“Charlie.”
“The devils,” she said, in a quivering voice. “The devils.” She didn’t sway, didn’t close her eyes, didn’t look as if she was going to collapse, but she lost all her colour, even her lips were pale.
“Go and bring the policeman, will you?” If she had something to do, it would help.
She didn’t answer, but turned on her heel, moving very quickly, as if blindly.
Rollison stepped to the body on the bed. Charlie’s face was quite relaxed, all terror smoothed away. But there he lay, as the American had left him, bound to the bed at waist and ankles, and with his wrists bound, too. That was how he had been lying when someone had come into this room and driven the knife to his heart.
Rollison felt the chill of horror; and of hatred for whoever had done this thing.
He looked out of the small window, so tiny that no one could have climbed out. He saw the trees which protected Selby Farm, and the roof of the farm itself. A man who looked as if he were very old came in sight, and a dog trotted after him. The man disappeared.
Was that Smith ?
Did Smith know the secret of Selby Farm ?
There were heavy, hurried footsteps on the stairs and the landing, and then Bishop’s man came in, a thirty- ish, fair-haired, eager Detective Sergeant Keen, dressed in navy blue, looking a little outgrown in it; an overgrown school-boy of a man. But there was nothing school-boyish in the way he looked at dead Charlie; except for a tightening at the lips, he showed no sign of the impact at all.
“Did you find him like this ?”
“Yes.”
Keen went forward, felt the dead man’s pulse, lifted an eyelid, did all the things he should do to make sure that no doctor could help. Then he looked about the room, and said in a man’s deep voice :
“We must leave this room at once, sir. I shall have to telephone for a team, I expect Mr. Bishop will come out himself. This is just inside our area.”
Rollison nodded.
“And this was the man you saw here ?”
How deeply would lies involve him ?
“Yes. I tied him to the bed.”
Keen took that well.
“How long ago?”
“About two o’clock.”
“He can’t have been dead more than an hour,” said Keen, and was suddenly less sure of himself.
“I was in Brighton an hour ago,” Rollison murmured.
“Yes, I know. Who else knew that this man was tied to the bed?”
“Miss Selby.”
“No one else?”
“No one else whom I know about.”
“Fair enough,” Keen said, but he gave the impression that the shock was no
Then the telephone bell rang.
Keen looked up, as if in surprise, then stepped out towards the head of the stairs, a pace ahead of Rollison. They heard Gillian say ‘Hallo’. They hurried down the stairs, and at the foot Keen turned left, into the living-room. Rollison could see over his shoulder. Gillian was standing by the table with the telephone at her ear. She looked round at them. It was as if death was talking to her, and he had never seen a woman with less colour in her cheeks.
She said: “Yes, goodbye.”
Keen was sweeping across towards her, hand outstretched as if he would like to take the receiver before she replaced it; but he hadn’t a chance. It seemed to Rollison that Gillian made sure of that, and then stood almost defensively in front of the telephone.
“Who was that?” demanded Keen, roughly.
“A friend of mine.”
“What friend?”
“Just a friend,” said Gillian, and turned away. Keen stood in his new-found arrogance, but he could not find the right thing to say. Rollison moved past him towards the girl, and before Keen spoke, he said :
“Have you any close friends near here, Gillian?”
“No,” answered Gillian, drably.
“No one who could come and stay with you for a bit, or with whom you could stay?”
“No.”
“Where have you some friends?”
