John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm

“Mr. Smith, please open the door. I want to talk to you.”

Rollison said in a harsh, sour voice : “Well, he can’t.”

“Please open the door,” said Gillian, with a pleading note in her tone. “I’ve got to talk to you.”

“I’ve told you I’ll never step outside this house while I’m alive, when I’m dead he can carry me out,” Rollison said, mumbling, and hoping that it sounded like Old Smith talking ; certainly the girl seemed to suspect nothing amiss.

“You’ve got to be reasonable,” she said, and it was even more obvious that desperation and fear had driven her here. “My brother’s in grave danger, and “

“It’s naught to do with me.”

“Mr. Smith, please listen to me !”

“I’ve listened to the nonsense from you and your good-for-nothing brother for too long already, why don’t you go and talk to someone who wants to hear from you.”

“You’re going to open that door and you’re going to listen to me,” Gillian cried, and Rollison had never heard her more shrill, was glad that anger had broken through, “Don’t stand there behaving as if you were a lunatic. Alan’s in deadly danger, and you’ve got to help him. Get that into your head.”

A murmur from outside sounded like M.M.M. saying: “That’s better,”

Rollison had to slam the door and refuse to talk any more, or else make some kind of a gesture. He wanted to know what Gillian had to say, and there seemed only one way of finding out.

He mumbled : “Say what you have to say, I’ll listen to you,” but he didn’t open the door, and leaned back against a chair so that Gillian couldn’t possibly see him. He wondered what she felt like, standing so close to the door and yet shut out: and what M.M.M. was doing : and whether the police were within earshot.

He could hear the girl’s heavy breathing, as if she was trying to regain her temper.

“Please listen very carefully,” she said, at last. “My brother has been threatened with murder—do you understand, murder—unless I sell this farm with vacant possession. You must leave here, Mr. Smith. We will pay you anything you ask, we will even buy you another farmhouse if you want it, but you must leave here.”

“I will, when I’m dead,” Rollison said harshly. “Don’t come whining to me with a lot of lies.”

“But they’re not lies! Alan told me this last night. Mr. Morne and I left him in a drugged sleep, hiding—hiding from his enemies.” How true was that? “Mr. Smith, I’ve come to beg you to do what I ask. I’ll give you everything I possess, if only you’ll leave the farm.” Rollison didn’t answer.

M.M.M. said roughly : “It’s no use banging your head against a brick wall. If I could get in there I’d knock some sense into him.”

The girl was almost in tears.

“Mr. Smith, you mustn’t stand out any longer. I can’t do more than I have.”

“Come back again tomorrow morning,” Rollison said abruptly, and tried to sound like Smith at his harshest. “I’ll think about it.”

He heard the girl draw in a sharp breath. “But we can’t wait until morning!” M.M.M. protested angrily,

“Mr. Smith,” said Gillian, and there was a new note in her voice, as of hope replacing despair, “will you let me come and talk to you this evening? I’m so worried for Alan, and I daren’t leave it any longer.”

“A’right,” Rollison conceded. “I’ll expect you at six o’clock.”

She said: “Thank you,” in a way which was oddly touching, and then there was a pause before the sound of footsteps suggested that she was walking away. Rollison went closer to the door. She was moving towards the car, and M.M.M. had his arm round her, but not very tightly. It was easy to believe that Gillian was crying. It was as easy to believe that she felt sure that her brother’s life depended on getting the farm house empty, so that she could sell it. Whatever the police had said, whatever offers she had had of larger sums of money, and in spite of his, the Toff’s, advice, Gillian Selby would sell the farm in order to help her brother.

Did it make sense ?

Who would buy it ? Who dare buy it, in view of what had happened? The police would be after a purchaser like a flash, and even if he was a cover for the principal, they would soon get to the real man.

Wouldn’t they?

Rollison heard the car move off, with M.M.M. driving, and a moment afterwards saw two plain-clothes men step from a corner of the farmhouse; so the police had heard every word. One of them hurried across towards the cottage, which was cut off by the trees, as if to take his report to the policeman in charge.

The other went off on his patrolling again.

Rollison knew a little more. Alan Selby was still free, and it looked as if he would remain free for a while, to give his sister a chance to sell the property. Whoever had released him had taken a big chance—or else they had known their man, and were sure that Selby wouldn’t fight.

Why wouldn’t he ?

Was he just a craven, or had someone been working on his nerves for a long time ?

Rollison walked briskly to the kitchen and then into a big larder-like cupboard where he had seen a good set of carpenter’s tools. He selected a screw-driver, a saw, a claw hammer, a brace and bit and some oil, and went back to the big front room. This time he really meant to search it so that there could be no possibility of a mistake.

But within half an hour, he felt sure that there was nothing buried under this floor.

