was some loose talk that you weren’t going to survive, and I wanted a last look into your blue eyes, so I came along. And coming out of the ward as I reached it was “
“Oh, no,” groaned M.M.M. “Gillian Selby in the flesh.”
“In point of fact, she was wearing a most attractive suit which looked as if it had come from Paris.” Rollison poured out more coffee, and went on briskly : “Anyone as beautiful as that has to be helped out of trouble.”
“The difficulty with you is your all-seeing eye,” complained M.M.M., with a touch of bitterness. “You’ll probably go down to Selby Farm, take one look at the Scarecrow, and say he won’t get out because he’s haunted by a sixteenth-century witch who tells him he’ll expire if he ever spends a night outside its four walls. When will you go?”
“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
