M.M.M.’s pocket. He felt sure that the man was holding the gun out of sight.

How did that square ?

Rollison opened the door. Tex Brandt stood there, with his crash helmet making him look very tall indeed, a striking figure in the policeman’s blue. He smiled warmly at Rollison as he came in, and then saw Gillian. He was about to take off his helmet, but he stopped with his hand at his forehead, just to stare at her. He did not know that M.M.M. was in the room, just behind him.

“My, my, my,” he breathed. “I remembered you as beautiful, but I’d forgotten just how beautiful beauty could be. Did anyone ever tell you that you’re the most beautiful woman in the world ?”

Gillian said : “Don’t fool, Tex.”

“I’m not fooling,” he assured her. “I mean every word I say.”

He went forward.

It looked as if he would take her in his great arms.

“Don’t you touch her,” growled M.M.M,, and he drew his hand from his pocket. His automatic pistol covered the American. “Take your murdering hands away from her. If you so much as lay a finger on her, I’ll shoot you.”

Gillian exclaimed : “Monty, put that gun away!”

The Texan turned round, very slowly.

Hatred was undoubtedly the word for the look in M.M.M.’s eyes, but there was something else, for which Rollison had been looking. He found it, but as a negative. These two men did not know each other, or their reaction would have been entirely different.

“What’s all this?” Tex asked, in a calm voice. “Who’s calling me a murderer?”

“Your record is all over the newspapers. The police know you killed two men and they won’t care whether they get you alive or dead,” said M.M.M. and that viciousness was still in his voice. “Get away from her.”

“I think you must be mad, Monty.” Gillian’s voice could not have been colder. “Please put that gun away, and stop play-acting.”

“Play-acting I’ll show you who’s play-acting!” The maimed man’s eye glinted, he raised the gun a fraction, and there seemed nothing but death for the tall Texan.

“Monty!” screamed Gillian, and flung herself forward.

There was a little click; no sharp report, no flame, no bullet. The girl would have fallen had Tex not grabbed her, while Monty stood looking foolish, with the gun in his hand.

“I took the bullets out when you were poking at the safe,” explained Rollison mildly. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t do anyone any harm.”

M.M.M. didn’t speak, but all the colour drained away from his cheeks. He looked round, as if for somewhere to sit; as if he was afraid that he couldn’t stand up any longer. Then he moved to the wall and leaned against it, looked towards Gillian, and said:

“You’d even protect him with your life. Why is it? Why can’t you feel for me like you do for him ?”

The Texan was holding Gillian lightly, an arm round her shoulders.

“I just don’t know,” Gillian said, in a husky voice. “I just don’t know.” She looked up, twisting her head round so that she could see the tall man, and it seemed to Rollison that there was genuine bewilderment in her voice. “I felt exactly the same the moment I set eyes on him, although I know it doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes sense, honey,” said Tex Brandt. “It makes the kind of sense that leads to a marriage licence. Some folk wouldn’t believe it, but I felt just that way about you. I’ve been running from the police and looking for the biggest load of trouble I’ve ever known—and you were in my hair all the time, I couldn’t get you out.”

He held her more tightly.

“But he’s a killer! He’s got a reputation for killing!” M.M.M. looked and sounded desperate. “You can’t feel like that about a murderer.”

“Maybe I’m not the murderer,” the Texan said. “Maybe you know who they really are, Mome.”

“Hold it,” said Rollison. “Monty, how well do you know the man Littleton ?”

“Little what?” asked M.M.M., as if blankly.

“A man named Littleton.”

“I don’t know anyone named Littleton,” denied M.M.M. in the same taut, hopeless voice.

“You’ve been acting oddly since I came into this job,” Rollison said. “You’ve been with the Selbys nearly all the time in recent weeks, you could have been the man watching them, reporting what they were doing, keeping Littleton and his employer informed all the time.”

M.M.M. said in a husky voice: “Are you crazy? I didn’t kill anybody, and as for spying on Gillian and Alan—no, I haven’t spied on anyone. I don’t know what you’re playing at, but if you think I’m a crook, you’re wrong.”

“Someone’s been getting at Alan,” Gillian said, and turned to Rollison. “But I told you I couldn’t believe that it was Monty. I just couldn’t believe it of him.”

