Chapter Six

Alec

It was useless to try to follow, even had Rollison been sure that he wanted to try to catch up with Lancelot Stewart. The engine of ‘Hamlet’ Stewart’s car was far more powerful than might have been expected of a dilapidated ten-year-old Austin.

“Pull up outside the bungalow,” he said, and relaxed.

There was a wide drive-in, and the driver turned off the road and pulled up with the rear door opposite the gates. The driver got out and opened the door. The young man stood on the porch, watching the new arrivals with no appearance of pleasure. He was fair-haired, and as Rollison drew nearer he saw that a face with a rather short nose and short upper-lip was marred by a scowl.

Alec Stewart looked powerful. As Rollison approached he moved from the porch, walking very slowly, an odd jerk in his gait.

Rollison smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Stewart.”

“You may as well turn back, and waste neither your time nor mine.”

“I hadn’t thought of wasting anybody’s time,” said Rollison, and he stooped and picked up one of Lancelot Stewart’s hog-skin gloves. “Your father won’t feel dressed without this, will he?”

“I’ve got a rubbish bin at the back,” said Alec. “How did you know that I am Stewart, and how did you know that he is my father? If it comes to that, who are you?”

“My name is Rollison,” said Rollison.

He expected some kind of reaction, but not the startled expression on Stewart’s face, nor the way the man backed away. It looked for a moment as if he were frightened. He nearly fell, and put out a hand to support himself against a brick pillar about which gay-coloured rockery plants were growing, and he drew in his breath.

“You did telephone me, didn’t you?” Rollison asked.

“I—no!”

“Your father came to see me and swore that he did telephone me, although I know he didn’t. You telephoned, and now you deny it. Jolly, have you heard Mr. Stewart’s voice before?”

“Yes, sir, on the telephone yesterday morning.”

“That’s not true. I’ve never heard of you, so why should I telephone you? Look here, I’ve lost enough time already this morning. The fowl-houses have got to be cleaned out, and—”

“Has anyone told you that murder has been committed?” asked Rollison coldly.

Alec Stewart drew in his breath.

“Mr. Rollison, I do not know you and I have no desire to know you. I cannot be held responsible if someone else telephoned you, giving my name. I do not know what you mean by talk of murder, and I do not intend to waste time with you. Good morning!”

He turned, and began to walk to the bungalow, still with that jerky deliberation.

With the sun behind it, the place looked charming; ramblers already in bud were about the walls and the low roof, and on either side were dwarf rose bushes, azaleas and London Pride; the soft blue of love-in-the-mist was showing coyly amidst a raised carpet of fernlike green. From a window a cat jumped gracefully, stalking to Alec Stewart’s legs and beginning to rub his back against them.

Rollison called: “Why did Danny Bond come to see you?”

The man stiffened, but climbed the step to the porch and went into the bungalow. Significantly, he did not close the door.

“Wait here, Jolly,” said Rollison. He walked after the poultry farmer, who obviously expected him, for he waited for him in a small, square hall where an old grandfather clock, dark and mellow in colour, ticked sonorously, and two William and Mary slung chairs stood against a panelled wall. The place was not furnished as one might expect to find the home of a poultry farmer.

“You may as well be frank with me as with the police,” Rollison reasoned.

“What have the police to do with it?”

“The moment they find out that Bond came here on the night of the burglary they will want to see you,” said Rollison. “In fact, they might subpoena you. If you had to spend a day or two in London, your fowl-houses would get very dirty, wouldn’t they?”

“You think you’re very clever.”

“What stopped you from telephoning me yesterday afternoon?” asked Rollison. “I had the call, but you cut off. You had planned to come to my flat. What stopped you?”

Alec Stewart had a pleasant face, although by no means handsome; his eyes were blue, narrowed just then. Except for his curly fair hair, there was nothing in his appearance to remind one of his father, for his face was round and his chin square. None of these things impressed Rollison so much as the expression; he looked like a man burdened with a great trouble.

Rollison said: “What’s frightened you?”

Alec clenched his fists.

“Don’t talk nonsense!”

“I’m trying to help Sheila O’Rourke,” Rollison said patiently. He watched the other’s face closely and saw his tension grow worse. “I’m not interested in Bond, but I do want to help Sheila. If you won’t parley with me, you’ll have to with the police.”

“I don’t believe the police know that I exist!”

“If they don’t, I can soon tell them.”

“Why should you interfere?”

“People have a habit of doing what Sheila asks.”

“The less you have to do with Sheila O’Rourke the better it will be for you,” said Alec in a harsh voice. “If you take my advice you’ll stop letting her make a fool of you. She—” He broke off, abruptly, and then added: “It’s no business of yours!”

“We aren’t getting on very well,” said Rollison.

A cry from outside made him stop, and swing round. Alec moved to one side, to see past him, and the whine of a car engine grew loud. Rollison saw Jolly rush to the hired car, and thought he heard its engine start. Then another car flashed by, that in which the older Stewart had been a passenger, and from the rear of it something was flung into the air.

Until it hit the ground Rollison thought that it was a mills bomb, and he was about to fling himself down when he saw it bounce, and recognised a piece of stone with some paper tied to it. His heart was beating fast as he hurried towards it, and while his car started after the other. He was surprised that Jolly thought a chase was worthwhile, but he had little time to think about that, for Alec came after him with unexpected speed.

“Give me that!”

Rollison straightened up, with the stone in his hand.

“Give it to me, or—”

Rollison tossed it to him.

Alec caught the stone, pulled off the string which held the paper fast, and read the note. His face turned red. He screwed the note up, and stood glaring at Rollison.

“If you don’t get out of here—”

“I’ll go when I’ve some transport,” said Rollison. “What is in the note?” He stepped forward, and before Alec seemed to realise what he was going to do, gripped his wrist and made his fingers relax. Rollison took the note and smoothed it out, backing away from his aggressive companion all the time.

He read: “Alec, please, don’t tell Rollison anything.—S”

Rollison said: “And the hand-writing, presumably, looks like Sheila’s.”

“Give me that note and clear out of here. If you don’t, I’ll break your neck!”

Rollison held out the note, and in a moment of exasperation turned to go. He actually took half-a-dozen steps away from the bungalow when there was a loud squawking and fluttering from somewhere nearby. He turned on his heel.

Alec, looking away from him, broke into a clumsy run. The noise was coming from one of the big fowl-houses behind the bungalow. Rollison sped past the poultry farmer towards the long, lowceilinged shed. As he drew nearer the squawking and cackling grew louder, as if a hundred fowls were in panic.

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.