A Mask for the Toff Read online

  The car slid swiftly along quiet roads, only now and again merging with thick and noisy traffic. Suddenly the blinds at the side and back windows dropped, operated without warning by the driver. That was when they were nearing a built-up area, which Rollison hadn’t identified. The driver had taken so many twists and turns that Rollison wasn’t sure what district he was in; in London, no trick like that could have fooled him.

  They drove for twenty minutes.

  When the car stopped, he was inside a courtyard, something like that which led to Madame Thysson’s. The doors behind were being closed by a man in uniform. Another uniformed man stood at a doorway leading to a wide flight of stairs. The light was poor, but when Rollison drew closer to the stairs he saw that the “uniform” was livery; these were flunkeys, even to their white gloves. He hid a smile as he was taken up the stairs by one man, who did not speak; they reached a wide landing. Everywhere was spaciousness and opulence. A door, standing open, showed a ballroom, with three huge chandeliers.

  Rollison was taken along a side passage, carpeted in deep red, then into a small, exquisitely furnished room. Everything here was genuine Louis Quinze. It was more like an exhibition room than one in which human beings lived and took their ease.

  His hat, coat and stick were taken away from him, and he was left alone again. When the doors closed, there was no sound. He was beginning to get impatient when the door opened and de Vignon appeared.

  “My friend, how good to see you!” This time he came with outstretched hand. It was a hard hand, and gripped tightly. He was dressed in a lounge suit which fitted perfectly, appeared to ooze wealth; and, he would like to think, had an aristocratic air. Rollison studied him dispassionately. It would be easy to underrate this man; he was handsome in a striking, unusual way, and a man of mental as well as physical strength. The reflection itself was absurd; only a brilliant man could have won his position in Paris and, in spite of his reputation, be immune from the law.

  He linked arms with Rollison.

  “I was delayed just for a few minutes, I had intended to be here to welcome you.”

  He led the way into the next room, a large one with a dining-table large enough to hold twenty people; two places were laid, a flunkey stood behind each chair. Rollison glanced about him, and had difficulty in concealing his surprise; for there was gold plate. He was dreaming, this wasn’t really gold plate glistening beneath the light of two chandeliers, or could it be?

  It was.

  De Vignon would expect a comment.

  “You’ve taken a hundred years off my age,” murmured Rollison.

  His host was delighted.

  “I thought perhaps you would appreciate it, my friend. And I also felt that you would be happy to dine alone with me. We have so much to discuss.” He rested a hand on Rollison’s shoulder. “I have excellent news about you!”

  “Good,” murmured Rollison.

  “I did not know that such a man as you existed,” said de Vignon. “I thought that there was no rival to me in Europe! But “—he laughed—” you have some idea, now, of what I think of the police. They have the same opinion of you, in London, as the fools here have of me, in Paris. Police!” He snapped his fingers. “Nothing can be denied a clever man.”

  “Why should it be denied him?” said Rollison.

  They sat down, and a flunkey above all flunkeys came from double doors, each opened by a lesser creature, and the feast began.

  Rollison sat back in an easy chair trimmed with gold brocade, smoked a small cigar, and looked into the reflection of the leaping log fire in the large bowl of the brandy glass. He felt no desire to move or speak, and de Vignon seemed touched by the same lethargy. It was two hours since Rollison had arrived; two fantastic hours.

  He breathed: “This is the life.”

  “The only life,” agreed de Vignon. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes bright; he had regained his slow, deliberate way of speaking, but now appeared to have to consider each word with even more care. “Not possible, I believe, in England.”

  Rollison put up a hand: “Let’s not talk about that.”

  “But possible here,” murmured de Vignon. He sniffed the bouquet of the brandy, and lowered the glass. “Rollison, I have friends in many places. The loudest voice in the world is money. Yesterday and today, I have heard remarkable stories about your activities in London, and the police at Scotland Yard—” He gave a beatific smile. “How they dislike you.”

  “Fools,” said Rollison, negligently.

  “I have also received word from other friends, on the staffs of the great newspapers, and it is evident that you have created a fine reputation.”

  “Robin Hood,” murmured Rollison. “Don Quixote. All that kind of rubbish.”

  “But profitable. And yet,” went on de Vignon, “you have little opportunity for good living in England. Now in France, with a romantic people whose imagination can be fired by one man, it would be different. I confess, I am not well liked by most people. I have not the personality, only the organising mind. Now you—people take quickly to you, my friend, I have already discovered that. You could become popular in a very short time. Your French is excellent, and—” He paused, and looked dreamily at his glass again.

  “Nice of you,” said Rollison politely.

  “Now there are so many political squabbles, so much uncertainty, an unhappy and dejected people—not all, but many of them.” De Vignon belched slightly. “They will respond to a magic touch. I have myself asked, how could you best work with me. And—”

  Rollison opened his eyes a little wider.

  “You will agree that I am cunning,” said de Vignon, beaming at his own virtues. “This far, my friend. At first, I believed what Downing told me about you. That was why I attacked you on the road, why I wanted you to return to London—to be killed, on the way! Then” – he was very frank – “you told me about Downing’s grudge against you, and—I thought perhaps I had been wrong. So, I removed the bullets from Downing’s gun!”

