by John Creasey
Then he saw a man running away from the fowl-house.
He leapt over a box hedge and ran alongside the poultry house, seeing through the windows the shadowy shapes of birds fluttering about – and never had he heard such a cacophony as that which came from them. The man who was running away was already fifty feet ahead of him, but on the field, which was uneven and where the going was slow, while he himself had the advantage of a smooth path. He tucked his elbows into his sides and ran, but once or twice he caught his breath.
A tall hedge bordered the field, and Rollison could see no break in it except where the path ended; it led to the adjoining field by a stile. He was as near to it as his quarry, who was running on again more warily. Gradually Rollison gained. There was a good chance of reaching the stile first, and although he knew that he would be in no shape to grapple with the intruder, the feel of his automatic against his thigh was reassuring.
He reached the stile four or five yards ahead of his quarry, who was a heavily-built man wearing a Norfolk jacket and heavy corduroys, an oldish fellow with little angry eyes. He came at Rollison with clenched fists, and Rollison dropped his hand to his pocket.
Then something moved at his side.
He saw the figure of another man, and half-turned, but he was too late to save himself from a blow over the head. It knocked him sideways, but did not make him unconscious. He lay there for a few seconds, gasping for breath, while the man from the shed jumped the stile. He heard footsteps pounding on the field on the other side, pulled himself to his feet, and looked across it. Two men were just disappearing over the crest of a hill. Not ten feet away from him a cow stood staring, dull brown eyes reflecting the hedge, clumsy body very still.
“Well, at least I had an audience,” murmured Rollison ruefully.
He walked slowly back towards the bungalow. He had a bruise on his right leg and his head was throbbing from the blow, apparently from a branch of a tree, but he had suffered no serious injury.
A brown streak came from the door of the poultry house, bushy tail erect, moving very fast.
“A fox!” he exclaimed.
It flashed past him and disappeared into the hedge; one moment it was there, the next it had gone. He turned and hurried towards the low shed. He could hear the clucking and fluttering, but it was no longer so frantic. Several fowls were fluttering out of the open door, a dozen or so were already pecking at the grass. He stepped inside, bending his head.
Alec Stewart stood in the middle of the shed close to a large circular piece of metal which looked rather like a dustbin lid with a chimney leading from it. On either side were galvanised cages, in some of which frightened birds were still trying to fly and turning this way and that. Many of the cages were open, and on the floor were at least a dozen carcases, necks ripped open. Blood ran about the floor, feathers still floated in the air and masses had settled down on to the red rivulets.
Alec shot out his hands, grabbed a fowl, and pushed it into one of the open cages, then pushed the door to and dropped the peg into the hasp. He did the same thing, but at a third attempt a chicken fluttered out of his grasp towards the door where Rollison was standing. Rollison grabbed at it, clutched some feathers, made it squawk, and let it slip out of his fingers. It went into the field and, once there, pecked thoughtfully.
“I’m afraid I’m not much good,” said Rollison, apologetically, but as he spoke another fowl started to run towards him. He crouched ready for it, grabbed it as it was about to pass between his legs, and lifted it triumphantly. It got one leg free and clawed his hand.
“Damn!” he exclaimed, and let it go.
“Why don’t you help them out?” growled Alec Stewart.
“I’m not exactly a bird-fancier,” said Rollison.
“You could shut the door.”
Meekly, Rollison closed the door, but failed to see a fowl which seemed to sense what he was doing and made a frantic run for the open air. The door closed on its tail feathers.
“Open it, you fool!” roared Alec.
Again Rollison obeyed, and the bird followed its fellows, apparently uninterested in the loss of a handful of feathers. Rollison watched the fowls as they strutted about, and as he smoothed back his hair, he said: “Detached creatures, aren’t they?”
“Will you shut that bloody door!”
This time Rollison closed the door without disaster.