“Do we have to talk about it any further?” asked Tex Brandt, and he flashed a grin at Rollison; it could not have been more friendly or more likeable. “The first thing is to find out where the cache is. We can talk when we’ve found it.”

“He’s found it already,” M.M.M. declared, and Rollison saw the tension spring into Tex Brandt’s eyes. “Why don’t you make a deal? Why don’t you buy Rollison off? He’s buyable.”

“Monty,” murmured Rollison, “I don’t think anyone could buy anybody off with the contents of that safe. I don’t know for certain what is in it, but I don’t think anyone would fight the way they have done for jewels. I don’t think they would commit murder so recklessly. I don’t think the police would allow Tex Brandt to get through the cordon thrown round this farm if they really thought he was a bad man. What’s in the safe, Tex?”

Tex was grinning more broadly than ever.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to get up earlier to fool you,” he said. “You’re dead right, Mr. Rollison. That safe contains an atomic radiation unit which was stolen from research laboratories in New York a year ago. It’s a new kind of unit, much smaller than any in use yet. It’s in a special kind of radiation proof container which weighs pretty heavy but isn’t made of lead. In that safe it’s harmless, but out of that safe it would kill anyone if they were exposed to it for long. It operates like a death ray. Sure, it’s that bad,” he added, when M.M.M. gasped and Gillian gripped his arm very tightly. “Does anyone object if I go and have a look and make sure it’s the right one ?”

“Yes, I object,” Rollison declared. “Tex, you forgot to tell me about the jewels you handled for Freddie Littleton and others in the U.S.A.”

“You’re thinking of someone else,” said the Texan slowly. “There’s a man from Texas, a real bad man, who once called himself William Brandt. He posed as me in New York, and it suited me to let him get away with it.”

“Maybe,” Rollison said, hopefully, and then added to M.M.M. : “Keep our American friend covered with this gun, will you?” He took his own small automatic from his pocket, and handed it to the crippled man. “I won’t be five minutes. Gillian, don’t make Monty get careless with the gun, this time it’s loaded.”

M.M.M. looked savagely delighted.

The Texan smiled, as if he hadn’t a fear in the world.

Rollison ran up the stairs and into Littleton’s room, slicing the cords from the man’s ankles, helped him off the bed and then unsteadily down the stairs. Littleton kept gasping as the blood began to circulate again, but he reached the doorway of the downstairs room inside the five minutes that Rollison had stipulated.

“Which of these is your boss?” Rollison asked, still supporting his prisoner.

Littleton took one glance.

“You kidding?” he demanded. “Neither of them. Brandt is a fat guy. I don’t know the tall guy, and I’ve seen Morne around, that’s all.”

The response was too spontaneous for anyone to doubt it’s truth. This Tex Brandt was not the man the police were after: was not Littleton’s employer. He had not killed Lodwin or Charlie.

The killer was a certain fat American . . .

M.M.M. looked almost regretful.

“Try walking about,” Rollison said to Littleton, “you’ll be all right in a minute.” He turned to Brandt. “Hi, Tex! You’re okay, apparently. I did wonder about you and tried to get a picture of the real Brandt, but it didn’t arrive in time. It’ll come soon. Monty, he’s the wrong man to shoot, but we still need the right one.”

Gillian was looking intently into the tall American’s eyes.

M.M.M. turned away, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of them together. Littleton began to hobble of his own accord.

“You want to know something?” the Texan asked Rollison : “I knew I wasn’t such a bad guy. Mr. Rollison, I know the other William Brandt only too well. I’m in England to hunt for him. I took an interest in this farm because of him. I do have a principal in New York, but he’s not a private individual.”

“Let me guess that he’s also represented in Washington,” said Rollison mildly. “F.B.L”

“That’s right.”

“All right, I agree that you had to fool me,” said Rollison, forgivingly. “Put me out of my misery in another way, too. The police know what you are really doing, don’t they?”

“I had them informed, today.” Tex said. “They’ve been mighty kind, since they recovered from the shock.”

“Don’t ever say the British aren’t co-operative,” Rollison said.

