John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm

“I’m beginning to find out that in this country a lot of people can be tough,” declared Brandt, in a voice that was much nearer normal. He began to smile. “I’m beginning to understand how you acquired those trophies, too. How about hanging me up there ?”

“I hope you won’t have to be hanged,” said Rollison, judicially, and glanced round as Jolly came in, with a tray with a bottle of Bourbon, a bottle of Scotch, soda water and ice cubes. He placed these on the desk, then went to a corner and opened a cupboard to take out glasses. “Did anyone call when I was out. Jolly?”

“Yes, sir.” Jolly began to pour out drinks, and the American watched him, fascinated.

“Who?”

“There were a number of social calls of which I have made a note, and Lady Rimgedden is anxious to know whether you will open the Borstal Boys Bazaar next month. It appears that Lord Rimgedden was to have arranged it with you, and overlooked it.”

“Are we free?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We will open the bazaar.”

“I’m sure Lady Rimgedden will be delighted, and I will telephone her at once,” said Jolly, who spoke in exacdy the same level tone all the time, and did not appear even to Wink. “An American gentleman who did not give his name also telephoned.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, sir. He left a message.”

“What message?”

Jolly glanced at Tex Brandt, but Rollison made no comment, so the manservant went on, still without flickering an eyelid:

“He said that unless you withdrew from the investigation into the disappearance of Alan Selby and the mysterious events at Selby Farm, you would be seriously inconvenienced, sir,”

“Oh, no,” breathed Tex.

“Get out, stay out or be put out,” mused Rollison. “When was this?”

“An hour ago.”

“Hmm. What did you tell him ?”

“I said that I would pass on your message, sir.”

“Gimme that drink,” said Tex Brandt, and grabbed and tossed down much Bourbon and little water. “If I weren’t standing here and listening, I wouldn’t believe this could be taking place,” he said.

“Oh, it happens every day,” declared Rollison lightly. “That the lot. Jolly?”

“Mr. Grice telephoned.”

“Ah.”

“He will be coming round this evening, sir, about half past eight, and asks that you leave a message for him if you will not be in.”

“Oh.”

“I just can’t bear this suspense,” said Tex, and held his glass in front of him as if he were likely to finish the drink at the next gulp. “Who is Mr. Grice?”

“Superintendent William Grice of New Scotland Yard,” Jolly informed him, and then paused slightly to indicate a change of subject, and added to Rollison: “Will you be in to dinner, sir?”

“Yes. All three of us.”

“Three?” ejaculated Tex. “Who’s the third?” he broke off, glanced at Jolly, finished his drink and dropped on to the arm of a chair. “I just don’t get it,” he said. “You look too feudal to sit down at the same table together. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not being rude, I’m just being American.”

“We quite understand,” said Jolly, and for the first time gave a slight emphasis to the one word. He bowed. “If there is nothing else, sir, I will prepare dinner.”

“Remember that all I had for lunch was a miniature pork pie and a pint,” said Rollison. He turned to Tex as Jolly went out, softly. “No,” he added firmly. “No what?” asked Tex, faintly.

“Jolly is not available for New York, Chicago, Miami Beach, Las Vegas or Hollywood.”

“I wouldn’t want Jolly,” asserted Tex. “I would want you.” He lit his cigarette and drew deeply on it, drained his glass as if forgetting that he had already emptied it, glanced at the bottle, and went on : “Would you mind telling me something?”

Rollison refilled his glass.

“Probably. What is it?”

“What made you think I might have killed the man Lodwin?”

“Because you also had the chance to kill the man Charlie,” answered Rollison, and handed him the glass.

Tex Brandt took it, but sat very still, and didn’t drink or speak for what seemed a long time. Rollison judged him to be rather older than he had seemed : in the middle-thirties. He was rather more handsome, too, and the colour of his hair was quite beautiful.

“So I could have gone back and killed him.”

“Or killed him before we left.”

“I didn’t.”

“You’ll have the police to satisfy, not me.”

“How easy will that be ?”

“It won’t be easy at all, once they know you’re around,” said Rollison. “So far I don’t think they’ve any idea, but I wouldn’t be too sure. We’ve a weak link in the chain.”

Tex drank Bourbon as if it were lemonade.

“Name of Morne,” he remarked.

“You know him ?”

“Sure, I know of him,” Tex said, and put his glass down, drew again on his cigarette and stubbed it out half-finished, then stood up and walked to the Trophy Wall; but he paid no attention to the weapons there, no attention even when he brushed past the hangman’s rope and set it swinging. “Mr. Rollison,” he said, and his voice seemed to be more noticeably from the Wild West, “I guess it’s time I told you more about myself and what I’m doing here. I told you that I came from New York to buy Selby Farm, and I’m working on behalf of a wealthy American. Maybe I forgot to say wealthy, but you’d guess that. He wouldn’t have used me unless he expected trouble, and he told me that someone else would try to buy the farm, and use Lodwin and maybe other guys. I was to stop them.” Slowly, Tex shook his head, and his eyes looked dazed. “Two guys have certainly been stopped,” he said. “No wonder you think I killed them.”

“I just think you might have.”

“Thanks. My client told me to be very careful of Lodwin, he was a psycho. From the way Lodwin talked to Miss Selby and tried to buy that farm, I guess my client was right. It was the corniest interview I’ve ever heard. Lodwin just told her she had to sell, and that was that. My client told me that the other guy who wanted to buy the farm would try to get it legally first, but would get it somehow, if he couldn’t buy it. He couldn’t buy, so he kidnapped Selby and then put pressure on Gillian through Lodwin.”

“You think Lodwin and Charlie both worked for the same man—your client’s rival?”

“Yes,” answered Tex.

“Who is this rival?”

“That I don’t know.”

“An American?”

“Could be.”

“An American threatened Mome, and scared him enough to make him warn the people at the Brighton house we were on the way.”

“So they killed Lodwin, knowing we were also going there,” Tex said, heavily.

“If Lodwin and Charlie both worked in different ways for this rival of your client, why should he kill them?” Rollison reasoned.

“You’re asking me,” Tex said. “I don’t know.”

“An American, probably the same one, has also threatened me,” Rollison went on. “I want to meet him. Your client knows who he is, so—who is your client ?”

“I’m going to telephone him tonight,” Tex said, carefully. “I’m going to ask if he will name his rival, and also ask his authority to tell you his own name. If he refuses, then I guess I’ll tell you anyway, but I’d rather handle it this way. I’ll be better off if I do, I’m due to collect another five thousand when I get back to New York, provided I play the game the way my client wants it.”

“That makes sense,” said Rollison. “Why does he want to get Selby Farm?”

“That I don’t know, either.”

It was never possible to be absolutely sure that a man was telling the truth, but Tex Brandt was certainly convincing. He met Rollison’s gaze quite levelly, and there was a great deal to like about him, as well as his looks. Rollison moved to the window and looked out, but saw no-one who appeared to be taking any particular notice of this house, 22, Gresham Terrace, Mayfair. Dusk was falling, and soon it would be dark; if the day’s events were anything to go by, then the night would be busy indeed. Rollison turned round.