“Okay.”
Jolly had realised whose help he had sought the previous night, of course; had assumed that he would go to the East End, where a certain Bill Ebbutt, who ran a boxing gymnasium as well as a pub, could always be relied on for help. Jolly had almost certainly persuaded Ebbutt to put him on to Sam who had come down here with a crony, and had taken Old Smith away. That much was easy to understand. But why had Jolly thought it essential to send a message ?
Rollison unfolded the letter.
Jolly had written :
“I think you should know at once, sir, that there is a warrant out for your arrest . . .”
Rollison caught his breath. Lionel looked at him through his lashes, and drew deeply on the cigarette. Someone walked along the path outside, and Rollison looked sharply towards the sound.
“. . . I was told of this by Mr. Grice, who called at six-thirty this morning.
“There is also a warrant out for William Brandt, who appears to be quite notorious in the United States. The newspapers have this story and are using it extensively, but as yet there is no public announcement of the warrant for you.
“Mr. Grice made it clear that he believes you have been deceived by William Brandt, and says that it is absolutely essential for you to give yourself up and to make a statement explaining your association with the man. He says that in his considered opinion, the longer you leave it, the more dangerous will be your own position.
“I understand that Mr. Alan Selby, who was detained for some hours, has been released, and also that Miss Selby and Mr. Mome are on their way to the cottage. I cannot be sure, but I have reason to believe that the police suspect that some attempt will be made to take possession of the farmhouse during the day, and the police are watching from a distance, ready to move in if that appears to be necessary.
“If I am right in this surmise, I cannot too strongly urge you to leave.
Respectfully as always, sir, Jolly.
P.S. William Brandt telephoned me twice in the course of this letter, and each time said that he wanted to talk to you urgendy. I refused to give him any information.
Rollison lowered the letter.
Lionel White moved across to the hearth and tossed the end of his cigarette into it.
“In a bit’ve a spot, aincha?” he inquired. “Just before I left there was a buzz that the busies were after you, serious this time. Anyfink I can do?”
“Did you see any police on the way here?” asked Rollison.
“Copper at the front, that’s all.”
If he had seen only the one man, then the other police were keeping out of sight, but there was no reason to doubt
Jolly; it all added up. So did other things. If the police were after him in earnest, they would soon have every newspaper in the country screaming the news,
“One ovver fing,” went on Lionel, “Sam said the old geezer’s okay.”
“Where is he being kept ?”
“At the home of a pal of Sam’s, Mr. Ebbutt didn’t fink ‘e ought to be kept at the pub or the gym.”
“What’s the address?”
“27, Russett Grove, Wapping.”
“Thanks,” Rollison said. “I may want to see him in a hurry, and I may want him brought nearer here. Get off, telephone Sam, tell him to be all ready to move if he gets a message, but to keep Smith where he is if he doesn’t hear from me. Okay?”
“Sure, I’ve got it,” said Lionel.
“And tell him to tell Jolly to send Will Brandt to the farm if he rings again. He can tell Brandt that I know the secret of the farm. That’s urgent.”
“I’ll fix it quick,” promised the little Cockney.
“And if the police pick you up on your way out, tell them you came from me to see Old Smith,” Rollison said, “They’ll swallow that.” He saw Lionel grin as if he relished the trick. “Say I talked to you last night, near Ebbutt’s place, and told you to come and try to make Old Smith explain why he wouldn’t move from the farmhouse. All 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.