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
