John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm

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

---

“So the Boss has beaten you,” he said, and his voice nearly crackled. “He’s got away with it under your noses! Cops ? I’ve trodden on cleverer things than you !”

The Texan’s hand gripped Rollison with frightening force.

“We’ve got to get that container back,” he said. “If it’s in this house, none of us will live for another week.”

Swift, frightening thoughts flashed into Rollison’s mind. Someone had got into the farmhouse by the apple store-cupboard, had crept across, opened the safe and taken the unit out—but he hadn’t gone out by the back or the front door; they had been too closely watched.

There was only one way he could have gone.

He spoke in a clipped voice:

“Bishop, this is a job for one man. I started it. I have to finish it. There’s a tunnel leading from the house to that copse of trees. If you’ll watch the entrance in that storeroom, I’ll go and seal off the other end.”

“You won’t,” Bishop said, tautly. “You’ll tell us where the other end is.”

“There’s no need to risk your men.”

“You can come, but you’re not going alone.” Bishop snapped orders to several men who were now inside the farmhouse. They went to the tunnel door. Rollison, Bishop,

Tex and three plain-clothes men ran towards the copse. The speed with which the police surrounded the trees was startling. Bishop and Tex kept close to Rollison, and he led them straight to the far end of the tunnel.

The cover was pushed to one side.

The tunnel was empty, except for police who came hurrying through it.

•     •     •     •     •     •

“He can’t have got away,” Bishop said.

“He got away,” the Texan stated flatly. “Inspector, you have to send out an alarm warning. Everyone, policemen and every newspaper wants to know about this. If that unit was taken on a train or a bus, or on an aircraft, it would kill everyone aboard,”

“Tex, who is the American really after the unit ?” Rollison demanded.

“Abner Crane, if that helps you.”

“What is he like?”

“Good and fat. A big guy, around fifty years old, with watery blue eyes and grey hair, with a bald patch.”

“If he was here in person, he can’t have got far. Would he know how deadly that unit is ?”

“No.”

“Bishop, if you’ll have that description put out, and a cordon flung round the whole area . . . ”

“I’ll fix it by radio,” Bishop said tautly.

“There’s another way we might find this Abner Crane,” Rollison went on. “A lot of things are adding up. Come on, Tex.”

“If you try to leave the farmhouse, I’ll clap handcuffs on you,” Bishop flashed.

“I won’t leave without permission.” Rollison was already near the back door, which was open, and heard voices. The others were in the big front room, and Alan Selby was with them, saying:

“But if it’s been taken away, there’s nothing else to worry about is there?” His voice was shrill with excitement, “We may not get so much money for the farmhouse, but at least there’s no danger. We ought to be shouting for joy, Gillian, not looking scared out of our wits. And you, too, Monty, it’s all over, we’ve got nothing else to worry about.”

“I’ve got plenty to worry about,” said M.M.M.

“Oh, forget it! There are plenty more attractive girls about. Aren’t there, sis?” Selby sounded positively buoyant as he spoke to his sister. “My God, this is the biggest day of my life. For weeks, for months, I’ve been scared out of my wits. It didn’t matter where I went or what I did, someone always knew about it. I didn’t tell you everything, Gillian,” he went on, as Rollison drew nearer. “I tried not to worry you, but it was dreadful. And it’s over ! I could dance a jig.”

Rollison stepped inside. Alan Selby was actually fooling at a little dance, his eyes bright with excitement; he seemed oblivious of M.M.M.’s scowl, of Gillian’s pale face, and of Brandt’s bleakness. The only one who seemed interested and amused was Littleton who stood clapping to a kind of rhythm. Just outside the door was one of Bishop’s men, and in the grounds two dozen police were searching, and others were coming up by car and Black Maria.

“That makes it quite an occasion,” Rollison said coldly. “Did anyone tell you what was in the container?”

“What the hell does it matter what’s in it? It’s out of the farmhouse, and we can breathe freely again.”

“You never made a bigger mistake.”

“Now what’s on your mind?” Selby demanded. “So tired of failure that you have to be smart ?”

“Not so smart as I’d like to be,” said Rollison, “but facts are facts. Someone knew exactly where you were all the time, and was able to spy on you and your sister. Someone worked with the false William Brandt, whose real name is Abner Crane. Someone did a deal with him to get that container. The same someone had to get into the farm, and move Old Smith out of it. Searching for the unit might have taken hours, days or weeks, so the eagerness to buy is easy to understand, but some things made no sense. Two men were killed in cold blood, but Smith, who stood in the way of Gillian selling the farm, wasn’t harmed. So there was someone working with Abner Crane who didn’t want Old Smith dead. Obviously sentiment wasn’t the reason, as the two men had been murdered—and Mome attacked with intent to kill. Why should such killers leave Old Smith unharmed and in possession ?”

