A Mask for the Toff (11 page)

Then he turned round.

Downing stood in the doorway, covering him with a gun; grinning.

 

 

Downing's was the kind of grin that wouldn't relax, the grin of a man who hated and who intended to kill. He closed the door softly behind him; the click as it latched sounded very loud. He had a picklock in his left hand, and dropped it into his pocket. He moved two or three cat-like paces forward. He was dressed in a brown overcoat which made him look more of a barrel than ever. The great physical strength of the man was obvious. He had a flat forehead, wide-set eyes and a big but flattened chin; it made his head look as broad as it was long.

His big hand dwarfed the automatic.

“So you've an interesting appointment tonight, have you? With the Count. And you're afraid you
might
miss the bus. You'll miss it all right—
and
the appointment. I didn't think I'd take long to deal with you.”

Rollison settled back on his pillows.

“Hallo, Sam,” he said.

“Being smart won't help you.” The grin remained as Downing talked; his face was almost as mask-like as Madame Thysson's – but a satyr's mask. “When I learned that the Count was thinking of playing ball with you, I did some quick thinking. There's just one way to deal with slugs like you, Rollison. Rub them out. See?”

“I see, Sam. May I have a cigarette.”

“No, you can't.”

“Not even the condemned man's last privilege?”

“I'm not an ordinary executioner,” Downing said. “I'm glad you know you've had it. Keep your hand away from that telephone, too.”

Rollison said: “All right, Sam.”

A wave of weariness swept over him, and took away all the joy of living. He had been in many tight corners, but never one like this; never one in which death was so inevitable. Here was a man who hated; who had come only to kill; who had him completely at his mercy. No pleading and no bribing would serve a purpose, now; no tricks could turn the tables on the man who stood like a solid block, ten feet away, and with the gun unwavering in his hand.

Downing wanted time only for one thing; to gloat.

“Saying your prayers?” he sneered.

“In my own way,” Rollison said. Even if he started to get up, he wouldn't have a chance. His gun was in his coat pocket; he had taken it for granted that there would be no danger today; that there was an armistice until he saw de Vignon. He'd forgotten Sam; or rather, forgotten that Downing would have his own hate motive.

“Well, be quick about it,” Downing said. “I've hated your guts for years, Rollison, but I didn't think I'd ever be able to finish you off myself. It'll be nice and simple, see—de Vignon will get the blame.”

“He won't like that, Sam.”

“I don't care what he likes. I've finished with de Vignon. I've done all his dirty work for him in London for a couple of years. Why, it was doing a job for de Vignon that I got my last stretch! Now he turns on me—blames me for what you did in London. Calls me a fool, says I don't know the first thing about you. Maybe I don't.
He
never will. Curtains for the Toff!”

He laughed – and pulled the trigger.

 

Nothing happened.

 

The faint click sounded, clear, not loud. Downing's eyes dropped, he moved the gun up, taken completely by surprise at this failure. Rollison twisted, grabbed a pillow and raised it. Downing pointed the gun again, his fat finger squeezed; and there was another
click!

Rollison flung the pillow.

Downing threw the gun, and the missiles met in mid-air and dropped between the two men. Rollison leaned out of bed and grabbed at his coat. Downing leapt at him, kicked against the pillow and stumbled. Rollison felt his gun and pulled it out – and the door banged open.

A man called in French: “Stop that, Downing
!”

Downing ignored the order. As he levelled the gun Rollison saw two of de Vignon's bodyguards. His mind worked swift as light. De Vignon had expected this, had taken the bullets out of Downing's gun, had sent his own bodyguard to save Rollison from harm. All that went through his mind as Downing came at him, and the men behind called out harshly. The gun was in Rollison's hand. Downing couldn't harm him physically, but if he were taken prisoner and hauled back to de Vignon, M'sieu le Comte would use pressure to make him talk. Not that Downing would need much persuasion to repeat what he had heard of the telephone conversation; and it would be enough to make de Vignon doubt the story he had heard from the
Sûreté.

Downing smashed a blow at his face. Rollison felt little as he moved his head, but heard Downing's fist smack against the metal of the head-panel. Downing hid the others from sight, but they were almost on to him, in a moment would drag him off.

Rollison fired.

The shot sounded deafening; there was hardly a flash, because the muzzle was so close to Downing's body. Downing's eyes opened spasmodically, his mouth opened too; then they closed and he slumped forward.

De Vignon's men stood back. There was a tiny wisp of smoke from Rollison's gun.

