A Mask for the Toff (5 page)

“The oracle has spoken. Then we want another nurse. One who speaks French like a native, but will pretend to our guest that she only speaks English.”

“I will arrange it,” promised Jolly, and then turned, looking towards the hall. “I think Mr. Latimer is on the way. Will you see him at once?”

“Yes.”

Rollison got up from the table.

The little dining-alcove was curtained off from the main room, and he was there when Latimer came in. Latimer was a small, wiry-looking man of thirty with intelligent green-grey eyes, a long and somewhat wriggly nose, full lips and a Punch of a chin; he had a droll look. He was one of the brightest men on the Street, but his reputation had not spoiled him. Crime was his strong suit; and recently he had written a series of articles on the “Underworld “of Paris for his paper.

“Hallo, Rolly.” They shook hands. “What's all the mystery?”

“Unknown French girl with lost memory, unknown Frenchman on a charge of attempted murder this morning, help wanted from a man who can give me all the latest news from Paris.”

Latimer rubbed the side of his nose.

“So it's that job. I knew there was a Frenchman up, but had no idea you were behind it. What exactly do you want to know?”

“All you can tell me about a Madame Thysson,” said Rollison casually.

The droll look faded from Latimer's eyes. The whole character of his face changed. It was suddenly possible to sense the strength of character in him, to understand why he was one of the stars of Fleet Street.

He sat on the arm of a chair.

“Well, well,” he said. “You do pick 'em, don't you? Madame Thysson is—but there could be two Madame Thyssons, I suppose. What's this one done?”

“My protégée mentioned her name last night, and this morning seemed to have forgotten all about her. Don't ask me why.” Rollison moved across to the trophy wall and, as if by chance, touched the hangman's rope. He held it between his fingers and toyed with it. “What's yours done to make herself infamous?”

Latimer chuckled.

“Infamous is right! It would be nice irony if you managed to do what the
Sûreté
has failed to do, wouldn't it? Listen …”

 

 

Latimer could talk as well as he could write.

Rollison sat back in his easy-chair and listened; the room seemed to fade, and he was transported across the Channel, across France and to Paris. Through the Paris scene there walked – or stalked – this Madame Thysson. She was credited with having a finger in every unsavoury pie baked in the most unsavoury districts of the gay City. She was at once feared and hated, loved and admired. A minority refused to believe that she was guilty of any of the crimes laid at her door; the police had never been able to make a charge against her. She was said to rule as an uncrowned Queen over much of Paris theatreland, over the night clubs, over the gaming-rooms, over the dress salons; everywhere. She was believed to be fabulously wealthy. If her enemies were right, she had moved from the Black Market when its heyday was past, to every manifestation of vice and crime. She played no personal part in it, simply shared the huge profits.

If one had stolen jewellery on one's hands, it was said that Madame Thysson would buy it, or have it bought; wasn't she the owner of three of the most exclusive jewellers in the Place de Vendôme? If one had a consignment of costly furs unexpectedly on one's hands, and separated from their legal owner, one might be advised to consult Madame Thysson; didn't she own two of the finest fur salons in Paris? If one wanted a false passport, Madame Thysson – or one of her cronies – would provide it, at a price. If there was a price on one's head and one wanted to hide, Madame Thysson could provide the hiding-place. If one had a charming friend anxious to obtain a part on the stage or at a night club, well – at a price, Madame Thysson would arrange it. She was a kind of universal provider, and there was nothing she could not dispense.

Latimer lost himself in his tale.

“I wanted to write about her, but it was too dangerous. She's a fantastic creature, according to report.”

“Didn't you try to see her?”

Latimer laughed.

“I wanted to write up Paris from the inside, didn't I? Who else could give me all the dope? But I didn't see her in person, although I got what I wanted.”

“At a price?”

“The price of friendly publicity,” said Latimer, “and recommendations to her different business houses. She's a kind of modern Midas, and no fool; she keeps on good terms with the Press, home or abroad. Oddly, I didn't dislike her
aide.”

“
What's she like herself?”

“Why not try to see for yourself? Few people do see her, and I'm told she wears a mask when she gives an audience.” Latimer looked thoughtful. “I could arrange to flip over for a few days—like me to try to introduce you?”

“I would,” said Rollison.

“Provided she's your Madame Thysson.”

“Would she be likely to have authority over my unknown lovely?”