Selby had gone very pale.

“Who would kill an old man ?” he demanded.

“Abner Crane and the people he used would kill anyone if it paid ofT,” said Rollison, “but someone wanted Smith alive. We now know that the someone knew where the tunnel was, and was able to get in and out of the farmhouse, after that radiation unit. Who would be in a better position to know about the tunnel than you, Selby?”

“You’re crazy!” Selby cried.

“You know where Crane’s gone, Selby, and where that deadly unit is. Better tell us, quick.”

Gillian was staring at her half-brother, and her eyes were touched with horror. M.M.M. looked very near despair.

“Where is Crane ?” Rollison demanded roughly.

“I’ve never heard of Crane!”

“You know of Crane all right. I’ll stake a fortune that he first came to you about the farm. You agreed to help, then put Old Smith up to refusing to get out, so as to push the price up. You played the double game until suddenly everything became urgent, because Tex Brandt of the F.B.I. was on Crane’s heels.

“Crane had used Brandt’s name as an alias before; now he used it again, and stepped up pressure. He knew that he was being double-crossed, but blamed Lodwin and Charlie Habden; and was afraid that if they were caught they’d implicate him. So he killed them both.”

Selby was ashen pale, and his eyes were feverishly bright.

Bishop came in.

“We haven’t found the unit,” he announced roughly, “but I’ve had confirmation from London that it’s deadly.”

“And Selby is as deadly,” Rollison said. “He thinks there’s still a fortune for him if he keeps quiet, and will risk thousands of lives to get it.”

“It’s a damnable lie !” Selby screeched.

Rollison swung round on M.M.M.

“How about your conscience? Two people tried to murder you, remember. Your whole attitude’s changed, too. Why was it ? For God’s sake don’t hold out any longer.”

M.M.M. said gruffly, painfully.

“I tried not to hurt Gillian, but you’re right now. After you’d left the Wheatsheaf yesterday, the barmaid told me that she’d heard Alan talking to an American—a big, fat man. Then I realised that Alan was involved, but . . .”

M.M.M. broke off.

“The Wheatsheaf,” Rollison interrupted. “Could Abner Crane be hiding there?”

24

CAUSE OF DEATH

The inn looked picturesque and charming against the background of meadows and wooded land, and the beautifully painted inn sign, of stacked com, swayed in a gentle wind. A large modem car stood in the courtyard, but there was no sign of life, no movement, only a stillness as of death.

Rollison drove up to the front door.

Out of sight, but watching him, were the police, and Tex Brandt, Bishop had allowed him to come on his own only because it seemed more likely that, alone, he would be admitted. Directly the front door was open, the police would come watching. The back door was being watched too; there was a cordon round the Wheatsheaf and, beyond, a wider cordon round the village and the farm.

Rollison pressed the bell.

There was no sound.

He pressed again, knowing that if the delay lasted long, then Bishop and his men would come running, determined to force their way in.

Rollison heard footsteps, and Mildred the barmaid opened the door. She looked flushed as from sleep, her fair hair was tousled, and she seemed vexed.

“Don’t you know we’re closed until half-past five?”

“Sorry, but this is urgent,” answered Rollison, and actually managed to smile. “Mildred “

The woman’s expression cleared, and she interrupted brightly:

“It’s Mr. Rollison, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Mildred, you told Mr, Mome about an American who talked to Mr. Selby.”

“That’s right.”

“Is the American here?”

“He came in about ten minutes ago, sneaked in the back way, and went up to his room. Why . . .”

She broke off, frowning, seeing policemen appear, and obviously realised that the inn was surrounded.

“Is your husband here?” Rollison demanded.

“No. I’m on my own. Bert’s gone into town, with the barman.”

“No servants here ?”

“No. What on earth . . .”

“You wait out in the garden,” Rollison said. “It’s vital.” She would never know how much she had been exposed to death. “Which room is this man in?”

“Number 3, at the head of the stairs.”

“Thanks,” Rollison said.

He went in.

The inn was absolutely silent except for the faint sounds of his own movements. He reached a narrow flight of stairs, and crept up them. The police filed into the passage, and he heard the muted sounds they made.

