A Mask for the Toff (8 page)

 

Rollison dropped the door-key into his pocket. De Vignon, with a taut smile, picked up Rollison's gun, and while holding it, opened a drawer and took out another. Then he placed both on the table in front of him, and picked up the knife.

“This is a barbaric-looking weapon, Mr. Rollison.”

“Your mistake. You should know what it is.”

“And what is it?”

“A cracksman's tool. Any cracksman worth his union rate could—”

“Cracksman?” de Vignon frowned, as if this skirmish were important. “I don't quite understand what—oh, of
course
! I had forgotten your Raffles. You mean, it is a thief's equipment.”

“That's right.”

“Are you a thief?”

“Supposing we don't go into that too closely,” murmured Rollison. “You'd hate to embarrass me. If I can't get into places where I want to get in, that little gadget helps a lot. I've had a lot of practice in using it, too.”

There was a different, inquisitive look in de Vignon's eyes, almost as if there were a question in his mind which he could not pluck up the courage to ask. He put the knife down and picked up the card; he had shown no sign of nervousness, but a gun was within hand's reach.

“And this is the card which strikes terror, you say,” he mused.

“I exaggerated,” said Rollison, apologetically. “I wanted to impress you. The idea's quite neat, though. I collected a reputation for brains and brawn, and befriended the down and outs in the East End of London. Became almost their champion, so they say. All the little crooks who wanted protection from the police came and had a talk with me. I picked up odds and ends of information about the bigger crooks, and with that was able to—persuade shall we say?—the bigger crooks into doing practically what I wanted. Otherwise, with the knowledge I'd picked up, they might have found themselves in serious trouble with the police. Congratulate me.”

“I wonder how true that is.”

“Ask your friend Downing,” said' Rollison promptly. “He has a grudge against me. I gave him away to the police when he had finished a job for me, and was no further use.” De Vignon smiled more easily. “I see. That is most interesting. Downing calls you a squealer, whatever that may mean. He says that you are as friendly with the police as with the criminals—having a foot in each camp.”

“That's exactly what I've been saying,” said Rollison.

“I wonder.” De Vignon turned the card over again, and read the orthodox printed words. “And this is where you live? Do you do anything for a living?” Rollison gulped: “You mean—
work?
”

“I mean work.”

“Look here,” said Rollison indignantly, “we've kept this on a friendly footing, so far.”

De Vignon stared – and then threw back his head and laughed. It was a deep and rollicking sound, and for a moment almost made the man likeable. But even the laughter could not take away the hint of corruption; the impression that this man lived as a carrion bird, upon the misfortunes and the follies of others. Rollison stood smiling, almost simpering, until the big man stopped.

“Funny, isn't it?” murmured Rollison. “After all, why work when you can live a useful life without it?”

“Obviously there are some things we have in common,” said de Vignon. “I wonder—”

Rollison went to the desk. De Vignon's right hand moved towards the nearer gun, but he did not pick it up. Rollison sat on the desk and took a cigarette from a plain gold box; then he lit it from the table-lighter.

“I've been wondering when you would begin to wonder,” he said. “M'sieu le Comte, you have a mind. Use it. England isn't the place it was. There isn't the money, and we so-called men of the world have become bloated capitalists who batten on society. Some of us mourn a past age. But there are still countries where tradition and breeding
mean
something. Aren't there? I've often thought—”

He paused.

De Vignon looked at him intently, with something like approval in his eyes.

“You have often thought what, Mr. Rollison?”

Rollison said: “There aren't many pickings left in London. The risks are too big, even if you get away with anything. Damn it, there are times when I have to be law-abiding! I've fooled both sides for years, but today it's more difficult. I'm all for an easier life, I'm not getting any younger.”

“I see,” said de Vignon. He turned, and pressed a button in what looked like a cupboard, flush to the wall, behind him. A cocktail cabinet opened slowly and soundlessly, with an array of glasses and bottles. “Cognac?”

