A Mask for the Toff (7 page)

 

Rollison did not answer, but watched her. She pushed the door wider open, and he could see beyond her; no one else was there.

“Come in and close the door,” he said.

She glanced towards the bathroom, hesitated only for a moment, and then stepped inside. She closed the door and stood still, looking into that part of the bathroom she could see.

“Go into the room,” Rollison said.

She went in, moving with easy grace. She wore a tailor-made suit of a fawny brown colour, with a mink collar. She had a small brown hat, her makeup was superb, and she had legs worth looking at. She wore gloves, and carried a small handbag beneath her right arm. She obeyed him without a word, and didn't look round.

“Go to the mirror and look into it,” Rollison ordered.

Again, she obeyed.

He stepped into the foyer, locked the door again, and let the gun go for the first time. It made a heavy weight in his pocket. The girl could see him in the mirror, but she didn't look round.

“Put your handbag on the table,” Rollison said.

She obeyed.

“Stay where you are.”

The astounding thing was that she accepted his orders without question, as if obedience were instinctive. She stared at him in the mirror, and he could see her lovely, oval face; her blue eyes were starry bright, she had a look of great innocence.

He patted the sides of her coat, and made sure that she had no gun there. She might have one rucked into her stocking; he patted her legs, but felt no lump. She didn't move or object.

“Turn round,” he said.

She obeyed, and stared again because of his smile. He looked young, gay, amused.

“But how wonderful!” he said in French.

“There can't be many women in Paris who can hold a candle to you. Hold a candle—that makes sense?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

Rollison picked up her bag and opened it; there was no gun, no weapon of any kind inside. Nor was there anything he might find of interest, no letters or papers. Lipstick, compact, tiny handkerchief, purse and a note-case filled with the thin French paper money, which looked a fortune but was less than five pounds in value. He closed the bag, and said: “What will you have to drink?”

“Thank you, nothing.” She persisted in speaking English with a marked accent.

“Oh, that's too bad. Can't we be friends?”

“I am your friend,” she said, and for the first time, showed some kind of feeling.

“Wonderful! Then you'll have …”

“Please, I will not drink,” she said, and then saw the coffee-tray. “Perhaps—coffee?”

“Like a shot.”

He switched to English, went across and lifted the telephone, ordering coffee and liqueurs. Then he went across to the girl and offered her a cigarette; she shook her head.

“
No
vices?” murmured Rollison.

“I do not understand. I have come to ask you to return to London.”

“Oh, too bad! I was hoping—”

“It will be a mistake to remain here.”

“Who said so?”

“I am telling you.”

“How do you know?”

She said: “You talk so much, I do not understand you. I do not mean to injure you. I have come to warn you that it is not good for you in Paris. Already, you have been hurt. Perhaps you will be hurt again, and that will be worse. Please, be wise.”

“Who sent you?”

“M'sieu le Comte.”

“Oh,” said Rollison blankly, but he thought of Latimer's talk of a man named de Vignon with a bad reputation. “The Count of Monte Crista?”

“This is not a joke,” she rebuked him. “I shall not tell you the name of M'sieu le Comte, that is my order. I am to advise you to leave Paris.”

“Will you come with me?”

She frowned. “I do not understand.”

“If I go, will you come with me? I mean, make it worth my while?” His smile looked hopeful, eager.

“Perhaps,” she said slowly, speaking as if this were a difficulty she hadn't expected to meet. “M'sieu le Comte did not suggest that, but perhaps he will approve. Where would you wish to take me?”

Rollison said: “Forget it. Who are you?”

“I am Mademoiselle Blanc.”

“In English, Smith, I suppose.”

She looked puzzled.

“Forget that, too. Did the Comte tell you what to say if I refused to leave Paris?”

“No.”

“Does he expect me to go.”

“He would not have sent me, to waste my time or yours,” she said. “Please understand, it will be for everyone's good. M'sieu le Comte regrets what happened on the road from Le Bourget. He has reason to believe that it could happen again, if you were to stay in Paris. He asks you to believe that you cannot hide, it was quickly known that you are in this hotel. This is not London. He told me to say, this is not your home ground.”

“Not bad,” said Rollison. “Why do you do what the Count tells you?”

“It is my duty to do what he tells me.”

“Everything?”

“But of course.”

