A Mask for the Toff (3 page)

The girl sat huddled in a corner, her eyes closed. There were puffy red marks at her throat, but she was breathing normally. He found a big lump on her right temple, but no other signs of injury.

Then her lips moved.

“Madame!” she moaned. “Madame Thysson. Madame …”

Her voice trailed off; and she didn't speak again, showed no reaction when he spoke to her.

 

 

One of Ebbutt's men came back, panting. He did not need to report that Downing and the two men had dodged him and his friends. Rollison took off his coat and put it round the girl. The others returned as Rollison backed out of the car.

“How is she?” a man asked.

“She'll do. One of you get a doctor, and the other telephone for the police. Yes, we must have the police.”

He didn't wait for comment, but went straight into Noddy's house, putting on all the lights. In the kitchen he found Noddy and his wife, both unconscious. The woman was lying across the little man, and beginning to come round. Noddy had an ugly wound in his forehead, but was breathing. Rollison hurried outside, where one of the three men was on guard by the car.

“She's coming to,” he said.

The girl who couldn't speak English was now sitting upright, and blinking in the faint light of the roof lamp.

“I'll look after her,” Rollison said. “When the police arrive, tell them I took her away.”

“Okay, Mr. Ar.”

Rollison opened the rear door, and the girl pressed back against the corner. He spoke in French.

“Do you speak French, madame?”

She started up.

“Yes, yes!”

“I am going to take you to my apartment, where you will be with friends,” said Rollison. “We'll soon be there.”

He smiled and closed the door, leaving the light on. The engine started at a touch, and he drove fast through the narrow streets, passing the
Blue Dog.
Two policemen and a police-car stood outside the pub, which would not make Bill Ebbutt happy or please his wife. Rollison swung right, away from the West End, drove for several miles and then turned off the main road. He chose a long, narrow side-road and drove slowly; no car turned after him. Satisfied that he wasn't followed, he went straight back to the West End, but he did not go as far as his flat in Gresham Terrace. He pulled up near Piccadilly, where the colourful advertisement lights were out and which was deserted but for a few hurrying figures and two policemen standing at a corner and talking.

A taxi came along.

Rollison whistled to it, and beckoned the policemen; they came up at once.

“You'll probably get a call to look for my car,” Rollison said. “Don't let anyone drive it away.”

The taxi drew up, and he opened the door, then beckoned to the girl.

She climbed out, unsteadily, and needed help.

“I don't understand quite, sir,” said one of the policemen. “If you'll tell me—”

“My friend is ill, I can't stop,” said Rollison, and pressed a card into the constable's hand. “That will find me. Gresham Terrace, driver.” He got into the taxi after the girl, and slammed the door.

 

Beneath the light of a lamp the policeman looked down at the card, and read Rollison's name and address. He frowned as the other man leaned over his shoulder, then stifled an exclamation.

“Rollison! Well, I'm beggared!”

“Why should you be?” asked the other man, and absently turned the card over. He found himself looking at a pencilled drawing, of a top hat, a monocle, a bow tie and a cigarette in a long holder, all so placed that they suggested a face; but the face wasn't there.

“See?” The other man was eager. “Rollison—the Toff. Often wanted to meet him, I have. I wonder what he's up to now. Nice bit of stuff with him, wasn't she?”

 

A light was on at the front of the flat, which was on the third and top floor of 22g Gresham Terrace. When Rollison reached the landing, with the girl's arm in his, the front door opened. Jolly, still dressed, stood aside and bowed slightly as they passed; if he felt any surprise, he showed no sign of it.

Rollison led the girl across the square hall and into the main room. He guided her so that she reached a chair with her back to the trophy wall. She sat down heavily. He took the coat from her shoulders and flung it over a chair, calling to Jolly:

“Coffee, I think, and plenty of sugar. If anyone from the Yard rings up, I'll speak to them.”

“Very good, sir.”

Rollison smiled down at the girl. He was tall and lean and handsome in an engaging, swash-buckling way, his grey eyes held laughter, and in spite of the flecks of grey in his dark hair, he looked young. He took out cigarettes and proffered them, but she didn't take one. He slipped the case away without lighting up, and spoke to her in fluent French.

“You needn't worry at all, and you can stay here for the night, or perhaps longer. I'll ask you a lot of questions in the morning. I shall have a doctor here soon, to see you and give you something to steady your nerves. You needn't answer my questions tonight, unless you want to.” Thank you,
m'sieu.”

