1
FARM FOR SALE
“Of course, what you ought to do is buy a farm,” declared Montagu Montmorency Morne, “Think what it would do for you. Fresh eggs and milk every morning, grow your own bacon in your own backyard, all kinds of juicy fruit straight from tree or bush into the consumer’s mouth. It’s the healthiest occupation ever thought of, and remember what it would do to your income tax.”
He paused; and beamed.
“What would it do to my income tax?” inquired the Honorable Richard Rollison, politely.
“Cut it in two, old boy. Halve it. Bound to. Slap all the cost of living down on the expense sheet. Don’t tell me you didn’t know. Buy the place, put in a manager, run it at a spanking loss, and set the loss against the old income from the family fortune, not to say the staggering fees from the profession, occupation or vocation of detecting. I just can’t understand,” declared Montagu Montmorency Morne with great solemnity, “why you’ve never thought of it before.”
“I didn’t know anybody who had a farm to sell,” murmured Rollison.
“My dear old chap, don’t be churlish. It’s not my farm and you don’t know her. She’s a pet and she’s a peach but she wouldn’t pay a penny in commission. I am not in this for what I can get out of it,” went on M.M.M. righteously, while striking a pose which was vaguely reminiscent of Napoleon, “but simply in the interests of my friends.”
“You forget,” said Rollison sententiously, “that London is my home.”
“And the old farmhouse could be the home from home,” boomed M.M.M., his eyes acquiring a brilliant light. He drew a little closer to Rollison, put his head on one side, and made it obvious that he was now carrying out a strict appraisal, “I knew it,” he went on, with great earnestness. “Your eyes are lack lustre. The spark of greatness is fading fast. Your genius is at stake. You need rest, a week or two in the country every other week-end, tramping the meadows and the copses with a gun under your arm and a faithful retriever at your heels. You need to sniff the fresh and wholesome country air, hve under the bright blue sky, sleep within the sight and sound of nature, and eat and drink “
“Fresh milk, fresh eggs and bacon grown in my own backyard.”
“You see,” said M.M.M. triumphantly. “You admit it.”
Rollison chuckled.
“At the very least, you could look the place over,” urged M.M.M. “It’s only about an hour and a half away from London. I’ll drive you.”
“Not in a thousand years !”
“But I’m good, safe, and reliable. I passed my test.”
“The examiner must have wanted to buy a farm, cheap.”
“He wasn’t interested in farms,” said M.M.M. dreamily, “but I did happen to know that he’s looking for a flat, and I mentioned that a friend of mine had one just about where this chap wanted to Hve. If you can’t do a man a good turn once in a while, what is the point in Uving?” asked M.M.M., now virtuously. “All right, we’ll go in your car.”
“Why are you so anxious to get me down on the farm ?” demanded Rollison.
“My dear old Roily, I’ve told you. That dullness in the eye, the pallor of the cheek, the lack of snap in the old reflexes, they’re not like you. You need pep. The world-renowned Toff mustn’t begin to slip, you know. At any moment the greatest investigation of your career might come walking in at that door.”
The door opened.
“Coffee, sir,” announced Jolly, manservant to the Honorable Richard Rollison. He came sedately into the large room which overlooked the tall, grey, gracious houses of Gresham Terrace, Mayfair, and placed a silver tray with silver coffee pot and cups of Sevres china on a small table between the two armchairs.
“Jolly,” said Rollison, “Mr. Mome wants us to buy a farm.”
“I’m sure it would be a very nice farm, sir.” Jolly was elderly to look at, had a lined face, the appearance of the dyspeptic, and the kindly eyes of a sheepdog whose chasing days were over. He was immaculate in black jacket, grey cravat with a diamond pin, and grey striped trousers. “Will that be aU?”
“Not quite. Do we want to buy a farm, by any chance?”
“To tell you the truth, sir,” said Jolly, in a neutral voice, “I do not recall that we have discussed the matter since the year nineteen forty-six, when you may recall that we investigated some unconventional behaviour of fowls at a chicken farm.” The manservant turned solemnly towards one long, high wall, which was unique not only in London but in the whole wide world. This was the Trophy Wall. Secured to it in a variety of ingenious ways, were souvenirs of the many cases in which Rollison had been involved as chief investigator. This had not always been with the approval of the police.
Montagu Montmorency home watched Jolly and the wall as if he was hypnotised. He saw the hangman’s rope, against which Jolly brushed, to make it swing with almost ghoulish slowness. He saw the lipstick container which hid poison, the palm-guns, the knives which ranged from carving knife to a genuine Toledo stiletto, the blunt instruments the tubes of poison, the nylon stockings and the pieces of string—each of these in some way or other a lethal weapon. And he saw the top hat with a bullet hole through the crown and a few of Rollison’s hairs stuck to it, actually cut off by the bullet. There were other things, among them a cellophane envelope inside which were a dozen or so brightly-coloured feathers from the neck of a Rhode Island Red.
“I distinctly recall that when we placed this trophy in position, sir, you said that country life no longer attracted you, and that London was the place for us.”
M.M.M. jumped up. That was quite a feat, for he was a plump young man with one real and one aluminium leg. His round, red face was earnest and his blue eyes aglow.
“Now, be fair,” he urged. “You can’t judge this farm by a chicken farm. They’re not in the same field. Given a
