have gone for good : as if he thought that Rollison believed he did not know why Will wanted the farm so badly.
“I should think the police would like to know about you,” Rollison murmured.
“I’ll take my chance with the cops,” Littleton said, quite perkily. “You can’t prove anything against me.”
“Freddie, you’re quite a bright boy yourself. Be brighter. Where is Brandt now ?”
“Don’t ask me. He went off on his own yesterday morning, and called me by telephone a couple of hours ago. Maybe it’s three hours now. He had some other people working for him, but they fell down on the job. So he told me to come down and soften up Old Smith, that’s all I came here for.”
“You told me that once before,” said Rollison. “What about Lodwin and Charlie?”
“They were the other guys who fell down on the job,” Littleton said.
“Is that why you killed them?” Rollison demanded.
He had never seen a man change so quickly; never seen horror spring into a pair of eyes as it did in Freddie Littleton’s then. There was a long silence, so long that Rollison heard the ticking of his watch, as if it was willing the seconds away. Then Littleton said in a gusty voice:
“So Brandt killed them both. He always said he would if they tried to muscle in. They thought they could get the stuff at the farm, and get away with it.”
“What stuff?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t know anything about it. If it’s a murder rap, I’d rather you took me straight to the cops and let me make a statement before they pick me up. Brandt always said he’d fix them. What did he use? A knife?”
Rollison seemed to see the smiling eyes of the tall Texan, and to feel the icy coldness of death.
He nodded.
“He was always playing around with that knife,” Littleton said. “It wouldn’t surprise me to know he’s used it plenty of times.”
“Did he put anyone else on his black list?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Littleton answered, and went on hurriedly: “Rollison, get me out of this. Send for the cops, and I’ll come clean. I didn’t know anything about the murders, I swear to that.”
“You’re not going to the police or anywhere yet,” said Rollison, “you’re going to stay here. Brandt may turn up if you’re missing long enough, or he may send another stooge or two.”
“What are you going to do with me?”
“You can have a snack, and then you’re going to rest for the day,” Rollison said.
He did not add that Charlie had been murdered while resting.
Twenty minutes later, Freddie Littleton was locked in a small upstairs room, and Rollison made another tour of the farmhouse. He satisfied himself that no one was here, checked that the door leading to the tunnel was still closed, and couldn’t be opened except from the house, and then watched the patrolling policeman stroll past the front door. A moment afterwards, Rollison nipped out of the back door. No one else was in sight. He shuffled along and kept his shoulders bowed, in case someone was watching from some distance off, and then reached the spot from which he could see the cottage.
There were no cars outside, except Monty Morne’s.
No policeman appeared to be there.
Smoke coiled upwards from a chimney, which suggested that Gillian and M.M.M. were there. Was Alan Selby? Had the police detained him when he had come round from that drugged sleep, or would they let him go free, and follow him in the hope that he would lead them to the murderers ?
Rollison went back into the farmhouse, locked and bolted the back door, and then started work again on the flagstones, this time using a steel poker from the big room. It didn’t bend so easily as the screw-driver, but the task still wasn’t going to be easy. He wanted those flagstones up and the truth revealed before there were any more interruptions. It couldn’t be long before the police came to question Smith, and to search, to try to find out why the farmhouse had become so valuable. Every lost minute might be vital.
He eased the flagstone up at last so that he could get his fingers under it at two places. He bent down, to get the greatest possible leverage with his arms, and heaved. He felt the great stone coming upwards. He exerted all the strength he had, and sweat began to trickle down his face, while the strain at arms and stomach seemed too great.
Then, he heard a banging on the front door.
20
CALLER ON A BIKE
ROLLISON had heard no one approach, was sure that there had been no car. He held the stone about four inches off the floor at one side, hesitated, and then heard more sharp rapping. It might be the police, this could be his cue to run. But he couldn’t run unless he were positive that the police were here; he wanted to see what was buried under this floor.
He pushed the hammer underneath the stone with his foot, then gradually lowered the big slab; it would be easy enough to start again. As he went into the big room, shuffling noisily, he wiped his forehead, and was surprised that he felt clammy all over. He peered out from the side of the window, and saw no car, but also saw the uniformed policeman at the gate, watching but making no attempt to interfere.
He undid the chain.
“It’s okay, Mr. Ar.,” a man said in whispered Cockney, “Mr. Jolly sent me. Let me in.”
