A Mask for the Toff (13 page)

 

Rollison's gaze dropped to the gun, then rose to look into the man's face. It was a smiling, rather pleasant face, and he had seen it before. The man had dark hair and a fresh complexion, a good, lean figure; he was probably in the early thirties.

Rollison had knocked him out, at Madame Thysson's house. The man said: “So we meet once more.” He had seen Rollison in his disguise as an apache; yet now he identified him at once as the same man. That was almost as disconcerting as the gun. Rollison carried no weapon, except his stick; he had not expected any kind of trouble. He said: “Is Sister Marie engaged?”

“She asked me to see you, in her place.”

“Too bad,” said Rollison. “So she also works for Madame Thysson.”

“That is so.” The man was courteous, even affable. “There is a car waiting for us; will you have the goodness to come with me?”

“No,” said Rollison.

The other's smile widened.

“It will be for your good, I assure you.”

“Isn't that the Society's general claim?” Rollison didn't move.

“Where is Sister Marie?”

“She will see you later. I hope you will not compel me to use force. I have no thirst for vengeance, but have my instructions, which are to take you away from here. And I am not alone.” He smiled towards the other door, which opened on his words. Another man, shorter and swarthy, came in; he kept his right hand in his pocket, where there was an ominous bulge, probably made by a gun. “Shall we go?”

“If you insist,” said Rollison sadly.

“You are very wise. This way, please.”

He turned and led the way, pocketing his gun; but the swarthy man followed, and the bulge still showed at his pocket. They went through narrow passages, into an open yard, where a battered Renault stood, once a car of distinction, now little more than a wreck. The young man opened the door, and stood aside for Rollison to pass.

If he were to resist, this was the moment.

He stepped inside. The younger man followed him, the swarthy man took the wheel. They turned out of the yard into the street, and half-way along, the blinds dropped over the windows. In the gloom, Rollison saw the other's smile.

“A little precaution.”

“Common among thieves,” said Rollison.

“You should know,” the man said gently.

The car rattled noisily and swayed from side to side, and the driver seemed to keep his foot on the accelerator, slowing down for no man. But for the lack of comfort, it was like the ride to see de Vignon. It took much longer. During one ten-minute spell there was no sound of other traffic except an occasional
swiiishhh
as a car passed them in the other direction; they were on the Paris outskirts, probably in the country. The coolness with which the thing had been done had an alarming efficiency: these people knew exactly what they wanted, and would be ruthless in getting it.

The car slowed down, then turned into a driveway and stopped.

“We will get out,” said the young man amiably. “I congratulate you, milord.” The “milord” was dryly sarcastic.

“Thanks. What about?”

“On your good sense.”

“It's easy to be sensible when frightened,” said Rollison.

“Frightened?” The other smiled, and full daylight shone upon him; he looked carefree and handsome. “You will be wise, then, to remain frightened, because Madame does not wish to injure you, but will, if it becomes necessary.”

“So I am to see Madame?”

“You will see what you will see.”

The house stood alone and isolated. Except for two rows of Normandy poplars on the skyline, and ploughed land, there was nothing in sight. The house itself was tall and ugly. Its plaster work had once been painted pink, but the colour had faded, and great pieces of plaster had fallen away, showing the bare bricks. Wooden shutters, fastened to the outside of the windows, needed painting. It was three stories high, and narrow; except for one low building that might be a garage, there were no outbuildings.

Inside, it was cold and bleak. There was a wide passage, a flight of narrow stairs, the walls needed distempering and there were damp patches. The driver had followed, and was close behind Rollison. The younger man led the way upstairs, and each tread creaked. On the first landing, there was a strip of threadbare carpet. Several doors led off this, all of them closed. Rollison was taken to one, at the back of the house, and his escort tapped.

“Come in,” a woman said.

The door opened, the younger man bowed, with that touch of mockery, and stood aside.

Rollison went into a long, narrow room, furnished barely but with some comfort; and in the open grate was a blazing log fire. Near him, standing by a tall window, was Sister Marie. Farther away, at a desk, sat another woman; he could not be sure that he had seen her before, although undoubtedly he had seen the same mask.

Rollison said: “Still play-acting,
madame?”

“
I am taking the necessary precautions, Mr. Rollison,” the woman said. It was the voice of Madame Thysson.

So they knew that; and anyone who had read the newspapers with any intelligence could hardly fail to recognise him.

“What is it you want?” asked Rollison.

“An explanation.”

“Of what?”

“Your double life.”

Rollison said: “Does it matter? Say that I have a conscience.”

