John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm

Littleton tried to meet his eyes, but couldn’t.

“You said you’d come clean, remember?” Rollison reminded him, in a harder voice. “But make it really clean. Who else was on his list ?”

In a hoarse voice, Littleton said: “The Selbys, if they wouldn’t play. He fixed the kidnapping of Alan Selby, they’re all ready to sell now—I fixed that myself. If I were you, I’d look after the Selbys before I did anything else.”

Rollison went to the apple storage room, opened the secret door, and crept inside. He switched on his torch, then closed the door behind him. He went along, crouching until he saw the haze of daylight, and stood beneath the opening, listening.

He heard the ordinary sounds of the wooded land; birds calling, small animals rustling, and also heard the drone of an aeroplane. He pushed the cover aside, very cautiously, and looked out. The police might have stationed a man inside this copse of trees, making it as dangerous a place as there could be.

He saw no-one.

He hoisted himself up and on to the ground, pushed back the camouflaged cover, looked round to make sure that he could find the spot again, and slashed a sapling which stood close to some brambles, not far from a fallen birch tree, victim of a storm. The sun was bright against the leaves above him, and he could get his direction from that. Still moving very cautiously, he went towards the cottage. Soon, he was close to the edge of the trees, and here was the moment of greatest danger.

He could see the cottage, the back garden, the smoke— and a man on the roof of the cottage, squatting by the chimney stack, with a pair of binoculars at his eyes. He was watching the farmhouse, and the last place he would look for marauders would be in the copse. But he might glance down. Rollison moved round a little, so that the chimney stack hid him from the watching policeman, and studied the nearby fields and hedges, wondering where other policemen were.

He saw none.

He was fifty yards from the cottage, but as he stepped out of the cover of the trees, he felt as if a thousand eyes were watching him. There was grass land right up to the edge of the drive, so he made no sound.

It was easier than he had realised to get to and from the cottage.

Should he go and see Gillian ?

The thought was hardly in his mind when he saw her coming this way.

21

THE COTTAGE AGAIN

The small kitchen of the cottage was spick-and-span. There was an appetising smell of stewing meat, and a large saucepan was on the big oil stove, steam rising from it, and a slight bubbling sound audible all the time.

M.M.M. was standing by the window and looking out, his whole attitude apparently one of utter dejection. Alan Selby was sitting on the arm of a chair, smoking, staring at M.M.M.’s back. Alan looked much more rested, as if he had slept well, and as if there was an easing of the load on his mind. Gillian thrust open the door which led from the foot of the stairs, and entered the big room.

She stopped.

“Monty, it’s no use standing there and moping,” she said with asperity. “We’ve got to wait until six o’clock and pray that Old Smith will change his mind. Until then, there isn’t a thing we can do.”

M.M.M. looked at her morosely.

“I think it’s just a stall,” he growled. “He’ll never get out, and until he does there’s this danger hanging over us. Gillian, why don’t you do what I advised ? Sell to the first one who makes an offer, and let him deal with Old Smith. That way you’ll be out of danger, the danger’s only here because you own the damned house.”

Alan Selby stood up briskly.

“I think you’re wrong. I think the old idiot realises that he’s got to give way at last, but he won’t do it easily. When he’s agreed to go, I can finish this deal with the man Littleton.”

“You seem to think that because these swine make you promises, they’ll keep them,” M.M.M. said acidly. “Well, I don’t think anyone will keep promises. I think you’ve got to sell out—and I’ve told you I think you ought to sell to Old Smith.”

“You’re just being silly,” Gillian said. “Old Smith couldn’t find enough money to buy the cottage, never mind the farmhouse.”

“He could get a mortgage, you’d get your money, and then the swine want the farmhouse would be forced to deal with him,” said M.M.M. “It’s so obvious it sticks out a mile. You ought to go over again and ask him if he will buy it from you. And he may not be so near the poorhouse as you think, some of these old peasant types have been putting money away for most of their lives. The least you can do is try it. If he owns the place, then Littleton and Brandt will have to deal with him, and you two will be in the clear.”

“If we can get Smith out, and sell ourselves, we’ll get a much better price,” said Alan, still quite briskly. “I think we ought to hold out for as long as we can. Now I’ve had a chance to look at the whole situation clearly, I’m sure that’s the right thing to do. The police will make sure that we don’t run into any more danger. I didn’t realise that until I had a talk with the policeman Grice. I wish to heaven I’d talked to the police before, instead of being so scared.”

“You didn’t tell the police because they threatened me,” said Gillian quietly. “It’s no use blaming yourself, Alan. And I’m sure Alan’s right, Monty. We’ve been through a great deal, and it seems absurd to lose a small fortune because we can’t hold out for another few hours.”

