John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm
“Don’t shout, Gillian, but I’m here.”
She started, and caught her breath, but didn’t shout. She turned to look at Rollison almost wildly, and then closed her eyes, as if giving thanks that he was with her.
He moved so that he couldn’t be seen if Tex looked towards the door.
“I heard the lot,” he said, in a whisper.
“What shall I do?”
“Go with Tex to Norton Street,” Rollison told her, “and then insist on going to the Palace Pier head. Is that clear?”
“Yes.” She nodded.
“Fine,” said Rollison. “Don’t tell Tex that “
She seized his hand.
“After everything he’s done, I can’t let anything happen to him,” she said fiercely. “You won’t harm him, will you?”
“Not unless you change your mind,” promised Rollison. “All I want to do is make sure that he doesn’t harm you.”
“Oh, he won’t do that!”
‘‘Hush!” hissed Rollison, and as he did so, thought: “I wonder.”
Whether Tex the Texan would harm Gillian or not, he had certainly made a conquest.
Rollison went to the inner door again, glanced in, and saw Tex on one knee; he appeared to be tying Charlie’s wrists. Here was a man who had done this kind of thing so often before that it seemed like second nature. Rollison turned away, and went outside.
It was remarkable but true that he felt quite sure that Gillian would do exactly what he had told her to. Now his problem was to decide whether it was safe to go to 51, Norton Street ahead of her. He had told M.M.M. that she was in no physical danger, because only she could sell the farm; that was almost certainly true. And the American had made no bones about admitting that he wanted to ingratiate himself, so that he could have the farm.
The reason for the flare of interest in it could be found out later.
“I’ll take a chance,” decided Rollison, “although Monty will probably hate me for it,”
He went across the garden and over the fields, waved and called good-day to the man and boy who were still spreading muck, and knew that each stopped to stare at him. Less than an hour after he had left, he reached the Wheatsheaf Inn, He did not go in the back way, and was not surprised to see M.M,M, standing by the side of the scarlet car, trying to look pleasant but undoubtedly feeling worked up and explosive.
“What happened?” he burst out.
“That’s a long story,” said Rollison. “Let me tell you in the car.”
“We’re not going anywhere without Gillian,” M.M.M. said, fiercely.
“She’s coming,” Rollison said mildly, “and I promise you that she’ll be as right as rain.”
“I want to know what happened, and I won’t step into the car until you’ve told me,” said M.M.M,, who had a reputation for being as stubborn as any two-legged mule. He thrust his chin out and his eyes narrowed, and he looked rather like a musical-comedy lieutenant about to challenge the colonel to a duel.
“All right, old chap,” said Rollison, “it won’t take a jiffy,” For obviously M.M.M. had to be humoured. “The city slicker type who left here went to see her. He offered her five thousand pounds, and Alan . . .”
The telling of the story took two minutes, but only one of these was outside the car, for M.M.M. started to get in immediately Rollison began to talk. His left leg was the artificial one, and he had some difficulty in getting it into any car, as Rollison knew well: the thing to do was allow him to fight that battle for himself. He tugged and cursed— and then suddenly winced and leaned back, all his colour gone.
Rollison had the engine turning.
“What’s wrong ?” he demanded.
“You get cracking,” said M.M.M., and his lips set clamped together between each word. “Just rubbed the old stump a bit. Soon be all right. I thought you wanted to get to Brighton before that blasted Yank.”
He closed his door.
Rollison started off, but did not go at top speed, for M.M.M. would find it difficult to brace himself if it were necessary to brake; so he had to be very careful. He sat back, breathing hard, while Rollison looked in the driving mirror, expecting to see the American’s car at any moment.
They had been travelling for twenty minutes, and were half way to Brighton, when M.M.M. said :
“Sorry, Roily, I’ve got to get this leg unstrapped. Done some damage, I’m afraid. Any hospital would do, or a doctor, at a pinch. Hellish sorry.” He winced. “How about stopping at the next telephone and getting me a cab ? Then you can get moving again.”
“Of course,” said Rollison, promptly.
It was while they were outside a telephone box in a nearby village that Gillian and the Texan flashed past in the green M.G.
7
51, NORTON STREET
“You leave me here and get after ‘em,” said M.M.M. fiercely. “I’U be all right.”
“Five minutes won’t make any difference,” Rollison argued. “You sit there until the cab comes along.” He wasn’t sure that a taxi would be what M.M.M. wanted; an ambulance would probably be nearer the mark. But the other man had refused to hear of that, and the woman at the corner shop where the telephone was, had assured them that the promised taxi was a large one. It came within five minutes, vintage, large and lumbering, and Rollison helped M.M.M. into it, while an elderly and sad-looking driver watched.