The mask didn't move, but he saw Sister Marie smile. She was older than he had first thought, a pale, serene-looking woman; perfect for her task of mercy.

“Very few friends of the Comte de Vignon are greatly troubled by a conscience.” Madame Thysson placed a hand on the desk in front of her and the diamond ring sparkled. “Perhaps it will be an advantage if I tell you what I know of you, Mr. Rollison. You arrived some weeks ago, and visited M'sieu le Comte. On the same night, you came to see me. It appeared that your visit followed an incident in London, when you were of some assistance to a young girl, Odette. She remains at your address in London, I understand, and appears to be in excellent health. Why do you keep her?”

“She is too frightened to leave.”

“Why do you frighten her?”

Rollison said dryly: “There is a difference between knowing and guessing.”

“I am telling you what I know,” said Madame Thysson. “It is that you realise the significance of that young girl, and are keeping her at your home against her will. What do you know of her?”

“That when you realised that I'd seen and talked to her, you didn't like it.”

“I see.” It was like a voice coming out of a machine; but a good voice. “Let me go on, Mr. Rollison. During the time that you have been in Paris, you have assisted the Good Society, and have dispensed much charity by yourself. You have spent a considerable sum—you will not, I trust, deny that.”

“Should I?”

“You have left a card—one of these cards—wherever you have paid a visit.” She picked up a card and showed it to him—just a plain card on one side, and the sketch without a face on the other; the Toff's visiting-card. “It does not have your name, there was nothing to suggest either on the card or in your appearance that you were the English gentleman who was gaining some attention in very different circles in Paris. But that was obviously true.”

“Well?”

“You set out, m'sieu, deliberately to curry favour with the poor and to gain the confidence of the rich. And that began after you had met M'sieu le Comte, and after you had visited him at his private house, a favour granted to very few people.”

“So you know everything,” said Rollison, ironically.

“Nearly everything that matters, m'sieu. But I do not know, for certain,
why
you have done this. The obvious—” She shrugged. “It could be that you see a way of making a fortune. That seems likely, for an associate of M'sieu le Comte. Most of your introductions came, in the first place, through friends of his. On the other hand, you have certain advantages which he has not, and you have already a wider circle of acquaintances. Why, m'sieu?”

Rollison looked peeved.

“I like
people,”
he said.

Madame Thysson took her hand from the desk and leaned back in her chair. The mask made her uncanny, robbed her of vitality, and yet could not take the menace out of her words.

“Mr. Rollison, understand this. You are not able to save yourself from injury and hurt. You know that I am quite prepared to cause you hurt. There are certain things that I wish to know, and I will find out, whatever method I have to adopt with you. There is no point in not understanding that.”

“Oh, I know,” said Rollison, and sounded almost gay. “Latest torture methods, all up to date. High-pressure blackmail, too. The lovely Madame Thysson, the Spider Maid of Paris. Doing good by stealth and running every racket there is. Not good. But you have a competitor. M'sieu le Comte doesn't see why you should have things all your own way. Nor do I.” He laughed, and moved forward, pulled up a chair and sat down. He didn't know whether either of the men at the door had moved, but could imagine that they had gripped their guns suddenly. He lit a cigarette and looked into the mask, with its set smile and its lifelessness. “Why talk round it, madame? Why have war to the knife? Why not work together.”

Sister Marie moved, suddenly, and took up a position near him, where she could look down and study him closely. He didn't glance at her.

“Please go on,” said Madame Thysson.

“You've a mind. Use it. Paris is wide open to fraud, it's easy money and big money. You've gone one better than M'sieu le Comte, combining a kilogramme of good with a kilo of evil. But while you and de Vignon are at each other's throats, you'll only make danger for yourselves. Get together!”

“With you, perhaps, as liaison?”

“Why not?”

“Why have you detained Odette?” the woman asked sharply.

“Let's not talk about Odette, she will be all right, while you behave nicely. Let's talk about the possibilities of getting together in Paris. It's been done before, you know. One big ring, getting protection money from all the people who matter, blackmailing, cheating—crime with a capital C. You think you're big, but you're only playing with it. Get together with M'sieu le Comte.”

She looked at him steadily, and he could just see her eyes, behind the empty mask sockets; they did not move. Sister Marie turned and went back to the window. Neither of the men shifted or made a sound.

“And did he send that message?”

“He did not! He hates your—well, he hates.”

“With good cause,” said Madame Thysson. “And how would you propose to dissolve that hatred?”

“Money melts most things.”

“You have a peculiar philosophy, if not a unique one,” said Madame Thysson. “I understand that you are to discuss the next stage in your relationship with M'sieu le Comte, tonight.”

Rollison didn't speak.

