John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm
“What are you going to do with me?”
“You can have a snack, and then you’re going to rest for the day,” Rollison said.
He did not add that Charlie had been murdered while resting.
Twenty minutes later, Freddie Littleton was locked in a small upstairs room, and Rollison made another tour of the farmhouse. He satisfied himself that no one was here, checked that the door leading to the tunnel was still closed, and couldn’t be opened except from the house, and then watched the patrolling policeman stroll past the front door. A moment afterwards, Rollison nipped out of the back door. No one else was in sight. He shuffled along and kept his shoulders bowed, in case someone was watching from some distance off, and then reached the spot from which he could see the cottage.
There were no cars outside, except Monty Morne’s.
No policeman appeared to be there.
Smoke coiled upwards from a chimney, which suggested that Gillian and M.M.M. were there. Was Alan Selby? Had the police detained him when he had come round from that drugged sleep, or would they let him go free, and follow him in the hope that he would lead them to the murderers ?
Rollison went back into the farmhouse, locked and bolted the back door, and then started work again on the flagstones, this time using a steel poker from the big room. It didn’t bend so easily as the screw-driver, but the task still wasn’t going to be easy. He wanted those flagstones up and the truth revealed before there were any more interruptions. It couldn’t be long before the police came to question Smith, and to search, to try to find out why the farmhouse had become so valuable. Every lost minute might be vital.
He eased the flagstone up at last so that he could get his fingers under it at two places. He bent down, to get the greatest possible leverage with his arms, and heaved. He felt the great stone coming upwards. He exerted all the strength he had, and sweat began to trickle down his face, while the strain at arms and stomach seemed too great.
Then, he heard a banging on the front door.
20
CALLER ON A BIKE
ROLLISON had heard no one approach, was sure that there had been no car. He held the stone about four inches off the floor at one side, hesitated, and then heard more sharp rapping. It might be the police, this could be his cue to run. But he couldn’t run unless he were positive that the police were here; he wanted to see what was buried under this floor.
He pushed the hammer underneath the stone with his foot, then gradually lowered the big slab; it would be easy enough to start again. As he went into the big room, shuffling noisily, he wiped his forehead, and was surprised that he felt clammy all over. He peered out from the side of the window, and saw no car, but also saw the uniformed policeman at the gate, watching but making no attempt to interfere.
He undid the chain.
“It’s okay, Mr. Ar.,” a man said in whispered Cockney, “Mr. Jolly sent me. Let me in.”
He was short and very thin, with a leathery face and very bright blue eyes; all of this was visible through the narrow opening of the door. After the first moment of tension, Rollison drew the chain out of its socket, but he kept his foot against the door in case there were others beside this man, whom he recognised as a friend of the Sam who had taken Old Smith away.
As the man came in, the wheel of his bicycle showed where it leaned against the wall. Then Rollison closed the door, and the little man grinned crookedly up at him.
“If I ‘adn’tve known, I wouldn’tve recognised yer,” he said, and thrust a small packet into Rollison’s hand. “Mr. Jolly sent these, in case you run aht’ve your fave’rit fags.”
Trust Jolly to feel quite sure where he had come !
“An’ ‘e give me a letter, said I wasn’t to ‘and it to no-one but you in person,” went on the Cockney, and looked about him. “Creepy sort ‘o place you got dahn on the farm, ain’t it?”
“You get used to it,” Rollison said, and offered cigarettes from a nearly empty packet: he had left his case at the flat. “Quiet a minute, Lionel.”
“Okay.”
Jolly had realised whose help he had sought the previous night, of course; had assumed that he would go to the East End, where a certain Bill Ebbutt, who ran a boxing gymnasium as well as a pub, could always be relied on for help. Jolly had almost certainly persuaded Ebbutt to put him on to Sam who had come down here with a crony, and had taken Old Smith away. That much was easy to understand. But why had Jolly thought it essential to send a message ?
Rollison unfolded the letter.
Jolly had written :
“I think you should know at once, sir, that there is a warrant out for your arrest . . .”
Rollison caught his breath. Lionel looked at him through his lashes, and drew deeply on the cigarette. Someone walked along the path outside, and Rollison looked sharply towards the sound.
“. . . I was told of this by Mr. Grice, who called at six-thirty this morning.
“There is also a warrant out for William Brandt, who appears to be quite notorious in the United States. The newspapers have this story and are using it extensively, but as yet there is no public announcement of the warrant for you.
