John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm

• Название: The Toff on The Farm
• Автор: John Creasey
• Жанр: Прочая старинная литература

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“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.

The knock came again.

Gillian said, in a strained voice : “What on earth was he talking about? Why should Alan get hurt?” She neared the door as the caller knocked again, and suddenly she exploded: “All right, I’m coming!” She had completely forgotten Monty and the promised visitor, and could not get the threat out of her mind.

Then she opened the door.

The young man with coppery hair was smiling at her, as charming a smile as she had ever seen. The important looking man was not smiling, he was staring haughtily, and he managed to get his word in first.

“Are you the owner of Selby Farm ?”

She didn’t want to talk about the farm, she didn’t want to think about anything but Alan. She looked at the young man blankly, knowing that she was behaving oddly, and heard the other add :

“Are you Miss Selby?”

“Yes.”

“In that case “

“I’d like to buy your farm,” declared the coppery-headed young man, in a voice unexpected in its deep American drawl. “I’m sure you’ll agree that first come should be first served.”

“Miss Selby, my name is Lodwin,” said the other man. “I am authorised on behalf of my principals to offer you the sum of ten thousand pounds for that property and ménage known as Selby Farm, subject to immediate contract, surveyor’s approval, freehold purchase and vacant possession.”

“I want to buy it for myself,” drawled the young man, smiling, “but I couldn’t find ten thousand. Not cash, anyhow. I’d gladly fix a mortgage.”

“My principal would make settlement against exchange of contract,” declared the dark, self-important man. He was pink of face and grey of hair, he had a small mouth and was a little too fat. His suit was dark grey, and he wore a bowler.

“You’re going to have to make quite a decision,” said the young man. “Miss Selby, my name is “

“I’m sorry,” Gillian interrupted, “but the farm isn’t for sale at the moment.” As soon as she said it, she reahsed how foolish ‘at the moment’ sounded, but that didn’t matter; all she wanted to do was to get these men away from here, and give herself time to think.

Because Alan might get hurt.

“But there was an advertisement in the Westchester Times only two weeks ago, and Messrs. Dalton, Smeed and Dalton informed me only this morning that the farm was open to offer,” Lodwin protested.

“We forgot to tell them we’d withdrawn it,” Gillian said, and then realised that she had a headache, and that she did not quite know what she was doing or saying. Another phrase was beginning to jostle with the one which had hit so hard. “. . . . the sum of ten thousand pounds” That was at least twice as much as she and Alan had hoped to get, and the significance of that was only now beginning to dawn on her. “How——” she began.

“You can’t possibly have a house for sale one moment and not for sale the next,” the man said sharply. “Will you kindly “

“Pardon me, sir,” interrupted the coppery-haired young man with a beaming smile : his accent sounded rather overdone. “Didn’t you hear what the young lady said? The farm is not for sale, not even for ten thousand pounds cash against the exchange of contracts.”

“I don’t believe it,” snapped the man in grey.

“. . . he might get hurt . . . the sum of ten thousand pounds . . . he might . . . ten thousand.” It was ludicrous, but Gillian’s head was swimming, and her knees felt weak. She knew that she was losing colour, and stretched out a hand for support which wasn’t there. The young man seized her wrist and then moved forward and put an arm round her waist.

“Say, what’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know,” Gillian answered with unexpected clarity, and knew that she would probably have fallen but for his support. “I’ve a bad headache, I think.”

“You’ve certainly got a bad something,” he declared, and moved his other arm suddenly. Before she realised what was happening, he had lifted her clear off her feet and was carrying her into the front room, to the large couch which stood with its back to the window. He seemed to find her no weight at all, and when he lowered her to the couch he did so with great gentleness. “You stay right there,” he ordered, “I’ll get some water.” He seemed to ignore the self-important man, who was gaping from the doorway, and strode straight to the kitchen door and thrust it open. She saw him through a kind of mist. His coppery hair seemed as if it was reflecting shining rays to every comer of the room, picking out the brasses, the copper utensils of an earlier age, the old china, everything. She closed her eyes, heard a rustle of movement, and suddenly felt something cold and clammy on her arm, which made her start and gasp.

By her side, touching her, was the man in the grey suit, and his fingers were as cold as the fins of a fish just out of Arctic water.

“In confidence, I am prepared to raise the offer to twelve thousand pounds,” he hissed into her ear.

The young man was splashing water in the kitchen sink. Gillian could hear but not see him. The other was bending over her, and she could feel his breath warm upon her cheek. He whispered again. The sum of ten thousand pounds, the sum of twelve thousand pounds, or he might get hurt. It was a kind of nightmare. The cold fingers were stabbing at her, and seemed to threaten death, the hot breath was moist upon her, and the words razor sharp in her mind. ‘‘Twelve thousand, twelve thousand, twelve thousand pounds”

It was a fortune.

Then she heard footsteps, looked round, and saw the coppery-haired young American striding towards her, carrying a cup of water. As he drew close, glaring at the smaller man, he kicked against the edge of the carpet. She would never know whether that was by accident or design. Whatever the truth of that, water shot from the cup into the self-important man’s face, and cascaded down his chin.

3

READY TO KILL

The spout of water smothering Lodwin’s face did Gillian as much good as if she had swallowed it. She started up on the couch, forgetting weakness, dizziness and confusion. She saw the coppery-haired man pull himself to a standstill as the water dripped off his victim’s chin.

Then, the dark-clad man seem to explode.

He hurled himself at the American, fists clenched and striking out. As suddenly the younger man lowered his hands, as if to protect himself, then began to back away, apparently bewildered by the rain of blows. He was a head taller and looked much more powerful than Lodwin, but in the first few seconds of that hurricane attack it looked as if he was going to be battered to his knees. There was a strained look on his face and in his eyes, too, and Gillian could sense his desperation.

“Stop!” she cried, and scrambled off the couch. “Stop it! stop it!” She swayed on her feet, but managed to stagger forward. By then Lodwin had the coppery-haired young man with his back against the wall. ‘‘Stop it!’’ she screamed.