John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm Страница 9

Fifteen thousand pounds; two dead bodies; and a kidnapping ; and all of these still needed explanation.

Rollison went outside, and then turned back and knocked sharply on the door. Nothing happened. He banged again, more loudly, and at last Old Smith came hobbling with his unexpected speed. He had a mahogany-coloured face with deep etched lines, a sunken mouth because he had no teeth, but he also had as clear a pair of grey eyes Rollison had seen in a man, young or old.

He barred the door.

“What do you want ?” he demanded, and gave no doubt that whatever the visitor desired, he couldn’t have it.

“I want to buy the farm,” announced Rollison, in the mildest of voices, “and I thought you might be able to help me find a way of persuading Miss Selby to let me have it.” He smiled, as if taking it for granted that he would get what he wanted. ‘“Perhaps we could have a chat, Mr. Smith.”

“We can’t have a chat, now or any time,” Old Smith crackled, “I haven’t any time for talk with you or with anyone.”

“It might be worth your while.”

“It’ll be worth your while to turn round and get off quicker than you came here.” This was the tone Smith had used for M.M.M. “Now don’t waste my time any longer.”

“Mr. Smith,” murmured Rollison, “I don’t really want to buy the house at all, I just want to buy a story. It would be worth five hundred pounds.”

The old man demanded sharply : “What story?”

“Your story, and that of Selby Farm.”

“You must be daft!”

“You must have a good reason for refusing to sell the property, Mr. Smith, and “

“I’ve lived here man and boy for seventy-two years and if that isn’t reason enough I’d like to know what is,” roared Old Smith, “and you can go back and tell your editor felly that he can’t have my story for five hundred or five thousand pounds. I live a private life and I don’t want my name in any scandal-mongering newspaper. Now get out. I’m in the middle of my tea.”

“Don’t you think you’re being hard on Gillian Selby and her brother, by refusing “

“Hard be damned to them! They’re young, they’ve got their lives ahead of them, don’t say I’m being hard. All they want is easy money, like all the young fools these days. Something for nothing, that’s what they’re after. But I’ve a right to this farm while I pay my rent, it’s in the old man’s will. Ask the wench, if you don’t believe me. Her father made sure no-one could turn me out. Now good-day to you.”

“What will happen if they get a court order compelling you to leave?” asked Rollison, still mildly.

“I’d tear it up and throw it in their faces,” said Old Smith, and then broke into a cackle of laughter. “But they’ll never get a court order, they’ll never even have the guts to try. You go back and tell your editor man that, and if you meet the Selby’s, tell them it’s time they stopped wasting their breath and mine.”

He turned round and hobbled off; cackling.

He was very sure of himself. Why?

Detective Inspector Bishop and a murder team were at the cottage when Rollison got back. There were eight men in all, including a police-surgeon, who had formally pronounced that Charlie’s life was extinct. Rollison was in time to see the body carried into a small ambulance, and to see the ambulance move off. In and about the cottage, men were taking photographs, noting footprints, barricading anything of interest, drawing lines, making sketches, taking measurements; all the paraphernalia of routine which made the difference between the professional and the amateur at work.

Gillian was in the downstairs room, still very pale, with M.M.M. Bishop saw Rollison arrive, and came to meet him.

“Did you know about the money Lodwin was supposed to have left ?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered Rollison. “Has Miss Selby turned it in?”

“Yes,” Bishop said, and then took Rollison’s arm. “I don’t know how well you know Miss Selby, but our medic says that she is suffering very badly from shock, and that she ought to get away from here, and have some rest. She won’t go to a nursing home, but says she’s going to stay here until her brother gets back. Do you think you can persuade her that it won’t do any good ?”

“We’d persuade her more easily if we could find her brother,” Rollison said. “Any news?”

“Give us a chance, man !”

“I feel the same way,” Rollison said, dryly. “I’ll try to get her away, but the only place I can take her to is London.”

“That’s all right,” said Bishop, and added slyly : “We’ve been in touch with the Yard, and they’re sending a man here. We didn’t want to take any chances, especially as the man killed at Brighton was known to the Yard.”

“What as?”

“You’d better ask your friend Grice,” said Bishop, “but take it from me, the important thing is to get the girl away from here.”

“Have you finished questioning her?”

“She won’t say a word: just sits and stares and looks at me as if I were a lunatic.”