 

The two men, who had obtained a master key from a maid, had taken Downing away. Rollison didn't try to guess how they would get him out of the hotel. He felt the sickness of reaction. He had never liked killing and certainly had not liked this one. Probably no one would know that it had been done in cold blood; that he had killed Downing to make sure that he would be able to continue his work with de Vignon. There was plenty of reason and ample excuse, and Downing was a murderer; but he felt sick.

He stood in the bathroom, watching the top of the sheet soaking in the hand-basin. The water was bright red; there had been little bleeding before Downing had been lifted off him, and it had all gone on to the sheet; the evidence would soon be gone. He wrung it out, soaked it again for a few minutes, then felt satisfied that it was clean enough not to rouse anyone's suspicions that it was blood. He wrung as much water out of it as he could, and spread it over the bath. Then he changed his mind, took it back to the bed and threw half a cup of cold coffee over it, making sure that the sheet was soiled. He shivered and started to dress.

Presently there was a tap at the door.

He looked up, and his heart began to race. Had that shot been heard? Could anyone near have failed to hear it?

“Come in,” he called.

A woman said: “The door is locked.”

He recognised the voice, went across and opened the door, and forced a smile.

Mademoiselle “Blanc” came in, smiling. She looked exactly as she had when she had left him last night; radiant and ravishing. The spiritless obedience to everything he had ordered had been a clever act. She wore a dark-red suit and waist-length mink coat.

“Now we can really be ourselves,” she said.

“Wonderful,” said Rollison. The word almost choked him. He had to snap out of this mood. He couldn't trust himself to talk freely to the girl, to answer the questions which would be in her words, whether they seemed like questions or not. “Superb!” he said, and drew her nearer, put his arms round her and kissed her savagely. For a moment she was rigid; then she seemed to melt.

At last he let her go.

She laughed, a little breathlessly.

“I do not feel so safe, now.”

She opened her handbag and handed him a small red handkerchief. He took it, looked into the mirror, and saw the red smear at his lips, very like blood. He laughed; and laughter did him good. He didn't try to stop himself, but went on, wiping his lips at the same time. He could see the girl's reflection in the mirror, and she was smiling, as if delighted.

He finished.

“Thanks. But is once enough?”

“At midday, yes, I think so,” she said, and her eyes mocked him. “You are truly a remarkable man.”

“Judging from one kiss? I—”

“No, no.” She went across to the chair and sat on the arm; and her movements had a subtle, willowy grace, everything about her was seductive. “Anyone who can kill a man one moment and laugh and make love the next—that is what M'sieu le Comte would really call a
man.”

“I see. But Downing would have killed me.” He didn't ask her how she knew about the shooting, but finished dressing, taking great care with his collar and tie. His head was muzzy,-but he already felt the good effect of the potion which Latimer had brought him; and it was time he had another. He went to the bathroom and took it. The girl hadn't moved when he returned. “And he was in our way, my dear.”

“And in the Count's way. Did you know that you owed the Count your life?”

“I thought he had something to do with it.”

“There was a quarrel. The Count thought that Downing would come here, in anger, and removed the bullets from his gun. But for that—” She broke off. “I think you understand that, as well as one other thing, Richard.”

“Not fair,” he said.

She frowned. “I do not understand.”

“My Richard to your what?”

The frown cleared, and she laughed gaily. She came across and gripped his hands, put her cheek against his, and whispered: “
Yvonne,
Richard!”

“And what's the other thing you think I understand?”

She drew back and pouted, making herself provocative, and yet he could see that she was assessing him shrewdly; she was older than he had thought at first.

“Are you so slow? This is a fine city, Richard, and the police are very good—sometimes. They would not like to think that two Englishmen quarrelled in a Paris hotel, and one killed the other. It is true, there is no evidence now, but—the body, it will be found if necessary. And the bullet in it. And the bullet will be found to have come from your gun. You understand?”

Rollison laughed. “Forget it.”

“I don't think you should forget, Richard.” What is the death of Downing between friends? M'sieu le Comte can keep the body and use it as a threat. Why should that worry me? We're going to work together, aren't we?”

“M'sieu le Comte is so anxious you should not forget that,” said Yvonne Blanc.

Last night he had thought Blanc was an assumed name; now, he doubted it. There was Marcel Blanc, awaiting trial in London; and while it was a common name and could be a coincidence, he didn't think that was likely. There was a family likeness between Marcel and Yvonne, and each worked for the Count.

“I've a good memory, when I need it,” Rollison said. “Did they get the body away safely?”

“But of course. They used a large basket, but such details, they do not matter.”

“Good. And why have you come to see me?”