There were a dozen birds still in the shed but out of their little cages. He stalked one, and succeeded in catching it by the time Alec had finished the other eleven and stood waiting with impatience by an open door. As Rollison thrust the bird in, he slammed the door to, and then stared at the floor, counting.
“… eight—nine—ten—eleven—fifteen,” he said, and raised his hands. “That’s the first result of your damned curiosity!”
“Why blame me?” asked Rollison, meekly.
“Because it’s your fault. They told me if—” Alec stopped abruptly, and took a deep breath.
Chapter Seven
A Reluctant Recruit
“So they told you that if you had any truck with me they would kill your fowls,” said Rollison. “That’s what made you change your mind, was it?”
“Supposing it was?” growled Alec Stewart.
“Not very brave of you.”
“You wouldn’t feel brave if you were in my position. They can ruin me if they want to. I’ve sunk every penny of my capital into this place. Even that wasn’t enough. I can hardly scrape along as it is!”
“William and Mary and grandfather clocks circa 1700, I imagine,” said Rollison, as if to himself. “They don’t go well with insolvency, do they?”
“You’ve the longest nose I’ve ever come across! The furniture belonged to—it’s none of your business, anyhow, but if you must know the truth, I’ve a buyer coming to see that clock this afternoon.”
“Don’t sell,” urged Rollison. “Don’t on any account sell, prices are going up! At Sotheby’s the other day there was a—”
“Of course, it would not occur to Mr. Creosus Rollison that there are people in this world who cannot afford to wait until the most favourable moment for selling,” said Alec.
“Don’t keep jumping down my throat,” said Rollison sharply. “I’ll advance a couple of hundred pounds against the security of that clock.”
“I don’t want your charity. It’s not worth more than sixty or seventy, anyway.”
“All right, throw in the William and Marys.”
“I tell you—”
“Or take one hundred pounds against them.”
“Why the hell are you so anxious to help me?” demanded Alec.
“I should hate to see you ruined,” said Rollison.
“I suppose you do mean well,” said Alec, grudgingly.
“Now we’re making some progress,” said Rollison. “I mean well, and I also mean to see this through. I’ve never mixed myself up with murder on a poultry farm before,” he added. His eyes suddenly brightened. “I say, may I have a handful of these feathers?”
“What on earth for?”
“I’ve a collection of souvenirs,” said Rollison. “It will never be complete without these.” He bent down and picked up a handful of feathers from a clean patch of the floor, then carefully selected several which were stained with blood. He took a used envelope from his pocket and placed them inside.
“You’re a funny customer,” remarked Stewart.
“So I’m told. Do we have to stay out here?”
“I’ve got no help, and I’ve got to have this shed cleaned right away,” said Alec. “If you want to talk, you can talk here or wait until I’ve finished. It will take me an hour. Excuse me.”
He stepped past Rollison and opened the door. Several birds looked up at him, bright eyes inquisitive. He made no attempt to catch them, but went to the side of the shed. Rollison followed.
A large bucket stood beneath a water tap, and by it was a garden broom with long, stiff bristles. Alec filled th
e bucket and picked it up: he had to steady himself before he could start to carry it.
“Let me!” said Rollison.
“I’ve done it a thousand times, why shouldn’t I do it again?” demanded Alec. “Just because I’m not as mobile as you, you needn’t sneer at me!”
“My, my,” said Rollison, “what a collection! Sheila blows hot and cold, Danny Bond blows hot and cold, and you’re hotter and colder than either of them. At least I’ll carry the broom.” He stretched out for it, making the handle knock against the bucket; water slopped over the side on to his foot. It was cold, and soaked his sock. He made no comment, but walked with the broom over his shoulder. Alec threw the water over the floor, from the far end.
“If you want to help, there’s your chance.”
“Oh, yes,” said Rollison. “Half a mo’.” He bent down, tucked the turn-ups of his trousers into his socks, and then waded bravely into the water, swishing it vigorously right and left. “What else did they threaten to do?”
