A Mask for the Toff (10 page)

 

“And now I hope you're satisfied,” said Latimer, leaning over him. “I've never seen such a mess. If you take my advice, you'll be on the first 'plane back to London in the morning—if you're still alive then.”

Rollison lay back on his pillows at the
Hôtel Mulle,
and grinned weakly.

“First, sleep,” he said.

“Sleep! You need a month's convalescence.” Latimer straightened up, and moved to a chair.

They had been back for half an hour, and with Latimer's help Rollison had struggled out of his clothes. They lay in a heap near the foot of the bed. The reporter of the
Figaro
had driven away as soon as they had arrived here; on the journey Rollison had heard him talking to Latimer, but he had not taken in any of the conversation.

“It's nearly five,” Latimer said. “I think I'll kip in the arm-chair. Any objection?”

“Do what you like, Pete. And thanks for everything. It's been quite a day. You'll feel better in the morning.”

“
I'll
feel—” Latimer broke off, and chuckled.

“All right, Rolly. I'll put out the light, you can sleep some of it off. Er—just one thing.”

“What?”

“Did you see her?”

“Mask and all.”

“So she had that on, did she?” Latimer frowned. “In her sleep, too?”

“I was the one who went to sleep. All details when I wake up, and—” Rollison stopped abruptly, and sat up more quickly than he should have done.

After he had taken a cold shower Latimer had rubbed salve gently into his head, but he wouldn't know what it was like to be without a headache for a day or two.

“Good lord, I'm crazy!”

“You're the last to discover it.”

“Get me Jolly on the telephone,” begged Rollison. “Tell him I must speak to him.”

“But—”

“Mayfair, London, 13—”

“I know your number,” Latimer said. He seemed to know when to be obstinate and when to give way, for he lifted the receiver at once. “I'll probably take some time to get through, I'll wake you.”

The call came through in three minutes, and when Rollison spoke to Jolly, his man sounded as if this were in the middle of the morning.

“It's good to hear from you, sir.”

“Thanks. Jolly, this matters. I don't know how much, but it matters. The girl's name is Odette Rivière. How is she?”

“There is no change, except that she is more rested.”

“Any trouble?” asked Rollison.

“I would not rate it that high, sir, but a man has been watching the house. I know he is French. He has shown no sign of activity at all, but for security I have enlisted the help of Bill Ebbutt, and the man is being watched in turn.”

“Good,” said Rollison, and paused.

“Have you any instructions about the young lady, sir?”

“As soon as she's awake, tell her that I have seen both the Comte de Vignon—got that?”

“The Comte de Vignon, yes.”

“And Madame Thysson. Just tell her that, and see if it will make her talk. You
must
make her talk, Jolly. Find out whether she was running away from de Vignon or Thysson—no, wait a moment.” He pressed a hand against his throbbing head. “She probably did escape from de Vignon, but she had some connection with Madame Thysson. Find out what it is. Get her story, and—”

He heard another sound at the other end of the line; and thought he heard Jolly gasp. He was prepared for anything, for indications of an attack, for another voice. Instead, he heard Jolly say: “Excuse me one moment, sir, the young lady is at the bedroom door.”

Rollison said: “Then you can start on the questioning now. I—”

He stopped when he heard the girl speak. Her voice came faintly, but every word was distinct.

“
That is Mr. Rollison. Tell him to come back, tell him not to stay in Paris.”

“
The young lady—” Jolly began.

“Yes, I heard,” Rollison said. “Tell her I might come back at once if she'll tell you the whole truth. If she won't, there isn't a chance. Try hard, Jolly.”

“You can be quite sure of that, sir. Are you still at the
Hôtel Mullel?
I received your telegram.”

“Yes. If you can't get hold of me, speak to Poincet, at the
Sûreté Générale.
Make sure you're talking to him in person.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Good night,” said Rollison.

