Model for the Toff

by John Creasey

  Grice said: “You’ll live to thank me, Rolly,” and unlocked the handcuffs.

  Rollison didn’t speak.

  Now the police were at the walkie-talkie radios, flashing messages for help. Within minutes the fire-fighting services were on their way, more police were being rushed here.

  The people who had been evacuated were staring from the places to which they had been taken from the wreckage of their homes. A woman was crying, two men were cursing, children were gaping as if awed by the scene and yet, at the same time, excited.

  Drenched from the chest downwards, Rollison watched the blazing fires and heard Grice giving instructions to the Information Room. Grice finished at last, and turned and said: “You all right?”

  “Yes, thanks.” But Rollison was too full of dread to mean that. “How quickly can you get me back to the West End?”

  “As fast as a car can take you. Why?”

  “I want to talk to Russell,” Rollison said in a choky voice. “If he knows anything, he’ll talk. Zana’s place still being watched?”

  “Do you think Zana had any idea what was to happen?”

  “Bill, just get me to the Yard with authority to question Russell,” begged Rollison. “There must be a chance for Maude. I don’t believe this devil Smith would kill her here.” He bit his lips. “God knows whether I’m right or not. He certainly sacrificed some of his dogs. He’d know you’d be searching for Alsatians. If I can’t get anything out of Russell or Zana, I’ll try Mitzi. Can you have her watched, too? No one’s been closer to Zana, no one is likely to know more about him. I discovered that tonight. Can you fix it?”

  “Yes.” Grice was opening the door of the car, and the sergeant was already revving the engine.

  “Fine,” said Rollison. “Thanks.”

  “Move over,” Grice said. “I’m coming, too.”

  Russell was at the Yard, in one of the waiting-rooms used for suspects. He looked pasty white, his eyes were glittering, there was a beading of perspiration on his forehead. He was smoking a cigarette furiously when Rollison and Grice entered the room, and he swung round on them.

  “Have you found her?”

  “No,” Rollison said. “We—”

  “Then she wasn’t at the yacht! She—”

  “We don’t know whether she was or not. The yacht was blown to little pieces,” Rollison said deliberately. Russell seemed to draw back as if beneath a physical blow. “We don’t know whether Lady Maude was on it, or whether she was taken anywhere else,” Rollison told him. “And you—”

  “Why the devil do you keep questioning me? I don’t know anything about it … good God, do you think I would blow my own yacht up? You must be crazy.”

  “Stop screeching, and listen to me,” Rollison said savagely. “How true is it that Zana and Rose Mary Bell were in love?”

  “She’s fond of him or his money, and he’s crazy about her,” said Russell.

  “Sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “How long have you worked with Zana?”

  “About two years.”

  “Flow long has Mitzi worked for him?”

  “Oh, for ever! They knew each other before the war, and since he started in London she’s been his right hand.”

  “Just that?”

  “I don’t understand you,” Russell said.

  “Did they ever live together?”

  “If they did, it would be none of my business.”

  “It might be very much Maude’s business,” Rollison said softly. “Did they live together?”

  “Well—”

  “Did they?”

  “Yes, when I first met them,” Russell admitted. “At least, Zana spent as much time in Mitzi’s apartment above the salon as he did in his own.”

  “Doesn’t he now?”

  “No, he—well, no.”

  “Russell, listen,” Rollison said. “We must have a motive for hatred against Zana. Do I have to tell you about how a woman scorned can hate?”

  Russell blanched.

  “Oh, my God!” he said.

  Rollison swung round on Grice.

  “We want Mitzi Zenkel, and we want her in a hurry. Come on.” He started for the door, and Grice followed, while Russell stood staring with glittering eyes. The door closed on him.

  “Bill,” said Rollison as they half ran towards the lift, “we need someone who can swim like a duck. Zana can; so can this Mitzi. I read passages from Zana’s book of memories at Russell’s place. Mitzi was an expert swimmer; they escaped from a concentration camp together, swam wide rivers in the depth of winter, suffered every conceivable hardship together. Then they lived together—ugly little Zana and clever faithful little hunch-backed Mitzi. Then Zana fell in love with someone else, or at least left Mitzi high and dry. That could cause hate.”