“I have, you see, access to his confidential plans,” she said, and it was easy to imagine her smiling again. “He is foolish enough to believe that he has access to mine, but he knows only what I want him to know. He is a fool but a dangerous fool, and there can be no peace between us. Nor is there room for a man like yourself to work with him. I had hoped that the discussion would have taken a different turn, but—” She broke off, and shrugged.

Rollison crossed his legs and leaned back on the chair. The woman looked at him steadily, and he felt the intent gaze of the others. He felt more; he could imagine that if Odette were here she would cry out there was danger. He felt much as he had done when Downing had appeared in his room; helpless. The methods were different, the kid glove was used smoothly, but the results were the same. He had only one card in his hand.

He said gently: “Poor Odette.”

The effect was almost as great as when he had named the girl before.

Madame Thysson's hands clenched, Sister Marie drew a sharp breath.

“Why do you say that?”

“Just poor Odette,” said Rollison. “Do you ever read the English papers, I wonder? Did you read about the murder of a certain titled lady? Lady Murren. She had many friends in France, including M'sieu le Comte. Her murder was sad and sickening. It happened on the night that Odette was in London. Her first night there. I wonder why Odette murdered her?”

“That is a lie.”

Rollison's heart hammered. He took out his wallet and selected a photograph of the girl in London. He studied it with his head on one side, then said approvingly: “Nice. In fact, lovely. It would be a pity to see her hanged. My impression was of sweet innocence, bludgeoned into understanding the harsh realities of life. Someone didn't teach her properly.”

He handed the photograph to Madame Thysson.

The woman took it with unsteady fingers.

“This child did not murder anyone.”

“Of course, if the victim had been a man, Odette might have escaped on a plea of threatened virtue, but that wouldn't serve, would it? The evidence that Odette did kill Lady Murren is
very
strong. I keep in daily touch with my friends in London. They have instructions to take Odette and the evidence to the police, if I should fail to have my usual conversation. You are devoted to Odette, aren't you, madame?”

 

 

Sister Mark: sighed, as if she were in physical pain. Rollison smiled amiably into the face of the mask, leaned forward and stubbed out his cigarette on an empty ash-tray. The younger man walked forward, and stood close to Rollison's side. Rollison glanced up, and saw hatred on that face.

“I thought she might prove a trump card,” said Rollison. “No Rollison, no Odette. Madame Thysson, you're not really cut out for a bad woman. You've had a long run. Retire. Leave crime to men who really know their business. Now de Vignon
is
bad. Between us—” He broke off, and shrugged. “Of course, if you would care to work with us, I think it might be arranged. Not now, but when this venom of hate has been dissolved. I wonder why you hate him as much as he hates you.”

The woman said: “Odette did
not
kill that woman, or any person.”

“Opinions differ. The evidence would support the case and satisfy even the strict English sense of justice. I know our police very well.”

“You could not prove it against her.”

“Oh, but I could. Would. Gladly. If you don't see reason. Which reminds me.” Rollison glanced at his watch; it was nearly half-past three. “I have to be back in town by half-past five—you won't keep me too long, will you?”

 

He felt the cold wind sweeping into the car, and it stung his damp forehead. He had not expected to be allowed to leave, almost at once; he had used a trump card which had more power than he had expected. A mile or two from the house they had let him see where he was going. As he sat back, looking at the countryside which flashed by in the fading light, he went over all that had happened; he remembered the atmosphere of dread, after he had threatened to incriminate Odette. The girl held the key to the mystery; knowingly or unknowingly, he couldn't be sure.

He was sure of one thing: Madame Thysson and de Vignon were worlds apart, in spite of the similarity of their reputation.

They came to the suburbs, then drew near the heart of Paris, approaching from the Bastille district. He tapped on the glass in front of him, and the driver pulled up. He got out.

“This is far enough,” he said, and thrust a five-hundred-franc note through the window. “Give my regards to madame.”

The swarthy driver flung the note back at him, and the wind carried it along the pavement, then frisked it into the road. Rollison laughed. The car drove off, and Rollison walked on until he found a taxi; he was not followed. He left the taxi at a café not far from the offices of the
Sûreté Générale
and telephoned from the café; he found Poincet in.

“This is a certain Englishman,” he announced.

“My friend! How unexpected and how great a pleasure! But should you telephone me like this?”

“I'm in a hurry. Where can we meet?”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“Where are you?”

“At the Café Melisse, near you.”

“It could not be better,” said Poincet. “Go upstairs, ask for M. Melisse, and tell him that I am coming to see you. He will place a private room at your disposal.”

