John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm

“But it could soon come back,” Gillian went on. “For instance, what are we going to do with that man in the box-room? Aren’t the police likely to want to look round the cottage ?”

“If the man’s still there when we get back I shall be surprised,” Rollison said. “That kind of individual doesn’t travel alone. He’ll have been released by now.”

“I don’t know whether to hope you’re right or not,” said Gillian, and so proved again that she could be remarkably dispassionate, even under pressure. “He might have been able to tell us a lot more.”

“I doubt it, Tex the Texan milked him pretty well,” said Rollison. “What is Tex’s other name?”

“William Brand, or Brandt,” answered Gillian, “and there’s an initial in the middle.”

“William Tex Brandt will do,” Rollison said, and drove in silence for fifteen minutes or so, until they were out of Brighton. It was nearly half-past three, and surprisingly warm. The cloudless sky gave the impression that rain could never fall out of it, but the spring flowers were beautiful in the parks and the private gardens, and a gentle wind made them nod. On the open road, Rollison put his foot down harder, and was within a few miles of the spot where he had left M.M.M. when Gillian burst out:

“But Where’s Monty?”

“He had a bit of bother with the straps of his leg, and had to rest,” Rollison told her, and not for the first time wondered how Montagu Montmorency Mome was getting on. “He’ll probably be waiting for us when we get to the cottage.” He drove again in silence for a few minutes, glancing now and again at the girl: she had a quite remarkable profile, and didn’t really seem quite true. He had never noticed before how her lashes swept round, so that they nearly touched her cheek.

“Gillian,” he said abruptly.

“Yes?”

“Have you the slightest idea why this sudden interest is being shown in the farm ?”

He stared at the road ahead, while she turned to look at him; when she spoke, it was very firmly indeed.

“I have no idea at all, and I’m sure Alan hasn’t. It’s a complete mystery. I would like you to believe that, and to stop doubting me.”

“Okay, honey,” said Rollison, and sparked an exclamation from her. Then Gillian asked :

“Do you think Tex will get to your flat safely?”

“I can’t think why not,” said Rollison. “That’s if he wants to.”

“Of course he wants to, don’t be ridiculous. By the way,” added Gillian, and Rollison saw that she was looking at him very intently indeed, “what is a shamus ?”

“Slang for a private dick or private detective,” Rollison told her promptly. “You heard as much as I did, Gillian. We want to find out who Tex’s employer is, and Charlie’s employer, and it wouldn’t surprise me if we want to find who was employing Lodwin, too.”

“If they’d kill one person, they’d kill another, wouldn’t they?” Gillian said, speculatively.

“We’ll find Alan, and we’ll find him alive,” Rollison assured her quietly.

They did not speak again until they were at the cottage; the first noticeable thing was that the black Humber, which Charlie had come in, was gone.

“So he did get away,” Gillian said, as if not sure whether to be pleased or sorry.

The front door was open, and it seemed obvious that no one had been there since they had left it. Rollison left the car in a position to leave again in a hurry if there were any need, and then went upstairs to see the man named Charlie. He had been quite serious when he had said that he expected to find the man gone, and was whistling under his breath when he reached the tiny landing.

Gillian was coming up the narrow stairs.

“It’s the second door on the right,” she said. “I wonder if you’re right.”

The door was ajar, and that suggested to Rollison that Charlie had flown. He pushed it wider and stepped inside, and then discovered that this was one of his bad guesses. Charlie had not driven off in that Humber. Charlie was lying on a little camp bed, as dead as a man could be; he had been stabbed in exactly the same place as Lodwin.

9

THE FARM

“What is it?” Gillian asked, in a strangely calm voice; it was as if she had a premonition, or as if she understood instinctively what made Rollison stop so abruptly. She was just behind him. Outside there was the sound of a car, approaching slowly; that would be the man whom Bishop had sent to follow them.

Rollison turned round. There was no point in trying to conceal anything, no point in trying to soften any blow. This girl had taken tremendous punishment in a few hours, and now his impression was that she had steeled herself to take yet more. He could see beyond the immediate fear, to her fear for her missing Alan. For if men could kill so slickly and cruelly as the killer of Lodwin and Charlie, then there was no telling where they would stop.

“Victim Number 2,” Rollison said. “Go down and ask that policeman to come up, will you ?”

She flinched; and there was anguish in her eyes.

“Who is it?”

“Charlie.”

“The devils,” she said, in a quivering voice. “The devils.” She didn’t sway, didn’t close her eyes, didn’t look as if she was going to collapse, but she lost all her colour, even her lips were pale.

“Go and bring the policeman, will you?” If she had something to do, it would help.

She didn’t answer, but turned on her heel, moving very quickly, as if blindly.

Rollison stepped to the body on the bed. Charlie’s face was quite relaxed, all terror smoothed away. But there he lay, as the American had left him, bound to the bed at waist and ankles, and with his wrists bound, too. That was how he had been lying when someone had come into this room and driven the knife to his heart.

Rollison felt the chill of horror; and of hatred for whoever had done this thing.

He looked out of the small window, so tiny that no one could have climbed out. He saw the trees which protected Selby Farm, and the roof of the farm itself. A man who looked as if he were very old came in sight, and a dog trotted after him. The man disappeared.

Was that Smith ?

Did Smith know the secret of Selby Farm ?

There were heavy, hurried footsteps on the stairs and the landing, and then Bishop’s man came in, a thirty-ish, fair-haired, eager Detective Sergeant Keen, dressed in navy blue, looking a little outgrown in it; an overgrown school-boy of a man. But there was nothing school-boyish in the way he looked at dead Charlie; except for a tightening at the lips, he showed no sign of the impact at all.

“Did you find him like this ?”

“Yes.”

Keen went forward, felt the dead man’s pulse, lifted an eyelid, did all the things he should do to make sure that no doctor could help. Then he looked about the room, and said in a man’s deep voice :

“We must leave this room at once, sir. I shall have to telephone for a team, I expect Mr. Bishop will come out himself. This is just inside our area.”

Rollison nodded.

“And this was the man you saw here ?”

How deeply would lies involve him ?

“Yes. I tied him to the bed.”

Keen took that well.

“How long ago?”

“About two o’clock.”

“He can’t have been dead more than an hour,” said Keen, and was suddenly less sure of himself.

“I was in Brighton an hour ago,” Rollison murmured.

“Yes, I know. Who else knew that this man was tied to the bed?”

“Miss Selby.”

“No one else?”

“No one else whom I know about.”

“Fair enough,” Keen said, but he gave the impression that the shock was no

Then the telephone bell rang.

Keen looked up, as if in surprise, then stepped out towards the head of the stairs, a pace ahead of Rollison. They heard Gillian say ‘Hallo’. They hurried down the stairs, and at the foot Keen turned left, into the living-room. Rollison could see over his shoulder. Gillian was standing by the table with the telephone at her ear. She looked round at them. It was as if death was talking to her, and he had never seen a woman with less colour in her cheeks.