He went moodily into the kitchen, sat in the old man’s chair, ht a cigarette, and studied the floor there. He had seldom felt so nearly despondent, seldom been without a real clue. Usually he could guess at the truth, even if he couldn’t prove it. Now his own mind as well as the circumstances seemed to be going round in circles.

He noticed the flagstoned floor was very uneven, especially in one corner. He looked at the wall, and saw that there was a pale patch in the plaster. He stared at this for some minutes, then stood up and went closer. About a dozen flagstones were raised higher than the others, and he scrutinized the little gaps where they were fitted together. These had been cemented in much more recently than most of those in the rest of the room. Rollison began to feel a glow of excitement, but before he did anything to the stones, he went to each window and looked out.

The plain-clothes policeman was standing and talking to a uniformed constable by the farmyard itself, and two white leghorns were pecking close to their feet. No one else was in sight. Rollison chose the longest and strongest screw-driver in the tool drawer, and then went to the raised flagstones. He dropped a cushion on the floor, because the cold stone was hard on his knees. He scraped at the cement pointing, but quickly realised that he would get no result that way: it didn’t crumble at all.

He used the screw-driver as a cold chisel, and hammered the handle. He chipped a little away, but knew that he couldn’t do that for too long, because it would be heard outside. He spent five minutes at it, and had about half an inch clear of cement. Once he was able to get some leverage, he might get a stone up without too much difficulty.

He was sweating.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and then stood up, to ease his legs; and as he did so, he saw a shadow move in the doorway between here and the larders and pantries.

Pretending to notice nothing, he took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead more thoroughly. Then he stepped to the window, as if for a rest. He heard no sound except the crowing and cawing, the grunting and the movements of the farmyard. A pig appeared on the overgrown lawn at the back, as if it owned the place. Rollison stared at the glass of a picture near the window, watching the doorway.

A man appeared.

He was standing quite still. Rollison could not see what he looked like, could not even be sure that he was a big man, for the glass distorted. But he was there. He was moving, creeping forward. Creeping. Rollison could see as well as sense the stealthy approach, and he stood there very tense.

What did the man have in his mind ?

That wasn’t the only question, although it was the most urgent. How had he got there ? A policeman wouldn’t have allowed him to pass. In any case, back and front doors were locked and the windows were closed, too.

What did he have in his hand?

It looked like a piece of rope.

Why rope ?

How had he come in ?

And remember—he was coming stealthily upon the man he believed to be Old Smith, he couldn’t suspect that it was anyone else.

Could he?

He was half way across the room, and now Rollison knew that it was thick string in his hand; at closer quarters, the window glass did not distort so much. The man was still fearful of making a sound, and moved with remarkable silence. He was biggish, youngish, plumpish.

He held the string stretched between his hands, thrust out in a way which now made his purpose quite unmistakable. He was coming to twist that rope round ‘Smith’s’ neck, and probably to pull it tight until the life was choked out of the old man.

Why?

How had he got in ?

He was raising his hands, and it was obvious that he was coming in a moment. One leap, one twist, and he would expect an easy victim.

Rollison tensed himself, and then swung round.

He didn’t know the man, and had never seen him before. He saw the hard face take on a look of unbelief, saw the big mouth gape open. The man leaped forward in a desperate effort, but something checked him, and he didn’t finish his attempt. In the split second before Rollison hit him, he looked as if he was seeing a ghost.

Rollison’s fist caught him beneath the chin, and actually jolted him off his feet and sent him falling backwards. He struck the back of his head against the stone floor, and the dull thud told its own tale. He sagged, his head lolled to one side, and there was no pretence; he was unconscious.

But . . .

How had he got in?

19

WAY IN

ROLLISON Stepped over the unconscious man, to the door, and then into the passage which served the larders and the pantries. He felt a draught which he hadn’t noticed before. The obvious explanation was a forced window, of course, although all the windows here were small, and the man biggish, if not actually hefty. Then Rollison stopped short.

The door of a fruit storage room was open, and he could smell the sharp, almost cidery smell of last year’s apples; he had already seen some wrinkled and brown, on the shelves. He didn’t see so many, now. Part of the shelving and part of the wall had swung open, so that there was a hidden doorway. It hinged at a comer, and it wasn’t surprising that he had not found it.

Beyond, was darkness.

Rollison went back, made sure that the man was still unconscious, then came back. He stared down into a hole large enough even for a big man, and to three or four steps which looked as if they were made of cement. A fresh breeze was coming up the steps, nothing was dank and smelly. He went back again, found the string which the man had held out ready to strangle him, cut it in two, and bound the wrists and ankles. Now he had a little time to spare. He felt the choking excitement which often came with a discovery as he crouched down and entered the little staircase.

He shone his pencil torch.

There were cobwebs, and the walls were rather damp, but that was all. He had to bend his head very low so as to get along. Then the torch light fell on a wall in front of him, and revealed a comer. He turned this, and saw daylight coming from a hole about head height. He reached the hole and, moving with great care, hauled himself up so that he could see about him.