The waiter came in, with coffee. Mademoiselle Blanc sat down, and allowed Rollison to pour out; she chose black coffee. She refused a cigarette again, and he remembered that there had been no cigarette-case in her bag. She sat quite erect, superbly beautiful – and empty? Everything she had said seemed to have been repeated, like a well-learned recitation, as if someone else were prompting her and she was only the vehicle for the words. She had not once smiled; he wondered what she would be like when she did.

“Where does the Count live?”

“I am not to tell you.”

“Pity,” said Rollison. “How many more beautiful young women work for him?”

“Many,” said Mademoiselle Blanc simply.

Rollison gulped his coffee, and nearly choked.

“Well, you're honest about that if nothing else. I have some bad news for you.”

“I do not understand.”

“I am going to stay in Paris.”

“No!”
she cried, and he was astonished at the sudden passion; and reminded of the way the girl in his flat had pleaded with him not to leave London. She put down her coffee-cup abruptly, leaned forward and stretched out a hand, to touch his. “No, you must not stay here.”

“I've a lot to do.”

“It will be dangerous!”

“Danger soon passes.”

“Not this,” she said, “and not for you, M'sieu Rollison.” She was still intent and put everything she could into her words. “To stay here will be a big mistake. You should be grateful to M'sieu le Comte for telling you of the danger. Go, please.”

Rollison said: “You almost make me nervous.”

He stopped smiling, jumped up and turned away; but he saw the girl in the mirror, and saw a smile. It was gone in a flash, but he hadn't imagined it; she thought that she was on the verge of success, and couldn't repress that quick smile of satisfaction. He moved across to the wardrobe, took out his coat and waistcoat, took off the dressing-gown and put the other things on. All the time the girl looked at him intently; her eyes reminded him of the girl at the flat.

“You are going?”

Rollison said abruptly, almost angrily: “I don't see why I should. Confound it, no! I'm not going to be frightened away.” He licked his lips; as nearly as Rollison could, he looked frightened. “Go and tell the Count I intend to stay here. I want to see him, here. If he can convince me that I ought to leave—” He broke off.

“I will tell M'sieu le Comte,” she said, and although she didn't smile again, satisfaction sounded in her voice. “You will be wise to do what he advises.” She got up quickly, picked up her handbag, and went towards the door; and as she passed him, she held out her hand. “It has been a pleasure to meet you.”

Rollison said: “Has it?”

Then she smiled; and it dazzled him, as if it were intended to. She had seemed lovely before; now, she was radiant and ravishing. There was beauty and promise in her eyes, and she no longer looked young and innocent but worldly wise far beyond her years.

“I shall hope to see you again,” she said, let his hand go, and went out. She reached the door before he could open it for her.

 

The door closed on the girl, and Rollison turned the key again. Then went to the telephone, without a pause, knowing exactly what he wanted to do. All pretence of nervousness and uncertainty had gone, there was a glow of pure enjoyment in his eyes.

He asked for the head porter, and was put through at once.

“M'sieu?”

“Do you want to earn a thousand francs?”

“How can I help?” The man's English was good, his eagerness obvious.

“A girl is about to leave the hotel—delay her. Don't say why, but find a way to delay her for three or four minutes. You can find an excuse.”

“But, sir—”

Rollison hung up, grabbed his overcoat and put it on, put the stick under his arm and then went to get the gun. Within a minute of the girl leaving, he was at the door. He turned the key quietly and opened the door an inch, peering into the passage. He saw no one. He opened the door more widely, and stepped boldly outside, slamming the door. No other doors were open, and no one was about. He heard the whine of the lift, which was at the end of this passage. He hurried down the stairs and instead of going to the main hall, went into a room marked:
Service.
Two waiters and a maid looked up in surprise.

Rollison beamed.

“A way out, please—not the front way.”

One man protested, another was quick on the uptake, and led the way through a small pantry, then across the kitchen, which was spotless, to a side door.

“
Which way is the front entrance?” asked Rollison.

“
A droit, m'sieu.”

“
Thanks.” Five hundred francs changed hands, and Rollison stepped into the cold night air; it seemed colder here than in London, and the wind struck at him as he reached the corner. He didn't turn it. The lights outside the hotel shone brightly, and no one came out. There was no waiting car. He stayed where he was for several minutes, beginning to fear that the head porter had failed him.

Then the girl appeared.