“Isn’t this enough?”
Fifteen fowls don’t make a fortune, when all’s said and done, and they lost their fox. They must have been at great pains to catch it. Er—have they told you that Sheila doesn’t want you to help me? Apart from the note, of course.”
“They’ve told me nothing of the kind—she has.”
“She may be base, but not as base as that,” said Rollison. “She’s in Winchester. I had the devil’s own job to keep her away from here.”
Rollison imagined Sheila sitting at a cocktail bar with Gerry Wilmot.
“Is that the truth?”
“She’s at the Royal now.”
“Then—”
“Someone has fooled you,” said Rollison, swishing more vigorously. Water splashed up to Alec’s knees. “Sorry! Am I doing all right?”
“You’re terrible. Here, give me that and fetch some more water.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Rollison brightly, and left the shed. When he came back, with the bucket slopping on to his feet, he stood it on the wooden floor of the fowl-house, and added as if he had not been away: “Did she tell you about me?”
“Yes. Throw it in this corner.”
“Right, sir! Stand away, or I’ll drown you. And then, according to messages you received, she changed her mind?”
“If you must know the truth—we’re not washing the ceiling—she told me that she’d found you unreliable.”
“She didn’t. Someone said that she did.”
“Was that note in her hand-writing, or wasn’t it?” demanded Alec, swishing water violently. “We’ll need at least another bucketful.”
“I haven’t seen her hand-writing, but I’ll bet you a Leghorn pullet to a dozen eggs that it wasn’t hers,” said Rollison. He went out and refilled the bucket, and on his return was greeted by:
“I ought to know. She’s written to me often enough.”
“Lately?”
“What difference does that make to her hand-writing?”
“None, except that you may not remember it well!”
“I read it every—” began Alec, and then stopped short. “Must you stand in the doorway?”
“I needn’t. May I see the hand-writing which you know is hers beyond doubt, and also that on the note?”
“I suppose so,” said Alec, grudgingly.
“Thanks. More water?”
“Yes, we’d better have one more bucket. Don’t come in, next time. I’ll sweep it out of the door.”
Ten minutes later they walked across to the bungalow. Rollison’s car had not yet returned. The air was filled with humming and chattering from insects and birds. The few fowls left in the field were having a holiday, and one followed, occasionally running in front of Rollison and pecking at the grass, then falling behind. Neither of the men spoke. Rollison’s shoes, water-logged, squelched with every step.
Alec led the way through the back garden, into a kitchen which was clean and well-furnished.
“You’d better take your shoes off. I’ll lend you some slippers.”
“That’s handsome of you,” said Rollison. “Could I have a bowl of water, or even a bath?”
“I suppose your feet will want washing,” conceded Alec. “There’s an enamel pail under the sink. I’ll get you a towel.”
He was out of the kitchen for some minutes, but returned with a towel and a letter in his hand. Rollison imagined that he had been at some pains to select the letter, with a sample of Sheila’s handwriting. As soon as he finished drying his feet, he compared the two hand-writings on the kitchen table. Alec watched him intently.
“I’m no calligraphic expert,” said Rollison, “but those two handwritings are different. The loops of the ‘g’ and ‘y’ slope in a different direction, the ‘a’s are a poor imitation in the note we had this morning, and all the letters of the note are too carefully formed.” He pushed them towards Alec, who seemed less troubled when he looked up.
“I think you’re probably right.”
“You can take it that Sheila didn’t write the second note. When did this campaign—I mean, the use of Sheila against me—begin?”
“Yesterday afternoon,” said Alec. “I had a telegram from her.”
“There are no signatures on telegrams.”
“Must you be so damned superior? When we sent telegrams in the old days, we always—er—put a word in which meant—” Alec broke off, reddened, and then said sharply: “Sheila and I were engaged. That’s how I come to have so many letters. It’s no business of yours why we broke it off, either! The telegram that came yesterday had a code word in it which I knew could only have been sent by her.”