“You bet she would,” said Latimer. “She keeps the sweetest lovelies on a kind of leash. Uses them as mannequins, for the night clubs and for less savoury purposes, if we can believe all we hear. She rules them with a rod of iron, too. Outwardly, there's nothing to criticise about Madame Thysson, her girls are respectable unless it's their job not to be respectable. Whatever she does, she does well. She is even renowned for her gifts to charity. Have I whetted your appetite?”

Rollison chuckled.

“Can you leave for Paris this afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“You fix the seats, will you?”

“Yes,” said Latimer, and stood up. “What about my price?”

“What do you want?”

“As much of the London story as you can give me.”

“Why not stick to the known facts, and wait for the rest?” suggested Rollison. “I can't give you much more than the Yard will release. I gave them Madame Thysson's name, and Grice won't be long catching up with this job. He's probably in touch with the
Sûreté
by now. You scoop, as soon as you've helped to make a scoop.”

“It would be worth it, to see you in action with Madame,” said Latimer;, and laughed as if that were the joke of the week.

“Here's something not so funny,” said Rollison. “Lady Murren was murdered last night. Any off-the-record news about that?”

“Why?”

“She was often in Paris, and her husband was quite a personage over there.”

“Now what are you up to?” Latimer frowned. “I don't know about off the record. She was killed sometime before midnight. The police seem completely foxed. It's true she was often in France. What made you pick on her?”

“I'm only guessing,” Rollison said hastily.

“I wonder. You've an uncanny nose, haven't you? Lady Murren was a friend of another odd character in Paris—a man known as the Count. His real name's de Vignon. He's murky—no one has a good word to say for him. I couldn't get anywhere near the man, but I picked up a few odds and ends, including the fact that he was friendly with a titled Englishwoman. One guess.”

“I've guessed.”

“I wondered then why Lady Murren should have anything to do with an unsavoury blackguard,” said Latimer. “I still wonder.”

“It's odd—a murderous Frenchman roams London and a woman well known in Paris gets murdered; de Vignon and Madame Thysson are also acquainted, I take it.”

“De Vignon's said to foam at the mouth at the very mention of her name.”

“The Count's another good reason for going to Paris,” Rollison mused.

Latimer shrugged, and went off.

 

Grice did not disclose his private opinion of the genuineness of the girl's loss of memory, but outwardly accepted it. His man was withdrawn, by midday. The nurse was replaced by a tall, angular woman whose French made Rollison feel as if he were back at school. She had worked for him before, and was wholly trustworthy. The girl with no name seemed content to lie in bed, apparently sleeping most of the time. Rollison saw her twice, again ; and the shadow of fear was certainly gone from her eyes. She was pale and still tired, but not seriously ill.

Latimer telephoned; they were to leave London at four o'clock.

At a quarter to three, Rollison drove from Gresham Terrace to Scotland Yard in his Lagonda, which had been returned by one of Bill Ebbutt's men. Bill had sent a message that he didn't know for certain, but believed that Downing had been to Paris a great deal lately, although the name he travelled under wasn't Downing. The house near Brill Street was empty; Downing had lived there with a middle-aged housekeeper, who had also disappeared.

A policeman at the gates of the Yard saluted, another at the top of the steps greeted Rollison with a smile, and said that he had half expected to see him and, yes, he could go straight up. Grice was sitting in his large office, overlooking the Embankment. The sun still shone, and made the sluggish Thames look bright. There were two desks in the room, but only Grice's was occupied. He stood up, and waved to a chair.

“Come to confess?” he demanded.

“Yes. I'm going to borrow French currency from a friend of mine who can get as much as he likes.”

Grice smiled faintly. “I thought you'd soon be on your way to Paris. After Madame Thysson?”

“Any crumbs from your table about her?”

“Latimer can give you the whole loaf.”

Rollison chuckled.

“There are times when you're more than just average, Bill! So I'm being watched.”

“You're not. Your flat is—we want to make sure that Downing or one of his friends doesn't have another go at the girl.”

“Any idea who she is?”

“No. The
Sûreté
is going to send us a list of missing girls. They've already sent us a dossier on Madame Thysson, and you'd better watch your step.”

“Downing?” asked Rollison.

“There isn't a clue,” said Grice, and frowned. “But last week one of our fellows was in Paris, and fancied he saw Downing at a café on the Boulevard de la Madeleine. The man got up and hurried away before he could make sure—which suggests he might have been Downing. Officially, he hasn't been to Paris. In fact, officially—” Grice paused.

