A Mask for the Toff (15 page)

Her hand tightened on his.

“Is that true?”

“You have only to dance with me again, to find out.”

They finished dancing, and he took her back to her rascal, the young, fresh-faced man who had taken him to the house in the country. He bowed low and turned away, and then walked towards the main entrance. He stood for a few minutes in the cooler air, and saw the surging crowds across the road – closer, now, the barricades had been brought nearer. Some venturesome youths had come close to the steps, and the
gendarmes
were driving them away with their batons. They offered little resistance, the encounter was mostly good-humoured. He saw the plump Papa Poincet, wiping his neck and forehead, and caught a glimpse of Yvonne, watching him. He ignored Poincet and went to the girl.

“Why did you come out here?” she asked.

“I must have drunk out of the wrong bottle, I was beginning to feel sleepy.”

“If the police drank out of the wrong bottles—”

Rollison said: “Look at Papa Poincet.”

The plump clown was smothering a yawn behind a pink hand. He snatched his hand away, and looked almost shame-faced. Rollison took Yvonne's arm and led her through the ballroom; and here and there a clown was yawning. Two turned abruptly and went into one of the ante-rooms.

Yvonne said in a tense voice: “It will succeed.”

“Half an hour from now, there need not be a single jewel left in the room.”

“I feel—suffocated!”

“You'll recover from that,” said Rollison. “Everything's ready, I hope?”

“Our men are here, mingling with the guests.”

“De Vignon?”

“He will stay.”

“He's a fool,” said Rollison, dispassionately.

He left her, and knew that she was watching him narrowly. She had not exaggerated when she had said that she felt suffocated; she was on edge, the next fifteen minutes would drag at her heels like lead. He saw de Vignon, dancing; laughing and gay. Latimer was near the door, looking at the yawning clowns; his mask did not hide his frown.

Jolly approached.

“I omitted to say, sir, that your stick is where you asked me to put it.”

“Thanks,” said Rollison.

Jolly moved away.

Soon, quite suddenly and loud above the music came the roar of a shot.

 

 

It came from the platform where the orchestra played, and three men leapt up to it, brandishing revolvers. Those near pressed back. The music stopped abruptly, except for two violins, and these soon faded. At the back, people were calling out
.
One of the men on the platform fired twice, into the air; there was a sudden tense hush, uncanny in its completeness; and then a woman screamed. Some turned and fled towards the main doors; and they closed slowly, men stood in front of them, in fancy dress and brandishing guns. Here and there a clown rushed forward, only to be tripped up; but most of the clowns had disappeared.

A woman screamed: “
Non, non!”

One of the trio on the platform pulled the microphone towards him, and his voice came the shocked quiet.

“All attention, please! If you do as you are told no one will be hurt. The ladies will immediately take off their jewels and give them to the men who come to collect. Please, there must be no delay.

Rollison, standing near the platform, saw a tall cavalier draw a sword which glinted in the light – and a shot rang out. The man's sword clattered, a woman screamed again, the man clapped a hand to a bleeding wrist. There was a sigh, of mingled horror and fear. Three women fainted; Rollison saw the crowd give way as they fell and men tried to save them.

Masked men, some in evening-dress and some in costumes, moved among the throng, carrying large open sacks. The women dropped their jewels into them, some hastily, as if the gems burned them, some reluctantly. Here and there, a thief snatched the jewels from a woman's throat, or pulled them roughly from her hands. At each door armed men stood waiting to resist any sign of revolt, but there was none. Over by the main door, Latimer stood still. Jolly was near him.

Rollison heard a movement behind him. A man whispered: “It is magnificent!”

“The Devil's triumph,” Rollison said.

He didn't turn round, and de Vignon did not stop, but moved a little farther away.

Close to Rollison, watching him, was Madame Thysson.

The thieves moved swiftly, the sacks became heavy, the sparkle of the night had gone. Women were crying genuine tears of grief, as for the loss of something beloved. The main doors opened for the first time; the guard by them was doubled. The first sacks were taken through. Through the open doors it was possible to see clowns, stretched out on the floor, others sitting in chairs and leaning back, as if unconscious. The crying continued, like a wave of despair. A stream of men carrying the sacks went through to the front entrance, where cars were drawn up. Across the dark road, the throng of people at the barricades watched, in strange, unexpected silence. The gendarmes among them were leaning back against the barricades, yawning or inert.

Rollison saw Madame Thysson move; and her Robespierre came with her. She stood in front of Rollison, and he could see scorn, perhaps hatred, in her eyes.

“Now are you satisfied? Now are you pleased?”

“Silence, madame!”

“You may fool the rest, but I know—”

Rollison gripped her arm.

“Silence, if you please!” He spoke in French, angrily.

