John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm

“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.