A Mask for the Toff (6 page)

 

Rollison took her hands; they were icy cold and gripped his tightly. The girl seemed to put her very soul into the appeal.

“
Please
—do not go.”

“Why not?”

“There will be danger for you.”

“What makes you think so?”

“You should not go to Paris.”

“Who said that I was going there?”

She closed her eyes; it was as if a powerful light had been switched off. Her hands went limp, and she drew them away slowly. Without opening her eyes, she said: “I know that you are going to Paris and that you will be in grave danger.
I know.”

“
So you remember Paris,” Rollison said.

“Oh, yes, I remember Paris.”

“What else do you remember?”

“That you have been good to me, and I do not wish you to be hurt.”

“What makes you think I might be?”

“The danger is everywhere,” she said, “but mostly in Paris. You are foolish to go.”

She dropped back on to her pillows, tacitly giving up hope that he would listen to her. She didn't speak again, and didn't open her eyes. He went outside, and brushed his hand across his forehead; it was slightly damp. The interview had been curiously affecting, almost unnerving. He laughed at himself, and moved to his desk, bent down and unlocked a bottom drawer. He took out an automatic pistol, a spare clip of ammunition and a fat knife which had a dozen blades and gadgets.

Jolly came in, and watched him.

“I think I'll take a stick, Jolly.”

“I think you are wise,” said Jolly mildly. “I will get one. Your case is packed, I have put in everything that you are likely to need.”

He spoke like a fond aunt, and went out as the nurse came in.

There was a forbidding expression on her angular face. Her large red nose was shiny, but this failed to make her look ridiculous.

“Mr. Rollison.”

“Yes?”

“There's something queer about that girl.”

“So you felt it, too?”

“If I were going to Paris—” the nurse hesitated.
“Is
that where you‘re going?”

“Yes. And it would be anybody's first guess. Don't let her fool you, nurse. She might be very innocent, but she could be full of cunning. I don't believe she has lost her memory; part of your job is to find out if she lets anything slip to prove she's lying.”

“She hasn't said anything that matters, but that's probably because she doesn't know I speak French. If you ask me—”

“Yes?”

“I'd have a second opinion,” the nurse said. “I don't care what anybody says, that woman isn't normal.”

“You could be right,” murmured Rollison. He went straight to the telephone. “I'll fix it.”

He had only five minutes to spare before leaving for Kensington, and was listening to the
brr-brr
from Dr. Mason's number when Jolly came in again, carrying the stick and an envelope. It was a handsome, gold-topped walking-stick, with a top which could cause a nasty injury if used as a weapon.

A woman answered. Dr. Mason was engaged.

“Tell him this is urgent, please,” Rollison said. “Richard Rollison speaking.” He waited, and Jolly opened the envelope and showed three photographs of the girl, taken from different angles; and one of them was a work of art, for Jolly had removed the bandages on it, and sketched in her hair; it made an astonishing difference to her appearance. “Good,” said Rollison. “Very good, in fact. Grice wants a negative. Grice is to have practically everything he says he wants, while I'm away. Messages to the
Hôtel Rivoli …
Hallo, Mason, sorry to drag you from your forty winks
…
Weren't you, really?
…
It's the girl. The nurse thinks that she's a bit odd
…
Call it fey, or second sight
…
Can you find a specialist who speaks French; the ostensible reason being that she says she's lost her memory.”

“Well, that could happen,” Mason said. “I'll have another look at her myself and get another opinion if it seems necessary. My French will serve.”

By the time Rollison had finished, Jolly already had the front door open, and was standing with a large suitcase, a small pigskin valise and the walking-stick. Rollison took his hat and gloves and struggled into his overcoat as he went downstairs.

A taxi was waiting.

“Safe journey, sir,” murmured Jolly.

“Hold the old fort, Jolly!” Rollison beamed and looked inane, a little over-dressed and almost foppish; the stick helped with that. He sank back in the corner of the cab and lit a cigarette, but before they had turned out of Gresham Terrace he was looking out of the back window. He saw no one except Jolly, who waited until he had turned the corner; Grice's man was out of sight.

Rollison glanced left, as they went towards Piccadilly.