“Mr. Grice made it clear that he believes you have been deceived by William Brandt, and says that it is absolutely essential for you to give yourself up and to make a statement explaining your association with the man. He says that in his considered opinion, the longer you leave it, the more dangerous will be your own position.
“I understand that Mr. Alan Selby, who was detained for some hours, has been released, and also that Miss Selby and Mr. Mome are on their way to the cottage. I cannot be sure, but I have reason to believe that the police suspect that some attempt will be made to take possession of the farmhouse during the day, and the police are watching from a distance, ready to move in if that appears to be necessary.
“If I am right in this surmise, I cannot too strongly urge you to leave.
Respectfully as always, sir, Jolly.
P.S. William Brandt telephoned me twice in the course of this letter, and each time said that he wanted to talk to you urgendy. I refused to give him any information.
Rollison lowered the letter.
Lionel White moved across to the hearth and tossed the end of his cigarette into it.
“In a bit’ve a spot, aincha?” he inquired. “Just before I left there was a buzz that the busies were after you, serious this time. Anyfink I can do?”
“Did you see any police on the way here?” asked Rollison.
“Copper at the front, that’s all.”
If he had seen only the one man, then the other police were keeping out of sight, but there was no reason to doubt
Jolly; it all added up. So did other things. If the police were after him in earnest, they would soon have every newspaper in the country screaming the news,
“One ovver fing,” went on Lionel, “Sam said the old geezer’s okay.”
“Where is he being kept ?”
“At the home of a pal of Sam’s, Mr. Ebbutt didn’t fink ‘e ought to be kept at the pub or the gym.”
“What’s the address?”
“27, Russett Grove, Wapping.”
“Thanks,” Rollison said. “I may want to see him in a hurry, and I may want him brought nearer here. Get off, telephone Sam, tell him to be all ready to move if he gets a message, but to keep Smith where he is if he doesn’t hear from me. Okay?”
“Sure, I’ve got it,” said Lionel.
“And tell him to tell Jolly to send Will Brandt to the farm if he rings again. He can tell Brandt that I know the secret of the farm. That’s urgent.”
“I’ll fix it quick,” promised the little Cockney.
“And if the police pick you up on your way out, tell them you came from me to see Old Smith,” Rollison said, “They’ll swallow that.” He saw Lionel grin as if he relished the trick. “Say I talked to you last night, near Ebbutt’s place, and told you to come and try to make Old Smith explain why he wouldn’t move from the farmhouse. All clear?”
“You don’t get any slower, do you?” Lionel observed, “Anyfinkelse?”
“Yes. Tell them you were to report to Jolly by telephone. That’s the lot.”
“And do I ‘ave to report that I found Mr. Smith in the best’ve ‘ealth an’ spirits ?” demanded Lionel, and was chuckling when Rollison opened the door cautiously, and let him out. “Come by van as far’s the village and push-biked from there,” he said, “best way to avoid being noticed, I thought.”
“You’ll go a long way,” Rollison told him. He closed the door as he saw the uniformed policeman at the gate staring at the little Cockney. The policeman didn’t stop Lionel White, who swung on to his bicycle and pedalled off at a good pace. Then the uniformed man plodded after him. In spite of the desperate urge to raise that flagstone and check what was buried there, Rollison watched the man until he disappeared.
He went to the back, and saw no one there. “They’re really going to make it easy for anyone to come here,” he said. “I wonder where they’re watching from?”
At least it was safer to go outside, provided he shuffled about with bowed shoulders. He dared to go further this time, and found a tool shed. He selected a fork, a spade and a short bar of iron, and went back to the farmhouse. It was a lovely morning, and when he closed the door it was like stepping into a funeral parlour. He locked and bolted it again, and then began work. The iron bar was exactly the lever that he needed. It was the work only of a few minutes to lever the flagstone up, then send it falling to one side. It clattered noisily, and rumbled for a long time. With the better tools, Rollison prised up three more stones, and so laid bare about two square yards of dark earth, dusted with sand and cement.
Now he felt a surge of excitement.
He prodded the earth, and it was fairly easy to pierce with the fork. He dug it over quickly, then began to use the spade, shifting earth to one side; it was heavy and nearly black. He reminded himself that he couldn’t be sure that he had found the secret of the farmhouse; that floor might have been repaired.
Would he find jewels? Or would he find a body ?
