John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm

“I think they could get him out if they went to law about it.”

“He’s been tenant of the farm for thirty years, he knew the Selby’s parents well, and when they were young they used to call him Uncle Silas. I mean, when you’ve called a man Uncle Silas, you can’t very well have the law on him, can you ? Even if it were on your side. And is it ? He has a long lease and pays his rent. He simply won’t give up the farm, although he’s too old to run it properly.”

“Why won’t he give it up ?”

“That’s why I want you to buy the place,” said M.M.M. “If you bought it you’d have every right to go down there and investigate. But you’d have to buy it so that you wouldn’t be committing trespass, or anything like that. I mean,” he added, glancing at the Trophy Wall, “I wouldn’t like to encourage you to break the law, old boy. It’s going for a mere song.”

“Sing it.”

“Sixpence.”

“Stop fooling.”

“I’m serious,” asserted M.M.M, “A simple contract to buy, signed over a sixpenny stamp, is all that’s needed. Then you would be entitled to look over the place, and within reason do what you liked. Really all you need is something to wave in the Scarecrow’s face. I know that these days you’re a professional investigator, and if a millionaire wants your services, why shouldn’t he pay you a fortune ? But this is different. Alan Selby plucked me out of that burning crate, but for him I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale. And I know that I have no legal claim on you, but here I shamelessly exert a moral right,” went on M.M.M., his smile now a little strained. “I introduced you to Champagne Charlie, and if you didn’t get a whacking great fee out of him, it’s Jolly’s fault. Best I can offer you is a lunch at Chiro’s and free milk for the rest of your life if you can prise the Scarecrow away from that farm. I assume you are already supplied with free eggs.”

“I’ll have the eggs as well,” murmured Rollison.

Montagu Montmorency Mome’s plump face lit up as if the sun were shining on it, and his blue eyes made him look like a babe in arms.

“You’ll do it?”

“I’ll go and have a look at the place, anyhow.”

“Bless your little nylon socks ! Roily, I don’t mind admitting that’s a great relief, I didn’t think you’d bite. Tell me, did my spiel melt you, or was it my appeal to your stem sense of duty?”

“Neither,” answered Rollison promptly.

“Eh?”

“Neither.”

“Then what?”

“About six months ago, when you were in hospital, I came to see you,” explained Rollison. “Remember? There was some loose talk that you weren’t going to survive, and I wanted a last look into your blue eyes, so I came along. And coming out of the ward as I reached it was “

“Oh, no,” groaned M.M.M. “Gillian Selby in the flesh.”

“In point of fact, she was wearing a most attractive suit which looked as if it had come from Paris.” Rollison poured out more coffee, and went on briskly : “Anyone as beautiful as that has to be helped out of trouble.”

“The difficulty with you is your all-seeing eye,” complained M.M.M., with a touch of bitterness. “You’ll probably go down to Selby Farm, take one look at the Scarecrow, and say he won’t get out because he’s haunted by a sixteenth-century witch who tells him he’ll expire if he ever spends a night outside its four walls. When will you go?”

“Let’s have lunch on the way,”

“Roily,” said Montagu Montmorency Morne, “I don’t know whether you’ve agreed to look at the place because of Gillian’s big eyes, my tin leg, your sense of duty or your sentimental heart, but I’m damned glad you’re going. It’s a peculiar business and the Selbys don’t want to get really rough with Old Smith.”

“Scarecrow Smith?”

“Yes. But there’s some odd business going on down there, that’s certain. Incidentally, the Selbys live at the cottage which they’d turn over to Smith if he’d leave the farmhouse. He has it on an old lease from Gillian Selby’s father. They’re only half-brother, half-sister, same father. Also as background, Gillian’s parents died when Gillian was very young. Alan’s a kind of brother-cum-father. Mind if I give them a tinkle, and say we’ll be there about three o’clock?”

“Go ahead,” said Rollison.

“Thanks.” M.M.M. rose, with that practised nimbleness, and went to the desk and picked up the telephone. It was a large desk, of panelled walnut, and just now very little was on it. Rollison went out of the room as M.M.M. was giving the number, and found Jolly coming from the kitchen,

“It’s a nice afternoon, so I’m going for a drive,” announced Rollison. “Why don’t you go and disport yourself in Hyde Park or the Tower?” As he spoke he raised a warning finger, and then lifted an extension telephone which was just outside the kitchen door. “I’d like to make sure he doesn’t pull a fast one.”

Jolly gave a discreet little smile, and watched him.

Rollison heard the ringing sound, and M.M.M. cough; then he heard the ringing sound stop, and a girl say in an unexpectedly breathless voice :

“Alan, is that you?”

“Someone far, far better than your brother Alan,” said M.M.M. “This is Masterful Master Montagu Mont “

“Monty, don’t fool,” said the girl, still rather breathless; yet she had a most attractive voice. “Alan’s missing.”

“Alan’s what?”

“Missing. I haven’t seen him since last night. He was up when I got up this morning, I didn’t see him go out of the cottage. I thought he’d be back for breakfast, but there’s no sign of him, and now it’s half-past eleven. I can’t believe that he’d go off without a word, something’s happened to him. What do you think I ought to do ?”