A small black saloon-car, with a girl at the wheel, moved off from the side street; no one else followed. Rollison smoked and closed his eyes and recalled the effect of the French girl's condition on the nurse; whatever one might think about his own attitude of mind, the nurse was completely objective, and she could hardly have been more emphatic.

The taxi driver knew the short cuts to Kensington.

So did the girl in the small car.

 

Latimer, standing by the back door of the office, where an Airways bus was waiting, shook his fist as Rollison hurried in. A steward brought in his cases, and Latimer had his ticket. Rollison weighed his luggage in, attended to all the formalities and moved off with Latimer.

“I thought you'd backed out,” Latimer said.

“Not until it gets dangerous! I'll hold the bus up for thirty seconds, you go and see if a Morris Eight, registration number 8BU154, is still outside, and if the girl driver is alone. Please.”

Latimer moved off without a word. Rollison took his seat in the bus, and an attendant damned Latimer under his breath. He wasn't gone for long, and soon slid into the seat next to Rollison. There was plenty of room.

“The car's there, the girl isn't.”

“Gone to telephone,” Rollison commented.

“So you were watched.”

“Well, it could be someone after my autograph. On the other hand, we shall need eyes at the backs of our heads when we get to the airport.”

“You'll give me the willies, soon,” said Latimer.

There was an air of bustle at the airport, and eagerness to cut short the Customs and the passport formalities. There were fifteen passengers, mostly men; only two had been waiting at the airport. Rollison finished with the authorities, and studied the passengers and officials. He picked out a tall, heavily built man who appeared to have nothing in particular to do, and strolled across to him.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Not unknown at Scotland Yard, are you?” murmured Rollison.

The other smiled.

“No, Mr. Rollison.”

“You couldn't be here to watch me, could you?”

“I could be, but I'm not. Just general duty.”

“Good. There were two people waiting for the 'plane when we arrived—notice them?”

“Yes.”

“Either of them book his ticket at the last minute, do you know?”

“I can find out,” said the Yard man. “I'll send you a message at the 'plane.” He glanced at the two passengers who were standing by the steps leading to the aircraft; one was noticeably taller than the other. “We'll call the tall one A and the other B—I'd better look slippy, or I shan't find out before you leave.”

He moved away, and Latimer came across, looking suspicious.

“Now what?”

“Restless mind,” said Rollison.

“
I'm beginning to wish I hadn't come,” Latimer said, but he grinned. “Not expecting fireworks on the 'plane, are you?”

Heaven forbid! I hate sea-water in the winter.”

Latimer chuckled.

They settled down in their seats, side by side. The taller of the two men who had roused Rollison's interest was immediately in front of Latimer, the other nearer the front of the cabin. There was comfort amounting to luxury. The engines were still warming up, but there was greater hustle, and men came forward to remove the chocks from the wheels, The stewardess talked to a woman with a child in her arms, and who seemed nervous. There was no sign of the Yard man. A steward came out from the airport buildings and spoke to one of the crew, who climbed up into the 'plane.

A loudspeaker gave voice pleasantly.

“Fasten your belts, please, and may I remind all passengers that there must be no smoking until further notice.”

“Someone let you down?” asked Latimer. “Either that, or no news is good news,” said Rollison.

He leaned back and closed his eyes. The machine taxied, quickly gathering speed, and suddenly the slight bumping sensation ceased, and they were airborne. The stewardess knelt by the side of the woman, making faces at the baby. Rollison kept his eyes closed. Latimer rustled newspapers. The stewardess left her charge and came along the gangway offering newspapers and giving each passenger a form.

“Fill that out, please; it's the Customs Declaration, and you'll need it as soon as we land.”

She leaned across and touched Rollison's shoulder.

He opened his eyes.

“Hallo.”

“Here is your form, Mr. Rollison.” She handed him a slip of paper as well as the form, and when he unfolded it, he saw the single letter
“A”.

So the man in front of him had bought his ticket at the last minute; possibly as a result of a telephone call from the girl in the Morris Eight.

 

It was dark when they reached Le Bourget. They made a good landing, and the airport staff promptly surged round the machine. Rollison gripped Latimer's arm, and they hurried to the buildings, reaching the main offices first. The tall man was some way behind.

“What's eating you?” demanded Latimer testily.

“I don't know, yet. Remember the tall chap who sat in front of us?”

