The Toff on The Farm

by John Creasey

  The screw-driver steel bent, slowly, softly, uselessly. Rollison drew back, unsmiling. He needed a spanner or a crowbar. He needed a lot of things—including news from outside—but above everything was the secret hidden beneath this floor.

  The man behind him grunted.

  Rollison turned to look at him. The man’s eyes were flickering and his lips moving, as if they were very dry. Rollison fetched water in a cup and moistened his lips, and knew the moment that the other really came round : the sudden tension in the body and the hands, the abrupt tightening of the lips, told their own story. Then he tried to free his ankles and wrists but realised that he hadn’t a chance. He opened his eyes wide and stared at Rollison’s face, and the fear was deep in him.

  “All you have to do is answer questions,” Rollison said, and gave that a moment to sink in. “Who sent you to kill Smith?”

  The man gulped, and his eyes showed the same kind of bewilderment as they had just before he had been knocked out.

  “You—you’re not Smith,” he said hoarsely.

  “You’ve got that right. Now don’t waste time : who sent you to kill Smith?”

  The man began to breathe very hard.

  “I didn’t come to kill him, he wouldn’t be any good if he was dead. I came to scare the wits out of him.”

  “That might sound good in court, but it doesn’t make much impression on me,” Rollison said sharply. “Who “

  The man cried : “You’re the Toff !”

  “That’s right, but I don’t feel like one at the moment. I feel like breaking your neck.”

  “Where—where’s Smith ?”

  Rollison said: “All right, you really want trouble.” He glanced round as if for a weapon, and the hammer was within reach. He stretched out for it, and the man’s body seemed to give a convulsive leap.

  “No, don’t hit me, don’t hit me !” There was the voice of fear. “I had to come and frighten Old Smith into doing what we wanted.”

  “Who are ‘we’ ?”

  “The—the boss and me.”

  “Who’s the boss?”

  “Will Brandt,” said the helpless prisoner, who looked too terrified to lie. “Will Brandt’s the boss, he wants the farm. After what’s happened, he wants to buy it in Smith’s name. That way he would be able to get it without trouble from the cops. Don’t stare at me like that!” The man’s voice rose so loudly that Rollison was afraid that he might be heard outside. “I tell you Brandt’s the boss.”

  That made Grice right. Which made the Toff wrong.

  “Now you’ve started, keep it up,” urged Rollison, and he weighed the hammer in his hand as if wondering whether it would be a good idea to use it after all. “You came to soften up Old Smith and make him buy the farm as a cover for Will Brandt of Abilene, Texas, is that it?”

  The prisoner said : “If you know where he comes from, how much more do you know ?”

  “Enough to be sure when you’re lying,” Rollison replied. “Why is he so anxious to get the farm ?”

  He was watching the other closely, and saw the change in his expression. For a few minutes, fear had faded, as if he knew that there was nothing to fear provided he answered questions. Now, the fear was back. His prisoner spoke flatly, and it was obvious that he didn’t expect to be believed.

  “He never told me,” he said. “It’s no use asking me that you could break every bone in my body, and I wouldn’t be able to tell you. All I know is that he’s had a spy watching the Selbys, he knows every move they make. I just don’t know anything else.”

  “You know other things. What’s your name?”

  “Freddie Littleton.”

  “Were you with Brandt in Atlanta recently?”

  “Sure. We flew from New York three days ago.”

  “What were you doing with him ?”

  “Rollison,” said the man who called himself Littleton, “he’s a buyer of all kinds of jewellery, and he isn’t particular where it comes from—and I know my way about. I’ve been going to and from America with jewels in my baggage for over a year now. Will gets a better price than I could get here.”

  “Do you steal them first ?”

  “Don’t make me laugh,” Littleton said, and he did in fact give a little giggle. “I’m on the receiving end. I don’t take big chances. I buy from the bright boys in this country and take the stuff over to the States, and Will sells it there. That way I pick up five thou, a year and all expenses.” He was sweating a little now, but the fear seemed to have gone for good : as if he thought that Rollison believed he did not know why Will wanted the farm so badly.