“I don’t know anyone who could co-operate more,” declared Tex. “Will you make a real job of it, and let me look at that safe now?”

“Just follow me,” said Rollison.

He turned towards the kitchen, the hole, and the safe. The tall Texan followed him, and Gillian was just behind. Littleton kept hobbling, much easier now, and M.M.M. stared bleakly out of the window.

There was everything as Rollison had left it, with two exceptions.

The back door was open.

The safe was open, too.

23

CAUSE FOR DREAD

ROLLISON heard the sound of approaching men as he stared at the empty hole. Several detectives were near, and in the distance there was the hum of several car engines. He felt the Texan’s hand heavy on his shoulder, and Brandt said in a taut voice:

“Where is it, Rollison?”

Rollison said : “When we were here before you arrived, the safe was locked.” He saw shadows at the doorway, and knew that the police had arrived in strength : there would be others at the front, the house would be surrounded. “How bad is it?”

“If anyone keeps the container taken from that safe for twenty minutes without putting it inside a protective box, it will kill everyone within fifty yards of it,” declared the Texan. “I wasn’t fooling you about that. It’s death in a box.”

Bishop came in, looking more massive than ever. He didn’t smile as he looked at Rollison and then at Tex.

“You’ve had all the time I’m going to give you,” he said to Rollison, and looked at the Texan. “Are you William Thomas Brandt ?”

“Bishop,” Rollison interrupted, “I don’t know how much you’ve been told, but a small container has been taken out of this safe, and this man says that it contains a radiation unit which would be deadly to anyone exposed to it. Have you stopped everyone who’s left the farmhouse?” Rollison looked bleak and pale. Tex Brandt, a card in his hand, was like a figure of doom. Bishop looked from one to the other, and said sharply:

“Don’t try to scare me.”

“Anyone exposed to that radiation unit for long will die,” Tex said. “I’m not scaring anyone. I’m terrified of what will happen if we don’t find it and put it back in that safe.”

Bishop said heavily: “No one has left the farmhouse in the past half hour. We’ve allowed everyone to come in, none to go out.”

There was silence which lasted for a long time. Then suddenly Freddie Littleton broke in, bursting into a nervous cackle of a laugh.

“So the Boss has beaten you,” he said, and his voice nearly crackled. “He’s got away with it under your noses! Cops ? I’ve trodden on cleverer things than you !”

The Texan’s hand gripped Rollison with frightening force.

“We’ve got to get that container back,” he said. “If it’s in this house, none of us will live for another week.”

Swift, frightening thoughts flashed into Rollison’s mind. Someone had got into the farmhouse by the apple store-cupboard, had crept across, opened the safe and taken the unit out—but he hadn’t gone out by the back or the front door; they had been too closely watched.

There was only one way he could have gone.

He spoke in a clipped voice:

“Bishop, this is a job for one man. I started it. I have to finish it. There’s a tunnel leading from the house to that copse of trees. If you’ll watch the entrance in that storeroom, I’ll go and seal off the other end.”

“You won’t,” Bishop said, tautly. “You’ll tell us where the other end is.”

“There’s no need to risk your men.”

“You can come, but you’re not going alone.” Bishop snapped orders to several men who were now inside the farmhouse. They went to the tunnel door. Rollison, Bishop,

Tex and three plain-clothes men ran towards the copse. The speed with which the police surrounded the trees was startling. Bishop and Tex kept close to Rollison, and he led them straight to the far end of the tunnel.

The cover was pushed to one side.

The tunnel was empty, except for police who came hurrying through it.

• • • • • •

“He can’t have got away,” Bishop said.

“He got away,” the Texan stated flatly. “Inspector, you have to send out an alarm warning. Everyone, policemen and every newspaper wants to know about this. If that unit was taken on a train or a bus, or on an aircraft, it would kill everyone aboard,”

“Tex, who is the American really after the unit ?” Rollison demanded.

“Abner Crane, if that helps you.”

“What is he like?”

“Good and fat. A big guy, around fifty years old, with watery blue eyes and grey hair, with a bald patch.”

“If he was here in person, he can’t have got far. Would he know how deadly that unit is ?”

“No.”

