“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 head and bent back, and smiled faintly at the snoring. He stepped closer, taking the palm gun out of his pocket as he did so.
He stood looking down at Old Smith, who had been so adamant about leaving Selby Farm.
“Now why don’t you want to leave, Smithy?” asked Rollison, and continued to stare at the old man’s head. He asked the question silently, and the only sound was Smith’s breathing. The night was silent, too. Rollison had got in at a window. He had seen a policeman in the garden, but the man had been easy to evade. In the morning he would get into trouble from Keen or Bishop, but he would get over that.
Rollison moved the palm gun until it was just at the side of Smith’s face, and pressed the trigger gently. There was scarcely a hiss of sound, and no more vapour than there would have been from an atomiser. The old man paused in his breathing once, and after that appeared to breathe steadily and silently,
Rollison put the gun back into his pocket.
He stepped to the back door, and saw that the huge key had been turned in it, and that it was bolted and chained. With extreme care, he drew bolts and pulled the chain out, then turned the key: and the turning made the greatest sound. He opened the door a fraction and listened, but saw no sign of the patrolling policeman, nor did he hear him. He stepped into the garden, and drew the door to behind him, without closing it. He looked towards the cottage. No lights showed above the trees now, for except for a guard back and front, much more thorough than the guard at the farm, no police were there.
Footsteps sounded.
Rollison waited in the dark shadows. The policeman, in plain clothes, was angled for a moment against the sky. He drew nearer, glanced at the door, but did not think of trying it or of going nearer.
He passed, slowly.
Rollison went back inside, hurried to the old man, and lifted him bodily: Smith did not stir or make a sound, he was in a drugged sleep now. Rollison took him outside and across the farmyard with its earthy and its animal smells. Just behind a gate in a nearby field there was a rustle of sound.
“That you, Mr. Ar?” a man inquired in a rich Cockney voice.
“Hallo, Sam,” said Rollison. “How would you like to be a farmer?”
“Not so-and-so likely, the smell’s more’n enough for me,” said the man named Sam. “I’ll buy me eggs from the shop, ta. Got ’im?”
“Yes. Take him and look after him well, he might be precious,” Rollison said. “You know where to go with him.”
“Everything’s okay, Mr. Ar,” said the man named bam, and another man appeared by his side and echoed : “Sure, it’s okay.” Rollison handed over the unconscious man, and then stood and watched the two men from London’s East End as they carried Smith on a chair which they made with their arms, until the strange little group disappeared from his sight.
Ten minutes afterwards, some distance off, a car engine started up, whined for a few moments, and then moved off; but oddly, there was no light in the sky to show the beam of head-lights.
Rollison turned back to the garden. The policeman was on the way round again, and this time smoking a cigarette : the smell of tobacco smoke came temptingly, but Rollison resisted temptation, and waited until the man was round the nearest corner. Soon he went to the kitchen, locked up as securely as Old Smith, then turned out the oil lamp and, using a torch, went up the narrow stairs. He had seen the condition of the farmhouse during the day, and knew that it was messy enough, but he pulled off his boots, loosened his collar and tie, then sat down in an old armchair, and closed his eyes.