John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm

By now, M.M.M. was smiling.

“Three minutes seventeen seconds,” he commented. “You’re the only man I know faster than I used to drive.”

“When you’ve learned to use your piece of automation, you’ll be passing me in the first lap,” Rollison said. He was already out of the car. “I’m going to grab half a pint and a pork pie, but you’d better have a leisurely lunch, and make it look as if you’re staying.” He glanced at three other cars in the drive-in, and added thoughtfully : “Incidentally, the telephone chap might own one of these. If anyone leaves within a few minutes of us going inside, that may be the man we’re after,”

“Could be,” conceded M.M.M. “I’m glad I brought you, after all.”

He grinned.

They went in. The saloon bar was low-ceilinged and old fashioned, with uneven wooden flooring covered with sawdust, oak beams, brasses round the walls. The bar itself was higher than most, and a man and a woman stood behind it. Two men, obviously local, were standing at one end, one man by himself stood at the other, eating a pork pie and drinking from a pewter tankard.

He looked a city type, with his immaculate suit and his snow-white shirt and neat grey tie. He took no outward notice of the newcomers, and Rollison did no more than glance at him as he led the way to the bar. It wasn’t surprising that the woman, youngish and buxom and with a pleasant face, greeted Montagu Montmorency Mome with a delighted smile and a warm handshake.

“Why, Mr. Mome, we haven’t seen you for months, not since that awful accident you had, we were ever so sorry to hear about it, weren’t we, Bert ?”

Bert, who was twice her age, agreed with : “Ah.”

“And I said from the beginning, nothing was going to keep you on your back for long, didn’t I, Bert ?”

“Ah,” said Bert.

“And when I heard you’d lost a leg I said you’d learn to use a n’artificial one quicker than most people learned with real ones after a long illness. Didn’t I, Bert?”

“What’s it to be?” asked Bert, who looked as if he had grown from seed in one of the nearby fields, his face was so darkly weathered and his hair so much like wind-withered com.

“Two pints of your 3 XXX,” said M.M.M., “and how’s lunch today? Got any steak and kidney pudding?”

“No luck, duck,” said Mildred. “Steak pie do?”

“Next best thing. Does the cooking herself, Mildred does,” M.M.M. confided, and then nudged Rollison, for the city type at the other end of the bar was gulping at the remains of his pie, and showing obvious signs of haste. He washed the pie down with a long draught of beer, then turned towards the door.

“Good-day, sir,” said Mildred.

He nodded.

“ ‘Day,” conceded Bert.

The city type hardly nodded goodbye, but went outside. M.M.M.’s elbow became as a thorn in Rollison’s flesh, but Rollison sipped his beer as if testing its quality, and looked back into Mildred’s bold blue eyes. Mildred in her brash, bright way was quite a piece of homework.

Outside, a car started up.

Rollison snapped his fingers, and looked ludicrously dismayed.

“Monty, I’m half-witted,” he declared. “I left my wallet back at the cottage. Remember I took it out for that card? I put it down while I scribbled, and “

“It’ll be there for a hundred years,” Mildred said. “You needn’t worry.”

“Sorry,” said Rollison, “I couldn’t enjoy your steak pie if I had that on my mind. I’d better have a snack, and nip back. Almost as quick across the fields, isn’t it?” he asked, and then picked up a pork pie and bit into it. It was so luscious that the jelly spilled out, and he dodged back, to keep it off his tie. “Mmmmmmm,” he said, and finished his beer. “Now I know why you said this was the place for food, Monty. I’m coming back. Can you manage to drive the car.’’

“I will not be insulted,” said M.M.M. with dignity.

Rollison went out by a door and a passage leading to the yard. He could see the trees which ringed Selby Farm, but neither the cottage nor the buildings from here. He hurried across the inn yard, climbed a fence, and went as fast as hillcocks and mole-hills would allow him, casting a glance towards the road as he did so. He saw a car making its way, reflecting the sun brightly, and was not surprised when it turned off towards the farm.

“There’s the city type,” he mused, and slackened pace a little, for it was warm and he was perspiring, and it would not help if he twisted his ankle. In his simple way, he was happy this morning. Here was mystery not marred by tragedy, a pretty girl in need of help, and Montagu Montmorency Morne, who probably did not know it but needed a course of therapeutic treatment, for he had not really conditioned himself to the fact that he had lost a leg. M.M.M. was far from his usual sunny self; he had to fight for his self control and his high spirits.

“This might see him through,” Rollison mused. Slowing down, for him, he made speed which surprised a man and a boy who were spreading muck over a meadow. He vaulted a five-barred gate, and was then near enough to the cottage to hear the engine of the car; and to notice the moment when it stopped. He was perhaps half a mile away, and he could not see the car. Now, he ran along the side of the field, which was fairly firm and much flatter than the one behind him, until he reached a spot where he could see beyond the trees to the cottage, the farmhouse, the city type’s black Humber car and the city type himself. He was at the front door, which was not yet open. Rollison took cover behind the trees again, was aware that the man and boy were watching him, but did not pay them the same compliment.

Next time he looked, the door was closed again, and the man was out of sight.

