A Mask for the Toff (12 page)

He turned away abruptly and walked swiftly until an empty taxi drew level. Half an hour later, he was walking through the narrow streets of Montmartre. Little groups stood at the corners, talking in undertones, and most stopped as he passed. The
bistros
were half-empty. He turned into the mean streets of private dwellings, and heard music coming from many radios, children crying, talking, laughing. He came upon a large building with the door open and poor light inside, went in and was stopped by a little man in shirt sleeves who spoke rapidly in
argot.
There was no room, the house was full up.

“I want to look round,” said Rollison, and walked past the startled man. He found himself in a large room, which stank of sweat and cooking. Round the walls were single beds, with only a little space between each. At the far end was a big, round iron stove, with men huddled about it. Some were cooking, others sat on their beds, miserable if warm, hungry-looking. Several came across, cringing, begging. He went out suddenly, and some cursed him for no reason at all. Fifty yards along, a small shop was open. He bought cheese, bread, butter and tinned foods from a little man and a big woman who fell over themselves to fill the order as it became huge.

“Now, a big basket, please,” said Rollison. “You can have it back.”

“Yes, m'sieu, at once!”

They needed three large baskets.

The big woman took one, the little man a second and Rollison the third, and Rollison led the way back to the doss-house. The attendant gasped as they appeared. The mutter of conversation increased as they went in, and the men stood back, dazed, not yet even hopeful. He called out, almost wildly: “Now catch, all of you, stand round and catch!” He began to toss the food into grasping hands. The shopkeepers caught on; after the first scrambling voices were raised as men clutched the food.
Merci, m'sieu. Merci, merci, merci!
There seemed to be a thousand voices in a great crescendo.

He went out, leaving a card with the attendant, who hugged three tins and a paper packet to him. There was a drawing on the card but no name or address. He hurried along, with half a dozen people trailing him, including a well-dressed woman. In ten minutes he came upon a hospital. He went in and asked for the Children's Ward, and persuaded a nurse to take him there. He walked up and down the ward, where most were asleep, but some were awake, in pain. A woman sitting near one cot watched him, the nurse went to a restless child, then returned to Rollison. A third woman stood by the door. This was the woman who had followed him from the doss-house.

“How can I help you?” asked the nurse.

“How can I help
you
?”

The nurse smiled. In the subdued light, she looked comely but careworn.

“In many ways. These are mostly orphan chilren you understand, and—”

“Toys? Books?”

“Both, and all would be welcome.”

“I'll have them sent.” He hesitated, then took out his wallet and thrust a wad of notes into her hand. “Better still, you buy them.” He added a card and went out, to be greeted by the group which had followed him and was now waiting round the doorway. He laughed at them and they laughed with him, touched by his reckless mood of extravagance. The well-dressed woman, who had come as far as the ward, was among them. He walked along, with less furious energy now, until gradually the followers disappeared ; but one was still behind him.

His mood changed.

Footsteps, soft and insistent, were there all the time. He did not look round, did not know whether it was a man or woman. He dodged across the road and turned a corner; the footsteps came on, whoever was following made no attempt at concealment. He went on, stopping a few yards past a corner
bistro.

A woman passed it.

He waited for her, and she knew he was waiting and slowed down. It was almost dark. He could see that she was young, placed her as the woman he had seen in the Children's Ward. She drew up.

“You wish to see me, madame?”

“To tell you, sir, that you did much good tonight;
much
good. I inquired of the people who were waiting for you, and they told me what you had done before. What caused you to do it?”

Her voice was quiet, firm and pleasant.

“Pity?” Rollison made that a suggestion more than a statement.

“Perhaps,” she said. “If you would do more good, there are those who can tell you where it is most needed. It is not that you are drunk,” she added, “it could be a generous impulse, but—why should an impulse die?”

“Why, indeed,” said Rollison. “I am staying at the
Hôtel Mulle.
Will you come and see me?”

“I live at this address.” She pressed a slip of paper into his hand. “Will you come to see me? Soon.”

She turned, and walked away.

 

 

Latimer was in the hall of the hotel when Rollison returned, a little after midnight, and got up from a chair in the small lounge.

“Hallo,” said Rollison. “How's my conscience?”

“I wouldn't know. Aren't you familiar with it?”

“I've given it to your keeping,” said Rollison. “After tonight, it isn't safe with me.” They went upstairs.

“So it went off well?”

“Magnificently,” said Rollison. “Gold plate and gourmandising. I don't complain about his chef. De Vignon sees himself as a petty king, a kind of King of the Underworld. Clear case of schizophrenia. He is at one time a simple, sordid rogue with an itch for other people's money, and at others a true descendent of the great family of de Vignon, holding court. He knows that he'll never hold the traditional court again, and wants to build himself up as a private tyrant.”

“And Madame Thysson stands in his way,” said Latimer.

“Sure?”

“That's the rumour, and there's likely to be war to the knife between them,” said Latimer. “She's false Queen to his Pretender. How did you really get on?”