“Now, I'm going to look at your head,” Rollison said. “They hit you, didn't they?”

“So hard,
m'sieu.”

He felt through the luxuriant brown hair, which gleamed in a light just behind her, and she winced. The large swelling remained on the temple, but there was no sign of blood. The puffiness at her throat remained.

“You'll be all right.”

He crossed to the telephone and dialled a neighbouring doctor; it was some minutes before there was an answer, in a sleepy voice.

“Sorry it has to be this hour,” Rollison said, “but what do you do with a young woman who's had a crack over the head that laid her out for nearly an hour, and who needs a good night's sleep?”

The man at the other end of the line said promptly: “Put her to bed.”

“But supposing the police want to question her, and she isn ‘t fit for questioning?”

“Blast you,” growled the doctor at the other end. “I'll come over.”

“That's a good idea,” said Rollison, as if surprised. “Thanks. Bring the mystic potions and whatnot in your little black bag, won't you?”

He put down the receiver, and lit a cigarette from force of habit. Jolly had come in and, without a word, put a woollen cardigan round the girl's shoulders, then disappeared. The room was already warm.

Rollison longed to ask a dozen questions, but wanted her to speak first. She leaned forward in her chair, looking at him intently; she hadn't so much as glanced away from him since they had arrived. Now, she looked round the room, then raised one hand.

“Please, why do you help me?”

“You need help.”

“So very much,” she said. “That man—”

“The Frenchman?”

“
No, no
! That other man.” She shivered, and closed her eyes; and had justified his guess that the man in the dark suit was a Frenchman. He rubbed his damaged shoulder gently, for it was aching, and waited for her to go on. “He did not want me to go away from that terrible house.”

“I wonder why?”

“I do not know,” she said, with convincing earnestness. “I had not seen him before. Marcel, he brought me. I should not have come, it was foolish of me to come, but Marcel wanted it so much. I do not understand why he should want to keep me here.” Her eyes were deep-brown pools of inquiry, but fear still lurked in the background. “I do not understand anything about it,
m'sieu.”

“
Do you know Marcel well?”

“Yes! We are to be married.”

Rollison said mildly: “Well, well. Does madame—”

The telephone bell rang, and the girl glanced towards the instrument. Rollison silently confounded it, and left the answering to Jolly. He pulled up a chair and sat astride it, close to his guest.

“Did Madame Thysson approve?”

She didn't answer, but stared as if in terror, then turned her eyes towards the telephone. It was as if she sensed that trouble was coming to her from this call. Had that or the name frightened her? Jolly's murmuring voice sounded in the background, and stopped.

“Who is it?” Rollison asked testily.

“A gentleman who will not give his name, sir,” said Jolly. “He says that he must speak to you urgently.” Jolly plainly thought that Rollison should do nothing of the kind. “Shall I tell him you're out?”

“I'll speak to him.”

Rollison stood up, puzzled by the girl's fixed stare. It was as if the telephone had some evil association. He picked up the receiver, conscious of that piercing gaze.

“Rollison speaking.”

A man said harshly: “Listen, you're asking for trouble. Get that girl out of your flat quick, or you'll regret it.”

It was probably Downing; he spoke breathlessly, as if he had been running, and loudly, perhaps because he knew that he was wasting his time. The girl leaned forward in her chair, more intent and fearful even than before.

Rollison might have been talking to a bosom friend.

“Really?” he said. “That's very interesting.”

The girl's hands were clenched; she wasn't fooled. But before the man on the line spoke again, the front-door bell rang. Jolly started to walk towards the hall, then changed his mind and hurried through a door into a passage which led off the big room to the kitchen. The bell rang again, the caller was impatient; policemen were often impatient.

The man on the other end of the telephone seemed to have plenty of patience.

“You needn't be so clever, Rollison. You don't know what you're doing. It's dynamite. Bring that girl to me. I'm waiting at the Burlington Arcade, Burlington Gardens end. Don't waste any time.”

“I hate wasting time,” drawled Rollison.

In spite of his drawl and his poker face, the girl was still sitting up tensely; he was sure that she sensed the nature of the call. Jolly came in and hurried across the room at the third ring at the front door bell, and left the sitting-room door open.

“You'll hate what happens to you if you play around with this,” said the man with the harsh voice. “Listen to me, Rollison—”

“I'm listening,” Rollison assured him.