“Bishop, if you’ll have that description put out, and a cordon flung round the whole area . . . ”

“I’ll fix it by radio,” Bishop said tautly.

“There’s another way we might find this Abner Crane,” Rollison went on. “A lot of things are adding up. Come on, Tex.”

“If you try to leave the farmhouse, I’ll clap handcuffs on you,” Bishop flashed.

“I won’t leave without permission.” Rollison was already near the back door, which was open, and heard voices. The others were in the big front room, and Alan Selby was with them, saying:

“But if it’s been taken away, there’s nothing else to worry about is there?” His voice was shrill with excitement, “We may not get so much money for the farmhouse, but at least there’s no danger. We ought to be shouting for joy, Gillian, not looking scared out of our wits. And you, too, Monty, it’s all over, we’ve got nothing else to worry about.”

“I’ve got plenty to worry about,” said M.M.M.

“Oh, forget it! There are plenty more attractive girls about. Aren’t there, sis?” Selby sounded positively buoyant as he spoke to his sister. “My God, this is the biggest day of my life. For weeks, for months, I’ve been scared out of my wits. It didn’t matter where I went or what I did, someone always knew about it. I didn’t tell you everything, Gillian,” he went on, as Rollison drew nearer. “I tried not to worry you, but it was dreadful. And it’s over ! I could dance a jig.”

Rollison stepped inside. Alan Selby was actually fooling at a little dance, his eyes bright with excitement; he seemed oblivious of M.M.M.’s scowl, of Gillian’s pale face, and of Brandt’s bleakness. The only one who seemed interested and amused was Littleton who stood clapping to a kind of rhythm. Just outside the door was one of Bishop’s men, and in the grounds two dozen police were searching, and others were coming up by car and Black Maria.

“That makes it quite an occasion,” Rollison said coldly. “Did anyone tell you what was in the container?”

“What the hell does it matter what’s in it? It’s out of the farmhouse, and we can breathe freely again.”

“You never made a bigger mistake.”

“Now what’s on your mind?” Selby demanded. “So tired of failure that you have to be smart ?”

“Not so smart as I’d like to be,” said Rollison, “but facts are facts. Someone knew exactly where you were all the time, and was able to spy on you and your sister. Someone worked with the false William Brandt, whose real name is Abner Crane. Someone did a deal with him to get that container. The same someone had to get into the farm, and move Old Smith out of it. Searching for the unit might have taken hours, days or weeks, so the eagerness to buy is easy to understand, but some things made no sense. Two men were killed in cold blood, but Smith, who stood in the way of Gillian selling the farm, wasn’t harmed. So there was someone working with Abner Crane who didn’t want Old Smith dead. Obviously sentiment wasn’t the reason, as the two men had been murdered—and Mome attacked with intent to kill. Why should such killers leave Old Smith unharmed and in possession ?”

Selby had gone very pale.

“Who would kill an old man ?” he demanded.

“Abner Crane and the people he used would kill anyone if it paid ofT,” said Rollison, “but someone wanted Smith alive. We now know that the someone knew where the tunnel was, and was able to get in and out of the farmhouse, after that radiation unit. Who would be in a better position to know about the tunnel than you, Selby?”

“You’re crazy!” Selby cried.

“You know where Crane’s gone, Selby, and where that deadly unit is. Better tell us, quick.”

Gillian was staring at her half-brother, and her eyes were touched with horror. M.M.M. looked very near despair.

“Where is Crane ?” Rollison demanded roughly.

“I’ve never heard of Crane!”

“You know of Crane all right. I’ll stake a fortune that he first came to you about the farm. You agreed to help, then put Old Smith up to refusing to get out, so as to push the price up. You played the double game until suddenly everything became urgent, because Tex Brandt of the F.B.I. was on Crane’s heels.

“Crane had used Brandt’s name as an alias before; now he used it again, and stepped up pressure. He knew that he was being double-crossed, but blamed Lodwin and Charlie Habden; and was afraid that if they were caught they’d implicate him. So he killed them both.”

Selby was ashen pale, and his eyes were feverishly bright.

Bishop came in.

“We haven’t found the unit,” he announced roughly, “but I’ve had confirmation from London that it’s deadly.”