“I think I sold myself. He doesn't trust me as much as he would like me to think he does, yet, but we're half-way there. I am to be groomed as a Court favourite, launched upon the rich of Paris, turned into everybody's darling, and at the same time, make myself popular with the poor and needy. I've started that already. I gave myself over to an orgy of pity, and incidentally met—” He hesitated, groped in his pockets, and drew out the slip of paper. It was in fact a thin card, with more than the woman's name and address printed on it. He read aloud:
“The Good Society
—Sister Marie. Know anything about the society which calls itself good?”

“I've a vague feeling that I've heard something about it,” Latimer said.

“Could you find out some more?”

“It seems a safer job than most you've given me,” said Latimer. “Yes, old chap, but not tonight, I'm almost asleep on my feet. Shall we say by midday tomorrow?”

“Fine, thanks.”

Latimer, whose eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, and whose droll look had almost gone, stared at him thoughtfully, and slowly shook his head.

“Now what?” asked Rollison.

“Something's happened to you. You look like a mixture of devil and saint. I wouldn't like to be on the side of you that belongs to the Devil. Anything really happened?”

“I had a look into the cess-pit,” said Rollison. “And soon I shall be moving to the
Splendide,
where you will have to pay a small fortune to speak to me. You get off for some sleep, old chap, don't mind me. Jolly would call this one of my exalted moods. I don't know what gets into me, it's something to do with that conscience.”

“Here and now, I refuse to be its guardian,” said Latimer. “Good night.”

 

He was on the telephone at half-past ten next morning, obviously fresh and eager and interested. Rollison hadn't yet been out, but felt fit enough to go and challenge half the world.

“Rolly?”

“Yes, Pete.”

“This Society—how did you strike it?”

“It struck me. Why?”

“It's quite a thing. I knew I'd heard of it before, but it's not exactly big news. A kind of Salvation Army, modern version. No, not a religious organisation, just a group of people who think their duty is to do good amongst the evil. It started during the war, as a kind of relief movement to the worst sufferers during the occupation, then nearly died out, but started again some three years ago. It has a first-class reputation, gets a lot of support from most people with consciences, but is hamstrung through lack of funds.”

“Not enough people with consciences.”

“That's right. Like you.” Latimer was sardonic again. “It's an anonymous organisation. The actual missionary work, to give it a name, is done by women, mostly young women, who are known only by their Christian names. That address you have is a branch office. If you go there, you won't get the real names of the people you see—Sister Marie, Sister Sophie, Sister this, that or the other, anyhow. But there's one thing you ought to be warned about.”

“That sounds like business.”

“It is. Don't play the fool with it. One way and another, it's managed to win the affection of a lot of people. If a man like de Vignon got a grip on it and started to corrupt it—”

“I know,” said Rollison. “I'll give it a miss, for a while. Anything in the way of news?”

Latimer chuckled. “Poincet has heard about your doings last night. He's good. You've suddenly become a figure in low society.”

“That's me,” said Rollison. “Nothing if not a good mixer. What are you going to do today?”

“I'm free.”

“Then make friends with all the gossip columnists and Society editors. Try to get me a build-up. The Toff among the lowly and Milord Rollison in the
haut monde.
You'll have plenty of help from both sides, but I imagine that some papers will bar anything de Vignon tries to do.”

“They will.”

“Try to de-bar them,” said Rollison.

“After the last two days, I've stopped saying that anything is impossible,” said Latimer.

Three days later, he rang up to say that he had done his best, and thought Rollison would get a good Press. He himself had been recalled to London, but would rely on being called back here for any big move.

“Cross my heart,” promised Rollison.

 

Those Parisians and Parisiennes who were interested in the antics and activities of the monied, the famous and the notorious in all of the worlds that mattered, soon discovered the existence of M. Richard Rollison. Most of what they read was true. That the younger son of an English peer had come to live in Paris. That in England he had a great reputation for charitable work. That in Paris he had been readily accepted as an ornament of Society. Night after night, he was high on the list of distinguished guests at this ball, that dinner, or at an exclusive private party. He was a superb dancer; he was remarkably handsome; he had unusual charm; he was unmarried, eligible.

Within two weeks, his photograph had been in most of the newspapers and several of the shiny weeklies, three times his name had been linked, casually, with those of ladies of fashion and renowned beauty. There were paragraphs which described how he had visited this
salon,
that shop, this restaurant or that night club. By then, too, his visits to the poor districts, and his generosity there, were becoming widely known. By the end of the third week, it was difficult for him to go anywhere without being pointed out and waited upon with a mixture of flattery and obsequiousness which was remarkable for a man who spent, comparatively, little money. Doors closed to many, opened to him as by magic. Houses which de Vignon could never aspire to enter, readily gave him hospitality. He became friendly with ex-Ministers, which was easy, for there were so many, and present-day Ministers, which was little more difficult. He was vouched for by the British Embassy, which gave him an unfair advantage over many people. In every kind of company, he scintillated; with everyone, he appeared to be thoroughly enjoying himself.

He received messages of congratulations from de Vignon, but did not see him again.