He heard a sound in the hall, and it made him swing round towards the door. There was a gasp and a thud. He put the receiver down quietly, and turned to the door, approaching it in long strides. From it, he saw a man who could see into the room and so see the girl, but could not notice Rollison, who stood flat against the wall.

The girl screamed. Rollison pushed the door, and it banged against the man's foot. Simultaneously a shot roared out. The girl screamed again, and this time stopped with frightening abruptness.

The door swung back against Rollison. The man, on the turn, was still pointing the gun at the girl. Rollison jumped forward, striking at the outstretched arm and pushing the gun away. A bullet smacked into the floor.

The gunman struck at him.

Rollison said: “Too bad,” and drove his fist into the other's face, with the weight of a hundred and seventy pounds behind it. The man rocked back on his heels, then swayed forward. Rollison hit him again, and the sound of the impact was like the report of an air-pistol. The man toppled back into the hall and hit the floor, stretched out cold, his gun close to his limp hand. As Rollison picked it up he heard footsteps on the stairs. There was no respite, no time even to go to the girl or to Jolly.

 

 

Rollison didn't glance round at the girl, caught a glimpse of Jolly, who was picking himself up and looking greenly pale, and stepped to the side of the door. But the newcomer ran boldly up the last flight of stairs, and called out in a matter-of-fact voice: “Urgent as that, is it?”

Rollison said: “Come in. The girl's in the next room.”

A middle-aged man, wearing an overcoat and carrying an attaché case, hurried in. He was large, red-faced and fair-haired, and had a slightly bucolic look, with protuberant blue eyes and fleshy lips.

“What—”

“Hurry,” Rollison said.

The doctor gulped, stared at the fallen man and the gun now in Rollison's hand, and then obeyed. Jolly stood swaying. The gunman was still stretched out, with his eyes closed.

“Watch him, Jolly,” Rollison said.

He went out on to the landing, closed the front door and stood in darkness, listening. The loudest sound was that of his own breathing, but that quietened and there was silence.

He started slowly down the stairs.

The picture was clear in his mind, with many of its implications. These men so desperately wanted to get the girl away that they would take any risk. The gunman was undoubtedly Marcel, the Frenchman, who was to marry her. Sam Downing had telephoned so as to keep Rollison at the telephone while the Frenchman dealt with Jolly. Whether the Frenchman had come simply to kill, or only to attack Rollison and take the girl away, could be debated later. What mattered was the possibility that Downing and perhaps others were waiting outside, with a car.

Downing must have recognised Rollison; that was why they had known where to come.

Rollison reached the ground floor. Cold air swept in from the open front door, which was seldom locked; Dr. Mason hadn't troubled to close it. There was no car immediately opposite. Rollison went into the porch, peered along, and saw a car parked at the far end of Gresham Terrace; it hadn't been there when he had arrived, and Mason lived only three doors away. Rollison tried to pick out the figure of a man standing near the car, but couldn't be sure whether it was a man or a shadow. If he went farther into the street, whoever was there would know what had gone wrong.

The sound of the engine of the car suddenly shattered the quiet. Headlights stabbed out, bathing the houses opposite the end of the street in powerful light. The car moved off and swung round the corner.

“Now I can take a deep breath,” Rollison confided to the looming grey houses. “See you later, Sam.”

Back in his own front hall, he closed the door quietly. He could hear Mason talking, presumably to Jolly, but the voices did not come from the living-room. He didn't know whether the girl had been hurt, but hadn't much doubt that a bullet had silenced her scream. He went into the room, where a door was open at the far end near the dining-alcove. This led to the passage, the bedrooms and the kitchen.

There was a sound, as of tearing.

Rollison went along and paused at the open door of the spare room. The girl lay on the bed, her dress off, a silk slip leaving her arms and shoulders bare; Mason was supporting her with one arm. Her eyes were closed, and there was a patch of lint and cotton wool on her forehead, above the right eye.

Jolly was tearing a pillow-slip across and across into narrow strips.

Rollison said: “Didn't you bring bandages, Doc?”

Mason glanced up.

“One day I'll be doing this to you, only it will be a waste of time.”

He took a strip of the pillow-case and began to bandage the girl's head.

“How bad?”

