Free Man on a Rope by George Harmon Coxe

bottom. He repeated the procedure a half-dozen times and then attacked the can on the left. It was here that he found the oilskin pouch three inches below the surface.
    He spilled a lot more dirt getting it out because his hands had begun to shake and his fingers were clumsy. He could tell at a glance that the wax seals Colin Lambert had put there were unbroken. After that he had but one thought in mind: to get rid of it.
    He did not stop to consider who might have put the pouch here. He thought he knew why. Someone intended to frame him for Lambert’s murder, and unless he got rid of the evidence he might well end up shaking hands with the hangman.
    At least that was how he felt as he stood there stiff-legged with that pouch in his hand and glanced desperately about for someplace to put it. But even then he seemed to know that the room itself offered no real hiding-place. There were only the two chairs, the bed, the desk, a chest, the wardrobe which contained his bags and his suits; the bath off the entrance offered even less hope.
    Certain now that his best chance was in the grounds outside, he pushed open the center shutter and leaned out. The ground was no more than four feet beneath the sill, an easy matter for almost anyone to gain entrance to the room, and extending along the wall in both directions was a line of bushes. A young frangipani tree stood a few feet farther out in the lawn, and when he saw the edged circle of dirt which surrounded the trunk he made up his mind.
    Because of the recent shower he knew the ground would be reasonably soft, and when he had turned off the light he let himself through the window, dropping gently to the ground. In another second he was on his knees, working both hands with a single-minded purpose of a dog digging up a bone.
    In less than a minute he had a proper cavity. He fitted the oilskin pouch in and covered it neatly. He scraped the excess dirt from the edge of the grass, and because he did not want to tamp the dirt with his fingers and leave telltale marks, he took the wallet from his hip pocket and used it as a rake to level the loose dirt. In the morning it would be dry and no one would ever know; no one could even suspect the tree had been tampered with.
    This is what he told himself to help still his tingling nerves as he climbed back into the room and drew the shutters. With the light on and his sense of security growing, he spread a newspaper on the window seat and shook out each magazine and each paper, making a funnel of the first one and channeling the loose dirt into the can where the pouch had been. To even things up he took a handful of dirt from the other can, transplanted it, and lightly smoothed the tops of both.
    When, finally, he was satisfied, he stepped back and swallowed the dryness in his throat. He took a deep breath. He wiped a sleeve across his shiny forehead before he remembered his hands, and now he hurried into the bathroom and washed them clean. He had dried them and was just unbuttoning his shirt when he heard the tapping on the door.
    It was a strangely brittle sound, not loud but sounding so in the otherwise quiet room. When it was repeated in the same staccato, measured beat, Barry took one last look about the room and stepped up to turn the key. Conditioned as he was by the things that had happened, he was only mildly surprised to find Superintendent Kerby standing there looking as neatly groomed and as wide awake as ever. At his shoulder the light-brown face of Inspector Cantrell stared impassively back at him.
    â€œSorry to bother you at this hour,” Kerby said matter-of-factly, “but we’d like to have a look around if you don’t mind. The Inspector has the necessary warrant if you’d care to look it over.”
    Barry put on what he hoped would be a look of innocent surprise. He tried to speak in an appropriate tone.
    â€œSure,” he said. “Go ahead. Working late, aren’t you?”
    â€œWhen we have