“Or someone who had learned the code,” murmured Rollison.
“She would never tell anyone that.”
“These people we’re up against may be clever, but it doesn’t take brilliance to find out if two people who knew each other well had any private means of communicating. Did you ever receive a telegram from her when you were at home with your father?”
“Good lord!” exclaimed Alec.
“So he could have known the code word?” said Rollison drily.
“Yes, he could,” said Alec, with a ferocious scowl. “One day I’ll break his neck, even if he is my father! Once when I was ill he sent several telegrams off for me. And if you must have the whole story, it was just after I got back from the Congo minus my right leg. Sheila was in Ireland. She sent a telegram every day.”
“I see,” said Rollison. “Thanks.”
“I knew that you were interested in Danny’s case because Sheila telephoned me yesterday morning,” said Alec, speaking more freely. “She knew that he’d been to Winchester, and realised that he might have been to see me. She implored me to tell you of anything he said, and I planned to come up yesterday morning. I couldn’t catch the train—some swine put carbolic in the water in one of the runs, and several of the birds died. I was coming up by the afternoon train, and missed it—my motor-scooter was punctured. Someone had stuck a tin-tack in it. So I tried to telephone you from the station. I’d put the call in when the local carrier came over with the telegram which I thought came from Sheila. He’d taken it to the house, and knew I’d left to catch the afternoon train. It was the merest chance that he saw me.”
“I don’t believe in mere chances like that,” said Rollison. “Your local carrier was well paid. Would he know what was in the telegram?”
“Probably. He lends a hand at the post office in the village, sometimes. He said he knew it was urgent. The telegram said that I mustn’t get in touch with you, and went on to say that she had found you unreliable. So I just hung up, and came home.”
“Have you heard anything else from her?”
“No. She said she was going to telephone me—that is, the telegram said so. You know what I mean?”
“Yes,” said Rollison, smiling. “No wonder you didn’t receive me very well! What about the threats? Who made them?”
“I don’t know. I had a tel
ephone call this morning saying that I’ll find myself without a live fowl on the place if I have anything to do with you. If you think I would have let that stop me, you’re mistaken, but added to Sheila’s telegram—”
“The pressure was too great. What brought your father along this morning?”
Alec drew in his breath.
“He said that he was passing and couldn’t resist calling. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since I left hospital. I didn’t want to make the quarrel any worse, so I was amiable enough.” Alec looked hard at Rollison. “All of a sudden he looked out of the window, saw your car, jumped up, grabbed his things, and ran. I was flabbergasted. I knew he was a bit eccentric, but I’ve never known him do anything like that before.”
Abruptly, Rollison stood up. He startled Alec by suddenly whistling the air from Spring Song, and looked pointedly out of the window. Alec kept silent for several minutes while putting Rollison’s socks and shoes to dry by an electric fire, and then said heatedly: “Will you stop that infernal whistling!”
“I’ve got to keep my spirits up somehow,” said Rollison. “Alec, if you’ve told me the truth, then why weren’t you anxious to ask me what could have made your father behave so oddly? He must have given you some idea who I was, or persuaded you to be obstructive. If you won’t play, say so. I’ll see it through without you, although you could speed doings up. The quicker it’s over, the better it will be for Sheila.”
Alec turned a dusky red.
“You’re no fool, I will say.”
“Alec, what do you know about your father?”
“What right have you to call me Alec?”
“Why don’t you stop behaving like a schoolboy?” demanded Rollison, disgustedly.
He went out of the kitchen, through the square hall, and into the front garden. Passing through the bungalow, he saw a lot more good-quality furniture. The poultry farmer might be in immediate difficulties, but his furniture was worth several thousands of pounds.
The garden was obviously tended by a man who loved soil. The paths were weeded, the crazy paving well-laid; the flowers were moved gently by a throng of bees darting from bloom to bloom with bewildering speed, yet always going the long way round.