“It could be worse,” said Mason. “Glancing wound, the bone wasn't touched. She's a lucky woman. She might be all right tomorrow, but it might be several days before you can get any sense out of her. I'll be able to tell you in the morning if she ought to be moved to hospital.”

Rollison nodded. Mason finished the bandaging, and lowered the girl's head gently on to the pillow. Jolly stepped forward and covered her with blankets and eiderdown. On the foot of the bed was a brassiere and a narrow suspender belt, on the floor a pair of silver shoes. Rollison crossed to the bed and turned the sheet down; the string of pearls was still round the lovely neck.

He put his hands behind her neck and unfastened the pearls, then drew them away gently. He took the string to the light and inspected the lustre thoroughly, holding them up, turning his head this way and that. At last he frowned, screwed the string up and tossed it into the air.

“Now what are you looking so clever about?” asked Mason gruffly.

“Just asking myself questions. Robbery wasn't the motive, or she wouldn't have been allowed to keep two thousand pounds' worth of oyster babies, would she?”

“Are they
real?”

“They're as much real pearls as you're a real doctor,” Rollison said. “Thanks a lot—come and have a drink for your trouble.”

“You'll get a bill,” said Mason, “but I'll have that drink.”

Rollison dropped the pearls on to the handsome walnut desk which stood slantwise across a corner, within hand's reach of the trophy wall, then opened a cabinet and displayed a connoisseur's variety of bottles and glasses. Mason glanced at the wall, shook his head as if to say that all this was beyond him, then took a whisky and soda. All was quiet now. Jolly came in from the hall, still looking pale.

“Come and help yourself,” Rollison said. “Then get to bed, Jolly.”

“I'm quite all right, sir, I assure you. The—ah—assailant struck me in the solar plexus, the effect was only temporary. As a precaution, I have tied his wrists and his ankles. He is still unconscious but I don't think he will be like that for long.”

Mason nearly dropped his glass.

“Of course, that chap in the hall!”

Rollison glanced at his own right hand; it was grazed and a little blood oozed up.

“He did the dirty work, but he wasn't alone; we haven't caught them all. Is that drink as you like it?”

“Yes, thanks. What is all this, Rolly?”

“You sound as precise as a policeman. I don't know. I can tell you what happened but can't tell you why, and I'll have to tell everything to a policeman soon. Wait, if you're really dying to hear.”

“No, I must get off.”

“She comes all the way from France, and some one tried to kidnap her. She had a lucky break, then someone suggested I might care to lend a hand. I brought her here, and the kidnappers tried to put her out of this world. It couldn't be simpler than that, could it?”

“Simple!” groaned Mason. “You be careful or you'll be a case of simple violent death. I must go, I'm expecting a night call anyhow; shan't get a wink of sleep if I don't make a move.” He finished his whisky hurriedly. “Shall I send a nurse?”

“That's what I call efficiency. Yes, please.”

Rollison saw him out of the flat.

The Frenchman in the dark suit was beginning to open his eyes. Jolly had left him exactly where he had fallen, with his hands tied in front of him and his ankles bound tightly together; he looked as if he would fit neatly into a coffin. Rollison dragged him by the shoulders away from the door, and propped him up so that he was sitting against the wall, near the living-room. His own left shoulder was aching.

“Jolly.”

Jolly appeared at the door.

“Have a look at my shoulder, will you? I didn't want to keep Dr. Mason.”

Rollison took off his coat and coat-shirt swiftly, and stood in singlet and trousers. The shoulder looked all right when he squinted down. Jolly began to prod, and Rollison winced. The man sitting against the wall groaned and opened his eyes, but didn't seem to realise where he was or what had happened. Jolly raised Rollison's arm.

“Did that hurt, sir?”

“Not much.”

Jolly moved the arm again.

“More, but still not much.”

Jolly made a third attempt.

“Twinges,” said Rollison.

“I doubt if it is more than a bruise, sir; if it were a dislocation you would have much more pain. I will get the embrocation.”

Jolly went off.

The Frenchman stared into Rollison's face, as if beginning to recall what had happened.

He was good looking in an effeminate way, with wavy, glossy black hair, pale features, a weak mouth which was very red, almost as if he used lipstick. He was in his early twenties, and dressed to kill. Diamonds shone at his cuffs; everything about him spelt money. He licked his lips and closed his eyes, as if realisation of his plight were too much for him.

“What do they do to you in France for attempted murder?” asked Rollison mildly.

The man didn't speak.