  “I should think the police would like to know about you,” Rollison murmured.

  “I’ll take my chance with the cops,” Littleton said, quite perkily. “You can’t prove anything against me.”

  “Freddie, you’re quite a bright boy yourself. Be brighter. Where is Brandt now ?”

  “Don’t ask me. He went off on his own yesterday morning, and called me by telephone a couple of hours ago. Maybe it’s three hours now. He had some other people working for him, but they fell down on the job. So he told me to come down and soften up Old Smith, that’s all I came here for.”

  “You told me that once before,” said Rollison. “What about Lodwin and Charlie?”

  “They were the other guys who fell down on the job,” Littleton said.

  “Is that why you killed them?” Rollison demanded.

  He had never seen a man change so quickly; never seen horror spring into a pair of eyes as it did in Freddie Littleton’s then. There was a long silence, so long that Rollison heard the ticking of his watch, as if it was willing the seconds away. Then Littleton said in a gusty voice:

  “So Brandt killed them both. He always said he would if they tried to muscle in. They thought they could get the stuff at the farm, and get away with it.”

  “What stuff?”

  “I don’t know, I didn’t know anything about it. If it’s a murder rap, I’d rather you took me straight to the cops and let me make a statement before they pick me up. Brandt always said he’d fix them. What did he use? A knife?”

  Rollison seemed to see the smiling eyes of the tall Texan, and to feel the icy coldness of death.

  He nodded.

  “He was always playing around with that knife,” Littleton said. “It wouldn’t surprise me to know he’s used it plenty of times.”

  “Did he put anyone else on his black list?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Littleton answered, and went on hurriedly: “Rollison, get me out of this. Send for the cops, and I’ll come clean. I didn’t know anything about the murders, I swear to that.”

  “You’re not going to the police or anywhere yet,” said Rollison, “you’re going to stay here. Brandt may turn up if you’re missing long enough, or he may send another stooge or two.”

  “What are you going to do with me?”

  “You can have a snack, and then you’re going to rest for the day,” Rollison said.

  He did not add that Charlie had been murdered while resting.

  Twenty minutes later, Freddie Littleton was locked in a small upstairs room, and Rollison made another tour of the farmhouse. He satisfied himself that no one was here, checked that the door leading to the tunnel was still closed, and couldn’t be opened except from the house, and then watched the patrolling policeman stroll past the front door. A moment afterwards, Rollison nipped out of the back door. No one else was in sight. He shuffled along and kept his shoulders bowed, in case someone was watching from some distance off, and then reached the spot from which he could see the cottage.

  There were no cars outside, except Monty Morne’s.

  No policeman appeared to be there.

  Smoke coiled upwards from a chimney, which suggested that Gillian and M.M.M. were there. Was Alan Selby? Had the police detained him when he had come round from that drugged sleep, or would they let him go free, and follow him in the hope that he would lead them to the murderers ?


  Rollison went back into the farmhouse, locked and bolted the back door, and then started work again on the flagstones, this time using a steel poker from the big room. It didn’t bend so easily as the screw-driver, but the task still wasn’t going to be easy. He wanted those flagstones up and the truth revealed before there were any more interruptions. It couldn’t be long before the police came to question Smith, and to search, to try to find out why the farmhouse had become so valuable. Every lost minute might be vital.

  He eased the flagstone up at last so that he could get his fingers under it at two places. He bent down, to get the greatest possible leverage with his arms, and heaved. He felt the great stone coming upwards. He exerted all the strength he had, and sweat began to trickle down his face, while the strain at arms and stomach seemed too great.

  Then, he heard a banging on the front door.

  20

  CALLER ON A BIKE

  ROLLISON had heard no one approach, was sure that there had been no car. He held the stone about four inches off the floor at one side, hesitated, and then heard more sharp rapping. It might be the police, this could be his cue to run. But he couldn’t run unless he were positive that the police were here; he wanted to see what was buried under this floor.

