clear?”
“You don’t get any slower, do you?” Lionel observed, “Anyfinkelse?”
“Yes. Tell them you were to report to Jolly by telephone. That’s the lot.”
“And do I ‘ave to report that I found Mr. Smith in the best’ve ‘ealth an’ spirits ?” demanded Lionel, and was chuckling when Rollison opened the door cautiously, and let him out. “Come by van as far’s the village and push- biked from there,” he said, “best way to avoid being noticed, I thought.”
“You’ll go a long way,” Rollison told him. He closed the door as he saw the uniformed policeman at the gate staring at the little Cockney. The policeman didn’t stop Lionel White, who swung on to his bicycle and pedalled off at a good pace. Then the uniformed man plodded after him. In spite of the desperate urge to raise that flagstone and check what was buried there, Rollison watched the man until he disappeared.
He went to the back, and saw no one there. “They’re really going to make it easy for anyone to come here,” he said. “I wonder where they’re watching from?”
At least it was safer to go outside, provided he shuffled about with bowed shoulders. He dared to go further this time, and found a tool shed. He selected a fork, a spade and a short bar of iron, and went back to the farmhouse. It was a lovely morning, and when he closed the door it was like stepping into a funeral parlour. He locked and bolted it again, and then began work. The iron bar was exactly the lever that he needed. It was the work only of a few minutes to lever the flagstone up, then send it falling to one side. It clattered noisily, and rumbled for a long time. With the better tools, Rollison prised up three more stones, and so laid bare about two square yards of dark earth, dusted with sand and cement.
Now he felt a surge of excitement.
He prodded the earth, and it was fairly easy to pierce with the fork. He dug it over quickly, then began to use the spade, shifting earth to one side; it was heavy and nearly black. He reminded himself that he couldn’t be sure that he had found the secret of the farmhouse; that floor might have been repaired.
Would he find jewels? Or would he find a body ?
He had a hole nearly three feet deep, and a half an hour later was sweating and tired from the unusual exercise. Every time he drove the spade in, the earth seemed to be heavier and more difficult, and there was clay here. He was standing in the hole, and felt like a grave-digger, but by far the worst thing was the sense of failure and frustration. No-one would go any deeper than this, and re-pave that floor. There was a limit to precautions.
He drove the spade in again.
It struck something hard.
Thought of everything but the discovery faded from Rollison’s mind. He tried several times, always with the same result. He cleared the soil away slowly and carefully, determined not to let himself be too excited. Odd, how excitement affected him in this case.
There was a metal box.
It was like coming upon hidden treasure, and easy to picture the box with the lid thrown back, gold and jewels heaped inside. They wouldn’t be, of course, this wouldn’t be so obvious.
He cleared soil away from two sides of the box. At least it wasn’t large enough for a coffin. He cleared the third side, saw the hinges, and was able to study the box more carefully. It was fitted with thick hinges and a clasp, and was more than a metal box; it was a Landon safe, quite small and very nearly impregnable. If he worked on this for the rest of the day he wouldn’t be able to open it. To blow it open he needed T.N.T. and to cut it open, an oxy-acetylene cutter. In spite of that fresh disappointment, he cleared all the earth away, so that the safe stood like a little tomb, the sole result of an excavation.
He left it, pushed the loose earth as far into a comer as he could, and then went into the scullery and put on a kettle, for hot water; now he really needed a wash. He washed his hands in cold water, rummaged round, and found that Old Smith kept some beer and whisky in a cupboard in the big room. He felt like a whisky, and didn’t drown it. He felt a strange sense of anti-climax, for when the police saw Brandt come here, they would move in. At least he would have the satisfaction of knowing that he had lured Brandt into their hands.
He didn’t like it.
He would probably be wise to get a message to the police before Brandt arrived, so that it wouldn’t look as if they had caught him and Brandt together with the boodle.
It would be two hours at least before Brandt could get here, even if he did what he was told; but anyone who wanted the contents of that safe as badly as Tex Brandt would almost certainly take a chance in coming.
There was more than the Brandt angle, though: there was the ‘rival’ apparently working through Selby, and using Gillian and M.M.M. to help. Had Tex built up that rival and also his client ? Did it make sense that Tex should first employ and then murder Lodwin and Charlie Habden ?
And what of Gillian and M.M.M. ? They might be patient enough to wait until six o’clock for the promised interview from Old Smith, but no one would want to wait long for the sake of it.
“If I were in their shoes, what would I do?” asked Rollison of himself, as he washed with thick lather from the hot water, and then towelled vigorously. It was odd to feel the stubble on his cheeks, and to see the white bits of the towel sticking to it.
It was nearly twelve o’clock, and he could see the brightness of the sun at the sides of the windows. He looked out of each of the top floor windows, and saw no sign of anyone; the policeman had certainly been moved. He checked all the windows to make sure they were securely fastened, and also checked the doors.
He went upstairs to do the same thing, and looked in at Littleton, lying bound hand and foot on the narrow bed.
He stood over the man.
“Just refresh your memory,” he said, mildly. “Did Brandt threaten to kill anyone else?”
Littleton tried to meet his eyes, but couldn’t.
“You said you’d come clean, remember?” Rollison reminded him, in a harder voice. “But make it really clean.
