John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm

Gillian was sitting in the car near the corner, watching police cars and the crowds which gathered; obviously she hadn’t got out, and nothing had happened to alarm her except the evidence of trouble.

“Is Monty all right?” she asked quickly.

“Perfectly, and so am I,” said Rollison, “Charming of you to ask.” He squeezed her hand. “I hope that Monty will see things my way in future.” She didn’t answer, and he started off, watched but not stopped by the policemen at the main entrance.

Jolly opened the flat door before he reached it. His lined face would soon be wrinkled, his sparse grey hair was neat, his eyes were the eyes of an affectionate sheepdog. He looked at Gillian with surprise; and in spite of her tensions and her worries, she was quite lovely.

Rollison led her straight to the spare room, which had its own tiny bathroom.

“Tidy yourself up, and let me know when you’re feeling respectable again,” he said.

She looked into his eyes.

“Roily, I don’t know whether you’re right or wrong, but thank you for being so charming,” she said, “I know I’ve been a little beast.” When Rollison smiled, she went on with more spirit: “And don’t say it’s nothing : it’s a great deal,” Then she burst out: “Do you know if Tex Brandt’s been here yet?”

Her expression told Rollison that one day she was likely to have bad news for Montagu Montmorency Mome; that was a strangely ironical fact.

“I think he’ll turn up,” Rollison said.

He did not remind her that Brandt could have killed both Charlie and Lodwin, He closed the door on her, and went back into the big room, and told Jolly to send the American in. He stood with his back to the remarkable Trophy Wall.

The Texan came striding in; he seemed to grow in stature every time Rollison saw him.

“Hallo, Mr. Rollison, it’s good to see you again,” he greeted, and held out his hand.

Rollison took it.

“Hiya, Tex,” he said. “Used any lethal daggers lately?” He twisted his arm, and quite suddenly Brandt was bent almost double, held in a grip which he could not escape unless he wanted to break his arm. He was still looking flabbergasted when Jolly came in, and Rollison said :

“Search him. Jolly, just in case he has a bloodstained knife.”

13

TEX TELLS

Jolly was both expert and quick. Tex made no attempt to free himself as hands dipped in and out of his pockets, sometimes coming out empty, sometimes loaded : as with an elaborate pocket knife, a cigarette-lighter with a hole in the wrong place, and a small compact automatic pistol of German make. Jolly next ran his hands along Tex’s legs, arms, waist and chest, and then drew back. As he did so, Rollison released the Texan, smiled cheerfully, and said:

“What are you going to have to drink?”

“I need Bourbon on the rocks,” Tex said, in a bewildered way.

“Bourbon on the rocks for Mr. Brandt, Jolly,” said Rollison, and went to the large desk where the weapons had been placed. “Quite an amount,” he observed, and picked up the palm gun. “One of the Toledo jobs, isn’t it, made by Yanez.” He weighed the automatic in his hand. “Otto Schmidt, of Hamburg, gets better and better. Isn’t the knife American made?”

Tex said : “Sure.”

“Don’t ever let it be said that I left a man defenceless in a foreign land,” murmured Rollison, and handed all three of the weapons back. “Unless you’ve a licence for that automatic I shouldn’t let the police know you have it, and the lighter could get you into a lot of trouble. I know. I’ve got one. Does yours fire slugs or gas pellets ?”

“Slugs,” answered Brandt, a little less weakly.

“I prefer gas pellets,” Rollison confided. “They’re just as quick, they scare more, and if I get caught ladling them out, no-one gets so angry. You probably don’t know it, but the police in this country can be very tough when they think you’re going to throw lead about.”

“I’m beginning to find out that in this country a lot of people can be tough,” declared Brandt, in a voice that was much nearer normal. He began to smile. “I’m beginning to understand how you acquired those trophies, too. How about hanging me up there ?”

“I hope you won’t have to be hanged,” said Rollison, judicially, and glanced round as Jolly came in, with a tray with a bottle of Bourbon, a bottle of Scotch, soda water and ice cubes. He placed these on the desk, then went to a corner and opened a cupboard to take out glasses. “Did anyone call when I was out. Jolly?”

“Yes, sir.” Jolly began to pour out drinks, and the American watched him, fascinated.

“Who?”

“There were a number of social calls of which I have made a note, and Lady Rimgedden is anxious to know whether you will open the Borstal Boys Bazaar next month. It appears that Lord Rimgedden was to have arranged it with you, and overlooked it.”

“Are we free?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We will open the bazaar.”

“I’m sure Lady Rimgedden will be delighted, and I will telephone her at once,” said Jolly, who spoke in exacdy the same level tone all the time, and did not appear even to Wink. “An American gentleman who did not give his name also telephoned.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, sir. He left a message.”

“What message?”

Jolly glanced at Tex Brandt, but Rollison made no comment, so the manservant went on, still without flickering an eyelid:

“He said that unless you withdrew from the investigation into the disappearance of Alan Selby and the mysterious events at Selby Farm, you would be seriously inconvenienced, sir,”

“Oh, no,” breathed Tex.

“Get out, stay out or be put out,” mused Rollison. “When was this?”

“An hour ago.”