She turned and walked towards Rollison. He backed away. She passed without looking down the side street; and she moved quickly. He followed her, making little sound. She was heading for the Champs-Élysées, and within a few minutes turned along an unlit path, beneath the chestnut-trees. The headlights of cars, moving fast along the wide road, showed her in clear silhouette. Twice, Rollison glanced over his shoulder, and the girl also looked round. Rollison paused by a seat, looking behind him. There was no one else in sight; but he would take a lot of convincing that he wasn't being followed.

There was a pause in the stream of traffic, and the girl hurried across. She was nearer the Place de l'Étoile than the Place de la Concorde, and there were buildings on either side of the wide road. He crossed the main road, running to avoid a car; the horn blared out stridently, perhaps enough to warn the girl that someone else was in the road. She didn't seem to notice; and in Paris there was nothing remarkable in a car horn blaring without good reason.

Another lull in the traffic enabled him to pick out the sharp tap-tap-tap of her heels. She walked beneath the trees, then past a row of shops and cafés, most of the cafés open but without any chairs or tables outside. Next, she turned left.

He knew that there was a rabbit warren of streets on this side of the Champs-Élysées, it would be easy to lose her between here and the Seine. He ran as far as the corner, and a traffic gendarme, swinging his white baton, looked at him inquisitively. So did several people who were coming towards him. He ignored them and turned after the girl. She reached another corner, and turned left; he would have lost her, had he not run. When he reached the next street, he saw her beneath the light of a lamp. He was only just in time, for she turned into one of the doorways, and disappeared.

“Now I wonder if M'sieu le Comte could live in there,” murmured Rollison. “And whether he'd like to see me.”

 

 

Rollison walked briskly past the house into which the girl had gone. The door was closed, but the next one was open. This showed a narrow courtyard, with doorways on either side; typical French style. Almost immediately opposite was a
bistro,
where half a dozen men leaned, against the counter, drinking, and a few couples sat at shiny-topped tables. No one took any notice of Rollison, who went farther along and entered a large café. Here there were red-leather chairs, red-topped tables, an inner room with tables round the side, and everywhere, bottles of wine. The floor was covered with sawdust, the
patron
and his assistants were dressed in black, and were without exception plump.

He ordered a beer, and took it to a table near the door. From here he could see the entrance to the house where the girl had gone, and also along the street in each direction. Two couples, a gendarme, an old woman with a tiny dog on a long lead and three pig-tailed girls passed in quick succession. No one lingered, no one else called at the house in which he was interested.

There was a telephone in a corner of the café, an open box – but he was in a hurry. After he'd asked for the
Hôtel Rivoli,
there was a long wait. Two or three of the customers and the
patron
eyed him thoughtfully.

“
Rivoli,”
a girl said.

“Mr. Latimer,” Rollison said.

“Please wait one moment.”

One moment grew into many. More people passed the open doorway, but no one else came in. Then Latimer spoke quietly.

“Hallo?”

“Pete, get a pencil,” Rollison said in English.

“Ready.”

“Try to find out,who lives at 19 Rue de l'Arbre, near the Champs-Élysées on the river side,” said Rollison. “Especially if there's anyone with a real or courtesy title of ‘Count' or if it's associated with Madame in any way. Or even your pal de Vignon.”

“Rue de l'Arbre—Number 19.” Latimer was quick. “And then?”

“If you feel energetic, meet me at the corner of the Rue de l'Arbre, in an hour's time.”

“Which corner?”

“Champs-Élysées,” Rollison said.

He rang off, aware that in the café people were looking at him openly or covertly. He went to the door and glanced out. There was a spitting of rain in the air, and the ground was damp and greasy. A taxi tore past, endangering life and limb, and a dog scampered out of its path. Rollison looked both ways, but particularly towards Number 19. A man came out and walked towards him; the man's face showed up in the café light, but Rollison had never seen him before. Rollison looked at his watch, as if impatiently, went across to a corner table from which he could see Number 19, and ordered another beer.

He had been there for a quarter of an hour when Sam Downing walked past and disappeared into the house.

 

Latimer stepped out of a taxi, a hundred yards away from the corner, and strolled briskly along. Rollison was in a doorway, and the newspaperman did not see him. No one followed Latimer, who went beyond the corner, so that he could not be seen from the Rue de l'Arbre. Rollison crossed the road and approached Latimer from behind.

“Looking for someone?”

Latimer, with his coat collar turned up against the thin rain, didn't turn round.

“I'm beginning to think you're worth your reputation.”

“What have I done now?”

