by John Creasey
“That makes sense,” said Rollison. “Why does he want to get Selby Farm?”
“That I don’t know, either.”
It was never possible to be absolutely sure that a man was telling the truth, but Tex Brandt was certainly convincing. He met Rollison’s gaze quite levelly, and there was a great deal to like about him, as well as his looks. Rollison moved to the window and looked out, but saw no-one who appeared to be taking any particular notice of this house, 22, Gresham Terrace, Mayfair. Dusk was falling, and soon it would be dark; if the day’s events were anything to go by, then the night would be busy indeed. Rollison turned round.
The half light fell upon him, making him look startlingly handsome, making his tall, Uthe body seem to be straining after action. Just standing there, contemplating the American, he was a personality no-one was ever likely to forget. And opposite him were those trophies of his fantastic record in the fight against crime.
“Let’s get your theory quite straight. Your client has one rival, that rival employed Lodwin and Charlie, and they’re both dead.”
“Would a man kill his own legman?” Tex asked, quietly. “And would a policeman believe it?”
“No.”
“Toff,” said Tex again, “I did not kill either man.”
“Tex,” said Rollison, very softly, “I sure hope you didn’t.”
He turned to look out of the window again. It was much darker, although the street lamps were on. He hadn’t put on the lights in the room, and made no move to do so. He beckoned the Texan, who joined him, and he pointed to a black car standing a little way along the street. “That’s a police car,” he said. “The police are behaving in an odd way over this. I wouldn’t like to say why. Possibly they know a lot more than they’ve told me. But the sight of a police car there means we don’t have to worry too much about Party Number 3 for the time being. We can relax.” He relaxed enough to stroll across the big room and switch on the lights. “But keep away from the window in case of accident, the fiat immediately opposite is to let. Queer things have come from empty flats before now. Ever met Gillian Selby before?”
“I have not.”
“Do you always behave as if you’ve known a girl all your life when you’ve met her only five minutes ago?”
“It’s the first time I’ve met a girl like Gillian Selby,” the American declared, and he sounded as if he meant it. “I had never seen her, Rollison. I discovered that Lodwin was going to the cottage and got there ahead of him. That was the first time I’d been there. But I knew that Mome was a friend of the Selbys, I’d got that far; and I knew he was in love with Gillian. Don’t ask me how, it’s my job to find out what there is to find out, and it isn’t so difficult.”
“You make it easy,” Rollison murmured, and their eyes gleamed; here were two men with obvious mutual liking. “Tex, assuming you’re all you say you are, and assuming we have to unite against your client’s rival, there is a big problem. Monty Mome and Gillian decided to sell the farm so as to secure Alan Selby’s release that way. I’ve just come from Mome. He pretended to change his approach, but I wouldn’t trust him. He would do anything to make sure that Gillian owes him a debt she will just have to repay. Do you follow that?”
“Sure.”
“So if we’re not careful you may find that your rival has bought the farm.”
“It’s a risk, but it’s one I have to take,” Tex Brandt said, and shrugged his broad shoulders. “I want to work on Gillian Selby myself, though. I think I could make money talk.”
“Nothing will talk so loudly as her brother,” Rollison told him, “If you want that farm, you’ve got to find the brother. Any ideas about where to look?”
“I haven’t a notion,” Tex declared. “That’s God’s truth, Rollison.”
“Then it’s going to be very tough,” Rollison said, “and the only hope of getting results is to find who else is working for your rival, or find him in person, and persuade them to talk. The chap who telephoned me might be the man to work through, if he makes a crack at me we should be able to hold him.” Now he seemed to be talking almost to himself.
He stopped.
He moved so swiftly that Tex Brandt could hardly believe it possible, and reached the door which led to the large lounge hall and the front door. He dropped his right hand to his pocket and opened the door a crack and peered through.
He relaxed,
“I thought I heard the front door close,” he said, “but there’s no-one there. I——” then he drew a sharp breath and his expression became one of devastating understanding. ‘‘‘She’s run away,” he cried, then flung the door wide open, and rushed to the outer door.