“And Selby is as deadly,” Rollison said. “He thinks there’s still a fortune for him if he keeps quiet, and will risk thousands of lives to get it.”

“It’s a damnable lie !” Selby screeched.

Rollison swung round on M.M.M.

“How about your conscience? Two people tried to murder you, remember. Your whole attitude’s changed, too. Why was it ? For God’s sake don’t hold out any longer.”

M.M.M. said gruffly, painfully.

“I tried not to hurt Gillian, but you’re right now. After you’d left the Wheatsheaf yesterday, the barmaid told me that she’d heard Alan talking to an American—a big, fat man. Then I realised that Alan was involved, but . . .”

M.M.M. broke off.

“The Wheatsheaf,” Rollison interrupted. “Could Abner Crane be hiding there?”

24

CAUSE OF DEATH

The inn looked picturesque and charming against the background of meadows and wooded land, and the beautifully painted inn sign, of stacked com, swayed in a gentle wind. A large modem car stood in the courtyard, but there was no sign of life, no movement, only a stillness as of death.

Rollison drove up to the front door.

Out of sight, but watching him, were the police, and Tex Brandt, Bishop had allowed him to come on his own only because it seemed more likely that, alone, he would be admitted. Directly the front door was open, the police would come watching. The back door was being watched too; there was a cordon round the Wheatsheaf and, beyond, a wider cordon round the village and the farm.

Rollison pressed the bell.

There was no sound.

He pressed again, knowing that if the delay lasted long, then Bishop and his men would come running, determined to force their way in.

Rollison heard footsteps, and Mildred the barmaid opened the door. She looked flushed as from sleep, her fair hair was tousled, and she seemed vexed.

“Don’t you know we’re closed until half-past five?”

“Sorry, but this is urgent,” answered Rollison, and actually managed to smile. “Mildred “

The woman’s expression cleared, and she interrupted brightly:

“It’s Mr. Rollison, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Mildred, you told Mr, Mome about an American who talked to Mr. Selby.”

“That’s right.”

“Is the American here?”

“He came in about ten minutes ago, sneaked in the back way, and went up to his room. Why . . .”

She broke off, frowning, seeing policemen appear, and obviously realised that the inn was surrounded.

“Is your husband here?” Rollison demanded.

“No. I’m on my own. Bert’s gone into town, with the barman.”

“No servants here ?”

“No. What on earth . . .”

“You wait out in the garden,” Rollison said. “It’s vital.” She would never know how much she had been exposed to death. “Which room is this man in?”

“Number 3, at the head of the stairs.”

“Thanks,” Rollison said.

He went in.

The inn was absolutely silent except for the faint sounds of his own movements. He reached a narrow flight of stairs, and crept up them. The police filed into the passage, and he heard the muted sounds they made.

He reached the door of the room numbered 3, listened for a moment, but heard nothing.

He rapped sharply on the door.

There was no response.

He called : “Crane, I’ve got news for you. You’re handling a deadly radio-active unit that will kill you if you keep close to it any longer. Open the door, and get rid of it.”

There was still no response.

Every moment held its own danger. If the unit were in this inn, then already its deadly rays had penetrated walls and ceiling, the air Rollison breathed and the air about him was active with an unseen killer.

“Crane, you heard me.”

Then there was a movement; a squeak of sound. Rollison felt sure that a window was being opened. He stood aside as Bishop arrived, a great axe in his hands.

Bishop smashed a blow at the door, wrenched the axe out, and smashed again. A wooden panel split. Through the gap, Rollison saw a fattish man by the window, standing there and holding a small metal container in his hand.

He was fat and big; exactly as Tex Brandt had described Abner Crane.

The axe crashed again.

“If you don’t let me go I’ll throw this down and break it,” Crane said, in a strangely quiet, southern voice. “And if it breaks, no one in this village will live the week out.”

“Including Abner Crane,” Rollison said. “I don’t have a thing to live for, without this,” retorted Crane, and he rolled the unit on the palm of his hand. “Are you going to do a deal ?”

Rollison said, as if half-persuaded: “I’ll talk to the police.”

“You’d better be quick.”

