John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm

“I shall still want to leave,” she insisted.

“But come and have dinner first,” urged Rollison. “Try to relax, and don’t make an impulsive decision. You could make the worst mistake of your life if you do.”

Jolly’s dinner was a gourmet’s delight.

First the white and then the red wines were exactly right.

Even Gillian seemed to relish the meal, and afterwards seemed much more relaxed, but when they had done their best to dissuade her, she said :

“It’s no use at all. I’ve got to exchange the farm for Alan, I just can’t refuse. If I did and anything happened to him, I’d be haunted by it for the rest of my life.”

“Why don’t you sleep on it?” Tex urged. “They want the farm so badly that it won’t do any harm to wait. They will just have to hold your brother until they get what they want.”

“Tex,” responded Gillian, very calmly, “you want to buy the farm, too. You can’t be disinterested. Roily might be, but I think he’s so dispassionate that he can’t really see the best thing for Alan. He wants to apply a principle of what is right and what is wrong. I want to save Alan’s life. And these people have killed twice, so we know they wouldn’t hesitate to kill again.”

Tex said helplessly : “Well, I give up.”

“I’ll take you to Monty’s place,” promised Rollison. He pressed a bellpush, and Jolly came in, as if Rollison had rubbed a magic lamp. “Jolly, try to contact Mr. Grice and say I’ll be delayed. If you can’t stop him coming, when he arrives tell him I hope to be back by half-past ten. Mr. Brandt will stay in the spare room, and if Mr. Grice comes and wants to look round, just introduce him as a friend of mine.”

“Very good, sir.”

Gillian put a hand on the TofT’s.

“Roily, I know you think I’m a fool, but I’m sure it’s the right thing to do.”

“You have to live with your conscience,” Rollison said.

“You going to call Mome, and make sure he’s home?” asked Tex. He couldn’t look away from Gillian, and seemed to hate the thought that she was leaving.

“No,” said Rollison, “I’d like to judge his reaction when we get there. And I’d like Gillian to see it, too. Hat and coat on, Gillian, if we’re going to be thrown to the lions, let’s get it over.”

Tex said: “That’s exactly what it’s going to be.”

The police car followed Rollison and Gillian, who were in the scarlet Allard. Rollison did nothing to try to evade it. He pulled up closer to the front entrance of the small block of flats. Night duty men were there now, and two policemen were strolling together along the street, but nothing suggested that there had been any sensation here during the day.

Rollison helped Gillian out.

She had glanced at him a great deal while they had been in the car, but now stared straight ahead of her. She was hatless and wore just a light top coat, but clothes made little difference. The way she walked, looked, smiled, made her quite sensational and even the commissionaires stared at her, then hurried forward to open the lift doors.

“Is Mr. Mome in ?” Rollison asked.

“Oh, yes, sir.” The man who answered had a faint Irish brogue. “He’s been in ever since he came back from going out. The doctor’s been to see him, he’s hurt that leg of his that he hasn’t got, and a friend is there with him now.”

“Friend ?” asked Rollison sharply.

“Yes, sir, at least he said he was a friend, and went straight up and he certainly hasn’t come down. It was half an hour ago, I should say, not much more for certain.”

“Friend,” echoed Rollison, and held Gillian’s arm. “We’ll go and see.”

They went up in the swift moving lift. No one was in the passage when they stepped out. They turned towards M.M.M.’s flat, the girl now a little hesitant. Rollison kept his right hand in his pocket, and pressed the bell with his left; it sounded quite clearly.

Then, M.M.M. opened the door.

In his right hand there was a large Service revolver, on his face a look which suggested that he would be quite prepared to use it.

Instead, his face lit up.

“Gillian, thank God you’ve come! Alan’s here, and he’s desperately anxious to talk to you.”

There was a moment’s breathless pause. Then :

“Alan!” cried Gillian, and thrust herself past M.M.M. and ran across the small hall. As she went, a man appeared at the living-room door, tall and spare, with his fair hair golden, and his small nose snub. Gillian flung herself into his arms. He held her tightly and did not at first look over her head at Rollison or M.M.M. When he did look up, Rollison saw that his eyes were bloodshot, that he needed a shave, and that he looked scared.

Rollison closed the door behind him, but M.M.M. barred his path.

“Roily,” said M.M.M. in a firm voice, “I know it was my fault for asking your help, but we really don’t need you anymore. Alan’s been released on condition that they sell the farm, and that’s the only possible thing to do. All the persuasion in the world won’t make them change their minds now. You might as well accept defeat for once. No-one even knows you’re working on the case, so it won’t do your prestige any harm.”

He looked plump, earnest and pleading, and although the big revolver was still in his hand, it was pointing towards the floor.

Gillian freed herself from her step-brother’s arms, and said :

“Are you all right? Have they hurt you? Tell me if they have, please tell me.”

Alan Selby said: “I had a bad time, but I’m not hurt. Gillian, we’ve just got to sell the farm, and forget it. They’ll persecute us until we do. If you’d heard some of the things they threatened to do to you, you’d understand why we must sell to them.”

“Of course we must,” Gillian said, “and we’re going to. It’s all right, Alan, you needn’t worry.”

Alan Selby was certainly much older than his sister. He had been father, mother, brother to her, and now she was mothering him, soothing him, obviously aware that he needed her reassurance. He had a scared look in his eyes, and no one could doubt that he was nervous and jumpy.

“Rollison,” said M.M.M., “don’t make me put it into words of one syllable.”

“Let’s hear it, anyhow,” Rollison encouraged. “I hate to say it, old chap, but you’re not wanted here.”

“Ah,” said Rollison. “You never said an un-truer word.” He went nearer the others, and Alan Selby looked at him with a kind of nervous defiance, a man in his late thirties who might be in the early fifties judged by his present looks. “Selby,” said Rollison, “how much are they going to pay for the farm?”

“Forget it. Roily,” M.M.M. said.

“Five thousand,” Selby answered, “and that’s a thousand more than it’s worth.”

“There’s an offer of fifteen thousand.”

“I don’t give a damn whether there’s an offer of fifteen or fifty thousand, I can’t stand this strain any longer,” Selby shouted. “They’ve been after me for weeks. I didn’t tell Gillian because I thought it would frighten her. They’ve telephoned, stopped me on the road, whispered to me at the local, they haven’t given me a minute’s peace for weeks. I tried to hold out, but I can’t do it any longer, I’m terrified of what they’ll do. I can’t help it if we lose money, I just can’t help it. Now get out, and stop trying to persuade us. We’ve got to sell that farm.”

The girl turned round and her expression told Rollison that the quicker he left, the better she would like it. Selby’s eyes said the same thing, less politely. M.M.M. stepped towards the door and began to open it.

Then he jumped and his gun rose sharply, for the door was thrust against him, and a tall, brown-clad man stepped in.