“Now you get cracking,” M.M.M. urged, “If anything happens to Gillian “
“Nothing will,” Rollison assured him, but he was already on his way to his own car.
He persuaded himself that nothing could happen to Gillian, but could understand M.M.M.’s doubts. He had wanted to be at Norton Street well ahead of her and Tex, because they might run into a hot reception : therein lay the greatest danger. So he put his foot down and scorched along, taking the turns perilously until he reached the main London road; soon, he was on the outskirts of Brighton. He stopped at a sub post-office, asking for Norton Street, and was told that it was one which led off the promenade, not very far from the town centre. So finding it should offer no problem, he headed for the Aquarium and the Palace Pier. The sun brought out its worshippers in thousands, but the promenade and the beach were not crowded as Brighton knew crowds, and it was easy to drive along. He kept a sharp look-out, and saw Norton Street, had good room to park the car near the promenade, and was soon striding towards Number 51.
The green M.G. was outside; at least he wasn’t too late.
There was no sign of the Texan or of Gillian.
Rollison’s heart began to beat much faster than usual, because of the fear that the girl might have run right into trouble, and he had not arrived in time to make sure that she had not. He could picture M.M.M.’s tense, scared face : M.M.M. was really on edge. Well, anyone would be. He reached the house, which was only two storeys high, freshly painted, and had a signboard reading : Bed and Breakfast, with a small sign near it saying : No Vacancies. It was just one of hundreds of similar bed and breakfast houses in the district, as far as one could see from the outside.
Rollison tried the front door; and it opened.
He stepped inside a gloomy hall, listening intently for any sound, and heard nothing at first. He went to the staircase, immediately opposite the front door, and then heard what sounded like a muted voice. Two doors near him stood open, and the first thing to catch his eye was an open drawer at a writing-desk. A warning flared in his mind: that was the kind of thing he might find after a hurried departure. He strode to the kitchen. There was the lunch-time washing-up still on the draining-board, and the refrigerator door was open; another indication of haste.
He went back to the stairs, and heard muted voices again.
He could call out, but preferred to make sure that this was Gillian and the Texan. His heart still beat fast as he went up the stairs. He thought it was an American voice, but couldn’t be sure. There was a wide landing, a short passage leading off it, and altogether, five doors. Three of these were open.
Then he heard Gillian say : “What are we going to do?”
“Now that’s a question,” the Texan said.
“It can’t have been——” she began, and then broke off.
They were speaking in whispers, and obviously they were scared; Gillian much more so than she had been. But it wasn’t grief, there was nothing to suggest that she had found Alan, hurt.
“Of course your brother didn’t do it,” the Texan said.
Gillian made no answer.
“Even if he had,” the Texan went on, “it would be self-defence, and that’s not culpable homicide.” He said this with such deliberation that he puzzled Rollison, who now peered in through the crack at the door hinges.
The tall American had heard him, and was coming to see who it was.
Rollison pushed the door open, catching the man unawares. He caught a glimpse of a small, sunlit room, Gillian close to the single bed, and lying on the bed, the figure of a man in dark grey, A bowler hat lay on the floor by the side of the bed.
Then Tex the Texan hid all this from view. He was broad as well as tall, and filled the doorway. The sunlight made his coppery-coloured hair seem much brighter. Gillian was just behind him now, and neither of them spoke, but the Texan raised a hand in a kind of pow-pow greeting. Even standing level with Rollison, who was over six feet, he was inches taller.
“Hi,” he said. “Are you this guy they call The Toff?”
“Yes,” said Gillian, hurriedly.
“Where’s your brother?” asked Rollison, as if he had not yet seen the dark-clad man on the bed.
“He’s not here,” the Texan answered carefully.
“But I understood——” Rollison was playing this foolish.
“I know what you thought, Gillian told me you were coming,” said the Texan, “and I thought exactly the same thing. But when we arrived, he wasn’t here.”
“Who was ?” inquired Rollison.
Gillian glanced up at the tall young man. They looked very young and handsome, and there was not likely to be a better matched couple anywhere. But Gillian was scared.
“You’d better come and see,” invited the Texan, and turned round. “Just for the record, I came up here first, Gillian was minutes after me.” He was really saying : “Suspect me if you like, but not Gillian.”
“Gillian, will you go and watch the street, and warn us if the police show up?”