  He pushed the hammer underneath the stone with his foot, then gradually lowered the big slab; it would be easy enough to start again. As he went into the big room, shuffling noisily, he wiped his forehead, and was surprised that he felt clammy all over. He peered out from the side of the window, and saw no car, but also saw the uniformed policeman at the gate, watching but making no attempt to interfere.

  He undid the chain.

  “It’s okay, Mr. Ar.,” a man said in whispered Cockney, “Mr. Jolly sent me. Let me in.”

  He was short and very thin, with a leathery face and very bright blue eyes; all of this was visible through the narrow opening of the door. After the first moment of tension, Rollison drew the chain out of its socket, but he kept his foot against the door in case there were others beside this man, whom he recognised as a friend of the Sam who had taken Old Smith away.

  As the man came in, the wheel of his bicycle showed where it leaned against the wall. Then Rollison closed the door, and the little man grinned crookedly up at him.

  “If I ‘adn’tve known, I wouldn’tve recognised yer,” he said, and thrust a small packet into Rollison’s hand. “Mr. Jolly sent these, in case you run aht’ve your fave’rit fags.”

  Trust Jolly to feel quite sure where he had come !

  “An’ ‘e give me a letter, said I wasn’t to ‘and it to no-one but you in person,” went on the Cockney, and looked about him. “Creepy sort ‘o place you got dahn on the farm, ain’t it?”

  “You get used to it,” Rollison said, and offered cigarettes from a nearly empty packet: he had left his case at the flat. “Quiet a minute, Lionel.”

  “Okay.”

  Jolly had realised whose help he had sought the previous night, of course; had assumed that he would go to the East End, where a certain Bill Ebbutt, who ran a boxing gymnasium as well as a pub, could always be relied on for help. Jolly had almost certainly persuaded Ebbutt to put him on to Sam who had come down here with a crony, and had taken Old Smith away. That much was easy to understand. But why had Jolly thought it essential to send a message ?

  Rollison unfolded the letter.

  Jolly had written :

  “I think you should know at once, sir, that there is a warrant out for your arrest . . .”

  Rollison caught his breath. Lionel looked at him through his lashes, and drew deeply on the cigarette. Someone walked along the path outside, and Rollison looked sharply towards the sound.

  “. . . I was told of this by Mr. Grice, who called at six-thirty this morning.

  “There is also a warrant out for William Brandt, who appears to be quite notorious in the United States. The newspapers have this story and are using it extensively, but as yet there is no public announcement of the warrant for you.

  “Mr. Grice made it clear that he believes you have been deceived by William Brandt, and says that it is absolutely essential for you to give yourself up and to make a statement explaining your association with the man. He says that in his considered opinion, the longer you leave it, the more dangerous will be your own position.

  “I understand that Mr. Alan Selby, who was detained for some hours, has been released, and also that Miss Selby and Mr. Mome are on their way to the cottage. I cannot be sure, but I have reason to believe that the police suspect that some attempt will be made to take possession of the farmhouse during the day, and the police are watching from a distance, ready to move in if that appears to be necessary.

  “If I am right in this surmise, I cannot too strongly urge you to leave.

  Respectfully as always, sir, Jolly.

  P.S. William Brandt telephoned me twice in the course of this letter, and each time said that he wanted to talk to you urgendy. I refused to give him any information.

  Rollison lowered the letter.

  Lionel White moved across to the hearth and tossed the end of his cigarette into it.

  “In a bit’ve a spot, aincha?” he inquired. “Just before I left there was a buzz that the busies were after you, serious this time. Anyfink I can do?”

  “Did you see any police on the way here?” asked Rollison.

  “Copper at the front, that’s all.”