“Hmm. What did you tell him ?”

“I said that I would pass on your message, sir.”

“Gimme that drink,” said Tex Brandt, and grabbed and tossed down much Bourbon and little water. “If I weren’t standing here and listening, I wouldn’t believe this could be taking place,” he said.

“Oh, it happens every day,” declared Rollison lightly. “That the lot. Jolly?”

“Mr. Grice telephoned.”

“Ah.”

“He will be coming round this evening, sir, about half past eight, and asks that you leave a message for him if you will not be in.”

“Oh.”

“I just can’t bear this suspense,” said Tex, and held his glass in front of him as if he were likely to finish the drink at the next gulp. “Who is Mr. Grice?”

“Superintendent William Grice of New Scotland Yard,” Jolly informed him, and then paused slightly to indicate a change of subject, and added to Rollison: “Will you be in to dinner, sir?”

“Yes. All three of us.”

“Three?” ejaculated Tex. “Who’s the third?” he broke off, glanced at Jolly, finished his drink and dropped on to the arm of a chair. “I just don’t get it,” he said. “You look too feudal to sit down at the same table together. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not being rude, I’m just being American.”

“We quite understand,” said Jolly, and for the first time gave a slight emphasis to the one word. He bowed. “If there is nothing else, sir, I will prepare dinner.”

“Remember that all I had for lunch was a miniature pork pie and a pint,” said Rollison. He turned to Tex as Jolly went out, softly. “No,” he added firmly. “No what?” asked Tex, faintly.

“Jolly is not available for New York, Chicago, Miami Beach, Las Vegas or Hollywood.”

“I wouldn’t want Jolly,” asserted Tex. “I would want you.” He lit his cigarette and drew deeply on it, drained his glass as if forgetting that he had already emptied it, glanced at the bottle, and went on : “Would you mind telling me something?”

Rollison refilled his glass.

“Probably. What is it?”

“What made you think I might have killed the man Lodwin?”

“Because you also had the chance to kill the man Charlie,” answered Rollison, and handed him the glass.

Tex Brandt took it, but sat very still, and didn’t drink or speak for what seemed a long time. Rollison judged him to be rather older than he had seemed : in the middle-thirties. He was rather more handsome, too, and the colour of his hair was quite beautiful.

“So I could have gone back and killed him.”

“Or killed him before we left.”

“I didn’t.”

“You’ll have the police to satisfy, not me.”

“How easy will that be ?”

“It won’t be easy at all, once they know you’re around,” said Rollison. “So far I don’t think they’ve any idea, but I wouldn’t be too sure. We’ve a weak link in the chain.”

Tex drank Bourbon as if it were lemonade.

“Name of Morne,” he remarked.

“You know him ?”

“Sure, I know of him,” Tex said, and put his glass down, drew again on his cigarette and stubbed it out half-finished, then stood up and walked to the Trophy Wall; but he paid no attention to the weapons there, no attention even when he brushed past the hangman’s rope and set it swinging. “Mr. Rollison,” he said, and his voice seemed to be more noticeably from the Wild West, “I guess it’s time I told you more about myself and what I’m doing here. I told you that I came from New York to buy Selby Farm, and I’m working on behalf of a wealthy American. Maybe I forgot to say wealthy, but you’d guess that. He wouldn’t have used me unless he expected trouble, and he told me that someone else would try to buy the farm, and use Lodwin and maybe other guys. I was to stop them.” Slowly, Tex shook his head, and his eyes looked dazed. “Two guys have certainly been stopped,” he said. “No wonder you think I killed them.”

“I just think you might have.”

“Thanks. My client told me to be very careful of Lodwin, he was a psycho. From the way Lodwin talked to Miss Selby and tried to buy that farm, I guess my client was right. It was the corniest interview I’ve ever heard. Lodwin just told her she had to sell, and that was that. My client told me that the other guy who wanted to buy the farm would try to get it legally first, but would get it somehow, if he couldn’t buy it. He couldn’t buy, so he kidnapped Selby and then put pressure on Gillian through Lodwin.”

“You think Lodwin and Charlie both worked for the same man—your client’s rival?”

“Yes,” answered Tex.

“Who is this rival?”

“That I don’t know.”

“An American?”

“Could be.”

“An American threatened Mome, and scared him enough to make him warn the people at the Brighton house we were on the way.”

“So they killed Lodwin, knowing we were also going there,” Tex said, heavily.

“If Lodwin and Charlie both worked in different ways for this rival of your client, why should he kill them?” Rollison reasoned.

“You’re asking me,” Tex said. “I don’t know.”

“An American, probably the same one, has also threatened me,” Rollison went on. “I want to meet him. Your client knows who he is, so—who is your client ?”

“I’m going to telephone him tonight,” Tex said, carefully. “I’m going to ask if he will name his rival, and also ask his authority to tell you his own name. If he refuses, then I guess I’ll tell you anyway, but I’d rather handle it this way. I’ll be better off if I do, I’m due to collect another five thousand when I get back to New York, provided I play the game the way my client wants it.”

“That makes sense,” said Rollison. “Why does he want to get Selby Farm?”

“That I don’t know, either.”