“Gillian,” M.M.M. said in a strangled voice, “I’m asking you for the last time to go and see Smith and offer to sell him the house, as you’ve positively got to get rid of it. That way, he’ll be in trouble, and you won’t. Before you say no again, remember that we’ve been lucky so far—but two people have been killed. Or had you forgotten that? There have been two murders, and there might easily be more. It’s red-hot. And you may not believe it, but I don’t want you to die. In case you’ve forgotten another thing, I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time. I know you’ve never cared a hoot for me. After I lost my leg you softened a bit, and felt almost sorry enough for me to marry me, but thank God I didn’t let myself take advantage of that. Now, I’m telling you that I’m as desperately in love with you as ever—and I don’t want you to run another risk. Go and see Smith. Offer to sell him the house. There’s no other safe thing to do.”

Alan, behind him, was shaking his head at his sister.

Gillian did not appear to notice that. Her expression was very much softer, and there was a glow in her eyes such as Rollison had seen, quite unexpectedly, when she had talked to Tex Brandt.

“All right, Monty, I’ll go over and see him right away.”

“If you sell for less than fifteen thousand pounds, you’ll be crazy!” Alan burst out, but that seemed unimportant: the important and the peculiar thing, in view of what he knew, was the smile on M.M.M.’s face. It was almost radiant. He could hardly have looked more delighted if Gillian had promised to marry him.

Rollison turned and went back the way he had come.

He was five minutes getting to the farmhouse, and had been there for five minutes when he heard the knock at the front door. He shuffled to the window and looked out as best he could; Gillian seemed to be alone. She was hatless in a linen dress with three-quarter length sleeves, and the dress was as green as the leaves of a tree in spring. He couldn’t see her well, but there was youth and beauty in her, and he already knew of her great compassion.

He knew what had happened between her and the Texan, too; whichever way this went, she would get hurt.

He unfastened the chain.

“Who is it?”

“I’m sorry to worry you again, Mr. Smith,” she said, in a more confident voice than she had used before, “but I’ve another suggestion to make, and I think you might like it. May I come in?”

Rollison opened the door wider, standing to one side. She stepped forward, and then realised that it wasn’t Smith. She stopped, but his hand fell on to her wrist and he drew her in swiftly, closed the door, and then let her go. Fright and surprise put colour to her cheeks and brightness into her eyes, in spite of the dullness of the room.

Then she recognised Rollison.

“What on earth are you doing here? Why are you wearing Smith’s clothes?” She was breathless and bewildered.

“I thought I’d keep them aired for him,” said Rollison lightly, and gripped her arm again and smiled, as reassuring a smile as a man could give. “Don’t get worked up, Gillian, we’ve things to talk about.”

“But when did you get here? Was it you I talked to earlier this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Then where is Smith? I’ve got to see him, I’ve got to talk to him !”

“You just have to take it easily for a few hours,” Rollison soothed, “and you’ve got to get used to some unpleasant facts. Remember the tall Texan man, William Brandt ?”

She looked at him warily.

“Of course I do.”

“Have you seen the newspapers?”

“No.”

“He is wanted for the two murders. He is also wanted for murder and other crimes in the United States. He is what we call a very bad man, Gillian.”

Her eyes began to storm.

“I don’t believe you.”

“There’s just one slim chance that I’m wrong and the police are also wrong,” said Rollison. “If I’m right, then Tex fooled me completely, I’ve never met a man who seemed so sane and soundly honest. I’ll ask Jolly to try to get a photograph of Tex Brandt radioed from the United States, so that we can be sure,” Rollison went on. “Meanwhile, we may have misjudged someone else. Did you know that every move you’ve made, for weeks, has been watched and reported to this William Brandt and those who work for him ? In short, that you’ve been spied on.”

“That’s impossible,” Gillian declared. “Alan and I have been living down at the cottage most of the time. We’ve had hardly any visitors, except Monty.”

“That’s right,” said Rollison.

“What on earth are you saying now ?”

“That you’ve been spied on and your movements reported, that Alan’s been watched, threatened by letter and telephone, both at the cottage and in London. Isn’t that true?”

Gillian would never know just how beautiful she looked in this half light: or how young and unsure of herself.

“Yes, everywhere he’s been he’s received threats, he told me so this morning but “ she hesitated, while he stood waiting for the obvious to dawn on her. She went on abruptly : “If you’re suggesting Monty, it’s ludicrous.”

“Who else could it be?”

“It couldn’t be Monty! Why he’s my closest friend, Alan’s too. He “

“He’s been desperately in love with you, and you’ve kept saying no,” Rollison reminded her, “and thwarted love can do queer things to human beings.”

“I simply cannot believe it,” Gillian insisted, and her honesty and her loyalty glowed, “You must be wrong.” Then she changed the subject, and swung into the attack. “It’s all very well standing there in Smith’s clothes and throwing these accusations about, but what about you yourself ? What do you think you’re doing? Where is Smith?”

“He’s resting.”

“I’m in no mood for joking !”

“Gillian,” said Rollison, very quietly, “I’ve never been less like joking, either. Come with me.” He took her arm, and she went with him without protesting, but freed her arm as soon as they were in the kitchen. At first she didn’t see the heap of dirt and the hole in the corner, and when he moved, to let her see it, she exclaimed: