John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm

Doors were opening in the passage, a man appeared, someone shouted.

“Shut that door, Monty,” Rollison said swiftly. “Keep ‘em out.” He saw Monty Morne slam the door in a man’s face, then lean against it, for the lock wouldn’t hold anyone the other side. The woman was still struggling and trying to bite and kick, but suddenly Rollison let her go and, as she staggered back, gripped her at the waist with both hands, and lifted her high off the ground. She bared her teeth and snarled at him, waved her hands and tried to strike, and kicked the empty air; but she did no damage, and Rollison held her at arm’s length, as he might a bad-tempered child. He dragged her to the window, and looked out. There was a balcony just alongside and he saw open French doors.

“You can talk to us or you can talk to the police,” he said to the woman. “Which is it to be ?” She stopped struggling.

“Let me go,” she demanded in a hoarse voice, “Let me down, and I’ll tell you.”

“You’ll talk now,” said Rollison. “Who sent you, and what were you going to do?”

“Lodwin sent us,” she answered swiftly, as if she did not know that a man named Lodwin was dead. “We had to put Mome away, that’s all I know, we had to put Morne away.”

“You and who else ?”

“I wouldn’t squeal on him ever if it would save my life,” she said, gaspingly. “I’ll squeal on Lodwin but not on him, you needn’t waste your breath. Let me go, the police will be here in a minute. Give me a break.”

Dare he let her go? And even if he dared, had she a chance to get away ?

12

HOME AGAIN

Outside, men were shouting and hammering on the door. M.M.M. stood with his back to the door, sweat dripping from his forehead, his face very pale. Rollison released the woman and slipped her handbag off her arm with a movement which took her by surprise, and said : “How did you get in ?”

“We broke into the flat next door, and then came m at the window.” She swung round as she spoke and made for the door she had closed, and presumably for the window. As M.M.M. moved from the door, a biggish man m a sports jacket and a small man in a navy blue suit stumbled in, and looked about. Rollison was standing with the woman’s bag over his arm, and a smile which they must have found infuriating.

“What’s happened here?”

“Where’s the gun?”

“Who did the shooting?”

“Anyone hurt?”

“Time gentlemen, please,” pleaded Rollison and swung the bag on his arm. “There was a burglar, I spotted him, he shot at me, he still has his gun, and I don’t think anyone’s hurt, unless it’s the burglar because I shot at him, too. My name is Rollison, Scotland Yard will vouch for me, and it’s time Mr. Morne went to his own flat, he’s had a heavy day and his leg isn’t so good.”

“There was someone here. Who was it?” demanded the man in navy blue.

“A woman who got away,” said Rollison, and raised his right hand, to show the teeth marks, and a little blood welling up. “She got her teeth into me, and I had to let her go.” He went to M.M.M, and took his arm, and the others made way for him. “I’ll be in Mr. Morne’s flat when the police arrive,” he added, and led the way out.

• • • • •

A Flying Squad car was outside in five minutes, and Rollison was being questioned in ten. He stuck to the story, and M.M.M. corroborated it. He had taken a purse, a letter and some papers out of the woman’s bag before handing it over to the police; they wouldn’t find it easy to trace her through that bag alone.

When the police had gone, he examined the purse, which had only money in it, and the papers. They gave him no help, except that the letter was addressed to Miss Lola Bridger, 18, Kentall Street, S.W.7.

“Any idea why Lodwin should want you dead?” he asked M.M.M.

“It’s unbelievable!”

“It happened. Any ideas ?”

“I haven’t the faintest,” said M.M.M., helplessly.

“Anything in this business that you haven’t told me about?”

“No.” That was almost shouted, and was much too loud.

“Monty,” said Rollison, softly, “someone just tried to kill you. They might try again. You must know why.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” M.M.M. insisted. “It must be something to do with this dreadful business, but I tell you I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“If I know the truth, I might be able to stop another attack.”

“Goddam it, you know the truth !”

“Monty,” said Rollison, still in that soft voice, “a peculiar thing has happened to you today. You couldn’t have been more affable than you were this morning, but the next time I saw you you were very anti-Toff indeed. That’s all right as far as it goes, but I want to know why.”

“I’m not anti-Toff. I just think you’ve done a hell of a bad job, and done Gillian more harm than good. I love her, don’t you understand ? I love her so much it hurts to think that she might be in danger. I’ll do anything I can for her, absolutely everything.”

“Even keep silent when you know that another attack on your life might be successful”

“I can’t tell you anything else!”

“Monty,” persisted Rollison, “I didn’t like the way you behaved on the road today. I didn’t like it when you made an excuse to get away from me. I didn’t like thinking that you telephoned a warning to the house in Norton Street, and so let Charlie’s friends escape—doubtless believing you were helping Alan Selby and Gillian. I didn’t like it when you decided to try to make Gillian throw me over. I still think I can help Gillian. I didn’t even like it when you decided to be all nice and friendly at Clapham Common. You’re a somewhat obvious young man, far too obvious to get away with that kind of thing. I want to know why you’ve changed since you came to see me this morning, and I want to know now.”

M.M.M. was sitting in a small armchair, his back very straight, sweat dripping down his forehead, his hands trembling. He looked a sick man, and yet this morning he had been in buoyant spirits and, except for his leg, in boisterous health.

“It—it’s not true,” he muttered. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I imagining that your mood changed entirely when you were at the Wheatsheaf for lunch?” asked Rollison. “Is it imagination that there were two men, not one, in the Wheatsheaf interested in the farm, and that I followed one.

“The man Charlie, and the other talked to you? He put the fear of death into you, Monty, didn’t he?”

“You—you’re crazy !”

“Or the fear of the death of Gillian. Which was it?”

“I tell you you’re making it all up!”

“If I hadn’t come ahead you would probably have been killed.”

“They wouldn’t have killed me, they would only——”

M.M.M. broke off, realising that he had made just the admission which Rollison needed. Would he give up, now, or would he try to fight on? He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his forehead, gulped, and then dabbed again.

“Let’s have it, Monty,” Rollison urged.

“I—I couldn’t help myself,” muttered M.M.M. “I didn’t know how serious the situation was when I talked to Gillian this morning, if I had I wouldn’t have told you. You— you’re right. Another man came into the Wheatsheaf, and sat at my table. He said that if I didn’t get you off the job, he’d kill Gillian.”

“And you believed him.”

“I couldn’t take a chance with Gillian.”

“Let’s pass that,” said Rollison. “What was he like?”

“He was an American. If you ask me, he and Brandt are in this together.”

“We’ll find out. What about tipping off the people at Norton Street ?”