“I thought we might come to understand each other,” purred Rollison.

“I think perhaps we shall,” murmured de Vignon. “The glasses are heated. Mr. Rollison, why did you come to Paris?”

“To find out everything I could.”

“What did you know of Odette Rivière?”

Rollison smiled; the lines at his mouth were deep and there was merriment in his eyes.

“Poor Odette,” he said, and plunged on with outward confidence. “She thinks that she is with friends. Why disabuse her? I tried to make her talk, but she wouldn't—can you imagine, she pretended to lose her memory, to save herself from answering questions! Quite remarkable.”

Would the guess be right?

“Excellent,” said de Vignon. “When did you first hear about her?”

When my spies told me that Downing was a regular visitor to Paris,” said Rollison. “I watched him, and eventually came to Marcel and Odette. Marcel is in serious trouble. Will he crack?”

“If you mean, will he talk—I expect so. If you wonder whether anything he can say would harm me, no, it will not. It might harm Odette and others, but not me.” De Vignon's voice became gentle. “Mr. Rollison, I think there might be room for a man of your attainments in Paris, after all.”

“Ah,” said Rollison.

“I should like to think about the possibilities,” said de Vignon. “I need to find out whether what you say about yourself is true. I have remarkable ways of finding out, and have friends in the most unexpected places. Will you do me the honour of having dinner with me, tomorrow night? By then, I may have some further information. Because—” De Vignon leaned forward, and his eyes became clouded; it was possible to imagine pictures following each other through the man's mind. “Because I cannot work for ever with such imbeciles as Downing, and I need an English agent.”

Rollison's eyebrows shot up.

“Agent or partner?”

De Vignon laughed again in great good humour.

“Very well, partner! I might even welcome some assistance in Paris, Mr. Rollison; there are some individuals who might be more effectively dealt with by a stranger. Now! I have work to do. Can I offer you entertainment for the night? Or company? Anything you wish.”

“I need just one thing,” said Rollison. “Sleep. I'm going to need my wits about me tomorrow night!”

He went across the room and picked up his overcoat. De Vignon helped him to put it on, by which time Rollison had his stick in his hand, the gun and knife in his pocket. They smiled. De Vignon did not offer to shake hands; it was one of the things for which Rollison was really grateful.

 

Latimer was sitting in a taxi, round the corner. He must have been looking out of the back window, for the door opened before Rollison came up. Latimer didn't get out, but called him, and Rollison got in. The stick poked into Latimer's legs, and he winced.

“Sorry.”

Rollison began to toy with the gold handle of the stick. The taxi started off, obviously under orders.

“All in one piece,” said Latimer.

“So far. But contaminated.”

“Did you see him?”

“He was our Slav. Not a Slav, but a slug. As foul as they come, far worse than the things that crawl. This job is full of atmosphere, but I don't want to have much of the gaiety at the Rue de 1'Arbre. He despoils beauty and—”

“All very high-sounding,” growled Latimer. “What the dickens are you doing with that stick?”

“Nervous tension. I'd like to use it on de Vignon's head.”

“Relax. Anyway, why didn't you?”

“Don't be silly,” said Rollison. “We're buddies. Partners in embryo, if only I can make sure that de Vignon gets the right dope about me in the morning. He'd be the type to have contact with the
Sûreté,
wouldn't he?”

“He would.”

“How can I meet a highly placed member of the
Sûreté!
Of course, I could telephone Grice, and he would do the necessary, with reservations, but there might be difficulty in getting hold of friend Grice tonight. You know what long-distance telephone calls are. Any influence?”

“I don't know what you're up to,” Latimer said, “but I think I know a man who—”

“Knows a man who knows a policeman,” said Rollison seraphically. “Lead him to me. Not at the
Mulle,
I think I'll be watched there. Some little place where I'm not likely to be noticed. We weren't followed from the Rue de l'Arbre, which is a good thing—de Vignon is having the
Hôtel Mulle
watched, so didn't think the shadowing was necessary. What can you do, my cosmopolitan?”