  “I see,” murmured Rollison.

  “Now I have studied the reports received about you from London,” said the Count. “You have won a great reputation by appearing to befriend the poor, the outcasts, the down-and-outs of London. Yes?”

  “Poor dupes,” said Rollison.

  “Exactly the word, my friend, but regard the way in which they have assisted you. You are so popular with the demi-monde and in the poor districts of London that the police are handicapped. You have the poor championing you—I understand aright?”

  Grice and Poincet, between them, had worked miracles.

  “I think you could say that,” conceded Rollison.

  “Wonderful, my friend! Now with the people behind one, what cannot a man do? I confess that although I am wealthy and live as a man should live, I am confined to certain limits” – de Vignon shrugged. “I have an organisation without a heart—without sympathy. I am dispassionate and honest with myself, and see what is required. If it were possible for a man to become a favourite among the rich and poor of Paris, as you are in London, he would climb to power. I cannot do that. You would need to be launched on Paris society, and that will be simple. I can trust you” – he smiled broadly – “because you would not wish to betray a man who could prove you killed Downing! Also, when you are famous, you will champion the cause of the poor.”

  “Aiming at what, in particular?” asked Rollison, who still looked nonchalant, but no longer felt it.

  “But my friend!” de Vignon leaned forward earnestly. “I confess that—I have some wealth and an efficient organisation and yet there are difficulties. I must always be on my guard against the authorities. There are people beyond my influence, many of them wealthy. Now if you were to be accepted by them, and then suggest a great effort for charity, a stupendous effort, perhaps a Bal Masqué, you would have many
of the wealthy on your side. A rich man likes to receive some value for his gifts. You would become a distinguished, popular public figure. Then you would find out, and I would assist you, where the rich have their weaknesses. We could exert a little pressure. Do not misunderstand me, my friend, you would simply obtain the information, I would see to all the rest. And on the other side, in the underworld itself, you would become an influence. You would have many friends who would talk freely of the big criminals and their coups. We would be in the market for stolen jewels, organise a cutting and re-setting workshop and, through you and others, sell the jewels back to their owners. It is already done on a small scale, but not properly organised or exploited. You agree?”

  “A marvellous conception,” purred Rollison.

  “We would then spread our activities, in marry spheres. We would organise crime so that I see nothing less,” declared de Vignon, “than the greatest illegal organisation in Europe!”

  “So,” murmured Rollison.

  “Influence everywhere, power in many places, what is in America called protection racket; all these and other things—we would be kings.”

  Rollison considered. “What about the queens?”

  “Already there is a woman who has tried to put this into practice. A woman!” de Vignon sneered, and for the first time since Rollison had arrived, his voice hardened, as with hate. “A Madame Thysson, who—”

  “Ah, yes,” said Rollison. “I’ve heard of her.” He touched the bruises on his forehead. “I won those, trying to get information from her. Quite a woman if she hadn’t worn a mask.”

  The hardness went out of de Vignon’s voice, he chuckled and oozed goodwill.

  “I am glad you told me of that, my friend. I heard that she received a visitor, and believed that it was you. Immediately I knew that you were a man of exceptional calibre. Tell me, why did you go there?”

  “Shock tactics,” said Rollison. “I had heard about the lady, and Odette mentioned her.” He dropped the name Odette out gently. “There are such great possibilities in Paris, and I wanted to make a deep impression quickly.”

  “You succeeded,” said de Vignon. “I doubt whether Madame Thysson has received such a shock in all her life. But you need not pay too much attention to her in future, when the time is ripe I can move against her.”

  Rollison’s eyebrows shot up.

  “I am quite sure,” said de Vignon. “And you can assist. She is known to be extremely fond of Odette Rivière. You must make sure that Odette is kept safe—we can use her to exert pressure on Madame Thysson.”

  “I see,” said Rollison. “She is quite safe.”

  “Good! Now, our only urgent problem is to launch you on Paris.” He chuckled. “I shall play little part in that myself, but you will have all the help you require. It will be dependent chiefly on your own personality and position, and I am not troubled about that. Now, my friend, more brandy?”

  “Not now,” pleaded Rollison.

  “I wish that I could spend the rest of the evening with you,” said de Vignon, “but there is some business I must attend to. One thing—are you wise to stay at a second-rate hotel like the Mulle?”

  “As a poor Englishman—”

  “I will arrange a suite for you at the Splendide, where I am not without influence,” promised de Vignon.

  The same closed car took Rollison back to the Hôtel Mulle. He did not know what part of Paris he had visited, and at that stage, did not greatly care. Poincet could almost certainly tell him when he needed to know. He was greeted with respect by the staff, went along to his own room, and flung off his gloves and coat. He stood in the middle of the room, scowling. There was a message on his dressing-table; Latimer would be busy on his special assignment all this evening. A good thing; Rollison preferred to be alone.

  He felt stifled; contaminated.