“I see what she means,” said Rollison gravely, and enjoyed the smile which leapt into Bishop’s eyes. “How about this friend of hers, Monty Morne ?”

“No reason why he shouldn’t go if you want him to,” said Bishop.

He was being very obliging; in fact, almost too obliging. When the police made everything easy, there was always a good reason, Rollison tried to guess what it was, and felt reasonably sure of one factor. They would prefer to have the run of the cottage and the farm without the benefit of his presence. That fitted in well with what he wanted to do: first see William Brandt, known as Tex, then make Gillian tell him who had been on the telephone.

Rollison went into the living-room. There had been hostility on M.M.M.’s face before, and it was certainly present now. Gillian just looked lifeless and dejected.

“It’s time we all got out of this atmosphere and went to London,” Rollison said without preamble. “The police have no objection. We can fix you up comfortably when we’re there, Gillian. How about packing what clothes you need for a night or two?”

“It’s no use, she’s not going to budge until Alan comes back,” growled M.M.M. “You might as well stop trying to do the police’s job for them. I thought you of all people would want to see it Gillian’s way, not the police’s.”

“Nobody loves me,” Rollison said sadly, “and I don’t know that I love anyone, in this business in particular. Gillian gets the sulks. You talk like a bighead and behave like an idiot. Alan is missing, and we won’t find him by sitting moping in an armchair or telling me what a disappointment I am. I’m going to London. You can come or stay here, as you please. If you stay, you’ll probably make sure that Alan’s killed, like the other two.”

He turned on his heel.

“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to ?” demanded M.M.M., and managed to heave himself to his feet. There was less hostility than anger in his eyes.

“I thought I was talking to Alan Selby’s sister and his closest friend. I find I’m talking to a pair of imbeciles who couldn’t care less about him.” Rollison lowered his voice and almost hissed : “What do you use for minds? If you want to get a message from Alan or his captors, you’ll have to come away. Once the Press show that I’m involved, the most likely place to pick up a message will be my flat. That’s as good a place for Gillian to stay as any, too. But please yourselves,” Rollison added, and this time turned his back on them. “I’ll be gone in fifteen minutes.”

They stared after him.

Outside, Bishop was studying the marks of the various tyres, and straightened up.

“Got anything out of her?”

“I’ll tell you in five minutes,” said Rollison. “Mind telling me one thing?”

“What’s that?”

“Any idea why Alan Selby disappeared, and why there’s this interest in the farm ?”

“No, to both.”

“Has Selby got a record ?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Lodwin had—what about the man who called himself Charlie?”

“The Yard will tell you about that,” said Bishop. “Get in touch with them as soon as you reach London, won’t you?” He heard one of his men call him, and added: “Excuse me.” He hurried off, and Rollison went to the wheel of his car and ht a cigarette.

It was smoked down to the last draw when Gillian appeared at the cottage door, carrying an overnight case, with M.M.M. limping behind her.

“Do you really think they’ll try to get a message through to your flat?” Gillian asked. She was almost animated again.

“I can’t think of a more likely place, once the news breaks.” Rollison waited for them to get in, M.M.M. at the back where he could stretch his leg with some comfort, Gillian beside Rollison. The police took little or no interest in them. At the junction of the by-road and the main road was a police car with two men on duty; otherwise the road was empty. Rollison turned towards the London road, travelling at fair speed.

Then Gillian announced in a hard voice:

“Alan telephoned me.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Rollison said, and glanced at her set profile. “What did he say?”

“That he had managed to get to a telephone where he was being imprisoned,” Gillian said, “and that I must stay at the cottage, it might be a matter of life and death to him. Then another man broke in, and said that I’d be told what to do at the cottage. I hadn’t time to tell him that the police were there, because he rang off. The only good thing about it is that I know Alan’s alive.”

But that didn’t cheer her up.

She was oppressed by the sense of danger, which seemed to be following them.

11

PLENTY OF ROPE

ROLLISON kept his eye on the driving mirror, but no police car appeared on their tail; no car which they could not identify. The sense of danger was in their minds but not physically close to them, as far as he could judge. As he neared London and the traffic became thicker, he slowed down. The others had said very little, and Gillian seemed to be dozing; that might do her a world of good. With luck and a veronal tablet, she would go to bed early and have a night’s sound sleep,

Rollison pulled up near Clapham Common, where there were several telephone boxes, and Gillian opened her eyes wide.

