Model for the Toff Read online

  “Man?” echoed Zana with a shrug. “It was not a man; it was a girl. If you—” He saw the gleam in Rollison’s eyes, and doubled his right fist and shook it vigorously; he was never very far from laughter. “You knew it was a girl, you try to trick me into lying to you. But I shall not lie, I tell you everything, I keep nothing back.”

  “Absolutely nothing?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Did you recognise the girl?”

  “To tell you the truth, I do not know,” said Zana, and now he drew his brows together, wrinkling his broad forehead like a bewildered bloodhound. “No, I cannot say yes, I cannot say no. The face I do not remember, but I did not see so much. The figure, yes, perhaps. If she is not a model, she should be. She moves like one, she is built like one. Now there is a body on which I can build clothes, I can stand her there—so!—I can picture just what she needs, I—”

  “But you didn’t know her well.”

  “That I am sure about.”

  “Right, thanks. How many models are still working for you?”

  “Two. Oh, I could get the very bad ones, but not anyone will be good enough for the clothes I create, Mr. Rollison! Just now I am working on clothes for the spring. At this time I should be very busy, but instead—all this happens.”

  “Who else works for you?”

  “I have an artist, a man, and a woman who is invaluable to me. I trained them, also. The seamstresses and cutters—there are fifteen altogether, and—”

  “Have any of these left your employ recently?”

  “Oh, one, perhaps. Even two—”

  “Not in the same way that the models have gone?”

  “No, not at all!”

  “Everything else is normal, but you can’t keep models that you do manage to get, and getting new ones is much more difficult than it was.”

  “Precisely so.”

  “Have any of them told you why they have left?”

  Zana said, very deliberately: “Yes, each of them gives a reason. They go to better themselves. They go because they do not like the work. They go because they are to get married. All good reasons. One or two, perhaps, I believe.”

  “What do you think is the real reason?”

  “I think they go for the same one, each of them,” declared Zana. “I think it is because they are frightened. They do not tell me. They do not seem to tell anyone. But I think that is the reason. You are to find out.”

  “Do you think Rose Mary disappeared because she couldn’t be frightened?”

  There was a pause.

  In it, a change came slowly upon Zana. He raised his hands as if to fend off fear. Horror seemed to creep into his body, and to spread to his eyes, his lips, his whole expression. When he went on, his voice was little above a whisper.

  “That is what I fear,” he confessed hoarsely. “That they could not frighten her, but that they will try—or else they will make it impossible to use her as a model any more. You know how they would do that.” His lips worked, as if the very thought was more than he could bear. “They could spoil her face or they could spoil her beautiful, beautiful body, and—that is why I am so frightened. Mr. Rollison, I beg you to find her.”

  Rollison moved to the big desk, sat on the corner, and lifted the telephone. Zana did not appear to notice what he was doing, but stood as if the horror was deep within him.

  Rollison dialled a number, and after a moment said: “Is Mr. Ebbutt there?”

  A woman asked him to hold on, and he watched Zana as he waited. Zana’s lips were beginning to work as if he was fighting for his self-control. There were odd sounds on the telephone, then a wheezing noise, followed by a gruff: “W’oossat?”

  “Hallo, Bill,” said Rollison. “Keeping busy?”

  “Why, ’allo, Mr. Ar,” said Bill, whose other name was Ebbutt. Warmth sprang into his voice. “Wondered when we was going to ’ear from you again, we did. How’re tricks?”

  “Fine, Bill. I’ve got a job for you that I don’t think Liz would approve of.”

  Ebbutt gave a sort of a chuckle. “Sounds right up my street. Give it a name.”

  “Come round yourself, or send someone as good,” said Rollison. “Make it two o’clock, no later, please. I’ll have a few dozen photographs ready for you, and I want you to hand them round to your boys. Stick them up in the pub, too. She’s a pin-up girl with a vengeance; she’s missing, and I’m anxious to find her.”

  “Cor blimey, Mr. Ar, you don’t change a bit!” Ebbutt chuckled and wheezed. “Okay, I’ll ’ave someone there at two o’clock sharp. Won’t be too risqué, will it?”

