again, more loudly, and at last Old Smith came hobbling with his unexpected speed. He had a mahogany-coloured face with deep etched lines, a sunken mouth because he had no teeth, but he also had as clear a pair of grey eyes Rollison had seen in a man, young or old.
He barred the door.
“What do you want ?” he demanded, and gave no doubt that whatever the visitor desired, he couldn’t have it.
“I want to buy the farm,” announced Rollison, in the mildest of voices, “and I thought you might be able to help me find a way of persuading Miss Selby to let me have it.” He smiled, as if taking it for granted that he would get what he wanted. ‘“Perhaps we could have a chat, Mr. Smith.”
“We can’t have a chat, now or any time,” Old Smith crackled, “I haven’t any time for talk with you or with anyone.”
“It might be worth your while.”
“It’ll be worth your while to turn round and get off quicker than you came here.” This was the tone Smith had used for M.M.M. “Now don’t waste my time any longer.”
“Mr. Smith,” murmured Rollison, “I don’t really want to buy the house at all, I just want to buy a story. It would be worth five hundred pounds.”
The old man demanded sharply : “What story?”
“Your story, and that of Selby Farm.”
“You must be daft!”
“You must have a good reason for refusing to sell the property, Mr. Smith, and “
“I’ve lived here man and boy for seventy-two years and if that isn’t reason enough I’d like to know what is,” roared Old Smith, “and you can go back and tell your editor felly that he can’t have my story for five hundred or five thousand pounds. I live a private life and I don’t want my name in any scandal-mongering newspaper. Now get out. I’m in the middle of my tea.”
“Don’t you think you’re being hard on Gillian Selby and her brother, by refusing “
“Hard be damned to them! They’re young, they’ve got their lives ahead of them, don’t say I’m being hard. All they want is easy money, like all the young fools these days. Something for nothing, that’s what they’re after. But I’ve a right to this farm while I pay my rent, it’s in the old man’s will. Ask the wench, if you don’t believe me. Her father made sure no-one could turn me out. Now good-day to you.”
“What will happen if they get a court order compelling you to leave?” asked Rollison, still mildly.
“I’d tear it up and throw it in their faces,” said Old Smith, and then broke into a cackle of laughter. “But they’ll never get a court order, they’ll never even have the guts to try. You go back and tell your editor man that, and if you meet the Selby’s, tell them it’s time they stopped wasting their breath and mine.”
He turned round and hobbled off; cackling.
He was very sure of himself. Why?
Detective Inspector Bishop and a murder team were at the cottage when Rollison got back. There were eight men in all, including a police-surgeon, who had formally pronounced that Charlie’s life was extinct. Rollison was in time to see the body carried into a small ambulance, and to see the ambulance move off. In and about the cottage, men were taking photographs, noting footprints, barricading anything of interest, drawing lines, making sketches, taking measurements; all the paraphernalia of routine which made the difference between the professional and the amateur at work.
Gillian was in the downstairs room, still very pale, with M.M.M. Bishop saw Rollison arrive, and came to meet him.
“Did you know about the money Lodwin was supposed to have left ?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Rollison. “Has Miss Selby turned it in?”
“Yes,” Bishop said, and then took Rollison’s arm. “I don’t know how well you know Miss Selby, but our medic says that she is suffering very badly from shock, and that she ought to get away from here, and have some rest. She won’t go to a nursing home, but says she’s going to stay here until her brother gets back. Do you think you can persuade her that it won’t do any good ?”
“We’d persuade her more easily if we could find her brother,” Rollison said. “Any news?”
“Give us a chance, man !”
“I feel the same way,” Rollison said, dryly. “I’ll try to get her away, but the only place I can take her to is London.”
“That’s all right,” said Bishop, and added slyly : “We’ve been in touch with the Yard, and they’re sending a man here. We didn’t want to take any chances, especially as the man killed at Brighton was known to the Yard.”
“What as?”
“You’d better ask your friend Grice,” said Bishop, “but take it from me, the important thing is to get the girl away from here.”
“Have you finished questioning her?”
“She won’t say a word: just sits and stares and looks at me as if I were a lunatic.”
“I see what she means,” said Rollison gravely, and enjoyed the smile which leapt into Bishop’s eyes. “How about this friend of hers, Monty Morne ?”
“No reason why he shouldn’t go if you want him to,” said Bishop.
He was being very obliging; in fact, almost too obliging. When the police made everything easy, there was