  They went downstairs in the lift, and hurried out.

  “You think the woman went to Richmond, swam under water to the yacht, and—”

  “Put the nitro-glycerine on board, and started a fire or set a fuse, so that she had time to swim to safety before the yacht went up. Yes, if she’s behind all this, we know what she hoped would happen, and can be pretty sure that she’d get back to her flat as soon as she could. But we know that she’d realise that she still might not be rid of me; that’s the one reason I have to hope that Maude isn’t on board. While I’m alive she’d need some hold on me—”

  “I’m not saying that you might not be right about Mitzi Zenkel,” Grice said. “She might be Mr. Smith. But why is it so vital to kill or to be able to exert pressure on you?”

  “I don’t know any more than you do,” Rollison said; “but listen, Bill. There’s a chance that Maude is still a prisoner and alive. If she is, then Mitzi’s flat above the salon is as likely a place as any to find her. If the police turn up, Mitzi will probably blow herself and the others to pieces, but if I go alone I might be able to handle her.”

  “You’ll much more likely be blown up with the rest,” Grice said abruptly. “I’ve had to restrain you once tonight.”

  “Bill, if it’s a police raid, there won’t be a chance,” insisted Rollison desperately. “If I go alone there might be.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chance

  Grice was a long time answering.

  Their footsteps rang out on the hard, cold floor. They walked past closed doors into the big hall, where the duty sergeant and a constable stood waiting as if they had all the time in the world. Outside, cars were starting up, perhaps on this job, perhaps to go out to the scenes of other crimes. This was only one of many, although to Rollison it was the one thing that existed.

  Grice could keep him away from Mitzi and his almost despairing hope.

  They reached the top of the steps. A car, swinging round, sent its bright headlights upon them, and as Rollison stared at Grice he saw the Yard man’s set lips, the bleakness of his expression. There was nothing more that Rollison could say. Grice could see all the issues clearly, and after what had happened must know that there was a real risk that Mitzi – if she was behind all this – would cause great destruction and more loss of life before she was captured.

  She wouldn’t let herself be captured alive if she could avoid it.

  Grice must be facing those facts and hating them, and coming to the conclusion that Rollison ought to have his chance. If he didn’t decide that, he was crazy. He—

  “How long do you want?” Grice demanded.

  “It shouldn’t take long,” Rollison said, and felt an enormous sense of relief. “Give me three-quarters of an hour. I ought to have Russell’s keys; one might fit, and I can get into the building, anyway. Then if I’m not out on time, you’ll have to have a cut yourself. But don’t forget the land of madness that lies behind all this.”

  “I won’t forget anything,” Grice said. “I hope to God that I’m not making you throw your life away.”

  Then a report came from the police watching the salon. Yes: Mitzi Zenkel had return
ed only half an hour ago; with Zana, who had left his own flat ten minutes before.

  Rollison drew up near the salon, half an hour afterwards. The watching policemen had been withdrawn. The street lights in the square were out, except one at each corner, and here and there a lighted window broke the darkness. There was a soft spittle of rain in the air which he felt as he looked upwards. There was a lighted window at the top of the building.

  He made no attempt to hide, and the light of one of the lamps fell on him as he drew near the front entrance.

  He found that the picture of Rose Mary had faded, even her beauty had lost its spell. There was the different English loveliness of Maude, and there was a new factor, too: the way Grice had spoken, the indications that Grice hated the possibility that death was very close. If there was a chance, Rollison knew that it would be of his own making.

  A light went out across the square. Now only the light of the salon apartment was on. Mitzi’s.

  Rollison passed the front door and went to the telephone kiosk just round the corner. Further along was a police car, with three men in it. Similar cars with their silent passengers were at all the approaches to the square. Rollison went in, and the light of the kiosk came on as he trod on the floor. He put in his pennies, and then dialled Mitzi’s number. The brrr-brr-brrr-brrr seemed to go on and on, as if they were determined not to answer it.