The men on the platform jumped down and ran along the path made by the men who had taken the jewels. They brandished their guns, while others by the main doors stood on guard. The last man went out, the door swung to.

Robespierre knocked Rollison's arm away.

“I have a mind to kill you,” he said harshly.

“Postpone it,” Rollison said. “Madame! This is my dance.

It was absurd. There was no music, only a fresh burst of lamenting. Men who had been cowed became brave and rushed towards the doors, hammering, thumping and kicking on them. The din almost drowned the sound of nearer voices.

“Come on.” Rollison took Madame Thysson's arm and led her to the nearer door, the first to open. He raced with her, towards the front, with her escort close behind. A stream of people followed. The last of the thieves had reached the main hall by now, but there was a sound of footsteps here, against a background of the roar in the great room. Other doors opened and men burst out, but Rollison and Madame Thysson were among the first to reach the front hall. As he went, Rollison picked up his gold-topped stick, which was behind an alcove curtain.

Madame Thysson stopped, abruptly.

The clowns were no longer on the floor or reclining, but lined up in the great doorway and at the top of the steps; each one was armed. Over their heads, Rollison and Madame Thysson saw the forty or fifty men, de Vignon's thieves, crowded about their cars, some inside, some outside. They were frightened both by the armed police behind them and by the sudden roar from the people across the road. The people who had come to watch beauty and wealth now broke the barricades, the gendarmes there were helpless. The crowd surged upon the cars and the men who were trying desperately to get away. Sticks, arms and boots began to rise and fall, there was an ugly, savage roar.

Madame Thysson's fingers quivered on Rollison's arm. She looked at him.

“What—what
is
this?”

“Your friends are getting their own back,” Rollison said. “A whisper was started among them a few minutes ago—that thieves were going to snatch the proceeds of the ball, all of which are to go to the Good Society. Your friends don't approve. M'sieu le Comte's friends are not going to enjoy themselves.”

“And—you
knew
this?”

Rollison laughed.

“Papa Poincet and I are good friends, madame!”

A woman came hurrying towards them, as if she were pursued by the Devil himself; and she was. The Devil, in the shape of de Vignon, was only a few yards behind her, thrusting his way through the crowd. The woman's face seemed distorted, even behind the mask, and she kept shouting a name.

“Richard—Richard—
Richard!”

Rollison swung round. Yvonne Blanc reached him, grasping for breath, clutched his hand and cried: “He's coming, he'll kill you. Run—”

Rollison exclaimed: “You, a
friend,
Yvonne?”

“Never mind that, he's coming!”

Rollison turned – the only man to look away from the road. The crowd was pressing closer to the open doors, to watch the shambles outside. De Vignon's men, completely at the mercy of the mob, were being beaten, kicked, scratched and torn. A cordon of policemen “clowns”, all armed, surrounded the cars and the sacks of precious stones. All that, Rollison knew; the roar was in his ears, but he didn't notice it, for he had time only for de Vignon. In his devil's guise the big man came on, drawing nearer slowly, looking only at Rollison.

“Get away!” cried Yvonne. “Get away!”

Rollison went forward. De Vignon thrust two men aside – and for the first time Rollison saw the knife in his hand – a long knife, glittering. De Vignon didn't speak but raised his hand, and the women behind him cried out, men shouted. De Vignon lunged at Rollison, the knife swept down. Rollison raised the stick, caught the blade on it, sent it spinning out of de Vignon's hand. The man made no attempt to retrieve it, but thrust out both hands, the fingers curled. Rollison tossed the stick high into the air, as the crowd swayed back, away from the madman. He felt de Vignon's hands clutch at his throat, and drove his fist into the man's stomach. De Vignon gasped and his hands dropped. Rollison hit out with a jab to the chin, but de Vignon slipped the blow and came on again, his eyes smouldering, his lips twisted, his pointed teeth like fangs. He smashed a blow at Rollison's head, then kicked at him.

Rollison covered up against the kick, and flung himself at the man. The cries of the people merged with the harsh breathing of de Vignon. They fell, rolled over, and for a deadly moment de Vignon was on top. Rollison felt the hands take his head, raise it – and smash it down on the marble floor. Pain surged through him, weakness numbed his muscles – and then he heard a shot, sharp and clear.

His head fell, but not heavily.

He felt de Vignon slump on to him, and he could scarcely breathe. Then men pulled de Vignon away. Spots of blood fell on to Rollison's face, warm, nauseating. Yvonne reached him and helped him to sit up, but he hardly noticed her. His vision was blurred, but one thing stood out: Madame Thysson, with a small, smoking automatic pistol in her hand.

De Vignon's eyes were open, his lips parted. Madame Thysson stared at him – and then slowly took off her mask.

“Now, Paul, you know me,” she said softly.