One of the messages suggested that Rollison should inaugurate a
Bal Masqué
; only he, de Vignon said, could obtain the use of a ballroom at one of the great palaces. If he were to try—

Rollison tried, and succeeded, and the project hit the headlines.

Often, in the early evening, he descended upon the poorer districts and repeated his performance of that first night, always leaving a card behind him. Just as his reputation had grown in the East End of London, so it grew in Paris; but faster. The grooming and the build-up continued into the fifth week, without a serious pause. More and more references were made about the
Bal Masqué.
Ladies of experience volunteered their services, Rollison paid for the professional organisers. Two newspapers took it up in a big way.

Rollison telephoned Jolly each day.

Odette was still staying at the flat. She said very little, and spent most of her time reading or doing needlework, Jolly having produced the necessary materials. The Frenchman was no longer watching every day, but occasionally walked up and down Gresham Terrace; his interest hadn't waned. Marcel Blanc was to stand trial at the Old Bailey, early in the New Year. Evidence that Sam Downing had been in the vicinity on the night of Lady Murren's murder had been found, but – Jolly was careful to say – there had been no hint that Downing's whereabouts was known. Grice had stopped visiting the flat or sending a man. There had been no attempt to interfere with Odette, no one had shown any interest in her. Marcel Blanc had to rely on Court legal aid; he appeared to have neither money nor friends. He had not yet made a statement, and, as far as Jolly knew, had kept absolutely silent; the police believed that he was too frightened to talk.

Exactly five weeks after Rollison had left London, Jolly finished a brief telephoned report, and then said: “I read a great deal about you in the papers, sir.”

“Waste of space,” said Rollison. “You ought to read
le Figaro.”

“I have arranged for the delivery of the Paris papers,” said Jolly. “Miss Odette also reads them, and she has been more ready to talk recently, and follows your—ah—career with very close interest.”

“Keep trying to find out if she can tell you anything else,” said Rollison. “Anything new, it doesn't matter what, about Madame Thysson,”

“She has nothing to add,” said Jolly. “I have quite failed to persuade her to enlarge upon the subject.”

“Keep trying. And look after yourself.”

“I wish I felt that you were as secure as I,” said Jolly.

Rollison laughed as he rang off.

He looked round the huge room in the suite at the
Splendide;
the Royal Suite, and opulence. There were four rooms, and he used two of them. He had already given two cocktail parties, to carefully selected “friends” – the names provided by a list sent to him by de Vignon. They were likely to be early victims. One room was used by the organisers of the Ball.

The telephone bell rang again. He stretched out his hand. It might be from any one of a hundred people.

“Hallo.”

“Hallo, Richard!” It was Yvonne Blanc, whose voice was unforgettable. “How long is it since I heard you?”

“Too long,” Rollison said promptly.

She gurgled. “You will always say the right thing. And
do
the right thing. I congratulate you, m'sieu. There are other suggestions which I think will interest you, if you can spare the time from your all-conquering progress to dine with me.”

“
Tête-à-tête?”
asked Rollison.

Her laughter flowed so easily.

“Yes, no one else will be with us. I shall send a car for you, at half-past six. This time, there will be no gold plate!”

She rang off, giving him no time to comment. He felt his pulse quickening as he put down the receiver; that call had been like the bark of the long-awaited starter's gun. For the past few days he had expected it almost hourly.

He had promised himself one indulgence before his next interview with de Vignon or an agent: a talk with Sister Marie.

He went out, took a taxi, gave the Church of the Sacred Heart as his destination until he was sure that he was not being followed.

It was a clear, cold day. The district was squalid, few people were about in the early afternoon, and the shops were mostly empty. He stopped his taxi at a corner of the street, paid it off, and was conscious of the inquisitive gaze of those who were about. He walked towards the house of Sister Marie. It was larger than most of the others in the street, and stood in its own small grounds; more a meeting place than a private house. On a board outside were just the words:
The Good Society
—
Sister Marie.
The door was open.

He went in, to find a large room, with benches along three walls; and on the benches, parcels of food, toys, old clothes, everything that might be found useful for the poor. Two elderly women were packing parcels. One came towards him, and when he asked for Sister Marie he was taken to a small, bare office at the far end of the hall.

“Wait, please, Sister Marie will soon see you.”

He sat on a wooden chair, studying the small desk on which were some manilla folders containing papers, an inkstand and a portable typewriter. There was another desk and, in all, eight chairs. The only thing on one wall was a calendar; on another was a big map of the district, marked with coloured pins. He stood up and studied it. There were red, yellow and black pins; he guessed that the black represented bad areas, the other colours districts where there was not so much need.

There was no comfort; only strict utility. There were two doors, one opposite him.

He heard a woman approaching from the big room, but she didn't come in. He wondered if she would use the other door, but there was silence after a door closed. Then he heard muted voices. Already he had been here nearly fifteen minutes. He had patience in plenty, but wondered why he was being left alone. He began to feel uneasy, a feeling which he had not expected here.

Then the door opposite him opened, and a man stepped in: a man with a gun.