house was empty. I came upstairs, and this is what I found.” He stood aside.
Rollison stepped forward swiftly, and felt for the pulse of the man in grey; it was quite still. He had not really needed telling that the man was dead, of a knife wound in the breast. The knife wasn’t there. Blood was on the snowy white shirt and even on the charcoal coloured lapels of the coat. His face was very pale and his eyes limply closed. It looked as if he had fallen on to the bed after the blow, and toppled backwards, and that someone had lifted his lifeless legs up.
“They don’t come any deader,” the Texan declared.
“Do you know him ?” asked Rollison.
“In a kind of way.”
“What kind of way?”
“He was the guy who offered fifteen thousand pounds for the farm, and left a thousand pounds in cash on the table,” said the Texan, and gave a smile which was almost pathetic. “He said his name was Lodwin, and he breathed plenty of threats and menaces.”
“Ah,” said Rollison. “I see.”
“You bet your life,” said the Texan, gustily. “I had a quarrel with this guy, and then I came here and found him. Now my finger-prints are all over the place, and the guy has only been dead for a matter of minutes. I just had time to kill him. I could imagine a case for saying that I had a motive, because we both wanted to buy that farm.” He smiled again, very wryly. “How well do you know the cops around here?”
“Well enough to know they like to catch murderers.”
“I wasn’t being funny,” the Texan said. “Do I have to run, or would it be better to tell them what happened? Either way I’ll be in trouble, and I’d like to know which is the lighter load of it.”
“Give me five minutes to make up my mind.” Rollison looked round. “Any sign of Alan Selby ?”
“Sure. His handkerchief, some of the cigarettes he smokes, and a box of matches which Gillian says he collected from the larder yesterday morning.”
“Is she positive?”
“She ought to know.”
“Yes,” conceded Rollison, and stared at the dead man. “In this room ?”
“Yes.”
“Where are they?”
“In my pocket.”
“You really want to make trouble for yourself, don’t you?”
The Texan was smiling more naturally now, and for a moment laughter ghnted in his eyes.
“You could put it another way: I don’t want to make trouble for Gillian.”
“Do you know her that well ?”
“So well,” drawled the Texan, “that I think I want to marry her. But I don’t see that it figures right now. Her brother was here. Maybe he got involved in a fight, but I don’t think so. I think he was held captive here, and that his captors killed this guy, and left the articles for the cops to find. That way, it would look as if Selby was the killer. That way, they would have a tighter hold on him and on Gillian, to make them sell the farm. Of course, I could be wrong.”
“But it doesn’t often happen,” murmured Rollison.
This time, the Texan laughed aloud.
“You bet it doesn’t!”
Rollison said : “As far as we know, Alan Selby was a prisoner. If he was a prisoner, he probably couldn’t have killed Lodwin. The police will be much more interested in you.”
“You always take that long to reach an opinion?” Now the smile was only lurking in the Texan’s eyes.
“Always,” said Rollison, solemnly. “I’ve reached another.”
“Let me tell you what it is : the police will be after me as soon as they know I’ve been here, and a tall American with an M.G. car and red hair won’t be very hard to trace. I’ve about one chance in ten million to stay free long enough to find out what’s going on around here.”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On who helps you. I might. You could stay in hiding at my flat in London, and I could work to find out the real killer.”
“How do I earn your help?” The Texan seemed serious, even anxious. But that might be pretence; he was smart and he was clever.
“As one professional to another, just a little bartered information,” said Rollison.
“Professional what?”
“Private eye, private richard, shamus or what-have-you ?” murmured Rollison, and didn’t even let his eyes flicker.
But the Texan grinned.
