John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm

“Roily,” said Grice, softly now, “you’re the man who ought to have second thoughts. The man named William, alias Tex Brandt, is a killer. I had that information over the radio telephone from New York this morning. That’s why I took so much trouble to make sure he couldn’t get away. That’s why I was going to hold him tonight. He’s wanted for several murders in America. He calls himself an inquiry agent, and once upon a time he had a licence, but he lost that when he first went to jail. He missed the electric chair by a hair’s-breadth. That’s the man you’ve befriended; that’s the man you’ve allowed to escape.”

It was almost the only time Jolly could remember seeing his employer look really taken aback. That showed in Rollison’s expression, in his eyes, in the way his mouth went slack. He recovered quickly, but that didn’t alter the fact that Grice had really shaken him.

Grice said: “I’ll let you stay here for the night because I hope he’ll try to get in touch with you. If he does, I want the Yard to know at once. Don’t take any more chances, because you might be the next one to get a knife between your ribs.”

Grice turned away, and went out, taking his two men with him.

“Jolly,” said Rollison, very quietly, “you’re slipping.”

Jolly stood looking at him, as he in turn looked at the Trophy Wall.

“I’m extremely sorry, sir.”

“You should keep a closer eye on me. You should have told me I was due for retirement months ago. All these souvenirs, and not another to add.”

“I shouldn’t be too despondent, sir.”

“You wouldn’t, but I think I should,” said Rollison. “I have been too slow and too late from the beginning of this affair, and——” he broke off and smiled faintly; and then actually chuckled. “Well, I didn’t exactly crawl this morning, but ever since then I’ve been running after suspects, peeking through keyholes, and generally trailing my coat. I haven’t answered the main questions either. Why has M.M.M. changed so remarkably? And why did two people try to kill him ? I’m beginning to see daylight—I think. But I really ought to take a nice long holiday. Yes,” he went on, his eyes kindling again, “a nice long holiday, perhaps down on a farm. How does it sound. Jolly ?”

“I think I ought to stay here, sir,”

“You’re probably right. Apart from getting our electric chair candidate away, have you done anything tonight?”

“Very little, sir. There was one message.” Jolly reported on the American’s second call, and then added : “I think you would be wise to stay here until hearing from Mr. Grice in the morning. If you leave now, then it might really exasperate him, and there is no point in being incarcerated, is there? It wouldn’t help anyone.”

17

DOWN ON THE FARM

“No,” agreed Rollison, slowly, “it wouldn’t do anyone any good if I were to be what you call incarcerated, Jolly, but have you weighed up all the pros and cons?” He sounded solemn and yet somehow more cheerful.

“I think so, sir.”

“You forget the vigour with which I poked my elbow into Grice’s ribs.”

“That would annoy him for the moment, but he is the last person in the world to bear a grudge. Whatever else,” added Jolly sententiously, “Mr. Grice knows that whatever you do is for the best, and he would not hold anything you did against you for long.”

“He has bosses,” observed Rollison.

“But he also has the power of discretion.”

“Jolly,” said Rollison, “I must rehabilitate myself. It must not be said that the pace of events out-ran me. I will not listen to reason. Come into my room, will you?” He led the way, a gleam in his eyes, and Jolly followed sedately, keeping a straight face when Rollison opened the wardrobe and took out a strangely ragged suit: it was a remarkable one, in that although it was clean, it looked filthy. Jolly took this from him and laid it out as carefully as if it had been the civil uniform for a royal garden party. As Rollison unfastened his collar and tie and began to slide out of his clothes. Jolly brought other things from the inner recesses of the wardrobe. Among these were thick, heavy shoes, a cloth cap which looked as if it had come from a stevedore who had been working on a collier, a white silk scarf and a striped shirt of the kind commonly bought at the smaller departmental stores. “You see,” went on Rollison, changing into these clothes dexterously, “Grice is not only annoyed, but he is sure that Tex Brandt is the murderer. He has good reason to be sure. He’ll be equally positive that I know all about Brandt’s wickedness, and yet want Brandt free to carry out some perfidious purpose of my own. To stop me, he’ll shop me, and probably pop me in clink.”

“As you have made up your mind, sir, there is little point in making alternative suggestions,” Jolly said mildly. “May I ask where you are going ?”

“No. You can even forget what I burbled just now. If Grice comes and wants to know, you can put your hand on your heart and say you know nothing. That might keep you out of quod, too. If Miss Selby, Mr. Selby or Mr. Morne call or telephone, you haven’t the faintest idea where I am, or where Tex Brandt is.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Oke,” said Rollison, and then he stooped down, opened a drawer which had been locked, and did a remarkable thing. Inside this box were two knives, attached to steel clasps. One he clipped round his right forearm, the other round his left leg, just above the calf. Had he made any fuss about this it would have been melodramatic, but he took it all for granted, and Jolly did exactly the same.

From the box Rollison also took what looked Uke a palm gun, not much larger than a pocket watch, and a small phial of slugs or pellets.

“And to think there was a day when I preferred to use lethal bullets,” he murmured, almost blithely.

“I’m not sure that you wouldn’t be wiser to have some now,” Jolly said.

“The gentlemen having killed twice and ruthlessly,” mused Rollison. “Yes. But I’ll make the cutlery and the gas pistol do, I think.”

“I wish you would tell me where you are going and what you propose to do,” said Jolly, and he managed to sound indifferent, although his anxiety crept through. “If you should need any assistance, I might be able to procure it.”

“Yes. I’ll telephone. This is a one-man job,” declared Rollison, “and if I’m right, even half a man would be enough to do it.” There was a glint in his eyes, and evidence of a remarkable change in the last ten minutes : as if he had lost ten years, and full youth was his again. “I’d better nip off before Grice arrives. Behave very nicely with him, and don’t aggravate the situation.”

“Be sure I won’t, sir.”

Rollison left the flat by the same way as the Texan, moving much more quickly. He could not be sure whether the roof was watched now: he was sure that no one followed him when he reached the ground again, and then strode towards Piccadilly. No one who knew Rollison would have dreamed that the big, burly man with the patched clothes and the cloth cap pulled low on his eyes, was the Toff in person.

It was not surprising that he travelled first by Tube to the East End of London, for that was where he obviously belonged.

Old Smith sat in the kitchen of Selby Farm, staring at the red glow of the wood fire. He was warm in front and cold behind, but he hadn’t stirred for the past half hour, and it looked as if he was asleep.

Now and again, embers settled.

Outside, he knew, there was a policeman patrolling the farmhouse garden. Now and again he passed so near the window that his footsteps were clearly audible. Apart from that, there was no sound. The blinds were down, for Old Smith had been frightened of burglars for many years, and gave no-one a chance to glance inside and see his loneliness.