He put down the receiver and dropped back on to the pillows. After the effort, his head throbbed viciously. He closed his eyes against the light, and hoped that Latimer would not talk. Latimer didn't, and soon put out the light. In a daze, Rollison heard him walking about the room, but didn't hear the chair creak as Latimer sat down for what remained of a night's rest.

 

Rollison looked at himself in the mirror, and grimaced; he was the
apache
to the life. He walked to the bathroom unsteady but very upright, and bathed his face. His head, while not really bad, still needed a lot of care. He returned to the bedroom and sat in front of the dressing-table, removing the grease paint with spirit. That done, he went back and had a hot bath, followed by another cold shower; all he felt he needed were cold showers.

It was half-past eleven in the morning; Latimer had left a brief note, saying that he would not be long.

Rollison towelled his hair gingerly, then went back and ordered coffee. It had come by the time Latimer returned.

In his hand was a package wrapped up in white paper; it was the size of a small bottle.

“Hallo.” His droll grin had a wholesome look, and he was as familiar and welcome as an old friend. “I've been having a session with a chemist, introduced by a friend who knows—”

“I know the friend-to-friend system,” said Rollison, who had gone back to bed.

“And I have produced a pick-me-up. Guaranteed, the chemist says, to restore you to some semblance of order by tonight. I told him you were suffering from a combination of excessive drinking, gross over-eating and a fight in which you'd taken on six men all bigger than yourself. He still guaranteed his cure. Two doses now, and then one every two hours. You must have only light food, no wine or spirits, and you have to do all the usual things to the bruises on your head.”

“Three doses, please,” said Rollison. “Coffee?”

“I've had breakfast.”

“Don't,” shuddered Rollison.

Latimer looked sardonically amused.

“On the whole, you didn't come out of it badly, Rollison. Interviews with the Count and with Madame on the same night, and still one leg out of your coffin. Poincet doesn't approve of the second venture, but doesn't know it was you.”

“You haven't been to see him?” Rollison looked horrified.

“My
Figaro
friend has. I'm to tell you that everything has been done as arranged, and that you have a terrible reputation at the
Sûreté Générale.
From today onwards, all well-dressed Englishmen in Paris will be suspect, and the jails will probably be full up by tonight.” As he talked, Latimer measured out a white emulsion into a glass, and held it out to Rollison. “Drink.”

Rollison drank; gasped; and shuddered.

“That'll larn you,” said Latimer. “I can see I'll have to be on duty to make sure that you take the other doses. Oh, I've fixed the money, by the way. My Paris editor was affable and helpful—I told just a little, but didn't disclose the whole truth.”

“Let's keep it in the family,” said Rollison. He accepted a thick wad of thousand-franc notes.

“Wonderful, Pete, thanks. Any news?”

“Not yet. I'm going out to try to find some. If anyone else knows that Madame had a visitor, it will probably be all over the town by now.”

Latimer laughed, and went out. Rollison drank more coffee, to get the vile taste of the physic out of his mouth, and decided not to get up. If he weren't dressed, he couldn't be tempted to go out. He sent for English papers and
le Figaro,
but when they arrived, did no more than scan the headlines.

At a quarter to one, the telephone bell rang.

“There is a call from London for you,” said the operator. “One minute, please.”

The minute seemed an age; and dragged into several before a man came on the line. It was a relief to recognise Jolly's voice.

“Are you there, sir?”

“Has she come across?” Rollison was astonished at his own eagerness.

“I much regret to say that she has not,” said Jolly. “She has gone so far as to promise to tell you everything
if
you return to London, but she refuses to say a word to me. She will not talk to the police, either—Mr. Grice and an interpreter have just gone. She is quite adamant. Is there any chance of you returning in the near future?”

“Certainly not until tomorrow,” Rollison said.

There was heavy crackling on the line, and he had to concentrate to hear at all.

“I am extremely sorry that I can't report more satisfactorily,” Jolly said, and sounded utterly miserable. “The language is a difficulty. I have a fair command of French, but cannot use quite the same approach as I could if she were able to speak English. Is there any other course of action you care to recommend?”