14
LADY LOST
ROLLISON saw the empty landing.
He heard footsteps, stealthy at first, but as he jumped towards the head of the stairs they became louder and sharper; of a woman, running. He didn’t look round to see if the American was following, but simply placed one hand on the banister rail, and leaped; by supporting himself against the rail he covered the whole of the long flight of stairs in one jump; eighteen stairs in all. He landed lightly on the half landing below. The sharp clatter of a woman’s footsteps was now very loud.
Rollison repeated the trick at the next landing.
He landed, and saw Gillian, on the last flight but one, turning and staring upwards but running at the same time.
She stumbled, recovered herself, and ran on. Rollison made another leap, and this time landed awkwardly. He had to lose time to recover, and kicked his own leg a little; he didn’t leap down again, but began to run down the stairs. He was at the head of the last flight of stairs while Gillian was half way along the hall passage, near the closed front door.
Tex Brandt came running from above, but he was a long way behind.
Rollison leaped the final flight, and was at the foot of the stairs as Gillian began to open the front door. A cold draught of air swept in.
“Hallo,” said Rollison, not at all breathless. “Anywhere I can take you?” He covered the ground between them so swiftly that she didn’t get out of the open door. A street light fell on her face, and it was easy to understand why the
Texan had said that he had never met a girl like Gillian Selby.
“I want to leave this house,” she said, sharply.
“Well, if you must, you must,” concluded Rollison, sadly, “but don’t go walking out into the arms of the murderers, will you? They’re always around.”
“You’re only trying to scare me.”
“Gillian,” said Rollison, placing a hand on her arm, “in all honesty I can say that I don’t need to scare you. You’re scared out of your wits already, and you’ve every right to be. But you can’t do a deal with these people over Alan, and it’s useless to think you can.”
“I’ve got to,” she said, simply. “I’ve just got to. I thought I could leave everything to you, and I tried, but now I just can’t help myself. I’ve got to sell the farm and release Alan. I’ve been turning it over in my mind ever since I arrived here, and that’s my final decision. I’m going to see Monty now. He knows that it’s the only sane thing to do.”
There was a kind of entreaty in her manner, as if she was pleading with Rollison not to try to dissuade her; and as she stood there, Tex Brandt reached the passage and approached. She turned to him,
“Make him let me go,” she pleaded.
“Gillian, there’s no need to ask anyone to let you go, if you want to leave you’re as free as the air. But I don’t think you should leave.” Rollison saw her look away from the Texan back to him, and he had never tried more hard to sound convincing. “I’m afraid you’ll sell the farm without getting Alan back. These people only say they are holding him. They only say they’ll release him. Once they have the deeds of the farm, they might kill him.”
“There’s no reason to think that, you’re only trying to frighten me!”
“I’ve dealt with bad men before,” Rollison reminded her,
“and they work to a pattern. Come back, have dinner, and let’s discuss it. Tex Brandt and I are both trained in this sort of problem, and we only want to help. But if you still think you ought to leave when we’ve finished, all right—I’ll take you to Monty’s, and you’ll have to make a deal yourselves.”
“I shall still want to leave,” she insisted.
“But come and have dinner first,” urged Rollison. “Try to relax, and don’t make an impulsive decision. You could make the worst mistake of your life if you do.”
Jolly’s dinner was a gourmet’s delight.
First the white and then the red wines were exactly right.
Even Gillian seemed to relish the meal, and afterwards seemed much more relaxed, but when they had done their best to dissuade her, she said :
“It’s no use at all. I’ve got to exchange the farm for Alan, I just can’t refuse. If I did and anything happened to him, I’d be haunted by it for the rest of my life.”
“Why don’t you sleep on it?” Tex urged. “They want the farm so badly that it won’t do any harm to wait. They will just have to hold your brother until they get what they want.”