“Broad nose, broad face, oozes money, could be a Slav?”

“He could be a friend of Madame Thysson's, too. We'll take a different taxis, and you come behind me, just to check whether I'm being followed. Any objection?”

“
I wish I'd brought a gun,” Latimer said.

The Customs Officers were affable and did not appear to be thorough. Rollison was first out of the room and first into a taxi; it may have been chance that the man who could have been a Slav was immediately behind him. A private car was waiting for this passenger, and stood out among the motley collection of Renaults and Citroens of all shapes, sizes and stages of dilapidation. It was a powerful Buick, glistening in the bright lighting just outside the airport building. Rollison's taxi was an old Renault, the driver plump and unshaven. Latimer had the fifth taxi, and neither of them had the speed of the Buick. If the car went ahead, there was a fair chance that the man who had got into it was not interested in Rollison.

He was tall and massive, wearing a thick overcoat, a scarf and a black Homburg hat. He wore American-type rimless glasses, and had little luggage; Big Business, to the last word. He could have started ahead of Rollison, but chose not to, and the Buick slid after Rollison's taxi. Latimer came soon afterwards ; he had been luckier with his cab, which was small but new.

Half a mile along the road the Buick purred past Rollison. One moment the inside of the taxi was bright from its headlights, the next darkness fell upon him, and the red light grew rapidly smaller. Rollison hardly knew whether to be pleased or sorry. He sat back so that he could see out comfortably, half-prepared to find the Buick drawn up at the side of the road. It wasn't. They were now in a built-up area in what appeared to be a squalid part of Paris, and there were few lights.

The Buick had disappeared.

“Well, it was worth trying,” Rollison mused, and looked through the back window. Several cars were in sight, and he couldn't pick out Latimer's. He yawned again, and the vision of the broad-faced business man faded. The engine was noisy, and the car rattled; the driver drove as if his life depended on reaching the heart of Paris in the shortest possible time.

Rollison dozed—

Then something smacked against a window with a sharp report. Instinctively, he drew back his head. He couldn't see what had happened, but his right hand moved towards his pocket, for the gun. As he touched it there was a loud report, and the taxi skidded and went out of control. It swerved, and then leapt towards a wall which loomed up out of the darkness.

 

 

The front wheels hit a kerb; Rollison was thrown back and bumped his head against the rear window. He heard a rending sound. Then the car skidded again as the driver tried to regain control. The nearside wing scraped along the wall, there was another bump, and the car lurched to one side; as if it were turning turtle. Rollison hadn't time to think or act, but instinctively kept his head low. There was another crash, but the taxi had steadied and was on all four wheels. It rocked to a standstill. The driver sat quite still, as if he couldn't believe that the emergency was over.

Rollison didn't try to get up.

He'd bruised his head and his knees, and his shoulder hurt more, but he stayed where he was. After the din of the crash, everything seemed quiet with a deathly hush. Then other taxis passed, two of them going at a mad speed. Another slowed down; so did a second and a third. Doors slammed, and men began to talk. One thrust his head in at the driver's window, and began to speak in rapid French. A face appeared at a window near Rollison's; he couldn't be sure who it was, but he thought that it was Latimer.

It was. The door opened, and Latimer snapped: “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Pretend no.”

Rollison whispered, and wondered whether the words were heard above excited comments of the men in front. His driver had recovered, and was colouring the air with his opinions. Two or three other drivers had gathered near him, and listened in respectful silence.

Latimer leaned in; the only one, so far, who had worried about the passenger.

“Pretend what?”

“That I've been hurt. Have them take me to a hospital—right in Paris, preferably. Be British, insist loudly, never mind whether they want to fetch a doctor first. I'm going to look half-dead.”

“
Are you?”

“Not yet.”

An American asked: “Is anyone hurt?”

Latimer backed out and began to talk quickly, in bastard French with a few words of English. The American looked in, and saw Rollison huddled in his corner with his eyes closed. Two people began to move him, and the American said: “You ought to send for a doctor.”

“Get him to hospital!” cried Latimer. “Driver, hurry—use my taxi.
Hurry
.”

“He looks pretty bad,” the American said.