Latimer laughed. “I'll drop you at the Madeleine. Go to the Restaurant des Truites and wait there.” He gave directions.

 

Rollison did not go at once to the restaurant, but telephoned Scotland Yard, from a hotel. He had some difficulty, but eventually reached Grice.

“Don't ask me to get you out of your troubles,” said Grice promptly.

“Just advice,” said Rollison. “Name some
Sûreté
man who might treat me without scorn.”

Grice laughed, and considered.

“Your best bet is Poincet. After that—”

He named several eminent men at the
Sûreté Générale.

 

The Restaurant des Truites was small, panelled, spotless and with an atmosphere far pleasanter than that at the Rue de l'Arbre. The
patron
concealed his disappointment that Rollison did not require a full-course dinner, and was happy that he should stay, with the solace of a bottle, until a friend called to see him. The friend was nearly an hour in coming, but no one at the restaurant minded. There were only half a dozen people there, in one party, two of them English, one American. They all laughed loudly, for they had finished with the serious business of eating. When their funny stories were beginning to pall on Rollison the door opened and a fat man came in.

He entered with the air of a conqueror, and was greeted as if he were a king. The
patron
and two others hurried forward, took his hat, his coat, his stick, and bowed. He was dressed in slightly old-fashioned black clothes which were a trifle too tight for him everywhere; the only remarkable thing was a large diamond tie-pin, placed in the knot of his tie. He spoke as if he were the lord of creation, and made his way to Rollison's table. He picked up the bottle.

His eyes glowed.

“I shall join you,” he announced.

M'sieu le patron
looked perturbed.

“M'sieu awaits a friend, who—”

“I am the friend,” said the newcomer, grandly; and winked at Rollison. “We should like to be left alone, Henri.”

A second glass appeared, the attendant myrmidons disappeared, as if by magic; and by good fortune, the party of six broke up and made a noisy way into the quiet, narrow street outside.

“You are Rollison? I am Paul Poincet. I have a friend in London, with a strange name: Grice. By remarkable coincidence,” continued M'sieu Poincet in excellent but whispered English, “my friend m'sieu le Superintendent was on the telephone only this evening. He told me that I might expect a visit from another friend of his. He even” – merry blue eyes glowed with delight – “he even suggested that his friend would find himself in trouble and would need assistance to extricate himself. So! You see how widely spread is the net of Scotland Yard.”

Rollison poured wine, and looked sad. The merry light faded from Poincet's eyes.

“He said nothing but good of you, Mr. Rollison.”

“But gave the wrong directions. I don't want to get out of trouble.”

“No?” Poincet was cautious.

“I want to get into it.”

The merriment returned. The Frenchman had plump pink cheeks, with tiny purple veins in them and in his broad nose. He had full, soft lips and a waxed moustache, thin black hair and ears which seemed as if they were glued to the side of his head.

“This is not surprising! How, please?”

“What do you know of the man who calls himself le Comte de Vignon?”

After a short pause, Poincet said gently: “Nothing that is good, my friend. Unhappily—he is a clever one. With many friends and much money. M'sieu, I will be embarrassingly frank with you, and that is not because I have wined well, but because I had the strongest good references from your friend Grice. Rid me of the scourge, de Vignon, and I shall be happy; this shall become the most law-abiding city in the world! But—such miracles do not come to pass. M'sieu le Comte—you see, even I have grown to talk of him like that—does nothing illegal himself.
Nothing.
But if you could do even a little to—”

Poincet paused, frowned, drank again, and then took a cigar-case from his pocket; the cigars were long and dark. He lit one.

“No,” he declared. “It is impossible. You shall not try conclusions with M'sieu le Comte, it is too dangerous. I shall get you into no trouble with him. M'sieu, my mind is made up.”

He paused, hopefully.