“Just to remind you that there are some things you must not forget,” she said. “And one of them is that M'sieu le Comte expects you to do what he requires. He will require to see you, at the Rue de l'Arbre, at half-past six—”

“I see.” Rollison patted his coat into position, and refilled his cigarette-case from a box which Jolly had put in with his luggage. “Mistake number one, Yvonne—not at half-past six, half-past seven or any time tonight or any other night. I've paid my first and last visit to the Love Club.”

He beamed at her. He felt better and was almost himself; shock and the physic probably shared the responsibility for that. He relished the frown which wrinkled her forehead, and stopped her from looking just a lovely young woman.

She waited for him to go on.

“That's all,” said Rollison.

“You say you will not see him?”

“Oh, no,” said Rollison. “Just that I won't meet M'sieu le Comte at the Rue de l'Arbre. If I'm to be any use, I mustn't be seen there again. He must meet me somewhere else, and if he's wise, it will be somewhere he isn't likely to be known, or where everyone's discretion can be relied on. Your turn to understand.” He proffered cigarettes. She didn't take one, but was smiling again.

“And we shall meet soon—and often, yes?”

“Very often,” said Rollison, and there was a glint in his eyes. “I don't think you're safe here.
Au revoir.”

“Au revoir.
But wait! I nearly forgot the most important message. M'sieu le Comte will be engaged tonight, the meeting will be tomorrow. He needs more time to make inquiries, I believe.
Au 'voir
again!”

She laughed, and turned to the door. Rollison reached it ahead of her, and watched her go to the lift. He went back, frowning. He was glad of a day's respite; but de Vignon could use that killing against him, a development he hadn't considered in that tense moment of decision.

He had left the gun under his pillow, a little factor that de Vignon had forgotten. He pulled the pillow aside.

The gun wasn't there.

Neither de Vignon nor Yvonne would forget anything that mattered.

 

 

A closed car drew up outside the
Hôtel Mulle
and the chauffeur sprang out. He opened the door as Rollison stepped from the hotel. It was exactly six-thirty; a message had said that the car would arrive at that time. The streets were dark, but the night was fine. Rollison sat back against luxurious upholstery, and had room to stretch out his legs. He felt physically much better, although his head was tender, and a few of the bruises were still painful when touched. Nothing of interest or excitement had happened since Yvonne had gone the previous day. A disgruntled Latimer had called in, to say that he had been detailed to a job by his London office, and hadn't been back.

Rollison had taken it easy for twenty-four hours, and had lunched lightly.

The car slid swiftly along quiet roads, only now and again merging with thick and noisy traffic. Suddenly the blinds at the side and back windows dropped, operated without warning by the driver. That was when they were nearing a built-up area, which Rollison hadn't identified. The driver had taken so many twists and turns that Rollison wasn't sure what district he was in; in London, no trick like that could have fooled him.

They drove for twenty minutes.

When the car stopped, he was inside a courtyard, something like that which led to Madame Thysson's. The doors behind were being closed by a man in uniform. Another uniformed man stood at a doorway leading to a wide flight of stairs. The light was poor, but when Rollison drew closer to the stairs he saw that the “uniform” was livery; these were flunkeys, even to their white gloves. He hid a smile as he was taken up the stairs by one man, who did not speak; they reached a wide landing. Everywhere was spaciousness and opulence. A door, standing open, showed a ballroom, with three huge chandeliers.

Rollison was taken along a side passage, carpeted in deep red, then into a small, exquisitely furnished room. Everything here was genuine Louis Quinze. It was more like an exhibition room than one in which human beings lived and took their ease.

His hat, coat and stick were taken away from him, and he was left alone again. When the doors closed, there was no sound. He was beginning to get impatient when the door opened and de Vignon appeared.

“My friend, how good to see you!” This time he came with outstretched hand. It was a hard hand, and gripped tightly. He was dressed in a lounge suit which fitted perfectly, appeared to ooze wealth; and, he would like to think, had an aristocratic air. Rollison studied him dispassionately. It would be easy to underrate this man; he was handsome in a striking, unusual way, and a man of mental as well as physical strength. The reflection itself was absurd; only a brilliant man could have won his position in Paris and, in spite of his reputation, be immune from the law.

He linked arms with Rollison.

“I was delayed just for a few minutes, I had intended to be here to welcome you.”

He led the way into the next room, a large one with a dining-table large enough to hold twenty people; two places were laid, a flunkey stood behind each chair. Rollison glanced about him, and had difficulty in concealing his surprise; for there was gold plate. He was dreaming, this wasn't really gold plate glistening beneath the light of two chandeliers, or could it be?