“Just going to make sure that the coast is clear,” he said, and hurried across. It was nearly half-past six, seven hours since M.M.M. had called on him; seven hours had never gone more quickly, and none had been more crowded. He had a feeling that he couldn’t even guess what was going to happen next, except that it would be something out of the blue.

He telephoned his fiat, and after a pause, his man answered in his gentleman’s gentleman’s voice :

“This is Mr. Richard Rollison’s residence.”

“Hallo, Jolly,” said Rollison. “Remember me ?”

Jolly’s voice brightened. “Good evening, sir!”

“I gather you’re not alone.”

“No, sir, I’m not,” said Jolly. “There is an American gentleman, a Mr. William Brandt, who “

“Six feet three, coppery-coloured hair, one of my cards and a Texas drawl ?”

“Precisely, sir.”

“Ask him to wait in your room until I call him out,” said Rollison. “I’m bringing Miss Selby and Mr. Morne.”

“Very good——” Jolly began.

“Hi, there!” called William (Tex) Brandt, on an extension, and there was a resounding note in his voice. “How are things moving along, Mr. Rollison?”

“Moderately.”

“Alan Selby still missing?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I’ll see you,” the American said, and then swept into deep enthusiasm. “Say, Toff, I didn’t know even the beginning of your history or I wouldn’t have been so sneery back at the cottage. I’ve had a fascinating time with your Trophy Wall. Your Mr. Jolly’s told me the story of some of the investigations, too. You must be the only shamus in the business with his own hangman’s rope.”

“But surely you keep an electric chair,” said Rollison, and surprised Brandt into a gasp, and silence. “Still there, Jolly?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s an even chance that the enemy will guess where I’m bringing Miss Selby, and they might try to stop her from arriving safely,” Rollison said. “They haven’t followed us on the road, so we’d better be on the safe side. I’ll arrive just as soon as I can. Check back and front and both ends of the street before we appear, will you ?”

“You bet!” boomed Tex.

“You keep out of sight,” warned Rollison. “I don’t want Gillian or Morne to know you’ve arrived.”

“Surprise,” squeaked Tex.

Rollison grinned as he hurried back to the car. M.M.M. was leaning forward and talking, and at last had shed his mood of hostility; in fact there was a shame-faced grin at his lips as Rollison opened the door.

“Roily, I owe you an apology,” he announced.

“There speaks a sporting gent,” said Rollison, and slid behind the wheel. “Why?”

“Behaving like a heel. You’ve dropped everything to help, and you’ve also kept this Texan away from the police, so there should be a way of making him talk. There wouldn’t be, if the police had caught him.”

“No,” agreed Rollison, almost sombrely.

“What do you say it like that for?” asked Gillian.

“Gillian, facts are facts, and it is a fact that Tex the Texan just had time to kill both Lodwin and Charlie. He had the opportunity. He was the last of anyone known to us to see Charlie alive, and he went upstairs at 51, Norton Street, before you did.”

“I can’t believe——”

“We’ll suspend beliefs in everything and everyone until we know what’s behind it all,” said Rollison. “What else were you going to say, Monty?”

“Well, it occurred to us that the swine who are holding Alan might get in touch with me, knowing I’m a close friend of the family. So it might be wiser for me to stay at my flat, and report anything that happens to you. What do you think of it?”

“It could be a good idea,” agreed Rollison. “Shall I drop you?”

“You won’t think I’m backing out?”

“But you won’t be.”

“That’s a safe bet,” said M.M.M. and went on in a clear voice: “Nothing would make me back out of this until it’s over. I want to see Alan free, and I want to see them both free of that damned farm, whether they get five or fifteen thousand for it. In fact it’s just about the most important thing in my life.”

Rollison said : “I follow.”

He drove to Bilton Street, where M.M.M. had a flat on the third floor of a small modern block. He watched each corner and the entrance as he drove up, but did not see anyone waiting. Two policemen were at a nearby comer, and two commissionaires were at the entrance. Rollison got out, and then helped M.M.M. The younger man grunted as he put his weight on his leg and began to limp towards the entrance.

“I’ll be all right now,” he said. “These chaps are used to giving me a hand.” He smiled at the two commissionaires, who had come forward smartly. Then his expression changed and he said tensely : “Look after Gillian, Roily. I can’t tell you how much I love that girl. Alan can look after himself.”