John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm

Rollison seemed to see the smiling eyes of the tall Texan, and to feel the icy coldness of death.

He nodded.

“He was always playing around with that knife,” Littleton said. “It wouldn’t surprise me to know he’s used it plenty of times.”

“Did he put anyone else on his black list?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Littleton answered, and went on hurriedly: “Rollison, get me out of this. Send for the cops, and I’ll come clean. I didn’t know anything about the murders, I swear to that.”

“You’re not going to the police or anywhere yet,” said Rollison, “you’re going to stay here. Brandt may turn up if you’re missing long enough, or he may send another stooge or two.”

“What are you going to do with me?”

“You can have a snack, and then you’re going to rest for the day,” Rollison said.

He did not add that Charlie had been murdered while resting.

Twenty minutes later, Freddie Littleton was locked in a small upstairs room, and Rollison made another tour of the farmhouse. He satisfied himself that no one was here, checked that the door leading to the tunnel was still closed, and couldn’t be opened except from the house, and then watched the patrolling policeman stroll past the front door. A moment afterwards, Rollison nipped out of the back door. No one else was in sight. He shuffled along and kept his shoulders bowed, in case someone was watching from some distance off, and then reached the spot from which he could see the cottage.

There were no cars outside, except Monty Morne’s.

No policeman appeared to be there.

Smoke coiled upwards from a chimney, which suggested that Gillian and M.M.M. were there. Was Alan Selby? Had the police detained him when he had come round from that drugged sleep, or would they let him go free, and follow him in the hope that he would lead them to the murderers ?

Rollison went back into the farmhouse, locked and bolted the back door, and then started work again on the flagstones, this time using a steel poker from the big room. It didn’t bend so easily as the screw-driver, but the task still wasn’t going to be easy. He wanted those flagstones up and the truth revealed before there were any more interruptions. It couldn’t be long before the police came to question Smith, and to search, to try to find out why the farmhouse had become so valuable. Every lost minute might be vital.

He eased the flagstone up at last so that he could get his fingers under it at two places. He bent down, to get the greatest possible leverage with his arms, and heaved. He felt the great stone coming upwards. He exerted all the strength he had, and sweat began to trickle down his face, while the strain at arms and stomach seemed too great.

Then, he heard a banging on the front door.

20

CALLER ON A BIKE

ROLLISON had heard no one approach, was sure that there had been no car. He held the stone about four inches off the floor at one side, hesitated, and then heard more sharp rapping. It might be the police, this could be his cue to run. But he couldn’t run unless he were positive that the police were here; he wanted to see what was buried under this floor.

He pushed the hammer underneath the stone with his foot, then gradually lowered the big slab; it would be easy enough to start again. As he went into the big room, shuffling noisily, he wiped his forehead, and was surprised that he felt clammy all over. He peered out from the side of the window, and saw no car, but also saw the uniformed policeman at the gate, watching but making no attempt to interfere.

He undid the chain.

“It’s okay, Mr. Ar.,” a man said in whispered Cockney, “Mr. Jolly sent me. Let me in.”

He was short and very thin, with a leathery face and very bright blue eyes; all of this was visible through the narrow opening of the door. After the first moment of tension, Rollison drew the chain out of its socket, but he kept his foot against the door in case there were others beside this man, whom he recognised as a friend of the Sam who had taken Old Smith away.

As the man came in, the wheel of his bicycle showed where it leaned against the wall. Then Rollison closed the door, and the little man grinned crookedly up at him.

“If I ‘adn’tve known, I wouldn’tve recognised yer,” he said, and thrust a small packet into Rollison’s hand. “Mr. Jolly sent these, in case you run aht’ve your fave’rit fags.”

Trust Jolly to feel quite sure where he had come !

“An’ ‘e give me a letter, said I wasn’t to ‘and it to no-one but you in person,” went on the Cockney, and looked about him. “Creepy sort ‘o place you got dahn on the farm, ain’t it?”

“You get used to it,” Rollison said, and offered cigarettes from a nearly empty packet: he had left his case at the flat. “Quiet a minute, Lionel.”

“Okay.”

Jolly had realised whose help he had sought the previous night, of course; had assumed that he would go to the East End, where a certain Bill Ebbutt, who ran a boxing gymnasium as well as a pub, could always be relied on for help. Jolly had almost certainly persuaded Ebbutt to put him on to Sam who had come down here with a crony, and had taken Old Smith away. That much was easy to understand. But why had Jolly thought it essential to send a message ?

Rollison unfolded the letter.

Jolly had written :

“I think you should know at once, sir, that there is a warrant out for your arrest . . .”

Rollison caught his breath. Lionel looked at him through his lashes, and drew deeply on the cigarette. Someone walked along the path outside, and Rollison looked sharply towards the sound.

“. . . I was told of this by Mr. Grice, who called at six-thirty this morning.

“There is also a warrant out for William Brandt, who appears to be quite notorious in the United States. The newspapers have this story and are using it extensively, but as yet there is no public announcement of the warrant for you.

“Mr. Grice made it clear that he believes you have been deceived by William Brandt, and says that it is absolutely essential for you to give yourself up and to make a statement explaining your association with the man. He says that in his considered opinion, the longer you leave it, the more dangerous will be your own position.

“I understand that Mr. Alan Selby, who was detained for some hours, has been released, and also that Miss Selby and Mr. Mome are on their way to the cottage. I cannot be sure, but I have reason to believe that the police suspect that some attempt will be made to take possession of the farmhouse during the day, and the police are watching from a distance, ready to move in if that appears to be necessary.

“If I am right in this surmise, I cannot too strongly urge you to leave.

Respectfully as always, sir, Jolly.

P.S. William Brandt telephoned me twice in the course of this letter, and each time said that he wanted to talk to you urgendy. I refused to give him any information.

Rollison lowered the letter.

Lionel White moved across to the hearth and tossed the end of his cigarette into it.

“In a bit’ve a spot, aincha?” he inquired. “Just before I left there was a buzz that the busies were after you, serious this time. Anyfink I can do?”

“Did you see any police on the way here?” asked Rollison.

“Copper at the front, that’s all.”

If he had seen only the one man, then the other police were keeping out of sight, but there was no reason to doubt

Jolly; it all added up. So did other things. If the police were after him in earnest, they would soon have every newspaper in the country screaming the news,

“One ovver fing,” went on Lionel, “Sam said the old geezer’s okay.”

“Where is he being kept ?”