“He's unconscious, might have cracked his skull.” Latimer was doing well, almost too well; he sounded nearly hysterical. But it worked. Rollison was carried out of the taxi and into another, handled as if he were made of delicate porcelain. He didn't move of his own accord, and let his head loll back. It seemed a long time before the second taxi moved off.

Latimer was in front, for he spoke to the driver. Rollison eased his position, and through his lashes looked at the little crowd now gathered round his first taxi. Most of them seemed to be taxi-drivers, and they broke up and went towards their own cabs; a line of seven or eight was strung out along the road.

This taxi went more smoothly, with less rattling but at considerable speed. Latimer kept urging the driver to hurry, until Rollison felt nervous qualms. Before long, a cacophony of shrill horns, police whistles and throbbing engines told him that they were in thick traffic. Twice they passed through a quiet street and then they swung left and pulled up. In five minutes he was on a stretcher and being carried into a hospital.

 

Latimer contrived to be left alone with Rollison as soon as they were in the Casualty Room. Rollison was still on the stretcher, which had been placed on stands. A dim light shone.

“Now what?” Latimer asked.

Rollison sat up.

“Nothing broken, so we've something to be thankful for. How much did you learn?”

“You were shot at—one bullet hit a tyre and it burst. Your luck was in, most drivers would have crashed pretty badly. I gave your man my name, he'll be after you for compensation, but—”

“We'll refer him to Madame Thysson, in due course,” said Rollison. “Could it have been the Slav, I wonder? That would fit in. If he rushed ahead, conferred with his gunmen and told them what cab to attack, we needn't ask ourselves any more questions. Feeling cheerful?”

Latimer said: “Within an hour you've discovered more about the active side of the crime life of Paris than I did in a month.”

“It's hypnotic influence,” Rollison said.

He broke off, as the door opened and a middle-aged nurse and a young doctor came in, both dressed in white. Rollison beamed at them. The startled nurse raised her hands, and the doctor frowned. Rollison climbed off the bed, and spoke easily: “I was lucky, wasn't I? Will you make sure there's nothing broken?”

The doctor's frown changed to a smile.

“Immediately!”

He beckoned the nurse, and as they probed and prodded, Rollison talked briskly. It was, of course, impossible, but could a report be spread about that he was seriously hurt? That was, to anyone who inquired and, perhaps, to the newspapers. He had enemies, it would be better if they believed that he would be in the hospital for some time … Yes he would gladly see a police-officer before he left, would as gladly make a handsome contribution to the funds of the hospital, if the little deception could be practised. There were doubtless many difficulties, but …

Difficulties, said the doctor, were made to be overcome.

An hour later, Rollison left by a side door of the hospital and got into a taxi. Instead of going to the
Rivoli,
where Jolly would have reserved a room by now, he went to a small hotel near the Champs-Élysées, recommended by the amiable doctor. It was called the
Mulle.
He booked in, surrendered his passport for formalities, and was taken up in an open lift to the third floor. The room was a large one, well furnished with white-and-gilt furniture, and had its own bathroom. He locked the door after the porter had delivered his luggage, and for the first time since he had reached Paris, felt that he could relax.

That didn't last long, for the telephone bell rang.

Only Latimer and the hospital authorities should know where he was.

He lifted the telephone.

“M'sieu Rollison? Will you speak to M'sieu Latimer?”

“Yes, thanks.”

Latimer said: “So you're there all right.”

“And no more fireworks,” said Rollison. “Were you followed to the
Rivoli?”

“
I don't know, but I'm afraid so. How did you get on with the police?”

“No complaints. They've heard of Superintendent Grice, and I gave him for a reference. I hope you can call on plenty of money over here. I've promised the hospital twenty-five thousand francs.”

“Twenty-five pounds! You find life expensive, don't you?”

“It's surprising how money comes along,” murmured Rollison. “Pete, how well do you really know Madame Thysson's friends?”

“I don't know,” said Latimer. “I could have fixed an introduction to her chief
aide,
but if she's behind this, do you want her to know you're up and about?”

“Not yet. But if you went to see her or the
aide,
and talked angrily about what happened to your friend Rollison, and told her a little about him, and suggested that if she has any influence with the police, she will make sure that the villains were apprehended, it might be a help. You could give me a build-up, the lady a smile, and you might also find out if the Slav is a friend of hers. If he is, he's probably seen her by now.”