“I suppose I’d better,” Gillian said, and passed Rollison, hesitated, and then went out.
“It was one hell of a shock,” the Texan continued. “We just walked in the way you did, and it seemed like the house was empty. I came upstairs, and this is what I found.” He stood aside.
Rollison stepped forward swiftly, and felt for the pulse of the man in grey; it was quite still. He had not really needed telling that the man was dead, of a knife wound in the breast. The knife wasn’t there. Blood was on the snowy white shirt and even on the charcoal coloured lapels of the coat. His face was very pale and his eyes limply closed. It looked as if he had fallen on to the bed after the blow, and toppled backwards, and that someone had lifted his lifeless legs up.
“They don’t come any deader,” the Texan declared.
“Do you know him ?” asked Rollison.
“In a kind of way.”
“What kind of way?”
“He was the guy who offered fifteen thousand pounds for the farm, and left a thousand pounds in cash on the table,” said the Texan, and gave a smile which was almost pathetic. “He said his name was Lodwin, and he breathed plenty of threats and menaces.”
“Ah,” said Rollison. “I see.”
“You bet your life,” said the Texan, gustily. “I had a quarrel with this guy, and then I came here and found him. Now my finger-prints are all over the place, and the guy has only been dead for a matter of minutes. I just had time to kill him. I could imagine a case for saying that I had a motive, because we both wanted to buy that farm.” He smiled again, very wryly. “How well do you know the cops around here?”
“Well enough to know they like to catch murderers.”
“I wasn’t being funny,” the Texan said. “Do I have to run, or would it be better to tell them what happened? Either way I’ll be in trouble, and I’d like to know which is the lighter load of it.”
“Give me five minutes to make up my mind.” Rollison looked round. “Any sign of Alan Selby ?”
“Sure. His handkerchief, some of the cigarettes he smokes, and a box of matches which Gillian says he collected from the larder yesterday morning.”
“Is she positive?”
“She ought to know.”
“Yes,” conceded Rollison, and stared at the dead man. “In this room ?”
“Yes.”
“Where are they?”
“In my pocket.”
“You really want to make trouble for yourself, don’t you?”
The Texan was smiling more naturally now, and for a moment laughter ghnted in his eyes.
“You could put it another way: I don’t want to make trouble for Gillian.”
“Do you know her that well ?”
“So well,” drawled the Texan, “that I think I want to marry her. But I don’t see that it figures right now. Her brother was here. Maybe he got involved in a fight, but I don’t think so. I think he was held captive here, and that his captors killed this guy, and left the articles for the cops to find. That way, it would look as if Selby was the killer. That way, they would have a tighter hold on him and on Gillian, to make them sell the farm. Of course, I could be wrong.”
“But it doesn’t often happen,” murmured Rollison.
This time, the Texan laughed aloud.
“You bet it doesn’t!”
Rollison said : “As far as we know, Alan Selby was a prisoner. If he was a prisoner, he probably couldn’t have killed Lodwin. The police will be much more interested in you.”
“You always take that long to reach an opinion?” Now the smile was only lurking in the Texan’s eyes.
“Always,” said Rollison, solemnly. “I’ve reached another.”
“Let me tell you what it is : the police will be after me as soon as they know I’ve been here, and a tall American with an M.G. car and red hair won’t be very hard to trace. I’ve about one chance in ten million to stay free long enough to find out what’s going on around here.”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On who helps you. I might. You could stay in hiding at my flat in London, and I could work to find out the real killer.”
“How do I earn your help?” The Texan seemed serious, even anxious. But that might be pretence; he was smart and he was clever.
“As one professional to another, just a little bartered information,” said Rollison.
“Professional what?”
“Private eye, private richard, shamus or what-have-you ?” murmured Rollison, and didn’t even let his eyes flicker.
But the Texan grinned.
“I guess you’re better when you get warmed up. I didn’t know you were professional.”
“Usually I like to be paid for my trouble. This time is an exception.”
“You want to know why I want to buy Selby Farm ?”
“We could work well together,” approved Rollison.
“But I guess we’re not going to,” the Texan responded, “because you aren’t going to be satisfied with my reasons, Mr. Rollison. I work for a man in New York. He hired me last week to come over here and buy Selby Farm. He knew there might be competition, or he wouldn’t have hired me. He didn’t tell me more than that. I was paid five thousand dollars in advance, and all my expenses, including first class on the United States one way and the Queen Elizabeth the other, so I didn’t argue. Sure, I expected trouble, and I’ve got it.”