 

 

Rollison poured out more wine, settled back in his comfortable chair, took out cigarettes and fitted one into a holder which he seldom used. He looked sleepy and sad but his eyes were neither; they matched the hopefulness in Poincet's. Yet his voice was mournful.

“My mind isn't made up, that's the trouble. I know what to do, but don't know how to do it. It's such a wonderful chance, too. M'sieu le Comte is already half-convinced that I am as big a rogue as he. He fell for the whole story. Yes, it's a great pity.”

“Story?” squeaked Poincet.

“It was one of those meetings when all went well,” enlarged Rollison. “First he tried to stop me from reaching Paris, next he tried to send me away, and then I went to see him. He—”

“C'est impossible!”
In astonishment, Poincet lapsed from his English.

“What's impossible?”

“No one without a card of approval could go to see de Vignon. He is unapproachable. Even I—” Poincet gulped. “That is not important. You could not have seen de Vignon in person.”

“Big, broad, brutal and corrupt,” Rollison murmured. “Suave, sarcastic, safe—he thinks—with his bodyguards at Number 19 Rue de l'Arbre. He was very anxious to make me leave Paris, that's probably why he waved the magic wand and let me in.”

Poincet breathed: “I am almost persuaded that you
saw
M'sieu le Comte.”

“We nearly had a fight, then reason came rallying to the rescue. I hadn't a chance to get out, he was probably right about the mysterious disappearances which happen in Paris, so I parleyed. Conferred,” he amended hastily, for Poincet looked about to interrupt. “I suggested that he was ill-advised to want me to go away. Paris is the right place for me, I have an evil reputation in London, and I might be of great service to him. On the grounds that two bad men are better than one. I complained bitterly about the difficulty of making a fortune in England and said what a sad day it was for the aristocracy—”

“Nom d'un nom!”
cried Poincet. “You have the genius!”

“Eh?”

“But what else? There is one thing which makes M'sieu le Comte almost a human being. His love for his ancestors and his belief in the proper place of the aristocrat. There is his weakness, but usually he is on his guard against it. He would not expect you to know of the weakness.” Poincet took the long black cigar from his lips and looked at the palely glowing end. “Proceed, milord!”

Rollison grinned.

“I think you and I are going to get along together.”

“What is it you require of me?”

Rollison said diffidently: “Or, of course, you may challenge me to a duel. It's quite probable that everyone at the
Sûreté
is proof against blandishments and persuasion. On the other hand, if M'sieu le Comte has a friend who has a friend at the
Sûreté Générale
it is just possible that he would ask for a confidential report on the upstart Englishman. Isn't it?”

Poincet said softly: “So. My friend Grice was right about you.” A faint smile touched his lips but not his eyes. “There is not, you understand, much corruption. In fact there is very little, very little. But such information as that—yes, from a minor official, it could be obtained. And you wish me to give you a bad reputation at my office and throughout the police district.”

“That's it,” said Rollison. “So that M'sieu le Comte will really believe that I'm a bad man.”

“Yes,” said Poincet. “Yes.” He was not enthusiastic, and for the first time, Rollison wondered whether he had gone too far. “Yes,” repeated Poincet. “You understand, of course, that it would perhaps prevent you from obtaining help
from
the police. You would—but no!” He thumped the table. “I am a hundred times a fool! You can have from me a little card, instructing all officers to give you assistance, and then all will be well.
Yes.
It can be done!”

His eyes glowed.

“Wonderful,” murmured Rollison. “But no card.”

“No
card!”

“
Because if I were to be searched and the card found, the game would be up.”

Poincet took out his cigar again, looked at it and then at Rollison. It was the most serious moment since he had arrived.

“Mr. Rollison, your attention, please. You do not quite understand. In Paris—and I well know in all big cities—there are evil men who have no scruples. Murder to them is not murder but an incident, the killing of a fly, at worst a troublesome wasp. In London, you have your friends, you know the district. Here in Paris, it is different. In London you can distinguish between an enemy and a friend, here in Paris you cannot. I can—
you
cannot. Without some protection, you would have little chance to survive. You understand, I am serious.”