“Not likely; at most he'd send a message. I can fix all that, I think. What will you do?”

“Stay here, eat and drink, and count my blessings,” said Rollison. “Then if you could find out when Madame Thysson will be somewhere more or less alone, I could look in later. Shock tactics are indicated, I think.”

“You have made your will, I suppose?”

“I'm heavily insured, too. But don't gloom, Pete. This is the gay city. When in Paris, do as the Parisians do. I'm going to have a good time and throw money about like water—that's if you can draw on plenty for expenses.”

“On a story like this, I can fix it,” said Latimer. “Don't think I'm backing out, but
is
this a job you can tackle on your own?”

“No. I need the help of Fleet Street's most renowned crime reporter.”

“The thing is,” said Latimer, “I haven't made a will. I'll ring you when there's any news.”

 

Rollison ordered a meal with a thoroughness which won the respectful approval of the waiter, gave precise orders as to the time he wanted to start eating, and had a hot bath to fend off the worst of the stiffness which was already beginning to make itself felt. Over his trousers and shirt he put a silk dressing-gown which had been embroidered with lilies of the valley by a loving aunt, and was ready when a
pâté
arrived. He spent an hour and five minutes over the meal, and sat back in an easy-chair with cognac and coffee for company. The
Hôtel Mulle
was a find; there were few better chefs in Paris, so where to eat was no problem.

What to do now? He let thoughts trickle through his mind, and even spent a little time reconstructing what had happened and trying to see the motive for all this.

And he thought of the girl with “second sight”.

He had come to Paris to find out her identity; and Downing and his friends realised that. But why go to these lengths to stop him? They knew that the police were already involved, that Scotland Yard had, by now, asked for help from the
Sûreté Générale.
Downing was no fool, Madame Thysson even less of a fool, and she wasn't likely to be surrounded by blockheads. Everyone concerned, then, must know that by the morning at the latest, the
Sûcreté
would have a photograph of the girl, and would be making attempts to trace her. Sooner or later, they would; probably they would identify her before Rollison did, so – no one in their senses would have attacked Rollison simply to prevent him identifying the girl.

Then – why attack?

They would not take such a chance merely to stop him from interfering; for he had not yet shown any sign that he could be a serious threat to their organisation in Paris. He might threaten nuisance value, but nuisance value hardly justified an attack on the road which would start the police buzzing. A discreet attack might have been meant as a warning, but they wouldn't use as warning, methods which would set the police agog. They'd meant to kill.

Why?

Possibly because they believed the girl had talked to him, and told him something of significance. But they – this nebulous “they” – had no guarantee that she hadn't already talked to the London police.

He had seen both the girl and the silent Frenchman; but so had the police. “They” would certainly not attack him for the sake of it, and they would know that it would quicken the interest of the London police.

He let the thoughts sift through his mind idly, and felt a warm sense of well-being; he had eaten well, he had come through the worst safely, and – he was enjoying himself.

He smiled faintly into a gilt mirror.

Why pick him out for such an attack? Why go to the trouble of finding out whether he had left for Paris, of having him followed and so warmly received? There was another question; the shadowing had been done brilliantly. Was he wise to assume that he had fooled anyone by the visit to the hospital? He had not noticed anyone following his taxi, but the rear window had been small and there had been a lot of traffic. Unless he credited Downing's friends with exceptional cleverness, he would walk into more trouble.

He was still sitting there when a knock came at his door.

Latimer? Surely Latimer would have the sense not to come in person.

A man from the
Sûreté?
That was much more likely.

He got up, as the knock was repeated, took the automatic pistol from his coat pocket, slipped it into his dressing-gown pocket and kept his fingers round the handle. Then he approached the door. There was a narrow foyer, and the bathroom led off it; there wasn't much room to move.

He turned the key as the knocking started again; the sound of metal on metal couldn't be heard above it. He stepped into the bathroom and half-closed the door, then called: “Come in!”

Whoever was outside had seen the door move slightly when Rollison unfastened the catch. It was already being pushed wider, with no attempt at concealment. He saw part of the narrow passage beyond, and then the girl. She was quite young and she appeared diffident; nervous.

He had never seen her before.

She said in English: “Where are you, please?”