He had a hole nearly three feet deep, and a half an hour later was sweating and tired from the unusual exercise. Every time he drove the spade in, the earth seemed to be heavier and more difficult, and there was clay here. He was standing in the hole, and felt like a grave-digger, but by far the worst thing was the sense of failure and frustration. No-one would go any deeper than this, and re-pave that floor. There was a limit to precautions.
He drove the spade in again.
It struck something hard.
Thought of everything but the discovery faded from Rollison’s mind. He tried several times, always with the same result. He cleared the soil away slowly and carefully, determined not to let himself be too excited. Odd, how excitement affected him in this case.
There was a metal box.
It was like coming upon hidden treasure, and easy to picture the box with the lid thrown back, gold and jewels heaped inside. They wouldn’t be, of course, this wouldn’t be so obvious.
He cleared soil away from two sides of the box. At least it wasn’t large enough for a coffin. He cleared the third side, saw the hinges, and was able to study the box more carefully. It was fitted with thick hinges and a clasp, and was more than a metal box; it was a Landon safe, quite small and very nearly impregnable. If he worked on this for the rest of the day he wouldn’t be able to open it. To blow it open he needed T.N.T. and to cut it open, an oxy-acetylene cutter. In spite of that fresh disappointment, he cleared all the earth away, so that the safe stood like a little tomb, the sole result of an excavation.
He left it, pushed the loose earth as far into a comer as he could, and then went into the scullery and put on a kettle, for hot water; now he really needed a wash. He washed his hands in cold water, rummaged round, and found that Old Smith kept some beer and whisky in a cupboard in the big room. He felt like a whisky, and didn’t drown it. He felt a strange sense of anti-climax, for when the police saw Brandt come here, they would move in. At least he would have the satisfaction of knowing that he had lured Brandt into their hands.
He didn’t like it.
He would probably be wise to get a message to the police before Brandt arrived, so that it wouldn’t look as if they had caught him and Brandt together with the boodle.
It would be two hours at least before Brandt could get here, even if he did what he was told; but anyone who wanted the contents of that safe as badly as Tex Brandt would almost certainly take a chance in coming.
There was more than the Brandt angle, though: there was the ‘rival’ apparently working through Selby, and using Gillian and M.M.M. to help. Had Tex built up that rival and also his client ? Did it make sense that Tex should first employ and then murder Lodwin and Charlie Habden ?
And what of Gillian and M.M.M. ? They might be patient enough to wait until six o’clock for the promised interview from Old Smith, but no one would want to wait long for the sake of it.
“If I were in their shoes, what would I do?” asked Rollison of himself, as he washed with thick lather from the hot water, and then towelled vigorously. It was odd to feel the stubble on his cheeks, and to see the white bits of the towel sticking to it.
It was nearly twelve o’clock, and he could see the brightness of the sun at the sides of the windows. He looked out of each of the top floor windows, and saw no sign of anyone; the policeman had certainly been moved. He checked all the windows to make sure they were securely fastened, and also checked the doors.
He went upstairs to do the same thing, and looked in at Littleton, lying bound hand and foot on the narrow bed.
He stood over the man.
“Just refresh your memory,” he said, mildly. “Did Brandt threaten to kill anyone else?”
Littleton tried to meet his eyes, but couldn’t.
“You said you’d come clean, remember?” Rollison reminded him, in a harder voice. “But make it really clean. Who else was on his list ?”
In a hoarse voice, Littleton said: “The Selbys, if they wouldn’t play. He fixed the kidnapping of Alan Selby, they’re all ready to sell now—I fixed that myself. If I were you, I’d look after the Selbys before I did anything else.”
Rollison went to the apple storage room, opened the secret door, and crept inside. He switched on his torch, then closed the door behind him. He went along, crouching until he saw the haze of daylight, and stood beneath the opening, listening.
He heard the ordinary sounds of the wooded land; birds calling, small animals rustling, and also heard the drone of an aeroplane. He pushed the cover aside, very cautiously, and looked out. The police might have stationed a man inside this copse of trees, making it as dangerous a place as there could be.
He saw no-one.
He hoisted himself up and on to the ground, pushed back the camouflaged cover, looked round to make sure that he could find the spot again, and slashed a sapling which stood close to some brambles, not far from a fallen birch tree, victim of a storm. The sun was bright against the leaves above him, and he could get his direction from that. Still moving very cautiously, he went towards the cottage. Soon, he was close to the edge of the trees, and here was the moment of greatest danger.