“Ah,” said Rollison.

They sat in silence, Rollison toying with the stem of his glass. From a doorway, the
patron
watched them for an anxious moment, and then quietly crept away. There was no sound in the restaurant, and none came from outside.

Then Rollison said: “Then perhaps Madame Thysson could help me.”

“Nonsense! In this, she could not. She and de Vignon quarrel. Her reputation is mysterious, but—”

“Only that?”

“She is a plague, that woman,” growled Poincet. “You never know what she will be up to next.”

“Not a scourge?” asked Rollison sweetly.

“Are you pretending to know Paris better than I? She is a mystery. Now de Vignon—”

“Have you lost men trying to get evidence against de Vignon?”

“Several men,” Poincet said sombrely.

“You owe it to those men as well as to—Paris?—to do everything possible to find the evidence. And now when a chance, a slim chance but a real one, is put into your hand, you reject it. Why?”

Poincet sighed.

“I have the responsibility. You are an English man, if there should be trouble for you—”

“All the police in England know that I go looking for trouble.”

Poincet's eyes brightened. He drew on the cigar until he made a chimney of his mouth, and gradually he began to smile.

“My reckless friend,” he said, “you win.”

He held out his hand.

 

Poincet looked as if a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He became gay, almost boyish, and banged on the table, calling for another bottle of wine, amiably berating the
patron
for his slowness, exuding cheerfulness. When the bottle had come and the
patron
retired again, he said:

“It is a chance. Everything I can do, understand, I shall do.”

“Thanks. I should like two or three things,” said Rollison, almost lazily. “First, the address of a good make-up man. Really good, and from whom I can get some old clothes.”

“Pah!” scoffed Poincet, in a different voice. “The Achilles heel, m'sieu. What would you do with make-up? It is a child's game. Almost I am disappointed.” He looked it.

“A make-up artist,” Rollison said firmly. “And then, the name and address of a good criminal.”

Poincet frowned, with a mixture of bewilderment and condemnation. The conversation had taken a completely different turn, he was obviously doubting the wisdom of his decision, and perhaps wondering whether he should reverse it. When serious, he was no longer a figure of mild comedy, but a man to be reckoned with.

“There is no such thing, m'sieu.”

“Well, then, a reformed criminal. One who knows the bad districts—Montmartre, Montparnasse, all of them. A man who can give me information and help me to mix with the people there.”

Poincet threw up his hands.

“What a student of human nature! How right! I shall always believe my friend Grice in future. He said you were mad. Quite mad. You
are
mad. You speak French well. So well that almost you could be taken for a Frenchman; almost. But the argot—it is like your Cockney. Unless you are familiar with it, you cannot mix with the people. It is one thing to take the big risk, another to behave with folly. Become friends with M'sieu le Comte, by all means, but this other game of disguises and dressing-up—please, forget it.”

Rollison said mildly: “Not so mad as childish, perhaps.” He smiled, one-sidedly. The smile gradually faded, and his lips curved in a sneer, one corner up higher than the other. The sneer touched his eyes, which narrowed and had an oblique look. Put him in fancy dress, and he was Mephisto to the life. He leaned forward, and his hand stretched out and touched Poincet's hand. His fingers pressed tightly, and gripped. Then he began to speak, in French – not the French of the
salon,
but an
argot
which a man could pick up only in the Paris gutters. He went on and on. He kept his voice low, but observed out of the corner of his eye three men appear at the far doorway, which led to the kitchen; the
patron
and his remaining staff were hypnotised.

He finished.

Poincet, whose eyes had widened until they were astonished, rounded orbs, gulped and licked his lips, and did not try to free his hand until Rollison took his away.

“
Sacré diable!”
he whispered. “You shall have everything you require.”

