Rollison eased him over on his side, and examined the bruise at the back of his head. The skin was broken, but there was a little bleeding, nothing to suggest that it was too serious, but he was likely to be unconscious for some time longer.
Rollison went to the secret doorway, blocked it so that it couldn’t be opened from the tunnel and stairs, and then went back to the flagstones. As he banged and chipped, his chief worry was the noise—if he kept it up too long, the police outside might come to see what the ‘old man’ was doing. The chance had to be taken. In ten minutes, enough cement was out of a crevice to push the end of the chisel down into the earth below, and Rollison began to lever at a slab.
The screw-driver steel bent, slowly, softly, uselessly. Rollison drew back, unsmiling. He needed a spanner or a crowbar. He needed a lot of things—including news from outside—but above everything was the secret hidden beneath this floor.
The man behind him grunted.
Rollison turned to look at him. The man’s eyes were flickering and his lips moving, as if they were very dry. Rollison fetched water in a cup and moistened his lips, and knew the moment that the other really came round : the sudden tension in the body and the hands, the abrupt tightening of the lips, told their own story. Then he tried to free his ankles and wrists but realised that he hadn’t a chance. He opened his eyes wide and stared at Rollison’s face, and the fear was deep in him.
“All you have to do is answer questions,” Rollison said, and gave that a moment to sink in. “Who sent you to kill Smith?”
The man gulped, and his eyes showed the same kind of bewilderment as they had just before he had been knocked out.
“You—you’re not Smith,” he said hoarsely.
“You’ve got that right. Now don’t waste time : who sent you to kill Smith?”
The man began to breathe very hard.
“I didn’t come to kill him, he wouldn’t be any good if he was dead. I came to scare the wits out of him.”
“That might sound good in court, but it doesn’t make much impression on me,” Rollison said sharply. “Who “
The man cried : “You’re the Toff !”
“That’s right, but I don’t feel like one at the moment. I feel like breaking your neck.”
“Where—where’s Smith ?”
Rollison said: “All right, you really want trouble.” He glanced round as if for a weapon, and the hammer was within reach. He stretched out for it, and the man’s body seemed to give a convulsive leap.
“No, don’t hit me, don’t hit me !” There was the voice of fear. “I had to come and frighten Old Smith into doing what we wanted.”
“Who are ‘we’ ?”
“The—the boss and me.”
“Who’s the boss?”
“Will Brandt,” said the helpless prisoner, who looked too terrified to lie. “Will Brandt’s the boss, he wants the farm. After what’s happened, he wants to buy it in Smith’s name. That way he would be able to get it without trouble from the cops. Don’t stare at me like that!” The man’s voice rose so loudly that Rollison was afraid that he might be heard outside. “I tell you Brandt’s the boss.”
That made Grice right. Which made the Toff wrong.
“Now you’ve started, keep it up,” urged Rollison, and he weighed the hammer in his hand as if wondering whether it would be a good idea to use it after all. “You came to soften up Old Smith and make him buy the farm as a cover for Will Brandt of Abilene, Texas, is that it?”
The prisoner said : “If you know where he comes from, how much more do you know ?”
“Enough to be sure when you’re lying,” Rollison replied. “Why is he so anxious to get the farm ?”
He was watching the other closely, and saw the change in his expression. For a few minutes, fear had faded, as if he knew that there was nothing to fear provided he answered questions. Now, the fear was back. His prisoner spoke flatly, and it was obvious that he didn’t expect to be believed.
“He never told me,” he said. “It’s no use asking me that you could break every bone in my body, and I wouldn’t be able to tell you. All I know is that he’s had a spy watching the Selbys, he knows every move they make. I just don’t know anything else.”
“You know other things. What’s your name?”
“Freddie Littleton.”
“Were you with Brandt in Atlanta recently?”
“Sure. We flew from New York three days ago.”
“What were you doing with him ?”
“Rollison,” said the man who called himself Littleton, “he’s a buyer of all kinds of jewellery, and he isn’t particular where it comes from—and I know my way about. I’ve been going to and from America with jewels in my baggage for over a year now. Will gets a better price than I could get here.”
“Do you steal them first ?”
“Don’t make me laugh,” Littleton said, and he did in fact give a little giggle. “I’m on the receiving end. I don’t take big chances. I buy from the bright boys in this country and take the stuff over to the States, and Will sells it there. That way I pick up five thou, a year and all expenses.” He was sweating a little now, but the fear seemed to
