John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm

The Texan whispered : “Sure, I understand.”

“When you reach the ground, you will find the narrow gap between the houses on your right. Take that, sir. Turn left, and then left again. It will bring you into Piccadilly Circus, with which I imagine you are familiar.”

“Sure, I know Piccadilly Circus,” said Tex, in a strangely subdued voice; it was not simply that he was whispering, it was as if he hardly knew how to find words. “Let me make sure I have it right. I turn right at the top, I climb down at the house this side of the gap, I go into the gap, I turn left and left again, and I’m right in Piccadilly.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Fine,” said Tex, with a little more vigour. “Jolly, will you tell me one thing ?”

“If I can, sir.”

“Why is Mr. Rollison doing this for me?”

“I have no doubt at all that it will serve an admirable purpose, sir.”

“Which means you don’t know,” said Tex. “I guess I don’t know, either.” He took Jolly’s hand. “Tell him I think he’s a mighty fine guy, will you ?”

“I will, sir.”

Now Tex gripped his shoulder, and there was fierceness in his whispered words.

“I want him to get that message verbatim. You understand?”

“Perfectly, sir. In your opinion, Mr. Rollison is a mighty fine guy.”

Tex choked back a laugh.

He turned, and began to climb up the iron rungs, going very cautiously first, but much faster before he reached the top. Jolly waited until he had disappeared, and marvelled that he hardly showed himself against the grey sky; it was unlikely that he would have been seen from the ground, even if someone had been watching all the time.

Jolly went back into the flat, closed both doors, and turned on the light. Then he went into the kitchen, and began to get the morning tea-tray ready. He was putting the finishing touches to it when the telephone bell rang. He moved to an extension which was just outside the kitchen door, and lifted the receiver.

“This is Mr. Richard Rollison’s residence.”

A man said: “I want to speak to Mr. William Brandt, sir,” in a very clearly defined Southern drawl: so much of a drawl that it seemed almost affected. This was the American who had called before, and the drawl was very different from Brandt’s.

“I’m sorry, I know no one of that name,” lied Jolly.

“What did you say, sir?” The caller made the ‘sir’ sound like ‘suh’ and there was a sharper note in his voice.

Jolly repeated the answer.

“You must have made a mistake,” the American said. “I was talking to Mr. Brandt only this afternoon. He told me that he was staying at the apartment of an English gentleman, and that the gentleman’s name was Rollison. If you care to hold on a moment, I’ll spell that out to you.”

“There is no need I assure you,” Jolly said. “This is Mr. Rollison’s residence, and I am Mr. Rollison’s personal attendant, but I do not know a Mr. Brandt.”

“That 5a?” The man sounded astonished.

“Yes, sir. Mr. Rollison may be able to help you, but I don’t think he is likely to be in tonight. He might be in tomorrow morning. Would you care to leave a telephone number, so that he is able to get in touch with you ?”

“I guess I’ll call him again,” said the American, and rang off.

Jolly put the receiver down quietly, went back and finished the tea-tray, and then went to his own bed-sitting room, which was small but extremely well-furnished, and poured himself a whisky and soda: he used plenty of soda. He kept listening for sounds at the front door, but for a long time there was silence. Then he heard the expected footsteps, jumped up, and hurried to the door. He opened it before Rollison had his key out, and stood aside.

Rollison was with Grice, whom Jolly knew well. “Hallo, Jolly,” Rollison said. “Not in bed yet?”

“I was about to retire, sir.”

“I’ll have a look round before you do,” said Grice, and as he spoke two plain clothes men came up the stairs; it was obvious to Jolly that he was not doing this by halves. Grice looked grim, almost angry. He strode into the big room, ignored the Trophy Wall, then went into the spare room, next the kitchen, finally the bathrooms and Rollison’s bedroom.

Rollison and Jolly were together in the large room when he came striding in.

“Come on,” he barked. “Where is he?”

“If you mean Mr. Brandt, sir, he left some time ago,” Jolly answered promptly. “I understand that he was to stay here until Mr. Rollison returned, but he said that he had some urgent task to perform, and that he would call or telephone in the morning. If I’d known he should have been detained, sir, I would have done my best.”

Grice said harshly: “Roily, you’re a damned fool. That man’s almost certainly a killer. Where is he ?”

Rollison was meek.

“You heard what Jolly said. Bill.”

“If anyone else gets killed in this affair, you’ll be to blame,” Grice said. Jolly had seldom seen him nearer to losing his temper. “Now, let’s have the truth. How much do you know about this business? What’s the secret of Selby Farm?”

“If I knew that, I’d be on top of the world,” Rollison replied quite honestly. “Bill, I didn’t know a thing about all this until this morning. I know less than you. I told Brandt to come here, and he came, but he probably got worried because I was away so long.”

“You mean you telephoned him and told him to climb over the roof,” said Grice. “I ought to take you to the Yard for assaulting a police officer.”

“In a lift? With no witnesses? And when the so-called assailant was waiting downstairs for you, all ready to come quietly ?” asked Rollison. “Think again, Bill.”

“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.

Occasionally his lips twisted in what might have been a smile, and as easily a spasm of indigestion.

Suddenly, he got up, went out of the kitchen into the big front room, went to the window, moved the blind a fraction, and peered out. He could see a light in the sky, and knew that car headlamps were still on near the cottage, with the proof that the police were still there. He let the blind fall and returned to his chair, dropped heavily into it, and then took out a large silver watch from his fob pocket, thumbed the glass, and peered at the hands. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning.

He yawned.

Then he heard a creak of sound and darted a suspicious glance towards the ceiling. The creak wasn’t repeated. He continued to glare upwards until his head drooped, and his chin almost touched his chest. His breathing was heavy and rasping, now and again he snored.

He was not aware of the man who appeared in the doorway, silent as a wraith but nothing like a wraith to look at. In fact he looked like an East End dock worker who had lost his way. He stared at the old man’s bowed head and bent back, and smiled faintly at the snoring. He stepped closer, taking the palm gun out of his pocket as he did so.

He stood looking down at Old Smith, who had been so adamant about leaving Selby Farm.

“Now why don’t you want to leave, Smithy?” asked Rollison, and continued to stare at the old man’s head. He asked the question silently, and the only sound was Smith’s breathing. The night was silent, too. Rollison had got in at a window. He had seen a policeman in the garden, but the man had been easy to evade. In the morning he would get into trouble from Keen or Bishop, but he would get over that.