It was.

De Vignon would expect a comment.

“You've taken a hundred years off my age,” murmured Rollison.

His host was delighted.

“I thought perhaps you would appreciate it, my friend. And I also felt that you would be happy to dine alone with me. We have so much to discuss.” He rested a hand on Rollison's shoulder. “I have excellent news about you!”

“Good,” murmured Rollison.

“I did not know that such a man as you existed,” said de Vignon. “I thought that there was no rival to me in Europe! But “—he laughed—” you have some idea, now, of what I think of the police. They have the same opinion of you, in London, as the fools here have of me, in Paris. Police!” He snapped his fingers. “Nothing can be denied a clever man.”

“Why should it be denied him?” said Rollison.

They sat down, and a flunkey above all flunkeys came from double doors, each opened by a lesser creature, and the feast began.

 

Rollison sat back in an easy chair trimmed with gold brocade, smoked a small cigar, and looked into the reflection of the leaping log fire in the large bowl of the brandy glass. He felt no desire to move or speak, and de Vignon seemed touched by the same lethargy. It was two hours since Rollison had arrived; two fantastic hours.

He breathed: “This is the life.”

“The only life,” agreed de Vignon. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes bright; he had regained his slow, deliberate way of speaking, but now appeared to have to consider each word with even more care. “Not possible, I believe, in England.”

Rollison put up a hand: “Let's not talk about that.”

“But possible here,” murmured de Vignon. He sniffed the bouquet of the brandy, and lowered the glass. “Rollison, I have friends in many places. The loudest voice in the world is money. Yesterday and today, I have heard remarkable stories about your activities in London, and the police at Scotland Yard—” He gave a beatific smile. “How they dislike you.”

“Fools,” said Rollison, negligently.

“I have also received word from other friends, on the staffs of the great newspapers, and it is evident that you have created a fine reputation.”

“Robin Hood,” murmured Rollison. “Don Quixote. All that kind of rubbish.”

“But profitable. And yet,” went on de Vignon, “you have little opportunity for good living in England. Now in France, with a romantic people whose imagination can be fired by one man, it would be different. I confess, I am not well liked by most people. I have not the personality, only the organising mind. Now you—people take quickly to you, my friend, I have already discovered that. You could become popular in a very short time. Your French is excellent, and—” He paused, and looked dreamily at his glass again.

“Nice of you,” said Rollison politely.

“Now there are so many political squabbles, so much uncertainty, an unhappy and dejected people—not all, but many of them.” De Vignon belched slightly. “They will respond to a magic touch. I have myself asked, how could you best work with me. And—”

Rollison opened his eyes a little wider.

“You will agree that I am cunning,” said de Vignon, beaming at his own virtues. “This far, my friend. At first, I believed what Downing told me about you. That was why I attacked you on the road, why I wanted you to return to London—to be killed, on the way! Then” – he was very frank – “you told me about Downing's grudge against you, and—I thought perhaps I had been wrong. So, I removed the bullets from Downing's gun!
”

“
I see,” murmured Rollison.

“Now I have studied the reports received about you from London,” said the Count. “You have won a great reputation by appearing to befriend the poor, the outcasts, the down-and-outs of London. Yes?”

“Poor dupes,” said Rollison.

“Exactly the word, my friend, but regard the way in which they have assisted you. You are so popular with the
demi-monde
and in the poor districts of London that the police are handicapped. You have the poor championing you—I understand aright?”

Grice and Poincet, between them, had worked miracles.

“I think you could say that,” conceded Rollison.

“Wonderful, my friend! Now with the people behind one, what cannot a man do? I confess that although I am wealthy and live as a man should live, I am confined to certain limits” – de Vignon shrugged. “I have an organisation without a heart—without sympathy. I am dispassionate and honest with myself, and see what is required. If it were possible for a man to become a favourite among the rich
and
poor of Paris, as you are in London, he would climb to power. I cannot do that. You would need to be launched on Paris society, and that will be simple. I can trust you” – he smiled broadly – “because you would not wish to betray a man who could prove you killed Downing! Also, when you are famous, you will champion the cause of the poor.”

“Aiming at what, in particular?” asked Rollison, who still looked nonchalant, but no longer felt it.