“M'sieu le Comte is de Vignon, and one of the more unpleasant rogues of Paris, as I've said. Number 19 is a kind of night club. Not a nice kind. There are worse, but—” Latimer shrugged and turned. “I've told you that M'sieu le Comte and Madame Thysson are not considered good friends.”

“Know anything more about him?”

“The de Vignon family nearly died out under Madame Guillotine's orgies, but one branch survived. Why do the worst branches always seem to have the luck? He's an aristocrat by birth and a rogue by vocation. How did you get on to him?”

“He sent me a messenger. Any luck with Madame Thysson?”

“Luck is the word,” said Latimer. “I'm assured that she will be at her flat tonight, on the Quai de Bayenne. Near the Quai de Béthune. Number Twelve.”

“I don't know what I'd do without you,” said Rollison.

“You'll soon find out. The next time I hear a shot I'm going to run like blazes. I felt safe until I allowed myself to bring you over here.”

“Think of the headlines in prospect,” encouraged Rollison. “I'm going to have a chat with M'sieu le Comte. I'd be a happier man if someone were nearby, with a taxi, ready to get me away if I'm driven out by the scourges. Of course, you could come inside with me, but we shouldn't have a taxi to get away in, should we?”

“We shall have a taxi,” said Latimer firmly. “How long are you going to be?”

“If I'm not out in an hour and the police should come to investigate, I wouldn't object,” said Rollison.

Latimer gave a strangled laugh. In the poor light, with the drizzle coming faster and cars swishing along the wet roads, there was an uneasy moment of waiting.

“Seriously,” Latimer said, “if you want me inside, I'll come like a shot.”

“I'd much rather you stayed outside.”

“You know that you're asking for trouble, don't you? There's a nasty stratum in Paris, and this is it. You wouldn't be the first man to disappear without leaving a trace, if you were to interfere too much.”

“I have been warned,” said Rollison sepulchrally.

“And you can't call on your friends of the East End to get you out of the mess.”

“Well,” said Rollison, “the press is behind me.” Latimer wasn't amused.

 

The door through which Mademoiselle Blanc had gone opened when Rollison turned the handle and pushed. That did not get him far. He stood in a small courtyard. A single electric lamp burned immediately ahead of him. There were two staircases, one on each side, leading to apartments – odd numbers one side, even numbers the other. A dark window had a word printed on it in white:
Concierge.
There were also cards with the names and addresses of the tenants, but there was no Comte de Vignon. There was one which read:
Club de l'Amour,
and the
appartement
was Number 6. Rollison went up the stone staircase leading to the even numbers. There was a light at the first landing, but none at the second. Above, a glimmer showed, as if at an open door. There was a sound of music, which seemed a long way off; hot, rhythmic stuff. The sound became louder as he went silently up the stairs.

At a half-landing, he could see Number 6. A door stood ajar, and the light came from that. He saw a shadow, probably that of a man who was sitting just inside the flat. He kept close to the wall, to lessen the risk of being seen, but the shadow moved as he approached. So he stepped boldly forward, and saw a small, vicious-looking man standing in front of a chair, and glaring at him. The fact that the man had on a dinner-jacket, with a wasp waist and absurdly exaggerated shoulders, did not make him look any less vicious. He put one hand to his pocket, and held the other in front of him, palm upwards.

“Good evening,” said Rollison, in English.

“Your card,” the man said.

“I left it behind,” said Rollison, and went nearer. “M'sieu le Comte is expecting me.”

Dark eyes surveyed him sceptically. The man spoke in French, mixing a few words of English; in effect, he said that M'sieu le Comte was expecting no one who hadn't a card which entitled him to enter the
appartement.

Rollison said: “Oh, well,” and took out his wallet. It was bulging with French notes, sufficient to distract the eye of the vicious man, who immediately relaxed. Rollison selected one of his own cards, and said: “Show him both sides.”

“M'sieu?”

“Just show him,” said Rollison.

“Wait here, please.”

There was another door behind the man, who sat on guard in a little cubby hole; there was just room for the chair and for visitors to pass to the second floor. He tapped three times, sharply, and after a lengthy pause, tapped again. A spy-hole in the door opened; it was well calculated to impress the naive. The door opened and the vicious-looking man disappeared.

Rollison was being watched; he couldn't see but sensed the eye at the spy-hole. He turned down his coat collar, and took off his hat, then lit a cigarette. The sound of music had stopped, but started again; there was dancing inside. The waiting lasted for several minutes, before the door opened and the little man appeared.