  He went out again, walked some distance and made sure that he was not followed, then caught a bus from the Place de l’Opera and stood with the crowd on the swaying platform at the back. Like most of the single-decker buses in Paris the bus was crowded to overflowing. He rubbed shoulders with ordinary men and women, who glanced at him furtively or openly, and watched the countless little cafés with gaily lighted windows, felt the wheels bumping over the cobbles of side streets, and gradually felt less stifled.

  He got out, near the funicular railway in Montmartre, and walked up the steps to the Church of the Sacred Heart. He leaned against the parapet, and saw Paris, a sea of myriad twinkling lights, stretched out in front of him. The stars above seemed pale and tiny, the lights below large, warm and friendly.

  A beggar approached him, slowly, without speaking; dumb. He dropped a five-hundred-franc note into the outstretched palm, and received an incoherent blessing. He turned and went into the church, and saw the glowing candles, fifty or sixty people praying, including three old women, dressed in black, who were maintaining the never-ending prayer which had gone on, in relays, unbroken for many years. He walked round, slowly, and then came out and looked over Paris again. Staring towards the glowing lights in the centre of the city, he seemed to see a face materialise out of the faint mistiness; de Vignon’s. It was like an obscene deity, gloating over helpless victims.

  He turned away abruptly and walked swiftly until an empty taxi drew level. Half an hour later, he was walking through the narrow streets of Montmartre. Little groups stood at the corners, talking in undertones, and most stopped as he passed. The bistros were half-empty. He turned into the mean streets of private dwellings, and heard music coming from many radios, children crying, talking, laughing. He came upon a large building with the door open and poor light inside, went in and was stopped by a little man in shirt sleeves who spoke rapidly in argot. There was no room, the house was full up.

  “I want to look round,” said Rollison, and walked past the startled man. He found himself in a large room, which stank of sweat and cooking. Round the walls were single beds, with only a little space between each. At the far end was a big, round iron stove, with men huddled about it. Some were cooking, others sat on their beds, miserable if warm, hungry-looking. Several came across, cringing, begging. He went out suddenly, and some cursed him for no reason at all. Fifty yards along, a small shop was open. He bought cheese, bread, butter and tinned foods from a little man and a big woman who fell over themselves to fill the order as it became huge.

  “Now, a big basket, please,” said Rollison. “You can have it back.”

  “Yes, m’sieu, at once!”

  They needed three large baskets.

  The big woman took one, the little man a second and Rollison the third, and Rollison led the way back to the doss-house. The attendant gasped as they appeared. The mutter of conversation increased as they went in, and the men stood back, dazed, not yet even hopeful. He called out, almost wildly: “Now catch, all of you, stand round and catch!” He began to toss the food into grasping hands. The shopkeepers caught on; after the first scrambling voices were raised as men clutched the food. Merci, m’sieu. Merci, merci, merci! There seemed to be a thousand voices in a great crescendo.

  He went out, leaving a card with the attendant, who hugged three tins and a paper packet to him. There was a drawing on the card but no name or address. He hurried along, with half a dozen people trailing him, including a well-dressed woman. In ten minutes he came upon a hospital. He went in and asked for the Children’s Ward, and persuaded a nurse to take him there. He walked up and down the ward, where most were asleep, but some were awake, in pain. A woman sitting near one cot watched him, the nurse went to a restless child, then returned to Rollison. A third woman stood by the door. This was the woman who had followed him from the doss-house.

  “How can I help you?” asked the nurse.

  “How can I help you?”

  The nurse smiled. In the subdued light, she looked comely but careworn.
r />   “In many ways. These are mostly orphan chilren you understand, and—”

  “Toys? Books?”

  “Both, and all would be welcome.”

  “I’ll have them sent.” He hesitated, then took out his wallet and thrust a wad of notes into her hand. “Better still, you buy them.” He added a card and went out, to be greeted by the group which had followed him and was now waiting round the doorway. He laughed at them and they laughed with him, touched by his reckless mood of extravagance. The well-dressed woman, who had come as far as the ward, was among them. He walked along, with less furious energy now, until gradually the followers disappeared ; but one was still behind him.

  His mood changed.

  Footsteps, soft and insistent, were there all the time. He did not look round, did not know whether it was a man or woman. He dodged across the road and turned a corner; the footsteps came on, whoever was following made no attempt at concealment. He went on, stopping a few yards past a corner bistro.

  A woman passed it.

  He waited for her, and she knew he was waiting and slowed down. It was almost dark. He could see that she was young, placed her as the woman he had seen in the Children’s Ward. She drew up.

  “You wish to see me, madame?”

  “To tell you, sir, that you did much good tonight; much good. I inquired of the people who were waiting for you, and they told me what you had done before. What caused you to do it?”

  Her voice was quiet, firm and pleasant.

  “Pity?” Rollison made that a suggestion more than a statement.

  “Perhaps,” she said. “If you would do more good, there are those who can tell you where it is most needed. It is not that you are drunk,” she added, “it could be a generous impulse, but—why should an impulse die?”

  “Why, indeed,” said Rollison. “I am staying at the Hôtel Mulle. Will you come and see me?”

  “I live at this address.” She pressed a slip of paper into his hand. “Will you come to see me? Soon.”