  “Eh?”

  “You know, too decollett,” Ebbutt said. “Strewth, what’s happened to you, Mr. Ar? There won’t be too much of a plunge neck-line, will there? Not in the pub, I mean. You know how Liz—“

  “Just head, and possibly head and shoulders,” Rollison assured him solemnly, and because Zana was watching him, he didn’t grin. “Thanks, Bill. One other thing: bring or send along three or four of the younger chaps who’ll take a chance for a bit of bonus and a lot of fun.”

  “I’ll fix it, Mr. Ar.”

  “Thanks, Bill,” said Rollison, and rang off.

  Zana had recovered his poise, and his mouth was twitching in a kind of smile. He didn’t speak at once, and Rollison went on in exactly the same tone of voice as he had used with Ebbutt: “Next question: have you told the newspapers?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “When a thing like this happens, they all think the same thing: it is a publicity stunt,” declared Zana, “and they brush me off. There have been some big stunts that have succeeded, and the newspapers are very careful these days. Until this morning, also, I hoped she would come back and that I would not have trouble, but now—”

  “If I persuade the newspapers that Rose Mary is really missing, is that all right with you?”

  Zana hesitated.

  “Is it or isn’t it?” insisted Rollison.

  “It is easier to ask than to answer,” Zana said, fire sparking in his eyes again. “What is best for Rose Mary? That every newspaper says she is in danger? Or that they say nothing?”

  “What is best for Hugo Zana?” asked Rollison. “That all the newspapers and therefore all the world knows that he’s in serious trouble, and might not be able to get his spring and summer collections ready in time?” Rollison saw the glitter spring into Zana’s eyes, saw the big mouth working, as if he was chewing on nonexistent gum, saw his body swaying from the hips in that stance which was so like a boxer’s in the ring.

  “Am I here to be insulted?” Zana demanded angrily. “There is no spring, no summer, no next year collections—what do I care? Understand me, Rollison, I am a wealthy man, I have all the money I require. I can retire, I can sell my business. It can even be ruined and made worthless, but what do I care? You go about this matter whatever way you like. Never study my feelings, never study anything except—find Rose Mary.” He broke off, and then shook a clenched fist. “This Bill, who is he? You start quickly, one good thing. You want pictures of Rose Mary?”

  “Dozens of them.”

  “I have hundreds upon hundreds, a recent photograph taken for publicity only—publicity for Rose Mary, you understand. Shall I telephone for them now?”

  “Yes, please,” Rollison said. “And I’d like a list of the names and addresses of all the models who’ve stopped working for you, the agents who won’t supply new ones, the girls who still work with you—and I’d better have the names and addresses of all your staff now, from the artists upwards or downwards. Will you arrange that?”

  “Two minutes,” said Zana, and pounced upon the telephone. “I begin to understand how you have obtained your reputation. I—”

  As he touched the telephone, it rang. He was so close that the sudden ringing startled him, and he snatched his hand away. Then his reaction seemed to amuse him, and he gave a fierce grin.

  The bell kept ringing.

&nbs
p; Rollison stretched across and picked it up. As he did so he heard Jolly come in and close the front door. Jolly moved towards the rest of the flat, not needing to pass through this room.

  “Richard Rollison,” Rollison said into the telephone. “Good morning, Mr. Rollison,” a girl said in a pleasant voice. “I’ve a message for you from Mr. Smith.”

  “From whom?”

  “Mr. Smith,” the girl said, as if the name should be as meaningful or as striking as Nat King Cole. “Have you a pencil handy, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Rollison, and tried to think who Mr. Smith might be, for there were several on his list of acquaintances, although none from whom he expected a message. “Go ahead.”

  “Thank you. Mr. Smith says that if you attempt to give Mr. Hugo Zana any assistance, you won’t live to see the week out. Good morning.”

  Chapter Four

  Zana Remembers

  Rollison put the receiver back slowly, looking very straight at Zana as he did so; and Zana, who would miss very little, obviously guessed that this had been no ordinary call, and waited as if with bated breath.