M. Melisse, a rotund man, was affability and helpfulness itself. Rollison waited for ten minutes in a cosy room, where a dozen could dine in comfort and where on the walls there were water-colours depicting food in all its culinary aspects. He heard footsteps on the stairs, and smiled when Poincet made an entry, much as he had done at the Restaurant des Truites. The detective placed his hand in Rollison's.

“So now, you are in trouble.”

“It's starting.”

“This Ball tomorrow night—”

“Never mind that, now,” said Rollison. “Why have you lied to me, M. Poincet?”

The Frenchman blinked, but was not offended. “M'sieu? In what way do I appear to have misled you?”

“You know. There isn't much mystery about Madame Thysson.”

Poincet looked earnest. M'sieu, all Paris knows that there is.”

“Nearly all Paris. You don't, for one. Who is Madame Thysson? What is she really doing? Why has she built up this criminal front?”

“So,” breathed Poincet, and sat down in a chair and looked sad. There was a pause, while a waiter brought wine, and then was waved away. Poincet sat and studied the bottle and the glasses. “So, you have discovered that Madame Thysson is not all she is supposed to be.”

“I've discovered that she is the leader of the Good Society, that much of the nonsense talked about her is false, that it would be a happier world with many more like her. I think you've helped to build up the story against her. I've checked with Latimer, and with some French newspapermen, and most of the evidence—evidence!—against her, comes from you or from your Department. Why?”

Poincet smiled vaguely.

“I am surprised,” he confessed. “I did not think you would find these results from your inquiries.”

“Isn't it true?”

“Yes, I suppose one may say that it is true,” agreed Poincet. “Partly true. However, I have not betrayed you to Madame Thysson or her friends. She does not know you are working with my help.”

“Why keep it from her?”

“It is not necessary for her to know everything,” said Poincet. “Let me tell you, that Madame Thys on is a woman with a mission. A strong sense of mission. It began during the war. She has developed a sense of the injustice of life, because—”

He shrugged. “She was closely related to a man who was not stirred by any sense of mission except his own aggrandisement. He was her husband. In fact, he still is, although they have not lived together for a long time, a very long time.

“The woman came to hate this man, who was so bad. There were collaborators for whom one could find excuses, but there were no excuses for him, and he betrayed many underground workers. He contrived, however, not to allow it to be proved that he had collaborated. He then began to run what you would call a racket, and his influence spread. The woman wished to destroy his influence. You can understand that it was not work which the police could do very easily. People who are being blackmailed do not resort to the police, and there are other difficulties. It was conceived by Madame Thysson, as she styled herself, that if she were to become unorthodox, she could succeed. Officially, I disapproved. But what, in fact, could I do? In every policeman there is a man, and men are sometimes wiser than rules and regulations permit. I did nothing, except to pass on the evidence against Madame Thysson to the newspapers. She provided the evidence—no, not the grounds, the rumours. Had there been evidence, I must have acted. She was very wise.”

“By her rivalry, as it happened, she has greatly weakened de Vignon's organisation. She came to hate and work against all bad men. She is quite ruthless. I cannot be ruthless, I am a policeman, but as you have guessed so much it is right that you should know the rest.”

“Thanks,” said Rollison heavily.

“If I were a different man, I would perhaps say that you are not unique. What you have been to London for many years, Madame Thysson has been to Paris. But she has done more, much more. This Society, which she organised, does remarkable work. Remarkable! Until it acted, I had never believed that there was such a thing as a reformed criminal. Now, I know better. Much better. Oh, she is a remarkable woman. Men who will not work for the police, men who have been trained to regard the police as their natural enemy, will serve her. Is she not one of themselves? And so she has fought a battle against de Vignon, and there have been times when she has been near to winning it. But, my friend” – Poincet raised a hand, impressively – “but, my friend, de Vignon is also ruthless, clever and has great power. I have played cat and mouse, as you say, hoping that she would lure him into one big mistake.”

“She has not, yet; but she has won much influence, and de Vignon knows that she is the leader of the Good Society. He sought to break it. He wants to find out her identity but she has hidden it from everyone. Or nearly everyone. Today, many people contribute towards the Good Society. How brilliant the conception of de Vignon, to offer an alternative, to divert from those channels money which will come to you, at the Ball and after. You begin to see?”

“I see. And de Vignon still hasn't missed a step?”

“Please?”

“He hasn't made his fatal slip?”

“Not yet. Oh, we could pick up some of his minnows, but his big men and he himself—they still eat off gold plate. Benign providence does not make them choke. There are times when I would argue with providence. The hope, however, is that de Vignon will over-reach himself. Is that possible, perhaps?”