“Of course, it might really be murder. I think one of the men at Brill Street was dead. Don't they chop off your head, or something? Madame Guillotine—flash, chop, drop and your head rolls into the sawdust. Interesting survival of the old-fashioned, but effective, isn't it? Any of your friends been beheaded?”

The weak face showed fear, as evident as the girl's. The man understood every word, and his blood-shot eyes were opened wide. He shifted his position and tried to move his hands, but they were tied securely.

“In England, we still hang murderers,” said Rollison. “Barbaric, isn't it? But in spite of arguments to the contrary, quite a deterrent to men of violence. Why did you try to kill your fiancée?”

The man licked his lips.

“Who is she?” asked Rollison.

The man wouldn't speak, but averted his gaze. Rollison squatted down on his haunches, and then Jolly appeared, with a bottle of embrocation.

“Who is she?” repeated Rollison sharply.

The Frenchman turned his head away and let his chin drop on to his chest, as if he were fainting. Jolly rubbed steadily, and soon the bruised shoulder began to sting. Rollison stood up, looking down on his prisoner. Probably it would, not take a great deal of pressure to make the young man talk, and he would be more likely to talk to Rollison than to the police; but the police would soon be here. For the first time, Rollison regretted sending for them so quickly.

He said abruptly: “All right, keep it to yourself. You'll be charged with murder in the morning, and unless you tell the truth, you won't have a chance.”

The man didn't move.

“I think it would be more convenient if you were to sit in a chair, sir,” said Jolly. “Would you rather leave this until you have had time to persuade him to tell you why he did this thing?”

“No,” said Rollison, “there isn't much time, I may have to go out again.”

He sat down, and Jolly kept rubbing. The Frenchman glanced up, covertly, then dropped his gaze again, but the silence was getting on his nerves. He began to lick his lips, and then to move his head from side to side.

“I think that will do, sir,” said Jolly.

“Thanks.” Rollison moved again, and now the Frenchman looked up at him with fear naked in his eyes, his lips twitching.

“Who's the girl?”

There was no answer.

“Who is Madame Thysson?” Rollison demanded sharply.

The Frenchman's head jerked up, as if the name itself struck terror. His lips worked, but he didn't speak. He kept silent until footsteps clumped on the stairs, and Rollison knew that the police had arrived.

 

Superintendent William Grice of Scotland Yard did not like getting out of bed after midnight, and might have been tempted to leave the night's inquiries to the Division and to a junior at the Yard, but for the magic in the name of Rollison. Grice had been to Brill Street, talked to the police at the Divisional Station, gone to Scotland Yard and studied the dossier of Samuel Arthur Downing, and liked nothing of what he read. Downing had twice been convicted of robbery with violence, and by the age of forty-three had spent fourteen years in prison. He was still on his ticket-of-leave and had reported regularly to the nearest police-station since his last release. He was classified as
“Independent
—
No Trade or Profession”
, which meant that he had never earned his living. There were two notes on the card, which showed that he had served for twelve months in the Armed Forces before being jailed for theft; and much of that time he had spent in France. The final remark in the dossier was: “
Dangerous”.

On the way to Rollison's flat, Grice reflected that it was in the order of things that Rollison had contrived to clash with Downing. There were the little crooks in the East End to whom Rollison was a friend; but there were some who hated the Toff simply because of his reputation and because they knew what he thought about them and would do to them if he had half a chance. There was no doubt that Downing knew of and disliked Rollison.

Rollison would not be impressed by that.

One part of Grice's mind could easily become angry with Rollison, who was prepared to take the law into his own hands with a carefree abandon which made all dutiful policemen gnash their teeth; another part admired and respected the man – in fact they were good friends.

Not everyone at the Yard had a good word to say for Rollison; but the hard core of common sense in most of the C.I.D. men forced them to admit that Rollison had scored some remarkable successes, especially in cases which the orthodox police methods found difficult to break. One group of Yard officers, mostly among the lower ranks, regarded Rollison with great goodwill, because he was a constant thorn in the flesh of authority and of smugness and complacency. He asked no more of a man than he should do his job properly. If there were times when he made a fool of a senior officer, there were dozens of others when junior officers had reason to thank him for help, often given anonymously.

Whatever the attitude of any one Yard man to wards Rollison, one thing was certain; at the Yard, as well as in the East End, the man known as the Toff would not be ignored.