  “They are up to all the tricks,” Rollison said, gently. “They must have read a latest crooks’ manual.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “A nice-sounding girl told me that I wouldn’t see the week out if I gave you any help,” said Rollison, and decided that it was the moment to grin. “This is the time when I ought to call in Jolly, to double the fee! Mr. Smith doesn’t want—”

  “Who did you say?” Zana shouted, and flung his arms wide, then began to pace the room in long, energetic strides. “Always, always the same. Threatening messages. Do not work for Zana, do not help Zana. Why should it be? Who hates me so much? But—it is time to face the truth.” He was no longer gesticulating and his face was set, while his great shining eyes looked as if they could set the Toff on fire. “I understand, it is not work for you. Please forget it, and perhaps—”

  He broke off.

  After a moment, he approached Rollison slowly, his tread now almost cat-like. He took Rollison’s arm and stared fiercely into his face.

  “Perhaps if I give up my business I will have no more trouble. Perhaps Rose Mary will not be hurt. I cannot ask you to take such risks.”

  “You could give me some facts,” Rollison said dryly. “What about a Mr. Smith. Do you know him?”

  “I know dozens of him.”

  “Anyone who hates you for being alive?”

  “No,” said Zana after a moment’s reflection. “No Mr. Smith is important to me, or me to him as far as I know. But I know that some of the girls have been threatened, told they will be injured or disfigured, if they work for me. So they have gone.”

  “Do you know anyone who hates you so much that he would like to ruin you?”

  “No,” Zana said after another brief pause, as if he wanted to make quite sure. “Business rivals, yes, but no longer do I think it possible that any one of these is involved. Anyone else? I can think of no one. I only know that all this is happening, but it is wrong to ask others to take such risks for me. I shall give up. Now, may I use the telephone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.” Zana pounced upon the instrument again, as if to make sure that this time he got in first.

  He dialled with a kind of restrained energy, while Rollison moved to the door and saw Jolly at the front door, using a small gouge to prise the bullet out. While Zana was still waiting, Rollison crossed to Jolly, who was making a neat hole about the bullet, and would soon have it free.

  “Don’t stop,” said Rollison. “Learn anything?”

  “It was a black Ford Consul, sir, which turned right into Piccadilly.”

  “So it might have gone anywhere from Hyde Park Corner,” Rollison reflected. “Who told you?”

  “The butcher’s roundsman happened to be near the corner when the car appeared, and remarked upon the fact that it was going very fast.”

  “Did he see who was in it?”

  “A man was driving and a young woman was next to him. The woman was nearest the roundsman, who failed to get a good view of the driver. The woman was most attractive, he said, fair-haired, and—”

  “That squares with her figure,” said Rollison, and paused when he heard Zana burst into a flood of orders. He grinned as the hard voice with its heavy accent came like a series of short bursts on a machine-gun. “Jolly.”

  “Sir?”

  “A Mr. Smith has said that we will not see the week out if we help Zana, and Zana wishes us to leave him to his own devices.”

  “Indeed, sir.” Jolly seemed to be clenching his teeth and making a final effort. “I don’t think I know Mr. Smith. Just one moment, I think—ah.” He put the gouge aside, and took out a pair of steel callipers, gripped the bullet in these and pulled it out. “There you are, sir. A .22, which rather tallies with the sound of the report, doesn’t it? That is the size of an automatic that a woman might be expected to use, too. Did Mr. Smith say anything else?”

  “No. Hark at old clackity-clack in there. You’d think his voice would drive away his models whenever he gets excited. Jolly, listen.” Rollison told his man exactly what he had arranged, while he rolled the bullet round and round on the palm of his hand, only just preventing it from falling. “Now we have a lot to do, so we’ll postpone Sir Frederick Symes until another, lighter day. Telephone or write to him with our apologies.”

  “Very good, sir, and thank you.”

  “Forget it. As soon as the names and addresses arrive, ask Zana to indicate those girls who really left him to better themselves, and those who left without any known good reason. When Bill Ebbutt’s boys arrive, divide the names and addresses up between them, and ask them to check that everything is all right with the girls where they’re working now, whether they’ve moved their homes—all that kind of thing. A general comprehensive report on each, and they needn’t try to be discreet, let ’em tread heavy and tell the world that the Toff would like to know about these girls.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Better warn ’em that it could become dangerous; they’re not to take too many chances,” Rollison added thoughtfully.