“Yes.”

“How I admire you,” breathed Poincet. “You are so confident.” He poured wine, for the first time. “Now, you wish that I should acquaint Madame Thysson of the true facts about yourself.”

“Not yet,” said Rollison. “Listen …”

Not once, during the next five minutes, did Poincet touch his glass. His smile began slowly and became beatific. When Rollison had finished, the detective was wholly speechless.

 

The car from Yvonne arrived for Rollison on the dot; he had not driven himself once since reaching Paris, and regretted it. He did not regret the comfort of this limousine, and contrasted it with the Renault used by Madame Thysson. This time the blinds were not drawn, but he did not pay much attention to the route. It was a short journey, and at a quarter to seven he found himself outside a house on the Rue de Marin, not far from the Rue de l'Arbre.

He was taken to the first floor, and admitted by a prim, middle-aged maid to the
appartement,
which was furnished with modern furniture, tasteful, delightful. The colour scheme was blue and grey, the lighting was subdued. In a small room, Yvonne-was sitting on a couch, with a magazine open in front of her, and she looked up as if she hadn't realised that he was coming. Her lashes swept her cheeks for a moment, the seductive smile played at her lips. She stretched up her arms and drew him down to her.

He went on one knee, extravagantly.

“Must I worship?” he asked.

“Don't you want to?”

“Beauty
is
a shrine.”

He moved his head back and studied her with one-eyebrow raised. She was superbly made-up, but for one thing; she had on no lipstick. He brushed-his lips against hers, and drew back again.

“Short of handkerchiefs?” he asked.

“You are being too English,” she said. “I am short of nothing.”

“I'll live to prove it,” Rollison said, and pulled her up suddenly, until they were standing face to face; then he kissed her. She yielded against him, and they were close together for what seemed a long time; again she was breathless when he let her go.

“Not so very English,” she said. “Are you all ready for tomorrow night?”

“Must I skip a day?”

She laughed. “I think perhaps you should prove by results that you are as good as you have convinced Paul you are.” It was the first time she had used de Vignon's Christian name. “There must be a consideration for favours. The target for tomorrow's charity is ten million francs.”

“It's bespoken.”

“Bespoken?”

“Promised,” Rollison explained.

“Paul will be delighted! And I think you will be, too.”

Rollison laughed, turned away and poured out drinks at an open cocktail cabinet. He carried gin and Italian to her, and had a sherry himself. He offered her cigarettes, and she refused. She took the drink, but stared at him with a fixed expression, as if she were trying to understand what had passed through his mind when he had laughed.

“What is funny?” she demanded.

“Success tomorrow.” He raised his glass.

“That is serious.”

“So you think so,” said Rollison, and laughed again. “I'm beginning to understand why Paul has made such heavy weather of it so long. One needs imagination as well as organising ability to make a real success of anything like this. But Paul's the boss.”

“I do not understand you,” said Yvonne. How could you? He's trained you.”

“I am not sure that I like what you are saying, and I am sure that Paul would not.”

“We don't have to be as brothers,” said Rollison. “My dear, a word in your ear.”

He crossed to her, held his glass in his left hand and slid his right arm round her waist. He drew her close, and let his cheek touch hers. In front of them was a mirror; the reflection would have pleased most people, and there was a bright glow in Rollison's eyes in contrast to the frown of uncertainty in Yvonne's.

“Who will be at the Ball tomorrow?”

“All Paris.”

“
All the rich people of Paris,” corrected Rollison.

“Only they matter. I still do not understand.”

“The men, of course, will come by themselves.”

“Absurd! It will be the event of the season, the greatest for many years. The women—”

“Oh, so you know they're coming. And what do you think they will be wearing? If you say ‘clothes' I shall refuse to kiss you ever again.” He laughed at her reflection, but no longer saw a puzzled gleam; she understood. Her eyes shone, she turned so abruptly that she knocked his glass and wine fell on to his hand; neither of them appeared to notice it.

“Jewels,” she breathed.

“Jewels,” agreed Rollison soberly.

“But the police will be there.”

“Of course they will, and in strength. I'm told that a certain Poincet is so worried by the size of the ball and the brilliance of the gathering, that he will be there in person. Now, Yvonne, breathe this into Paul's ears. The police, being on duty, will need a little refreshment. It is proper to offer them wine and food. But usually they get little, it is all done casually, and no one is really interested. Tomorrow, there will be special catering for the police, if Paul has the sense to pay for it. Not extravagant, but thoughtful; and it will include the particular Bordeaux wine which Poincet likes most. I will arrange it myself. I am told that Poincet cannot resist that wine.”