John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm

“But he’ll run straight into the arms of the police,” Gillian said, hopelessly.

The police were now inside the house, walking and talking noisily. , , .

“If he does, he’s no shamus, and it won’t matter what happens to him,” Rollison said. “Now you’ve got to be more feminine than you’ve ever been, Gillian. We came here because Charlie told us where to come. We shall tell the police everything, except that we leave Tex out of the reckoning—I tackled Charlie, I tied him up, I frightened him into talking. Be slightly hysterical. You are terrified because of Alan, you can’t think where he is, you must find him. Swoon a bit, if needs be. And don’t take any notice of what I say.”

Men were running up the stairs.

“Yes,” Gillian said. “I mean, no.”

“Good girl! Now walk out. You’re pale enough to have seen a ghost. When they start to ask you questions, just look blank. Don’t talk until you have to.”

Men were on the landing.

“All right,” said Gillian, and she could not have been more pale, but she hurried out. Rollison stood looking out of the window of this back room, and was not surprised to see the Texan climbing over a wall a couple of hundred yards away; the sun was bright on his hair.

The police saw Gillian, barked questions, and were soon taken aback. Then two of them came hurrying, and Rollison met them in the doorway. He did not look pale, but was very thoughtful. They started to speak, and then saw the body on the bed. One of the men, stocky and very broad, moved swiftly to it, then pulled up short. The other stood in the doorway, as if he thought that Rollison might want to escape.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Looking for a missing man, and that isn’t the one,” said Rollison, and smiled grimly. “You chaps will make the Yard green with envy if you go on like this, he can’t have been dead more than half-an-hour.”

The man by the bed turned round.

“That’s about right. How long have you been here?”

“A quarter of an hour.”

“He might have been dead for fourteen minutes,” the man said aggressively. He looked so massive that he was hardly believable, and had a very strong face. The other, in the doorway, was taller and thinner. Outside, someone was questioning Gillian but obviously hadn’t got a word out of her.

“But he was dead when I arrived,” asserted Rollison earnestly, and flicked his fingers. A card appeared in it, identical with the one which he had given to the Texan. He did not hold it out so that his address showed, but the reverse side; and on this was a little pencilled sketch, of a top hat, a monocle, a cigarette in a holder, and a bow tie; in fact it was like a man without a face.

As the massive man looked at it, his aggression and suspicion seemed to fade, and his mouth actually opened in his astonishment.

“Are you Rollison?”

The man in the doorway exclaimed: “I wondered where I’d seen you before, sir.”

It was an excellent thing, thought the Toff, to have a reputation which could work such a miracle as that.

He told the story in a downstairs room, with Gillian leaning back in an armchair, her eyes closed, and a police-man watching over her somewhat anxiously; she was the kind of woman about whom all good men were anxious. The story was generally true, except that the Texan was left out of all the reckoning. By the time it was over, the massive man, Detective Inspector Bishop of the Brighton Criminal Investigation Department, was apparently satisfied. His men were upstairs, taking photographs and measurements and going all over the room and the house for finger-prints, and they would find the Texan’s; that was something to worry about later.

“How did you get here so fast?” Rollison asked. “Did you get a squeak?”

“A man telephoned and said there was a body here,” answered Bishop. “How right he was! Did anyone know you were on the way?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“It looks as if you’d be framed.”

“I couldn’t have put it more neatly myself,” said Rollison, fervently. “The timing was pretty good, and you’re very good to take me on trust. I’m worried about Miss Selby, and I’m also worried about her brother. Think you’ve got enough cause to put a call out for him ?”

“Ample. Can you give us a description?”

“I can,” said Gillian, opening her eyes unexpectedly. “He’s six feet tall, has crinkly fair hair parted on the right, a snub nose, blue eyes, a short upper lip, which makes it look as if he’s always going to break into a smile. He’s very thin, he only weighs nine stone thirteen pounds, and he’s got a big red birthmark under his right knee.”

Bishop almost burst out laughing.

“Perfect! Do you know what clothes he was wear-ing?”

“An old brown sports jacket with dark leather edges at the cuffs and patches at the elbow,” Gillian answered, “and a pair of new worsted flannel trousers, brown brogue shoes, rather old, and pink socks.”

“Pink socks?”

“Pink socks.”

“I suppose you know. How soon can we get a photograph?” asked Bishop.

“Well, the best one he’s ever had was taken when he was walking along the prom at Brighton last year, by the Echo. He had his picture in the newspaper the same night, I expect they’ll have a copy of the photo.”

“If we can’t get one from the Echo, we’ll get one from you,” Bishop said. “Can we leave Miss Selby to you, Mr. Rollison?”

“Yes, gladly.”

“Where can we get in touch with you ?”

“I’ll be at Selby Cottage, or else let you know where I’m off to,” Rollison promised.

“Thanks very much,” said Bishop, as if that were indeed of favour. “Is there anything we can do for you ?”

“You can tell me where to get a meal,” said Gillian, almost plaintively. “I’ve a splitting headache, and I’m sure it’s partly because I’m famished. I know I probably shouldn’t think of food just now, but I can’t help it.” She stood up, and it was obvious from her glittering eyes that her head ached very badly indeed. “You will find my brother, won’t you?”

“Just as soon as we can,” promised Bishop. “And we’ll be along to try to find out what this sudden interest in the farm is about. There’s this man, whom you say is named Lodwin, and the other would-be buyer you know as Charlie.”

“That’s right,” Rollison said, firmly.

“If two people want that farm, and one’s prepared to do murder,” Bishop began, and then broke into a broad smile. “But you won’t need me to add up two and two to make four! Thank you for your help. Morgan!” he called a detective officer. “Take Mr. Rollison and Miss Selby to the Ocean Cafe, they’ll get a good meal there. Then see them home.”

What he meant, Rollison knew, was : “Then follow them home.”

Detective Inspector Bishop might be affable and even obliging, but he didn’t intend to let Rollison out of sight until he had checked on his story.

“Feel better?” Rollison asked Gillian, an hour later. They were sitting in the front of his car, and he was

Starting the engine. The policeman, Morgan, was near them in another car: he was going to follow them, he had explained simply, so as to make sure that they ran into no more trouble.

“I’m much better,” Gillian answered, “but I feel almost like a ghoul, eating like that when Alan’s missing.”

“No one said that he was starving,” Rollison observed. “The one essential thing now is to keep your head and tell the same story every time.”

“I won’t panic,” Gillian assured him. “I’ve worked that out of my system.”

“I really believe you have.” It was easy to admire her matter-of-factness.