He reached the door of the room numbered 3, listened for a moment, but heard nothing.

He rapped sharply on the door.

There was no response.

He called : “Crane, I’ve got news for you. You’re handling a deadly radio-active unit that will kill you if you keep close to it any longer. Open the door, and get rid of it.”

There was still no response.

Every moment held its own danger. If the unit were in this inn, then already its deadly rays had penetrated walls and ceiling, the air Rollison breathed and the air about him was active with an unseen killer.

“Crane, you heard me.”

Then there was a movement; a squeak of sound. Rollison felt sure that a window was being opened. He stood aside as Bishop arrived, a great axe in his hands.

Bishop smashed a blow at the door, wrenched the axe out, and smashed again. A wooden panel split. Through the gap, Rollison saw a fattish man by the window, standing there and holding a small metal container in his hand.

He was fat and big; exactly as Tex Brandt had described Abner Crane.

The axe crashed again.

“If you don’t let me go I’ll throw this down and break it,” Crane said, in a strangely quiet, southern voice. “And if it breaks, no one in this village will live the week out.”

“Including Abner Crane,” Rollison said. “I don’t have a thing to live for, without this,” retorted Crane, and he rolled the unit on the palm of his hand. “Are you going to do a deal ?”

Rollison said, as if half-persuaded: “I’ll talk to the police.”

“You’d better be quick.”

Rollison moved back a foot. Bishop was holding the axe as if he would hurl it through the door and into the American’s face. Abner Crane was staring at them both.

Then, Tex Brandt’s face appeared at the open window. He was a yard away from Crane, who still held the unit loosely on his palm. Tex was standing on a ladder or a window sill. All the time, those unseen radiations were coming from the unit; and if it were broken then so much unseen power would be released that no one here would live.

Tex stretched out his arm, the fingers of the hand crooked. He was within a foot of the man in the room.

Rollison said: “Bishop, we’ve got to let Crane through, or he’ll kill hundreds of people.”

“It’s impossible!” Bishop rasped, and playing his part with absolute conviction. “Crane, if you don’t . . .”

Tex grabbed.

For a dreadful moment Rollison thought the unit would fall, but instead Tex held it, and backed from the window, while Rollison and Bishop rushed the smashed door, and caught a struggling, kicking, dying man.

•     •     •     •     •     •

In another room here, without Mildred’s knowledge, were the man and woman who had attacked Morne. They made no attempt to escape, and even seemed eager to make a statement. The statement told how right Rollison had been; how treacherous Alan Selby was; how Crane had murdered both Lodwin and Charlie Habden, believing they, not Selby, were double-crossing him.

In Crane’s room was a small outer container for the unit, in his car, a stronger one still. Had he been able to escape at once, he might have been safe from the radiation, but he had been exposed to it for so long that within two days he was dead.

No one else was seriously affected.

•     •     •     •     •     •

It was Old Smith who told the final story: a scared old man, who had believed that the safe contained stolen jewels, and had allowed it to be buried in the farmhouse by the original thief, the partner of Abner Crane.

The partner’s name was Lodwin.

•     •     •     •     •     •

Jolly appeared, as if by magic, wraithlike from the kitchen. A moment later, he opened the big room door and announced:

“Mr. Tex Brandt, sir!”

Rollison jumped up.

“Hi, Tex!” he greeted, and shook hands warmly; he looked behind the tall man and saw no one else, and went on: “How’s Gillian?”

“She’ll be okay when the trial’s over,” said Tex. “I’ve just come away from your Scotland Yard. Those cops really know what they want, don’t they? At least they don’t want Alan for murder, they don’t think they could make it stick. He swears that he didn’t know that Crane killed anyone, and planned to have Mome killed. Easy to blame the dead, but I should say it’s true. Crane has a reputation for killing off anyone who’s served his purpose, and Selby would have gone, too.”

“I almost wish he had,” said Rollison, and was silent for a moment. Then he turned to the cocktail cabinet. “What will you have?”

“Bourbon on the rocks, the way Jolly pours it,” said Tex, and stared at the Trophy Wall. “Gee, that’s still my favourite. I’ve been to St. Paul’s, the National Gallery, the Houses of Parliament, the Tower of London, Scotland Yard and Madame Tussauds, but I still prefer this wall. Ah, thanks !” He took his drink. “That’s wonderful.” He sipped again. “I brought you a little souvenir. Do you think you could find room for it on the wall ?”