Rollison moved back a foot. Bishop was holding the axe as if he would hurl it through the door and into the American’s face. Abner Crane was staring at them both.

Then, Tex Brandt’s face appeared at the open window. He was a yard away from Crane, who still held the unit loosely on his palm. Tex was standing on a ladder or a window sill. All the time, those unseen radiations were coming from the unit; and if it were broken then so much unseen power would be released that no one here would live.

Tex stretched out his arm, the fingers of the hand crooked. He was within a foot of the man in the room.

Rollison said: “Bishop, we’ve got to let Crane through, or he’ll kill hundreds of people.”

“It’s impossible!” Bishop rasped, and playing his part with absolute conviction. “Crane, if you don’t . . .”

Tex grabbed.

For a dreadful moment Rollison thought the unit would fall, but instead Tex held it, and backed from the window, while Rollison and Bishop rushed the smashed door, and caught a struggling, kicking, dying man.

• • • • • •

In another room here, without Mildred’s knowledge, were the man and woman who had attacked Morne. They made no attempt to escape, and even seemed eager to make a statement. The statement told how right Rollison had been; how treacherous Alan Selby was; how Crane had murdered both Lodwin and Charlie Habden, believing they, not Selby, were double-crossing him.

In Crane’s room was a small outer container for the unit, in his car, a stronger one still. Had he been able to escape at once, he might have been safe from the radiation, but he had been exposed to it for so long that within two days he was dead.

No one else was seriously affected.

• • • • • •

It was Old Smith who told the final story: a scared old man, who had believed that the safe contained stolen jewels, and had allowed it to be buried in the farmhouse by the original thief, the partner of Abner Crane.

The partner’s name was Lodwin.

• • • • • •

Jolly appeared, as if by magic, wraithlike from the kitchen. A moment later, he opened the big room door and announced:

“Mr. Tex Brandt, sir!”

Rollison jumped up.

“Hi, Tex!” he greeted, and shook hands warmly; he looked behind the tall man and saw no one else, and went on: “How’s Gillian?”

“She’ll be okay when the trial’s over,” said Tex. “I’ve just come away from your Scotland Yard. Those cops really know what they want, don’t they? At least they don’t want Alan for murder, they don’t think they could make it stick. He swears that he didn’t know that Crane killed anyone, and planned to have Mome killed. Easy to blame the dead, but I should say it’s true. Crane has a reputation for killing off anyone who’s served his purpose, and Selby would have gone, too.”

“I almost wish he had,” said Rollison, and was silent for a moment. Then he turned to the cocktail cabinet. “What will you have?”

“Bourbon on the rocks, the way Jolly pours it,” said Tex, and stared at the Trophy Wall. “Gee, that’s still my favourite. I’ve been to St. Paul’s, the National Gallery, the Houses of Parliament, the Tower of London, Scotland Yard and Madame Tussauds, but I still prefer this wall. Ah, thanks !” He took his drink. “That’s wonderful.” He sipped again. “I brought you a little souvenir. Do you think you could find room for it on the wall ?”

“What do you think. Jolly?” asked Rollison.

Jolly turned in the doorway.

‘Tm sure we could, sir, provided it isn’t too large.”

“It’s quite small,” the tall Texan assured him. “It’s a model in gold of an electric chair. If they’d caught up with William Brandt in his home state he would have fried. You’ve got a hangman’s rope, you’ve got a miniature guillotine, you have nearly every lethal weapon under the sun, but nothing that looks like an electric chair.”

“I’m sure that would be most appropriate, sir,” said Jolly politely, and disappeared.

The Texan grinned at Rollison.

“Thanks,” he said. “For everything.”

“A pleasure,” murmured Rollison. “Has Gillian heard from Monty Morne ?”

“You bet she has. He’s going to be at our wedding,” Tex Brandt added. “He’s quite a guy, that M.M.M. Do you know what he’s going to do when I take Gillian away?”

“No,” said Rollison and looked his curiosity.

“He’s going to rent Selby Farm from her, and farm it, because Old Smithy is going to be charged with being in possession of stolen property, so his next home will be prison. How about M.M.M. as a farmer, Toff? Do you approve?”

Rollison grinned, and said resoundingly : “You bet!”

THE END