De Vignon cried: “No, no!” He stretched out a trembling hand. “It is impossible!”

“Your own wife killed you,” said Madame Thysson. “And I am glad, it is like killing the Devil.”

De Vignon's eyes were glaring, his lips worked. Then suddenly he collapsed.

Several clowns broke through the ring, among them Papa Poincet.

 

Papa Poincet, looking more than a little ridiculous with his powdered and painted face, straightened up from de Vignon. The man lay on a couch in one of the small rooms. Rollison, Madame Thysson and Yvonne were also there, with two other policemen. Papa Poincet nodded and sniffed, and said: “Yes, yes. He is dead. I am sorry. I would have liked to have supervised that departure myself. But—perhaps it does not much matter.” Poincet smiled, and looked grotesque. “There will be a hundred witnesses to say that you were justified in killing your husband, madame.”

Madame Thysson did not speak.

“And so, I need not now detain you,” Papa Poincet said. “M'sieu Rollison, you are feeling better?”

“I'm all right.”

“Excellent,” said the detective. “We shall meet tomorrow, when there is less emotion to disturb the atmosphere. And, perhaps, less mystery. You are Mademoiselle Blanc?” He turned his piercing eyes on Yvonne.

“That is so.”

“Grieving, no doubt, grieving,” said Papa Poincet. He sniffed. “Mr. Rollison, you will find another room at your service, I am told.”

“Thanks,” said Rollison, “but we're not quite ready to go. Did you get the jewels?”

“All of them, yes, we prevented them from being distributed among the crowd! No doubt most of their owners will feel grateful, insurance companies should also feel grateful, the fund will increase considerably and be distributed by the Good Society. Good! But it is not, I think, always wise to do good by stealth.” He bowed to Madame Thysson. “It is not possible for the authorities to close their eyes indefinitely, madame.”

He went to the door and opened it.

There was no one outside except Madame Thysson's Robespierre. He joined them as they walked towards another small room. Jolly lingered at a distance. They could hear the sounds of dance music, and not far off, a group of people laughing; it would not be normal, but it would be happier.

They went into the room.

Madame Thysson said: “I think I understand now, Mr. Rollison. You completely deceived me, as well as Yvonne.” She stretched out her hand, and Yvonne took it. “Yvonne worked for me, but de Vignon did not know that. That was how I knew about your plans.”

Rollison moved unexpectedly, pulled Yvonne towards him and kissed her. She drew back, but there was gaiety in her eyes.

“I meant it, that time,” said Rollison. “You fooled me completely, ma chèrie. Did de Vignon really have a spy in your camp, madame?”

“He believed that Yvonne was his spy. Yvonne's brother was a reckless young man, as weak as she is strong, and was completely subjugated by de Vignon. We did not know that until it was too late to stop him from going to London with Odette.”

“Who is Odette?” Rollison asked.

“She is my daughter,” said Madame Thysson. “De Vignon's step-daughter. I had tried to keep her identity from him, but he found out, and with Marcel's help, kidnapped her. He did not know that the Madame Thysson he hated was his wife.”

“Now I understand why you used a mask,” said Rollison.

“Lately, de Vignon began to feel the effect of my work against him,” went on Madame Thysson. “He knew that I was working with the Good Society, knew that I found ways and means of tricking him. He did not know why. He could not believe that I had no criminal motive—he was a man who did not believe in goodness.” She paused, and there was silence, but it was reposeful, all tension had gone. “He thought that the reputation which was being built up as Madame Thysson was a true one, that I would depose him from his eminence. Eminence! And so he plotted to take Odette away, using Marcel. How he made Odette doubt me, I don't know—”

“By telling her what you'd already made half the truth,” said Rollison. “Of your reputation.”

“Perhaps. I was pleased to think that Odette would be away from Paris. The next I heard was that she was with you, that there had been grave trouble. I had a man watch your home. He told me that she was well. I did not want her back in Paris, because she would be in greater danger here than there. When you arrived here, I was confused, but—I had heard of your work in London. It was a long time before I would believe anything that Yvonne told me about you.”

Rollison smiled. “Never believe Yvonne!”

“What really did happen in London?” asked Madame Thysson.

“Supposing we ask Odette?” suggested Rollison, mildly.

“Odette! But she is in—”

“Jolly!” called Rollison.

The door opened almost at once, and Odette came in.

 

Two lovely women stood for a moment, eyes glowing; and then they moved towards each other. Soon, Odette began to talk.

 

An excited Latimer came through the ballroom, where most of the revellers had gathered, found Rollison dancing with Yvonne, and refused to be sent away. They walked towards a passage and into one of the smaller rooms. Yvonne went off, and Latimer watched her go.

“Nice,” he said thoughtfully. “Rolly, the job was magnificent, but I still don't know how you did it.”