John Creasey: The Toff on The Farm

Rollison pressed the bell.

There was no sound.

He pressed again, knowing that if the delay lasted long, then Bishop and his men would come running, determined to force their way in.

Rollison heard footsteps, and Mildred the barmaid opened the door. She looked flushed as from sleep, her fair hair was tousled, and she seemed vexed.

“Don’t you know we’re closed until half-past five?”

“Sorry, but this is urgent,” answered Rollison, and actually managed to smile. “Mildred “

The woman’s expression cleared, and she interrupted brightly:

“It’s Mr. Rollison, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Mildred, you told Mr, Mome about an American who talked to Mr. Selby.”

“That’s right.”

“Is the American here?”

“He came in about ten minutes ago, sneaked in the back way, and went up to his room. Why . . .”

She broke off, frowning, seeing policemen appear, and obviously realised that the inn was surrounded.

“Is your husband here?” Rollison demanded.

“No. I’m on my own. Bert’s gone into town, with the barman.”

“No servants here ?”

“No. What on earth . . .”

“You wait out in the garden,” Rollison said. “It’s vital.” She would never know how much she had been exposed to death. “Which room is this man in?”

“Number 3, at the head of the stairs.”

“Thanks,” Rollison said.

He went in.

The inn was absolutely silent except for the faint sounds of his own movements. He reached a narrow flight of stairs, and crept up them. The police filed into the passage, and he heard the muted sounds they made.

He reached the door of the room numbered 3, listened for a moment, but heard nothing.

He rapped sharply on the door.

There was no response.

He called : “Crane, I’ve got news for you. You’re handling a deadly radio-active unit that will kill you if you keep close to it any longer. Open the door, and get rid of it.”

There was still no response.

Every moment held its own danger. If the unit were in this inn, then already its deadly rays had penetrated walls and ceiling, the air Rollison breathed and the air about him was active with an unseen killer.

“Crane, you heard me.”

Then there was a movement; a squeak of sound. Rollison felt sure that a window was being opened. He stood aside as Bishop arrived, a great axe in his hands.

Bishop smashed a blow at the door, wrenched the axe out, and smashed again. A wooden panel split. Through the gap, Rollison saw a fattish man by the window, standing there and holding a small metal container in his hand.

He was fat and big; exactly as Tex Brandt had described Abner Crane.

The axe crashed again.

“If you don’t let me go I’ll throw this down and break it,” Crane said, in a strangely quiet, southern voice. “And if it breaks, no one in this village will live the week out.”

“Including Abner Crane,” Rollison said. “I don’t have a thing to live for, without this,” retorted Crane, and he rolled the unit on the palm of his hand. “Are you going to do a deal ?”

Rollison said, as if half-persuaded: “I’ll talk to the police.”

“You’d better be quick.”

Rollison moved back a foot. Bishop was holding the axe as if he would hurl it through the door and into the American’s face. Abner Crane was staring at them both.

Then, Tex Brandt’s face appeared at the open window. He was a yard away from Crane, who still held the unit loosely on his palm. Tex was standing on a ladder or a window sill. All the time, those unseen radiations were coming from the unit; and if it were broken then so much unseen power would be released that no one here would live.

Tex stretched out his arm, the fingers of the hand crooked. He was within a foot of the man in the room.

Rollison said: “Bishop, we’ve got to let Crane through, or he’ll kill hundreds of people.”

“It’s impossible!” Bishop rasped, and playing his part with absolute conviction. “Crane, if you don’t . . .”

Tex grabbed.

For a dreadful moment Rollison thought the unit would fall, but instead Tex held it, and backed from the window, while Rollison and Bishop rushed the smashed door, and caught a struggling, kicking, dying man.

• • • • • •

In another room here, without Mildred’s knowledge, were the man and woman who had attacked Morne. They made no attempt to escape, and even seemed eager to make a statement. The statement told how right Rollison had been; how treacherous Alan Selby was; how Crane had murdered both Lodwin and Charlie Habden, believing they, not Selby, were double-crossing him.

In Crane’s room was a small outer container for the unit, in his car, a stronger one still. Had he been able to escape at once, he might have been safe from the radiation, but he had been exposed to it for so long that within two days he was dead.

No one else was seriously affected.

• • • • • •

It was Old Smith who told the final story: a scared old man, who had believed that the safe contained stolen jewels, and had allowed it to be buried in the farmhouse by the original thief, the partner of Abner Crane.

The partner’s name was Lodwin.

• • • • • •

Jolly appeared, as if by magic, wraithlike from the kitchen. A moment later, he opened the big room door and announced:

“Mr. Tex Brandt, sir!”

Rollison jumped up.

“Hi, Tex!” he greeted, and shook hands warmly; he looked behind the tall man and saw no one else, and went on: “How’s Gillian?”

“She’ll be okay when the trial’s over,” said Tex. “I’ve just come away from your Scotland Yard. Those cops really know what they want, don’t they? At least they don’t want Alan for murder, they don’t think they could make it stick. He swears that he didn’t know that Crane killed anyone, and planned to have Mome killed. Easy to blame the dead, but I should say it’s true. Crane has a reputation for killing off anyone who’s served his purpose, and Selby would have gone, too.”

“I almost wish he had,” said Rollison, and was silent for a moment. Then he turned to the cocktail cabinet. “What will you have?”

“Bourbon on the rocks, the way Jolly pours it,” said Tex, and stared at the Trophy Wall. “Gee, that’s still my favourite. I’ve been to St. Paul’s, the National Gallery, the Houses of Parliament, the Tower of London, Scotland Yard and Madame Tussauds, but I still prefer this wall. Ah, thanks !” He took his drink. “That’s wonderful.” He sipped again. “I brought you a little souvenir. Do you think you could find room for it on the wall ?”

“What do you think. Jolly?” asked Rollison.

Jolly turned in the doorway.

‘Tm sure we could, sir, provided it isn’t too large.”

“It’s quite small,” the tall Texan assured him. “It’s a model in gold of an electric chair. If they’d caught up with William Brandt in his home state he would have fried. You’ve got a hangman’s rope, you’ve got a miniature guillotine, you have nearly every lethal weapon under the sun, but nothing that looks like an electric chair.”

“I’m sure that would be most appropriate, sir,” said Jolly politely, and disappeared.

The Texan grinned at Rollison.

“Thanks,” he said. “For everything.”

“A pleasure,” murmured Rollison. “Has Gillian heard from Monty Morne ?”

“You bet she has. He’s going to be at our wedding,” Tex Brandt added. “He’s quite a guy, that M.M.M. Do you know what he’s going to do when I take Gillian away?”

“No,” said Rollison and looked his curiosity.

“He’s going to rent Selby Farm from her, and farm it, because Old Smithy is going to be charged with being in possession of stolen property, so his next home will be prison. How about M.M.M. as a farmer, Toff? Do you approve?”