“Tex,” responded Gillian, very calmly, “you want to buy the farm, too. You can’t be disinterested. Roily might be, but I think he’s so dispassionate that he can’t really see the best thing for Alan. He wants to apply a principle of what is right and what is wrong. I want to save Alan’s life. And these people have killed twice, so we know they wouldn’t hesitate to kill again.”
Tex said helplessly : “Well, I give up.”
“I’ll take you to Monty’s place,” promised Rollison. He pressed a bellpush, and Jolly came in, as if Rollison had rubbed a magic lamp. “Jolly, try to contact Mr. Grice and say I’ll be delayed. If you can’t stop him coming, when he arrives tell him I hope to be back by half-past ten. Mr. Brandt will stay in the spare room, and if Mr. Grice comes and wants to look round, just introduce him as a friend of mine.”
“Very good, sir.”
Gillian put a hand on the TofT’s.
“Roily, I know you think I’m a fool, but I’m sure it’s the right thing to do.”
“You have to live with your conscience,” Rollison said.
“You going to call Mome, and make sure he’s home?” asked Tex. He couldn’t look away from Gillian, and seemed to hate the thought that she was leaving.
“No,” said Rollison, “I’d like to judge his reaction when we get there. And I’d like Gillian to see it, too. Hat and coat on, Gillian, if we’re going to be thrown to the lions, let’s get it over.”
Tex said: “That’s exactly what it’s going to be.”
The police car followed Rollison and Gillian, who were in the scarlet Allard. Rollison did nothing to try to evade it. He pulled up closer to the front entrance of the small block of flats. Night duty men were there now, and two policemen were strolling together along the street, but nothing suggested that there had been any sensation here during the day.
Rollison helped Gillian out.
She had glanced at him a great deal while they had been in the car, but now stared straight ahead of her. She was hatless and wore just a light top coat, but clothes made little difference. The way she walked, looked, smiled, made her quite sensational and even the commissionaires stared at her, then hurried forward to open the lift doors.
“Is Mr. Mome in ?” Rollison asked.
“Oh, yes, sir.” The man who answered had a faint Irish brogue. “He’s been in ever since he came back from going out. The doctor’s been to see him, he’s hurt that leg of his that he hasn’t got, and a friend is there with him now.”
“Friend ?” asked Rollison sharply.
“Yes, sir, at least he said he was a friend, and went straight up and he certainly hasn’t come down. It was half an hour ago, I should say, not much more for certain.”
“Friend,” echoed Rollison, and held Gillian’s arm. “We’ll go and see.”
They went up in the swift moving lift. No one was in the passage when they stepped out. They turned towards M.M.M.’s flat, the girl now a little hesitant. Rollison kept his right hand in his pocket, and pressed the bell with his left; it sounded quite clearly.
Then, M.M.M. opened the door.
In his right hand there was a large Service revolver, on his face a look which suggested that he would be quite prepared to use it.
Instead, his face lit up.
“Gillian, thank God you’ve come! Alan’s here, and he’s desperately anxious to talk to you.”
There was a moment’s breathless pause. Then :
“Alan!” cried Gillian, and thrust herself past M.M.M. and ran across the small hall. As she went, a man appeared at the living-room door, tall and spare, with his fair hair golden, and his small nose snub. Gillian flung herself into his arms. He held her tightly and did not at first look over her head at Rollison or M.M.M. When he did look up, Rollison saw that his eyes were bloodshot, that he needed a shave, and that he looked scared.
Rollison closed the door behind him, but M.M.M. barred his path.
“Roily,” said M.M.M. in a firm voice, “I know it was my fault for asking your help, but we really don’t need you anymore. Alan’s been released on condition that they sell the farm, and that’s the only possible thing to do. All the persuasion in the world won’t make them change their minds now. You might as well accept defeat for once. No-one even knows you’re working on the case, so it won’t do your prestige any harm.”
He looked plump, earnest and pleading, and although the big revolver was still in his hand, it was pointing towards the floor.
