He noticed the flagstoned floor was very uneven, especially in one corner. He looked at the wall, and saw that there was a pale patch in the plaster. He stared at this for some minutes, then stood up and went closer. About a dozen flagstones were raised higher than the others, and he scrutinized the little gaps where they were fitted together. These had been cemented in much more recently than most of those in the rest of the room. Rollison began to feel a glow of excitement, but before he did anything to the stones, he went to each window and looked out.

The plain-clothes policeman was standing and talking to a uniformed constable by the farmyard itself, and two white leghorns were pecking close to their feet. No one else was in sight. Rollison chose the longest and strongest screw-driver in the tool drawer, and then went to the raised flagstones. He dropped a cushion on the floor, because the cold stone was hard on his knees. He scraped at the cement pointing, but quickly realised that he would get no result that way: it didn’t crumble at all.

He used the screw-driver as a cold chisel, and hammered the handle. He chipped a little away, but knew that he couldn’t do that for too long, because it would be heard outside. He spent five minutes at it, and had about half an inch clear of cement. Once he was able to get some leverage, he might get a stone up without too much difficulty.

He was sweating.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and then stood up, to ease his legs; and as he did so, he saw a shadow move in the doorway between here and the larders and pantries.

Pretending to notice nothing, he took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead more thoroughly. Then he stepped to the window, as if for a rest. He heard no sound except the crowing and cawing, the grunting and the movements of the farmyard. A pig appeared on the overgrown lawn at the back, as if it owned the place. Rollison stared at the glass of a picture near the window, watching the doorway.

A man appeared.

He was standing quite still. Rollison could not see what he looked like, could not even be sure that he was a big man, for the glass distorted. But he was there. He was moving, creeping forward. Creeping. Rollison could see as well as sense the stealthy approach, and he stood there very tense.

What did the man have in his mind ?

That wasn’t the only question, although it was the most urgent. How had he got there ? A policeman wouldn’t have allowed him to pass. In any case, back and front doors were locked and the windows were closed, too.

What did he have in his hand?

It looked like a piece of rope.

Why rope ?

How had he come in ?

And remember—he was coming stealthily upon the man he believed to be Old Smith, he couldn’t suspect that it was anyone else.

Could he?

He was half way across the room, and now Rollison knew that it was thick string in his hand; at closer quarters, the window glass did not distort so much. The man was still fearful of making a sound, and moved with remarkable silence. He was biggish, youngish, plumpish.

He held the string stretched between his hands, thrust out in a way which now made his purpose quite unmistakable. He was coming to twist that rope round ‘Smith’s’ neck, and probably to pull it tight until the life was choked out of the old man.

Why?

How had he got in ?

He was raising his hands, and it was obvious that he was coming in a moment. One leap, one twist, and he would expect an easy victim.

Rollison tensed himself, and then swung round.

He didn’t know the man, and had never seen him before. He saw the hard face take on a look of unbelief, saw the big mouth gape open. The man leaped forward in a desperate effort, but something checked him, and he didn’t finish his attempt. In the split second before Rollison hit him, he looked as if he was seeing a ghost.

Rollison’s fist caught him beneath the chin, and actually jolted him off his feet and sent him falling backwards. He struck the back of his head against the stone floor, and the dull thud told its own tale. He sagged, his head lolled to one side, and there was no pretence; he was unconscious.

But . . .

How had he got in?

WAY IN

ROLLISON Stepped over the unconscious man, to the door, and then into the passage which served the larders and the pantries. He felt a draught which he hadn’t noticed before. The obvious explanation was a forced window, of course, although all the windows here were small, and the man biggish, if not actually hefty. Then Rollison stopped short.

The door of a fruit storage room was open, and he could smell the sharp, almost cidery smell of last year’s apples; he had already seen some wrinkled and brown, on the shelves. He didn’t see so many, now. Part of the shelving and part of the wall had swung open, so that there was a hidden doorway. It hinged at a comer, and it wasn’t surprising that he had not found it.

Beyond, was darkness.

Rollison went back, made sure that the man was still unconscious, then came back. He stared down into a hole large enough even for a big man, and to three or four steps which looked as if they were made of cement. A fresh breeze was coming up the steps, nothing was dank and smelly. He went back again, found the string which the man had held out ready to strangle him, cut it in two, and bound the wrists and ankles. Now he had a little time to spare. He felt the choking excitement which often came with a discovery as he crouched down and entered the little staircase.

He shone his pencil torch.

There were cobwebs, and the walls were rather damp, but that was all. He had to bend his head very low so as to get along. Then the torch light fell on a wall in front of him, and revealed a comer. He turned this, and saw daylight coming from a hole about head height. He reached the hole and, moving with great care, hauled himself up so that he could see about him.

There were the trunks of trees, some undergrowth, some grass. This came up in the middle of the copse which made a kind of wall between farmhouse and cottage. No one else was near. The copse stretched for some distance, and anyone who kept his eyes open would be able to approach it from one side without being seen and, even with the leaves off the trees, reach the hole without being observed.

It was a discovery, but not the one which mattered most.

At one side of the entrance was a square of wood with earth and dead leaves on it. Rollison pulled this over the hole, and it left him in near darkness. He used his torch again, then found his way back to the storage cupboard and the door which he hadn’t seen. He examined it, and saw that it could be opened from the inside as well as from the outside. He closed it, and went back to see if his prisoner had started to come round.

As he reached the kitchen, a trick of the light seemed to throw a shadow, as of a knife, on the man’s chest, Rollison had a bad moment, and his heart thumped. Then he drew nearer, and saw that there was no knife. He went down on one knee, and began to go through the man’s pockets. His wallet contained only money: no driving licence, nothing to give his name away. He carried keys, two handkerchiefs, a comb, two studs, and a freshly opened packet of American Camels, with two books of matches. The cigarettes indicated nothing, but the book matches carried an American Motel slogan—

The Best in the South Atlanta’s Biggest Motel Rollison stood up, the matches in his hand. They proved little, but they could mean a lot. A man with a southern accent threatened both him and Morne, and had telephoned Jolly, asking for Brandt, someone who knew that Rollison and Brandt were together on this; and here were matches, which looked fresh and new, as they would if they had been brought from the motel only a day or two ago.

Yet this man’s clothes and appearance were as English as could be.

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 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.”

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