  If he had seen only the one man, then the other police were keeping out of sight, but there was no reason to doubt

  Jolly; it all added up. So did other things. If the police were after him in earnest, they would soon have every newspaper in the country screaming the news,

  “One ovver fing,” went on Lionel, “Sam said the old geezer’s okay.”

  “Where is he being kept ?”

  “At the home of a pal of Sam’s, Mr. Ebbutt didn’t fink ‘e ought to be kept at the pub or the gym.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “27, Russett Grove, Wapping.”

  “Thanks,” Rollison said. “I may want to see him in a hurry, and I may want him brought nearer here. Get off, telephone Sam, tell him to be all ready to move if he gets a message, but to keep Smith where he is if he doesn’t hear from me. Okay?”

  “Sure, I’ve got it,” said Lionel.

  “And tell him to tell Jolly to send Will Brandt to the farm if he rings again. He can tell Brandt that I know the secret of the farm. That’s urgent.”

  “I’ll fix it quick,” promised the little Cockney.

  “And if the police pick you up on your way out, tell them you came from me to see Old Smith,” Rollison said, “They’ll swallow that.” He saw Lionel grin as if he relished the trick. “Say I talked to you last night, near Ebbutt’s place, and told you to come and try to make Old Smith explain why he wouldn’t move from the farmhouse. All clear?”

  “You don’t get any slower, do you?” Lionel observed, “Anyfinkelse?”

  “Yes. Tell them you were to report to Jolly by telephone. That’s the lot.”

  “And do I ‘ave to report that I found Mr. Smith in the best’ve ‘ealth an’ spirits ?” demanded Lionel, and was chuckling when Rollison opened the door cautiously, and let him out. “Come by van as far’s the village and push-biked from there,” he said, “best way to avoid being noticed, I thought.”

  “You’ll go a long way,” Rollison told him. He closed the door as he saw the uniformed policeman at the gate staring at the little Cockney. The policeman didn’t stop Lionel White, who swung on to his bicycle and pedalled off at a good pace. Then the uniformed man plodded after him. In spite of the desperate urge to raise that flagstone and check what was buried there, Rollison watched the man until he disappeared.

  He went to the back, and saw no one there. “They’re really going to make it easy for anyone to come here,” he said. “I wonder where they’re watching from?”

  At least it was safer to go outside, provided he shuffled abou
t with bowed shoulders. He dared to go further this time, and found a tool shed. He selected a fork, a spade and a short bar of iron, and went back to the farmhouse. It was a lovely morning, and when he closed the door it was like stepping into a funeral parlour. He locked and bolted it again, and then began work. The iron bar was exactly the lever that he needed. It was the work only of a few minutes to lever the flagstone up, then send it falling to one side. It clattered noisily, and rumbled for a long time. With the better tools, Rollison prised up three more stones, and so laid bare about two square yards of dark earth, dusted with sand and cement.

  Now he felt a surge of excitement.

  He prodded the earth, and it was fairly easy to pierce with the fork. He dug it over quickly, then began to use the spade, shifting earth to one side; it was heavy and nearly black. He reminded himself that he couldn’t be sure that he had found the secret of the farmhouse; that floor might have been repaired.

  Would he find jewels? Or would he find a body ?

  He had a hole nearly three feet deep, and a half an hour later was sweating and tired from the unusual exercise. Every time he drove the spade in, the earth seemed to be heavier and more difficult, and there was clay here. He was standing in the hole, and felt like a grave-digger, but by far the worst thing was the sense of failure and frustration. No-one would go any deeper than this, and re-pave that floor. There was a limit to precautions.

  He drove the spade in again.

  It struck something hard.

  Thought of everything but the discovery faded from Rollison’s mind. He tried several times, always with the same result. He cleared the soil away slowly and carefully, determined not to let himself be too excited. Odd, how excitement affected him in this case.

  There was a metal box.

  It was like coming upon hidden treasure, and easy to picture the box with the lid thrown back, gold and jewels heaped inside. They wouldn’t be, of course, this wouldn’t be so obvious.