tell the same story every time.”
“I won’t panic,” Gillian assured him. “I’ve worked that out of my system.”
“I really believe you have.” It was easy to admire her matter-of-factness.
“But it could soon come back,” Gillian went on. “For instance, what are we going to do with that man in the box-room? Aren’t the police likely to want to look round the cottage ?”
“If the man’s still there when we get back I shall be surprised,” Rollison said. “That kind of individual doesn’t travel alone. He’ll have been released by now.”
“I don’t know whether to hope you’re right or not,” said Gillian, and so proved again that she could be remarkably dispassionate, even under pressure. “He might have been able to tell us a lot more.”
“I doubt it, Tex the Texan milked him pretty well,” said Rollison. “What is Tex’s other name?”
“William Brand, or Brandt,” answered Gillian, “and there’s an initial in the middle.”
“William Tex Brandt will do,” Rollison said, and drove in silence for fifteen minutes or so, until they were out of Brighton. It was nearly half-past three, and surprisingly warm. The cloudless sky gave the impression that rain could never fall out of it, but the spring flowers were beautiful in the parks and the private gardens, and a gentle wind made them nod. On the open road, Rollison put his foot down harder, and was within a few miles of the spot where he had left M.M.M. when Gillian burst out:
“But Where’s Monty?”
“He had a bit of bother with the straps of his leg, and had to rest,” Rollison told her, and not for the first time wondered how Montagu Montmorency Mome was getting on. “He’ll probably be waiting for us when we get to the cottage.” He drove again in silence for a few minutes, glancing now and again at the girl: she had a quite remarkable profile, and didn’t really seem quite true. He had never noticed before how her lashes swept round, so that they nearly touched her cheek.
“Gillian,” he said abruptly.
“Yes?”
“Have you the slightest idea why this sudden interest is being shown in the farm ?”
He stared at the road ahead, while she turned to look at him; when she spoke, it was very firmly indeed.
“I have no idea at all, and I’m sure Alan hasn’t. It’s a complete mystery. I would like you to believe that, and to stop doubting me.”
“Okay, honey,” said Rollison, and sparked an exclamation from her. Then Gillian asked :
“Do you think Tex will get to your flat safely?”
“I can’t think why not,” said Rollison. “That’s if he wants to.”
“Of course he wants to, don’t be ridiculous. By the way,” added Gillian, and Rollison saw that she was looking at him very intently indeed, “what is a shamus ?”
“Slang for a private dick or private detective,” Rollison told her promptly. “You heard as much as I did, Gillian. We want to find out who Tex’s employer is, and Charlie’s employer, and it wouldn’t surprise me if we want to find who was employing Lodwin, too.”
“If they’d kill one person, they’d kill another, wouldn’t they?” Gillian said, speculatively.
“We’ll find Alan, and we’ll find him alive,” Rollison assured her quietly.
They did not speak again until they were at the cottage; the first noticeable thing was that the black Humber, which Charlie had come in, was gone.
“So he did get away,” Gillian said, as if not sure whether to be pleased or sorry.
The front door was open, and it seemed obvious that no one had been there since they had left it. Rollison left the car in a position to leave again in a hurry if there were any need, and then went upstairs to see the man named Charlie. He had been quite serious when he had said that he expected to find the man gone, and was whistling under his breath when he reached the tiny landing.
Gillian was coming up the narrow stairs.
“It’s the second door on the right,” she said. “I wonder if you’re right.”
The door was ajar, and that suggested to Rollison that Charlie had flown. He pushed it wider and stepped inside, and then discovered that this was one of his bad guesses. Charlie had not driven off in that Humber. Charlie was lying on a little camp bed, as dead as a man could be; he had been stabbed in exactly the same place as Lodwin.
9
THE FARM
“What is it?” Gillian asked, in a strangely calm voice; it was as if she had a premonition, or as if she understood instinctively what made Rollison stop so abruptly. She was just behind him. Outside there was the sound of a car, approaching slowly; that would be the man whom Bishop had sent to follow them.
Rollison turned round. There was no point in trying to conceal anything, no point in trying to soften any blow. This girl had taken tremendous punishment in a few hours, and now his impression was that she had steeled herself to take yet more. He could see beyond the immediate fear, to her fear for her missing Alan. For if men could kill so slickly and cruelly as the killer of Lodwin and Charlie, then there was no telling where they would stop.
“Victim Number 2,” Rollison said. “Go down and ask that policeman to come up, will you ?”
She flinched; and there was anguish in her eyes.
“Who is it?”
