John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm

The other went off on his patrolling again.

Rollison knew a little more. Alan Selby was still free, and it looked as if he would remain free for a while, to give his sister a chance to sell the property. Whoever had released him had taken a big chance—or else they had known their man, and were sure that Selby wouldn’t fight.

Why wouldn’t he ?

Was he just a craven, or had someone been working on his nerves for a long time ?

Rollison walked briskly to the kitchen and then into a big larder-like cupboard where he had seen a good set of carpenter’s tools. He selected a screw-driver, a saw, a claw hammer, a brace and bit and some oil, and went back to the big front room. This time he really meant to search it so that there could be no possibility of a mistake.

But within half an hour, he felt sure that there was nothing buried under this floor.

He went moodily into the kitchen, sat in the old man’s chair, ht a cigarette, and studied the floor there. He had seldom felt so nearly despondent, seldom been without a real clue. Usually he could guess at the truth, even if he couldn’t prove it. Now his own mind as well as the circumstances seemed to be going round in circles.

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?

19

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.