The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

door.
    “Hi, Peter,” she greeted him. “Had any lunch? And what about you, Chris?” she added.
    Both men approved this implication that she could supply it and sat down on the edge of the porch. Connie went back into the house.
    Peter stared down at an ant tugging away at what appeared to be an enormous egg. He moved a stick out of the way of its progress without realizing that he had done so. Then suddenly he stood up. “Look here, Chris,” he said, and a note of eagerness had come into his voice.
    “Yes, sir,” Chris answered, getting to his feet with obvious reluctance.
    “I want you to help me. I think—yes, I’m as good as dead sure that somebody has buried something around here. I want you to do a search of the grounds with me—every inch.”
    Connie reappeared. “All right, sleuth, but first you both eat.” She put down a tray with a plate of sandwiches, and two large cups of coffee.
    “O.K.,” Peter said, “oh and—thanks. I say, what about you?”
    “Fat chance. Even at lunch time I’ve got half a dozen customers.”
    The screen door slammed on her retreating back. The two men finished off the sandwiches and coffee quickly and then Peter said, “We’d better start out back by the shed and work our way up toward the house.”
    “Excuse me, sir, but jes’ what am you fixin’ to find buried in these here grounds?”
    “That’s the devil of it, Chris, I don’t know, but I think it’s a medium-sized round box or jar, but even at that I’m just guessing.”
    Again Chris removed his hat and scratched his head. “I jes’ remember seein’ a place near that sycamore back there where I thought a dog must have buried hisself a big ole bone—all scuffed up like.”
    Peter placed a heavy hand on Chris’s shoulder. “Good man,” he said quietly, but there was no mistaking his excitement.
    A few moments later they were digging away at a spot well hidden in the shrubbery and about midway between the shed and the old well. Before long the trowel that Chris was using hit something solid.
    “Careful. Here, let me have a try now,” Peter said quickly. He dug with his bare hands and unearthed a small broken jar from which oozed a large amount of thick face cream, now covered with earth, but still unmistakably pink.
    “Well, I never did,” Chris said.
    Peter stared at the bits of glass and pasty liquid for a moment. Then he took out his handkerchief and lifted it out of the earth without touching it with his hands. “So that’s what it was. My God!” he said. He wrapped the treasure in his handkerchief, dropped it in his pocket and dashed off toward the back gate. A second later, Chris, who was still standing with his mouth wide open, heard the sound of a car backing out of the alley. It roared away into the distance and then silence returned to the garden. Chris scratched his head once more and went back to his work.
    Peter drove straight to the police station where the sergeant in charge told him that Thane Carey was at the Farm. “Good,” Peter said. “I’m heading there, too.”
    “There’s a message for you, Colonel—just come in. It was Miss Sanders over at the Hospital. Miss Wing would like you to go over there as soon as you can.”
    For a second only, Peter hesitated. Then he said, “Can’t do. Must get to the Farm.”
    “Shall I give her a ring and let her know?”
    “No, I don’t think I’ll be long. Better leave it.”
    “O.K.”
    Peter started to go and then turned back. “Where’s Jim Brown?” he asked.
    “Just gone home for a late lunch. He’s been at the Farm. When the boss went out there just now, he sent Jim back.”
    “And the other men?”
    “Oh you mean those guys from Worcester. Gone back.”
    It was evident that there had been no love lost between the town and country police. Peter grinned. “O.K.,” he said “I hope Jim’s had time for his meal. I’m afraid I need him.”
    The sergeant opened his mouth to speak but Peter, sensing a question, hurried out in the hot sunshine. A moment later Peter stopped at Jim’s house, a small bungalow a few hundred yards beyond the station. Jim’s wife came to the door, in answer to Peter’s loud knocking and went to call her husband with obvious reluctance. But a second later, Jim was beside him in the car.
    “Fireworks at last?” Jim asked as they started up.
    “I think so.”
    “How’s Miss Wing?”
    “Busted arm and foot—some shock—otherwise O.K.”
    “I say, Colonel Mohun, I’ll