“He's on his ticket and has to show up daily. Or has he got down to weekly?”

“Daily. I'm checking at the Division,” Grice said.

“Not bad,” murmured Rollison. “Downing gets a stooge to come and show his ticket, and the stooge is sufficiently like Downing to get away with it. It's the right time of the year, you can get away with a lot in electric light.”

“We aren't certain, yet.”

“You could try to find out what name Downing uses when he goes to Paris,” Rollison said amiably.

Outside, traffic rumbled past along the Embankment, and a car horn hooted, sudden and strident.

“The car they used?” Rollison asked.

“Hired from a garage yesterday afternoon—by a man whose description doesn't tally with Downing's. We're trying to trace him; it was probably the third man at Brill Street.”

“You're very helpful,” murmured Rollison. “You almost make me think you hope I'll get results. What happened in court this morning?”

“There was a formal hearing, all over in two minutes,” said Grice. “It's only the third time in my twenty years here that I've had to charge a man without being able to tie a label on to him. If you really mean, has the Frenchman talked—no. He's frightened, but he won't say a word. We've tried him with an interpreter, but no luck.” Grice picked up a photograph from his desk, and tossed it across. “That's not bad, is it?”

Rollison studied the weak but handsome face, and wondered what had given this man sufficient strength to defy the police; and wondered, also, what persuasion would be needed to make him tell his story. Silence had fallen like a cloak upon both of the two French people involved. In both, it was inspired by fear – probably by fear of the consequences of talking freely to the police or to anyone else.

“Can you spare one of these?”

“They've been circulated to the Press, so why not?” said Grice. “I'm going to send a man over to take a photograph of your guest. And it's no use saying we can't, because—”

“Don't trouble,” said Rollison. “Jolly took some this morning; they'll be ready when I get back. How many copies would you like?”

“A negative.”

“I'll ask Jolly to oblige,” said Rollison. “By the way—Lady Murren. Or is that a professional secret?”

Grice looked at him owlishly.

“Putting two and two together?”

“Two odd things connected with Paris, yes.”

“We haven't a clue,” Grice confessed. “Have you?”

“Only curiosity,” said Rollison.

He left, twenty minutes after he had entered Grice's office, and still had three-quarters of an hour before he needed to get to the B.E.A. Departure Station in Kensington. He was to meet Latimer there. He drove to Gresham Terrace, and saw Grice's man in a doorway halfway along the street.

There had been no messages, but Dr. Mason had been in again and was fully satisfied with the girl's progress.

Rollison felt as if he were in a state of suspended animation. The swift sequence of events the previous night had faded into inaction which didn't seem real. There were other unlikely factors. Grice was being surprisingly affable, and laying down the law with a much lighter hand than usual. That wasn't because Grice thought it good tactics; in his official approach, Grice followed the instructions from the Powers That Be at Scotland Yard, and those instructions had obviously been to soft-pedal with Rollison. Had there been any objection to his flying to Paris, they would have made it clear; in fact, they were glad he was going.

One thing was reasonably certain; Grice knew much more about Madame Thysson than he had said.

Rollison tapped on the door of the spare room, and the angular nurse called: “Come in.” The girl was sitting up and looking through a French copy of
Vogue;
doubtless Jolly had obtained it for her. She smiled, fleetingly, almost blankly; but Rollison was quite convinced that her blank expression was assumed; like the loss of memory.

“How are you?”

“So very comfortable and grateful,” she said. “I feel as if I am at rest for the first time. Some thing terrible must have happened, and now—”

She broke off.

“Nothing terrible will happen,” Rollison said. “I'm going away for a day or two, and—”

“No!” she cried. “No, you must not go away, you must not!”

 

The mask dropped away. She was natural again – and fear-stricken. She dropped the
Vogue,
and it fell noisily to the floor. She stretched out her hands, as if in supplication, and he hated the look in her eyes.

“You must not—not leave me. Please, unless you are here, I am so frightened.”

She
was
frightened.

He said: “I must go, my dear. I shall be back in two or three days; you've nothing to worry about. You needn't go out of the flat until I'm back.”

She whispered: “You—should—not—go.”

And there was terror in her eyes; not because he was leaving her, but because she sensed where he was going and was afraid of what he would find out; or else of what would happen to him.

She sat erect, hands stretched out pleadingly, and trembling; and her eyes were huge.