John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm

Gillian was in the downstairs room, still very pale, with M.M.M. Bishop saw Rollison arrive, and came to meet him.

“Did you know about the money Lodwin was supposed to have left ?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered Rollison. “Has Miss Selby turned it in?”

“Yes,” Bishop said, and then took Rollison’s arm. “I don’t know how well you know Miss Selby, but our medic says that she is suffering very badly from shock, and that she ought to get away from here, and have some rest. She won’t go to a nursing home, but says she’s going to stay here until her brother gets back. Do you think you can persuade her that it won’t do any good ?”

“We’d persuade her more easily if we could find her brother,” Rollison said. “Any news?”

“Give us a chance, man !”

“I feel the same way,” Rollison said, dryly. “I’ll try to get her away, but the only place I can take her to is London.”

“That’s all right,” said Bishop, and added slyly : “We’ve been in touch with the Yard, and they’re sending a man here. We didn’t want to take any chances, especially as the man killed at Brighton was known to the Yard.”

“What as?”

“You’d better ask your friend Grice,” said Bishop, “but take it from me, the important thing is to get the girl away from here.”

“Have you finished questioning her?”

“She won’t say a word: just sits and stares and looks at me as if I were a lunatic.”

“I see what she means,” said Rollison gravely, and enjoyed the smile which leapt into Bishop’s eyes. “How about this friend of hers, Monty Morne ?”

“No reason why he shouldn’t go if you want him to,” said Bishop.

He was being very obliging; in fact, almost too obliging. When the police made everything easy, there was always a good reason, Rollison tried to guess what it was, and felt reasonably sure of one factor. They would prefer to have the run of the cottage and the farm without the benefit of his presence. That fitted in well with what he wanted to do: first see William Brandt, known as Tex, then make Gillian tell him who had been on the telephone.

Rollison went into the living-room. There had been hostility on M.M.M.’s face before, and it was certainly present now. Gillian just looked lifeless and dejected.

“It’s time we all got out of this atmosphere and went to London,” Rollison said without preamble. “The police have no objection. We can fix you up comfortably when we’re there, Gillian. How about packing what clothes you need for a night or two?”

“It’s no use, she’s not going to budge until Alan comes back,” growled M.M.M. “You might as well stop trying to do the police’s job for them. I thought you of all people would want to see it Gillian’s way, not the police’s.”

“Nobody loves me,” Rollison said sadly, “and I don’t know that I love anyone, in this business in particular. Gillian gets the sulks. You talk like a bighead and behave like an idiot. Alan is missing, and we won’t find him by sitting moping in an armchair or telling me what a disappointment I am. I’m going to London. You can come or stay here, as you please. If you stay, you’ll probably make sure that Alan’s killed, like the other two.”

He turned on his heel.

“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to ?” demanded M.M.M., and managed to heave himself to his feet. There was less hostility than anger in his eyes.

“I thought I was talking to Alan Selby’s sister and his closest friend. I find I’m talking to a pair of imbeciles who couldn’t care less about him.” Rollison lowered his voice and almost hissed : “What do you use for minds? If you want to get a message from Alan or his captors, you’ll have to come away. Once the Press show that I’m involved, the most likely place to pick up a message will be my flat. That’s as good a place for Gillian to stay as any, too. But please yourselves,” Rollison added, and this time turned his back on them. “I’ll be gone in fifteen minutes.”

They stared after him.

Outside, Bishop was studying the marks of the various tyres, and straightened up.

“Got anything out of her?”

“I’ll tell you in five minutes,” said Rollison. “Mind telling me one thing?”

“What’s that?”

“Any idea why Alan Selby disappeared, and why there’s this interest in the farm ?”

“No, to both.”

“Has Selby got a record ?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Lodwin had—what about the man who called himself Charlie?”

“The Yard will tell you about that,” said Bishop. “Get in touch with them as soon as you reach London, won’t you?” He heard one of his men call him, and added: “Excuse me.” He hurried off, and Rollison went to the wheel of his car and ht a cigarette.

It was smoked down to the last draw when Gillian appeared at the cottage door, carrying an overnight case, with M.M.M. limping behind her.

“Do you really think they’ll try to get a message through to your flat?” Gillian asked. She was almost animated again.

“I can’t think of a more likely place, once the news breaks.” Rollison waited for them to get in, M.M.M. at the back where he could stretch his leg with some comfort, Gillian beside Rollison. The police took little or no interest in them. At the junction of the by-road and the main road was a police car with two men on duty; otherwise the road was empty. Rollison turned towards the London road, travelling at fair speed.

Then Gillian announced in a hard voice:

“Alan telephoned me.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Rollison said, and glanced at her set profile. “What did he say?”

“That he had managed to get to a telephone where he was being imprisoned,” Gillian said, “and that I must stay at the cottage, it might be a matter of life and death to him. Then another man broke in, and said that I’d be told what to do at the cottage. I hadn’t time to tell him that the police were there, because he rang off. The only good thing about it is that I know Alan’s alive.”

But that didn’t cheer her up.

She was oppressed by the sense of danger, which seemed to be following them.

11

PLENTY OF ROPE

ROLLISON kept his eye on the driving mirror, but no police car appeared on their tail; no car which they could not identify. The sense of danger was in their minds but not physically close to them, as far as he could judge. As he neared London and the traffic became thicker, he slowed down. The others had said very little, and Gillian seemed to be dozing; that might do her a world of good. With luck and a veronal tablet, she would go to bed early and have a night’s sound sleep,

Rollison pulled up near Clapham Common, where there were several telephone boxes, and Gillian opened her eyes wide.

“Just going to make sure that the coast is clear,” he said, and hurried across. It was nearly half-past six, seven hours since M.M.M. had called on him; seven hours had never gone more quickly, and none had been more crowded. He had a feeling that he couldn’t even guess what was going to happen next, except that it would be something out of the blue.

He telephoned his fiat, and after a pause, his man answered in his gentleman’s gentleman’s voice :

“This is Mr. Richard Rollison’s residence.”

“Hallo, Jolly,” said Rollison. “Remember me ?”

Jolly’s voice brightened. “Good evening, sir!”

“I gather you’re not alone.”

“No, sir, I’m not,” said Jolly. “There is an American gentleman, a Mr. William Brandt, who “

“Six feet three, coppery-coloured hair, one of my cards and a Texas drawl ?”

“Precisely, sir.”

“Ask him to wait in your room until I call him out,” said Rollison. “I’m bringing Miss Selby and Mr. Morne.”