Rollison said: “Yes. Try again, and tell her that I've ordered you to bring her to Paris if she won't tell you everything she can. Ring me back as soon as you can.”

“Very good,” said Jolly.

Obviously he did not feel optimistic.

It seemed an age, but was little more than an hour, before the telephone bell rang. It was a London call. Rollison adjusted the pillows, waited and began to wonder if he had been cut off; then suddenly Jolly's voice sounded, this time with an undoubted note of satisfaction.

“That proved to be successful, sir.”

“Wonderful! Does it help?”

“It may help you,” said Jolly. “And it is instructive, in that she is really terrified of the thought of returning to Paris at this juncture. She—”

“Jolly,” said Rollison, heavily.

“Yes, sir. I am trying to marshal my words effectively. The young lady's story is quite brief, and I don't want to give any part undue emphasis. She says that for some time she worked for Madame Thysson, as a mannequin. She was quite happy with Madame until she began to hear rumours about her activities. Then she met Marcel Blanc—BLANC, sir. She fell in love with him. Reading between the lines, I would say that it was because of stories of the less-savoury activities of Madame Thysson, of whom she had become very fond, that she flung herself at Marcel Blanc's head, as it were. A kind of emotional rebound.”

Jolly paused; this time Rollison did not hurry him.

“She wanted to leave Madame Thysson, but that was not easy. It was evolved, between the young couple, that Miss Rivière should ask for a holiday, permission to visit London with Marcel and two others, an elderly married couple. Madame Thysson raised no objection. On arrival in London, the girl was taken to the home of a lady she had never seen before—the description is that of Lady Murren, sir.”

“Well, well,” murmured Rollison.

“However, this lady refused to receive her, and she was taken to a smaller house—Downing's. She did not know what had happened, but overheard the men saying they had killed the other woman and were planning to murder her. She ran away.”

“And who shall blame her?”

“Very few people would,” Jolly said soberly. “She says she is afraid to return to Paris in case she is attacked. My personal view, for what it is worth, is that she was and is terrified and” – Jolly paused – “very innocent and inexperienced, sir.”

“Possibly.”

“She says that she feels safe while here. She does not seem at all sure who is involved in the plot against her life—she doesn't want to think of it, and is very confused. She cannot understand why it is being done—she has no money, no position. She claims that she is—I suppose the right word is psychic, sir—and she is sure that harm will befall you in Paris. She says she feels it most strongly at this moment. She is a little hysterical, if I may say so, and talks of being surrounded by an aura of evil and corruption, but—”

“She was,” Rollison said heavily.

“And she begs you to return. She doesn't want you to suffer by trying to help her.”

“I'll be back as soon as I can,” promised Rollison. “Meanwhile, some things are clearer. As Odette knew they had killed Lady Murren, obviously they had to get rid of her. Ruthlessness the watchword. Tell Grice about all this, Jolly, and ask him to inform Poincet at the
Sûreté Générale.”

“Very good.” Jolly sounded both surprised and a little disapproving.

“And ask him to make sure the flat's watched, back and front, until it's over. I wouldn't put it past them to have another go at her. I think she'll be all right until tomorrow morning, I've an interesting appointment tonight. But if I miss my bus, big trouble may flare up pretty quickly. Do all that, won't you?”

“Without fail, sir. May I inquire how you have been progressing?”

Rollison laughed.

“I shouldn't, too closely. Odette's forebodings are on the mark, but you know the old story about being forewarned. Look after yourself, Jolly.”

“Look after
yourself,
sir.” Jolly coughed. “I shall hope to see you back very soon. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” said Rollison.

He looked at the telephone for a few seconds before putting it back on its cradle, thinking of a girl who was psychic and who believed him to be in acute danger now. His back was towards the door, as he turned on his side to make himself more comfortable. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled faintly, rejecting the uncanny, trying to see through the girl's story to the motives which lay behind it.