  “That will be somewhat superfluous with Ebbutt’s men, sir, but I understand what you mean.”

  “Hmm. Finally, ask each one to telephone reports, and you stay here and take the messages,” Rollison went on. “Don’t go out unless in acute emergency, and if you have to leave, try to make sure that someone’s here. Because when Mr. Smith knows that we’re really in business, he may come and give us a surprise packet. He’s doing everything else in the book. Take more than ordinary precautions about letting anyone in.”

  “Very good,” said Jolly, quite unperturbed. “Will you look after the bullet, sir?”

  “Yes. I’m going to see Grice, and then look in at Fleet Street,” Rollison told him. “I’ll try to arrange for most of the newspapers to carry the story in the morning.” He heard a sharp sound in the other room as Zana replaced the receiver, smiled faintly, and went on in a soft voice: “I’d like to learn more about Zana, too. Don’t ever try to wrestle with him, Jolly.”

  He went into the big room.

  Zana was standing by the telephone, looking restless and thwarted. As Rollison held out the bullet he made as if to grab it, but Rollison closed his fingers over it. “I’ll keep it,” he said, “but if that had caught you in the head, throat or one or two other places, it could have done a lot of damage. When, did you see this girl?”

  “Twice,” said Zana promptly. “First, when she was outside the salon, this morning. That was when I realised what a good model she would make. I can remember more now. She turned away quickly as if to make sure that I did not see her well. And next time I saw her because I heard someone behind me, outside there, and turned round. If I had not—but I did, what does the rest matter?”

  “Still not sure where you’ve seen her before?”

  “I am trying to remember, but—I
see so many girls, so very many. But I do not often forget completely; it will come back.” Zana tapped his forehead vigorously. “Not that it is important now. You understand I am most grateful for the time you have given me, and—”

  “Zana,” said Rollison, gently, “I took on a job. I am still on that job, and with luck we’ll both be alive when it’s over.”

  Zana tried to speak, but could not.

  “Go back to the salon,” went on Rollison, “and telephone all the agencies, ask them for models, and try to find out why they won’t send any. Don’t shout abuse at them; just try sweet reason.”

  “I would like to crack their heads together,” growled Zana, “but it is apparent that you will not give up, so I shall obey. And I salute a brave man. What are you going to do?”

  “Look for Mr. Smith,” said Rollison.

  In fact he left the flat before Zana, going out the back way, and was at a corner of Gresham Terrace when Zana appeared at the front door. The designer had apparently come by taxi; now, he walked briskly towards Piccadilly, his shoulders squared and his chin thrust out, as if defying the world to attack him. He looked straight ahead, but Rollison watched all directions, until he felt sure that no one was following Zana.

  Zana took a taxi in Piccadilly.

  Rollison hurried to his lock-up garage in a mews near Gresham Terrace, and took out his newest toy: a scarlet Bristol with a palpitating burst of speed. But he drove sedately to Scotland Yard, checking in his mirror all the time, and seeing no one who seemed to take any special interest in him.

  He drove round Parliament Square, making quite sure that he wasn’t followed, and then went along the Embankment and turned into the pale grey building of New Scotland Yard, where the Criminal Investigation Department was housed. Policemen in uniform saluted him. He asked at the hall for Superintendent Grice, waited two minutes, and was told to go straight up. He knew this part of the Yard almost as well as he knew his own flat, and soon tapped lightly on the door of Grice’s office.

  “Come in,” called Grice, and stood up from his desk, a tall man dressed in brown, with thinning and greying brown hair, a sallow skin stretched tight and white across the high bridge of his nose. The office was long and narrow, with two windows overlooking the Embankment; the windows were open, traffic noises came in, and the room was comparatively cool. “Hallo, Rolly,” Grice went on. “I didn’t think it would be long before you turned up. Sit down. Have a cigarette.”