“But my friend!” de Vignon leaned forward earnestly. “I confess that—I have some wealth and an efficient organisation and yet there are difficulties. I must always be on my guard against the authorities. There are people beyond my influence, many of them wealthy. Now if you were to be accepted by them, and then suggest a great effort for charity, a stupendous effort, perhaps a
Bal Masqué,
you would have many of the wealthy on your side. A rich man likes to receive some value for his gifts. You would become a distinguished, popular public figure. Then you would find out, and I would assist you, where the rich have their weaknesses. We could exert a little pressure. Do not misunderstand me, my friend, you would simply obtain the information, I would see to all the rest. And on the other side, in the underworld itself, you would become an influence. You would have many friends who would talk freely of the big criminals and their coups. We would be in the market for stolen jewels, organise a cutting and re-setting workshop and, through you and others, sell the jewels back to their owners. It is already done on a small scale, but not properly organised or exploited. You agree?”

“A marvellous conception,” purred Rollison.

“We would then spread our activities, in marry spheres. We would organise crime so that I see nothing less,” declared de Vignon, “than the greatest illegal organisation in Europe!”

“So,” murmured Rollison.

“Influence everywhere, power in many places, what is in America called protection racket; all these and other things—we would be kings.”

Rollison considered. “What about the queens?”

“Already there is a woman who has tried to put this into practice. A woman!” de Vignon sneered, and for the first time since Rollison had arrived, his voice hardened, as with hate. “A Madame Thysson, who—”

“Ah, yes,” said Rollison. “I've heard of her.” He touched the bruises on his forehead. “I won those, trying to get information from her. Quite a woman if she hadn't worn a mask.”

The hardness went out of de Vignon's voice, he chuckled and oozed goodwill.

“I am glad you told me of that, my friend. I heard that she received a visitor, and believed that it was you. Immediately I knew that you were a man of exceptional calibre. Tell me, why did you go there?”

“Shock tactics,” said Rollison. “I had heard about the lady, and Odette mentioned her.” He dropped the name Odette out gently. “There are such great possibilities in Paris, and I wanted to make a deep impression quickly.”

“You succeeded,” said de Vignon. “I doubt whether Madame Thysson has received such a shock in all her life. But you need not pay too much attention to her in future, when the time is ripe I can move against her.”

Rollison's eyebrows shot up.

“I am
quite
sure,” said de Vignon. “And you can assist. She is known to be extremely fond of Odette Rivière. You must make sure that Odette is kept safe—we can use her to exert pressure on Madame Thysson.”

“I see,” said Rollison. “She is quite safe.”

“Good! Now, our only urgent problem is to launch you on Paris.” He chuckled. “I shall play little part in that myself, but you will have all the help you require. It will be dependent chiefly on your own personality and position, and I am
not
troubled about that. Now, my friend, more brandy?”

“Not now,” pleaded Rollison.

“I wish that I could spend the rest of the evening with you,” said de Vignon, “but there is some business I must attend to. One thing—are you wise to stay at a second-rate hotel like the
Mulle?
”

“As a poor Englishman—”

“I will arrange a suite for you at the
Splendide,
where I am not without influence,” promised de Vignon.

 

The same closed car took Rollison back to the
Hôtel Mulle.
He did not know what part of Paris he had visited, and at that stage, did not greatly care. Poincet could almost certainly tell him when he needed to know. He was greeted with respect by the staff, went along to his own room, and flung off his gloves and coat. He stood in the middle of the room, scowling. There was a message on his dressing-table; Latimer would be busy on his special assignment all this evening. A good thing; Rollison preferred to be alone.

He felt stifled; contaminated.

He went out again, walked some distance and made sure that he was not followed, then caught a bus from the Place de l'Opera and stood with the crowd on the swaying platform at the back. Like most of the single-decker buses in Paris the bus was crowded to overflowing. He rubbed shoulders with ordinary men and women, who glanced at him furtively or openly, and watched the countless little cafés with gaily lighted windows, felt the wheels bumping over the cobbles of side streets, and gradually felt less stifled.

He got out, near the funicular railway in Montmartre, and walked up the steps to the Church of the Sacred Heart. He leaned against the parapet, and saw Paris, a sea of myriad twinkling lights, stretched out in front of him. The stars above seemed pale and tiny, the lights below large, warm and friendly.

A beggar approached him, slowly, without speaking; dumb. He dropped a five-hundred-franc note into the outstretched palm, and received an incoherent blessing. He turned and went into the church, and saw the glowing candles, fifty or sixty people praying, including three old women, dressed in black, who were maintaining the never-ending prayer which had gone on, in relays, unbroken for many years. He walked round, slowly, and then came out and looked over Paris again. Staring towards the glowing lights in the centre of the city, he seemed to see a face materialise out of the faint mistiness; de Vignon's. It was like an obscene deity, gloating over helpless victims.