John Creasey: The Toff on The Farm

“Yes.”

“Then where is Smith? I’ve got to see him, I’ve got to talk to him !”

“You just have to take it easily for a few hours,” Rollison soothed, “and you’ve got to get used to some unpleasant facts. Remember the tall Texan man, William Brandt ?”

She looked at him warily.

“Of course I do.”

“Have you seen the newspapers?”

“No.”

“He is wanted for the two murders. He is also wanted for murder and other crimes in the United States. He is what we call a very bad man, Gillian.”

Her eyes began to storm.

“I don’t believe you.”

“There’s just one slim chance that I’m wrong and the police are also wrong,” said Rollison. “If I’m right, then Tex fooled me completely, I’ve never met a man who seemed so sane and soundly honest. I’ll ask Jolly to try to get a photograph of Tex Brandt radioed from the United States, so that we can be sure,” Rollison went on. “Meanwhile, we may have misjudged someone else. Did you know that every move you’ve made, for weeks, has been watched and reported to this William Brandt and those who work for him ? In short, that you’ve been spied on.”

“That’s impossible,” Gillian declared. “Alan and I have been living down at the cottage most of the time. We’ve had hardly any visitors, except Monty.”

“That’s right,” said Rollison.

“What on earth are you saying now ?”

“That you’ve been spied on and your movements reported, that Alan’s been watched, threatened by letter and telephone, both at the cottage and in London. Isn’t that true?”

Gillian would never know just how beautiful she looked in this half light: or how young and unsure of herself.

“Yes, everywhere he’s been he’s received threats, he told me so this morning but “ she hesitated, while he stood waiting for the obvious to dawn on her. She went on abruptly : “If you’re suggesting Monty, it’s ludicrous.”

“Who else could it be?”

“It couldn’t be Monty! Why he’s my closest friend, Alan’s too. He “

“He’s been desperately in love with you, and you’ve kept saying no,” Rollison reminded her, “and thwarted love can do queer things to human beings.”

“I simply cannot believe it,” Gillian insisted, and her honesty and her loyalty glowed, “You must be wrong.” Then she changed the subject, and swung into the attack. “It’s all very well standing there in Smith’s clothes and throwing these accusations about, but what about you yourself ? What do you think you’re doing? Where is Smith?”

“He’s resting.”

“I’m in no mood for joking !”

“Gillian,” said Rollison, very quietly, “I’ve never been less like joking, either. Come with me.” He took her arm, and she went with him without protesting, but freed her arm as soon as they were in the kitchen. At first she didn’t see the heap of dirt and the hole in the corner, and when he moved, to let her see it, she exclaimed:

“What is that?”

“A safe containing the secret of Selby Farm, I fancy. The explanation of all the threats and violence. Now we know that, we can make a move forward. Will Brandt will probably be coming here within the next hour or so. We must have Monty here when he arrives. We can accuse them of working together and we can show them the safe. We should get a good idea of who is guilty and who isn’t, shouldn’t we?”

She didn’t answer at once.

Rollison left it to her.

“I suppose we would,” she said at last. “And at least it would be over, and we’d know the best and the worst.”

“I’ll go and get Monty,” Rollison said, “and your brother —if he wants to come.”

22

THE COMING OF WILL BRANDT

“I don’t know what the devil you’re playing at,” M.M.M. said. “I thought you’d have the sense to keep off the case now, Rollison.”

“You certainly made it clear that you wished I hadn’t been invited,” Rollison said mildly. “What changed your mind so much?”

“The crazy way you behaved.”

“There was something else.”

“I tell you I got fed up with you, and decided you were more dangerous than helpful to Gillian,” M.M.M. insisted. He was in the main room of the cottage, and the smell of the stew was much stronger now, making Rollison feel positively hungry. “Now you say she’s at the farmhouse, and Smith isn’t.”

“That’s right.”

“Why should I come, just because you want me to ?”

“You don’t have to come because I want you to,” said Rolliison, “you have to come because I’m going to make you.” He beamed. “You could spare a thought to the fact that Gillian might be in acute danger, and you——”

“I’d do anything in the world to help Gillian,” growled M.M.M., “but I’m not sure that coming with you will help her. Just because Alan’s gone into the village, that’s no reason to think you can force me to do anything, either.”

“Monty,” murmured Rollison, “you’re going to walk across to the farmhouse, and go in at the front door. That’s the easy way. Or you can come the way I did, which will be uncomfortable to say the least.”

“I’m damned if I will!”

“Because I want you to be present when the Texan comes to see Gillian again.”

M.M.M. exclaimed : “The man Brandt?”

“Yes.”

“But he’s a killer! The police are after him. It’s in all the newspapers.”

“And he’s likely to be here soon. The police will know when he arrives, and they’ll close in soon afterwards, but we’ll have time to find out just what he’s up to, and what’s been going on. You want to find out the secret of the farm, don’t you?”

“I don’t give a damn about the secret, provided I can get Gillian out of this spot,” M.M.M. growled, and then gave in. “All right, I’ll come. We’d better leave a note for Alan.”

Rollison watched while M.M.M. scribbled a note and put it on a table near the door, where Alan Selby couldn’t fail to see it. Then M.M.M. asked Rollison to hand him his jacket. Rollison felt something hard in the pocket, and slipped his hand inside.

M.M.M. carried a gun.

Rollison made no comment, and M.M.M. moved towards the back door, using a walking stick. It would take him longer to walk to the cottage than it would take Rollison to go by the copse and the tunnel.

Rollison let him go ahead, and then hurried up the stair and to the loft. He spotted the open rooflight, through which the policeman on the roof must have climbed: and there was a pair of steps immediately beneath the rooflight. Rollison went half way up, and put his head through the opening. A man—Bishop himself—was staring downwards, and had obviously seen M.M.M.

“Had any luck in spotting the bad men?” asked Rollison, sotto voce.

Bishop was so startled he nearly slipped. He turned his head, with the binoculars hanging round his neck, his face red as much from the sun as from annoyance at being caught out.

“You’ve got a nerve !”

“Don’t blame me, it was hereditary,” said Rollison, and went on almost in the same breath : “Two things, quickly. I’ve dug up a safe and it’s over in the kitchen of the farmhouse now. Lay on someone to force it, will you? And I’m expecting the notorious William Brandt at the farmhouse before long. Will you give me half an hour alone with him and the others?”

“Goddammit man, there’s a warrant out for you !”

“I could save myself by pushing you off the roof,” said Rollison, “but I’m going to risk being charged.” He saw the small walkie-talkie radio set standing on a ledge close to the detective. “Check with Grice, and ask him if it isn’t worth a smile. If you hold Brandt before he gets here and I’ve had a talk with him, let failure be on your own head.”