Unlike the man who called himself Lodwin, the city type had not turned the car round for an immediate getaway, and Rollison gave a contented smile when he noticed this. He went to the back of the cottage, to approach through the kitchen, the way that Lodwin had disappeared. He stepped over a low beech hedge which divided the garden from a meadow, and reached the back door in a matter of seconds.

It was not locked.

He stepped inside, making no sound.

He heard Gillian say in an angry voice: “If you don’t let him come home at once, I’ll send for the police.”

“That wouldn’t do you or Alan any good,” said the city type; and he sounded more like a city slicker. There was an overtone of Oxford and an undertone of Cockney in his voice, and that exasperating air of absolute confidence which had ended many a friendship. “You’ve got to be reasonable, my dear, you don’t know how much trouble your brother’s in.”

Gillian didn’t answer.

“You see,” went on the city slicker, “all you have to do is listen to Charlie, and everything will work out all right. You are the legal owner of Selby Farm, and only you can sell it. The market price is four thousand five hundred, and here is an agreement to buy for five thousand. I can’t say fairer than that. Why, it’s a positive bargain.”

Paper rustled.

“Nothing in this world would make me sign that,” said Gillian, tensely.

There was a kind of mocking laughter in the voice of the man who called himself Charlie.

“Come again,” he said. “If you’re obstinate, I’ll reduce the offer by five hundred pounds. Charlie knows how to handle a job like this.”

“I’ve been offered fifteen thousand pounds this mom-ing!”

“I daresay you have, but I’m offering you five thousand plus your precious brother.”

“You’d never dare to hurt him.”

“Wouldn’t I?” asked the man called Charlie, and a different, dangerous note sounded in his voice. “Don’t make any mistake, Gillian my pet. Your Alan would get hurt, and so would you if it were necessary. Now stop arguing, and sign that contract. Then you only have to sit back for a week or two, until the deeds have changed hands. After that your precious brother will come back as good as ever.”

Rollison was now very near the door. He could hear Gillian’s breathing, and knew that she was very agitated. He peered inside the room, and saw Charlie’s profile. Charlie was a good-looking man in the middle-forties, with a very thin mouth, the lips set tightly at this moment, and his eyes narrowed and commanding. They stood by the table, and a document lay on it.

Charlie thrust a fountain pen into Gillian’s hand. “Sign,” he ordered. Gillian took the pen.

Charlie’s lips relaxed a little, and there was a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. For a moment, he looked almost likeable.

Then Gillian hurtled the pen at the open window, and missed the opening; it cracked against a pane of glass. She snatched up the document and ripped it across, and when Charlie grabbed her wrist, she freed herself and slapped him across the face so heavily that he staggered to one side. She backed swiftly towards the fireplace, and Rollison was overjoyed to see her bend down and pick up a long brass poker. She didn’t spoil it by threatening Charlie, just stood with the poker in her hand, defying him. Rollison could see the man better, now. He no longer looked likeable; he looked devilish. His eyes were narrowed so that all Rollison could see were silvery slits, and his lips were set tightly together, his nostrils were nipped.

“You—little—bitch,” he said, slowly and viciously at the same time. “You and your brother will wish you’d never been born before this is over. Go and pick up the pen.”

“Get out of this house,” ordered Gillian.

“Go and pick up the pen,” Charlie repeated, and put his right hand to his pocket. He drew out another document, and went on: “I brought a duplicate, in case you went all temperamental, but don’t go temperamental on me again. Pick up that pen.”

Rollison was ready to move on the instant, but kept back, hoping that Charlie might give something away while he thought that only the girl was here.

Gillian did not move, and her grip on the poker seemed to tighten. She did not speak, and her gaze was unwavering. Rollison had the impression that she meant to reserve all her strength and all her will-power for a supreme effort when this man tried to get the poker away.

Obviously she was sure that he would try; as obviously she was right.

He took a step forward, putting his right hand in his pocket. He drew out an automatic, and came towards her menacingly. This was the precise moment for Rollison to intervene; Gillian could not last much longer by herself.

Rollison was about to step forward when a man spoke from the front of the house in a rich American accent.

“Hi, there. Having yourself a good time?” he inquired brightly.

6

TEX AND CHARLIE

So much happened so swiftly that any man but the Toff would probably have missed some of it, but he missed nothing at all. There was the Texan at the window, Charlie swivelling round with the automatic, Gillian screaming : ‘‘Mind his gun!” and Charlie, firing. But before his finger squeezed the trigger, Tex had vanished, and the bullet winged into the sunlit air, soon lost to sound.

That was Gillian’s moment of greatness.

She leaped forward and struck at Charlie’s gun. She was far too nervous and missed by a yard, but the attempt gave the Texan time to thrust the door open and come in again; Rollison’s eyes glowed at his speed and efficiency. Charlie had a chance to fire once more, but only wasted his bullet in the floorboards; and next moment he was lying on his back, and his gun was in Tex’s hand.

“No movie heroine could have done that better,” applauded Tex. Rollison saw that he was tall and good-looking, and realised that he spoke with that slow drawl which was only partly assumed; his smile suggested that he was the calmest man in the world. “Did he hurt you, honey?”