2

TWO CLIENTS

As she spoke into the telephone, Gillian Selby was looking out of the window. She could see the narrow road which served the cottage, the farm and two other nearby houses, and in the distance the telegraph poles which marked the main road. It was May, that morning there had been rain, and the leaves of trees and hedgerow, bushes and flowers, were green jewels in the bright sun. She could see a wide expanse of garden and meadow, and in the distance, the roof of Selby Farm; the house itself was hidden by a copse of beech. She longed to see Alan come striding along, but no-one came walking; although a car turned into the road.

She watched it coming, bright green yet very different in colour from the leaves.

Monty had said : “Hold on a minute,” and she knew that he was talking to someone else, for she could hear a murmur of voices. The car was coming nearer. An aeroplane shone like a silver speck and left a white trail behind it.

“Hallo, Gillian, you there?”

“Of course I’m here.”

“Well, don’t go haring off looking for Alan,” said Monty, in the authoritative voice which he could adopt at times, always surprising her. “I’m coming down straight away. Be there soon after one. Hungry.”

“You may have to make do with a sandwich.”

“You pop something into the oven,” insisted Monty. “You don’t realise it yet, but you’ll be entertaining the next best thing to royalty.”

The green car was so near now that Gillian could make out the face of the young man at the wheel, and could see that the car was an M.G. saloon. Some fowls fluttered near the trees which hid the farmhouse, suggesting that Old Smith was out of doors; he always managed to scare them.

“Monty, don’t you bring any guests today, the whole place is upside down,”

“Be seeing you,” said Monty. “Be sure you don’t run away, good—oh, hold on a minute.” His voice faded, but he soon spoke clearly again, “Try to think of anywhere Alan might have gone, and telephone round to find out if anyone’s seen him.”

“Monty, you mustn’t “

“Toodle-00,” said Monty Mome, and rang off.

He was infuriating, but that was nothing unusual; Gillian seemed to have spent her life alternatively hating the sight of him, and thinking he was one of the better things of this world. Now, she forgot him. A second car had appeared on the narrow road, travelling much faster than the first. The second one was larger, and black. The green one turned out of sight of the window, and in a moment would come to a standstill. She was sure that she didn’t know the man. She watched the second car with greater anxiety, because it might be the police, and she was seriously worried in case Alan had met with an accident: that seemed the obvious explanation, and it scared her. She heard the door of the green car slam, and heard the engine of the second car roar. A young man came in sight at the window, first glancing in, and then turning and looking round, as if very interested in the people behind him.

Gillian poked her fingers in her hair, took off her plastic apron and hurried with it towards the kitchen, but only just reached the doorway when the telephone bell rang again. “Damn!” she exclaimed, and screwed the apron up, flung it into a chair and missed, slammed the door on it, and hurried back to the table where she had been talking to Momty. She was a little flushed, and had no idea how attractive that made her. In fact, she did not know the magic there was in her movements and in her eyes; the kind of magic which could work a spell on young men. It appeared to be doing so on the young man from the green car, who was standing at the window and staring at her without the slightest attempt to conceal his presence or his interest. He looked startled, and his lips were parted. All she really noticed was that he had red hair, which caught a shaft of sunlight and seemed the brightest thing in sight.

She snatched up the receiver. “Hallo!” Instead of a reply, she heard the sound of a button being pressed and pennies dropping. The coppery-haired young man no longer goggled, for the black car drew up. Everything happened at once, that idiot Monty was bringing a guest, and she simply couldn’t understand what had happened to Alan.

“. . nk,” went the last coin, and a man said : “Hallo?”

“This is Selby Cottage, please “

“Is that Miss Selby?”

“Yes, will you please hurry, someone’s at the door.”

“Miss Selby,” the man said, “I’m coming to see you in about an hour’s time. I’ll have a message from your brother. Don’t tell anyone that he is missing until I’ve seen you, or he might get hurt.”

It was the last phrase which caught her unawares. One moment she had felt a surge of relief at the promise of a message from Alan; then the warning had followed without meaning very much, until the man said in a clear, clipped voice: “Or he might get hurt.”

It was the voice of a man who seemed to mean exactly what he said.

“What do you mean?” she made herself ask quickly. “Who are you ? Where’s Alan ?”

“I’ll see you in about an hour,” the man repeated, and the line went dead.

Gillian stood with the receiver in her hand, staring at the earpiece as if it were to blame. The coppery-haired young man was out of sight now, but another, shorter, older, darker clad, was passing the window, a determined looking “I-am-important-mind-out-of-my-way” kind of individual. Then there came a sharp knock at the front door.

Gillian replaced the receiver slowly, but didn’t move. She could hear the telephoned words as clearly as if they were being repeated, and they seemed to get inside her, making her feel cold. She shivered, a swift, sharp spasm, then made herself move towards the front door. This opened straight onto the porch and the garden, there was no hall to the cottage. Another door led to a small front room and the stairs to the two bedrooms and the bathroom.