Gillian freed herself from her step-brother’s arms, and said :
“Are you all right? Have they hurt you? Tell me if they have, please tell me.”
Alan Selby said: “I had a bad time, but I’m not hurt. Gillian, we’ve just got to sell the farm, and forget it. They’ll persecute us until we do. If you’d heard some of the things they threatened to do to you, you’d understand why we must sell to them.”
“Of course we must,” Gillian said, “and we’re going to. It’s all right, Alan, you needn’t worry.”
Alan Selby was certainly much older than his sister. He had been father, mother, brother to her, and now she was mothering him, soothing him, obviously aware that he needed her reassurance. He had a scared look in his eyes, and no one could doubt that he was nervous and jumpy.
“Rollison,” said M.M.M., “don’t make me put it into words of one syllable.”
“Let’s hear it, anyhow,” Rollison encouraged. “I hate to say it, old chap, but you’re not wanted here.”
“Ah,” said Rollison. “You never said an un-truer word.” He went nearer the others, and Alan Selby looked at him with a kind of nervous defiance, a man in his late thirties who might be in the early fifties judged by his present looks. “Selby,” said Rollison, “how much are they going to pay for the farm?”
“Forget it. Roily,” M.M.M. said.
“Five thousand,” Selby answered, “and that’s a thousand more than it’s worth.”
“There’s an offer of fifteen thousand.”
“I don’t give a damn whether there’s an offer of fifteen or fifty thousand, I can’t stand this strain any longer,” Selby shouted. “They’ve been after me for weeks. I didn’t tell Gillian because I thought it would frighten her. They’ve telephoned, stopped me on the road, whispered to me at the local, they haven’t given me a minute’s peace for weeks. I tried to hold out, but I can’t do it any longer, I’m terrified of what they’ll do. I can’t help it if we lose money, I just can’t help it. Now get out, and stop trying to persuade us. We’ve got to sell that farm.”
The girl turned round and her expression told Rollison that the quicker he left, the better she would like it. Selby’s eyes said the same thing, less politely. M.M.M. stepped towards the door and began to open it.
Then he jumped and his gun rose sharply, for the door was thrust against him, and a tall, brown
-clad man stepped in.
“Hallo, Roily,” this man said, ignoring the gun and the couple in the living-room doorway. “I thought I might find you here.”
“Hallo, Bill,” said Rollison, in just as equable a voice. “How are tricks at Scotland Yard?”
“Scotland Yard?” echoed M.M.M., and backed a pace. Then hastily he thrust the revolver under his coat.
“Meet Superintendent William Grice,” introduced Rollison brightly. “Do you want to see me or the rest of the party. Bill ? I’ll go, if you’d rather be alone.”
“I’d like a word with all of you,” said Grice. He was tall, broad and lean. His skin was sallow, his features were good, the nose rather large and hooked, with the skin stretched very tight at the bridge, making it look almost white. His brown hair was flecked with grey, and he held his hat in his hand.
He wasn’t smiling as he looked at M.M.M. and Gillian,
“You don’t want to talk to us,” cried M.M.M., and he pointed a quivering finger at Rollison. “You want to talk to him. You want to ask him why he’s sheltering a murderer in his flat, an American who killed those men today.”
Jealousy made him say that, of course, because Gillian so obviously liked Tex Brandt. But he also had reason on his side, as Grice would be quick to see.
15
M.M.M. SQUEAKS
Grice’s expression did not change, and nor did Rollison’s. The brother and sister backed into the living-room, while M.M.M.’s finger gradually stopped quivering, and finally his arm dropped to his side. Grice had been looking at him all the time.
“How long have you known about this, Mr. Mome?” Grice asked at last.
“Since I got to London. Brandt—that’s the Yank—left us to telephone, and Miss Selby told me what had happened. It’s the truth, he had a chance to kill both men. Why, Rollison actually told her that the American had done it!”
Gillian was coming forward. It was difficult to guess what was in her mind, but she looked more pale than any time since she had left the cottage.