 

Rollison turned the key in the lock of his room at the
Hôtel Mulle
with his left hand, and kept his right about the gun, inside his coat pocket. He did not expect trouble tonight, but carelessness was often its own danger. He made no sound as he opened the door – or when he saw the light on in the big room. The door of the foyer was ajar, letting the light shine through. He stepped inside, leaving the outer door open. He heard the rustle of a paper. He crept nearer to the open door, keeping to one side. Then he saw a pair of crossed legs, belonging to a man who sat in an easy chair; and he also saw the end of a newspaper.

He opened the door wide, and stepped inside.

“Put 'em up!” he barked.

The legs uncrossed, the man started violently and the newspaper fell. Latimer, scared out of his wits, started to get up, then dropped back again. He eased his collar and didn't speak until the colour slowly returned to his cheeks. Then he said deliberately:

“You cold-blooded devil! I'll pay you for that.”

“Hallo, Pete. Having a nice read?” Rollison closed both doors, took off his coat and flung it across the bed, with his stick. “How long have you been here?”

“About an hour. You're not the only one who can bribe the hall porter. See Poincet?”

“Yes.”

“Any luck?”

“Yes.”

“You don't deserve it,” said Latimer, but he laughed. “You're opening my eyes to a lot, Rolly. Whatever I may say in future, I wouldn't have missed this for a fortune. Did you seriously get Poincet's promise to co-operate?”

“He let himself be blarneyed, and he's dead set against de Vignon. He wouldn't let himself be drawn on the subject of Madame Thysson, but he doubtless has his reasons.”

“Meaning, he could be on her pay-roll?”

“Meaning that he has his reasons for diverting most attention to de Vignon. Here's the general scheme.” Rollison sat on the bed, propped himself up with pillows, and talked freely for nearly half an hour. When he had finished, a clock over the mantelpiece showed that it was five minutes to one.

Latimer said: “And in less than seven hours! I don't really believe it.”

“All I've done so far is prepare a noose for my neck,” said Rollison, and yawned. “Poincet gave me some useful data about M'sieu le Comte. Now I want more on Madame Thysson, including a detailed plan of her apartment.”

“I've got that.”

“Wonderful! Feel tired?”

“I'm never tired.” Latimer yawned very widely.

“You know, Pete, you don't have to come,” Rollison said. “You could find yourself in a nasty spot, and you've already done a job in a million. Have a good night's rest, and—”

“I've hired a car with a special driver—a reporter on
Figaro.
Soul of discretion, who doesn't know what we're up to, but wants to run a story on the Toff anyhow, and swears he'll wait until this is over. The law about carrying guns isn't so strict here as in England, either.” He patted his pocket, and grinned.

 

The car, a new Renault, pulled up on the near side of one of the Seine's many bridges, and Rollison got out. Latimer and the
Figaro
reporter wished him well in a whisper. He walked across the bridge briskly. There was a moon, and the drizzle had gone, although the streets were still damp. The moon reflected, shimmering grey, on the quiet waters of the Seine. The bridge was a new one which looked ghostly white. The houses on the far bank, Quai de Béthune on one side and Quai de Bayenne on the other, looked tall and dark against the powdery sky.

Rollison turned left at the other side of the bridge. There was a wall, about waist high, alongside the river, then a narrow road, with just room for two cars to pass, then a yard-wide pavement in front of the houses. There were no more than a dozen of these. Each was approached through a courtyard, and the main doors, at each courtyard, were closed and probably locked; they might be bolted. They were like stable doors, and inlet in each was a smaller door.

Rollison reached Number 12.

It was in darkness, but so were all the others. He examined the Yale lock of the smaller door, then took out his knife. He opened a blade which was of remarkably thin and pliable steel, and began to push it into the lock. He made little sound. The blade gradually worked its way round the barrel of the lock, and poked out the other side.

He turned the handle and pushed; and the door opened.

He withdrew the blade, closed the knife and put it away, and stepped into the dark courtyard. He pushed the door to behind him, but didn't close it; in any case it would not have latched, that method of opening a Yale lock had a disadvantage; the lock needed repair before it would work again.