“Hallo!” greeted Rollison. “Not lost?”

“You may come.” The words were uttered gratingly, and with dislike. Rollison beamed and followed him, but he was handed over immediately to another, taller man. The first went back to his post. This was an ante-room; through an open door he caught a glimpse of dancing, and he didn't like the glimpse; he preferred his dancers more décorously dressed. All that Latimer had told him about le Comte de Vignon promised to be true.

He was led through another room. Outside a far door, a big man sat back in an arm-chair; obviously a bodyguard. Rollison's escort tapped at the door, which was painted white, and a man said in a deep voice: “Come in, at once.”

It was a large room, beautifully furnished in modern style; the décor was green and gold, the carpet was thick, there were portraits of nudes round the walls. Across one corner was a desk of black oak, intricately carved, and behind the desk sat the man whom he had last seen getting into the Buick; the Slav type.

The man smiled.

 

“Good evening, Mr. Rollison.”

“Nice of you to see me,” murmured Rollison.

“I—” He broke off, for the man who had brought him here suddenly grabbed his right arm and twisted it behind his back. A practised hand slapped his pockets, and the gun was pulled out, followed by the knife. The man let him go, and took the spoils across to the desk.

“A little precaution, and so necessary,” said de Vignon. “Won't you take your coat off, Mr. Rollison?”

Rollison said: “Thanks.”

He took off his coat and dropped it across a chair, propping the stick up by its side. The stick fell, he had to fiddle with it. The man who'd taken the gun went to the chair.

“No,” said Rollison.

The man picked up the coat.

“I said
no,”
said Rollison. He went across, pulled the coat out of the man's hand, and added: “We don't want a rough-house yet, do we?”

“You are hardly in a position to start a rough-house now, Mr. Rollison.” De Vignon's English was excellent if accented, and his smile charming.

“If he takes the coat away, you'll see,” said Rollison.

De Vignon hesitated, then shrugged.

“Leave it, Leon. Wait outside.”

The man obeyed as promptly as the girl had obeyed Rollison at his hotel. The door closed silently. De Vignon still held Rollison's card, and glanced down at it again.

“Do sit down, Mr. Rollison. I see you are quite an artist. What is this little drawing supposed to represent?”

“Oh, that. That strikes terror,” said Rollison amiably. “Didn't you know?”

“I know you are out of your element in Paris.”

“Really? A bullet kills in Paris as well as in London, and bad men go to prison in both places for more or less the same kind of thing. Of course, we hang the worst and you guillotine them, but I don't think that makes much difference in the long run. How's Mademoiselle Blanc?”

“Charming and beautiful, as ever. And she tells me that she gave you my message. I received yours. Why did you come, after asking me to see you?”

“I couldn't be sure you'd accept the invitation,” said Rollison. He sat down and stretched out his legs. The coat and stick were by his side, within reach. He took out cigarettes, and saw the other's eyes narrow, almost in alarm; that faded when Rollison lit up. “Nice little place you have here. There's always a fortune in crime for the lucky ones, isn't there?”

“There is always a fortune in fools,” said de Vignon, in the same friendly voice, “and that is how I make mine, Mr. Rollison. You, however, are not a fool. You have a young lady in your care who was foolish enough to run away when” – he shrugged – “it was in her best interests, and mine, to stay in Paris. However, she is not likely to do me any harm while in London, and I do not think she will be foolish enough to say anything which might harm her—or harm me. Go back and look after her, Mr. Rollison, and you will not meet any more difficulties. I believe that certain mutual friends did inconvenience you in London, but they won't again. They were most ill-advised. Just return and look after your protégée, and be a sensible man.”

“Or else?” murmured Rollison.

De Vignon smiled blandly.

“This is a strange city, Mr. Rollison, and you know it only as a visitor.” He stood up, went across to the chair, and picked up the stick. He swung it, like a club, and took it back to his desk. “Paris is so gay, enchanting, amusing. But it has its ugly sides, and you are close to one of them now. Don't get any closer.”

Rollison said: “I see.” He got up leisurely, and again the big man's eyes narrowed, and his right hand hovered near a bell-push at the side of the door. “I'll be on my way,” said Rollison, and reached the door and turned the key in the lock. He turned, looking amiable. “Now I'm on my way back, and we can't be interrupted so easily. What were you saying?”