  He got his money back, gave them a minute’s respite, and then tried again.

  Brrr-brrr. Brrr-brrr. Brrr-ck.

  A woman said in a sleepy voice: “What is it, please?”

  He believed that was Mitzi, with her slightly broken English, but couldn’t be quite sure. For a moment he felt a great dread: that he was wrong, that she was up there by herself, and he had woken her. Yet Zana was here. Maude?

  He said: “I want to speak to Hugo Zana.”

  “Mr. Zana? That is impossible; he is not here.”

  “I know he’s there,” said Rollison. “Tell him that Richard Rollison wants to speak to him about Rose Mary Bell.”

  “About what?”

  Rollison said very carefully: “About Rose Mary Bell. I’m coming right up.”

  “No, he is not here, he—”

  “I’m coming to see for myself,” Rollison said.

  He rang off and stepped out of the kiosk. Its light went out and the darkness was like a cloak. He walked briskly to the corner and glanced up at the light at the top of the salon building. If Mitzi was there alone, and if she was asleep, why was the light on? The police knew Zana had come here.

  He tried Russell’s keys in the lock. The door might be bolted, and probably would be, but—

  A key turned and the door opened when he pushed it.

  Rollison’s heart began to thump. He stepped inside cautiously, but nothing happened. He left the door on a latch, and peered about the darkness, gradually able to pick out the pale walls and the pale carpet on floor and stairs. He used his pencil torch and put on a light; it was glowing and soft. He glanced at the back of the door and saw the bolts which could so easily have been put into position. Why hadn’t they been?

  He started up the stairs.

  At each landing he put on more light. Now there was a trail of lights behind him, and he went up the stairs, on which beautiful women had walked, wearing their lovely gowns … and some of them had walked to a grave in Hounslow, and others had walked out of the world of fashion.

  He reached the top landing.

  Here the door was solid and dark blue. On it was a brass plate, reading:

  Mde. Mitzi Zenkel.

  Private.

  He could try to force the door, but it would be a waste of time. He pressed the bell-push and heard the ringing at the other side. His heart was still thumping heavily, painfully. He could not be sure that he was right if Maude wasn’t here—

  He rang again.

  If Mitzi didn’t open the door, that would suggest that she was afraid to.

  He had to get inside, he had to try to disarm Zana, he—

  He heard a sound, then the door open a crack. Swift as he could move, he thrust his foot against it so that it could not be closed.

  “Is that Mr. Rollison?” That was Mitzi.

  “Yes. And I know Zana is in there. I—”

  “You may come in,” Mitzi said.

  “No!” cried Zana. “Rollison, go away, go away?”

  But Mitzi, little mouse-like, pallid Mitzi, covered Rollison with an automatic.

  Rollison’s heart steadied with this proof that he had been right. Now he had to prepare for the final effort; to disarm Mitzi, to make her give way without causing more damage and more death.

  The door opened wider and Mitzi backed away.

  “Keep your hands in the air and come in,” she ordered. “If you do not, I will shoot you.”

  She was safely out of arm’s reach.

  Rollison went right inside. Mitzi, fully dressed but with her grey hair in curlers, closed the door quickly. There was the light in the room opposite the front door, and there were other doors, leading right and left. Two were ajar, and each room was in darkness.

  “Rollison, you are coming to your death?” Zana cried from the room where the light was on.

  “Go into that room,” Mitzi ordered. “Keep your hands in the air. Higher!”

  Rollison raised his hands a few inches.

  He had to push the door wider open with his foot; it swung slowly. He stepped into a charming room of duck-egg blue and gentle grey and gilt, but it wasn’t the room or the dêcor which struck at him. It was the sight of Maude sitting in a chair and facing him, bound and helpless. Tied to a door was Zana. There was a rope round his neck, drawn tight to a hook behind the door, and his hands were tied in front of him.

  “She will kill you, she will kill us all!” he said hoarsely. “Where are the police?”

  Rollison didn’t answer, but looked at Mitzi, so small and hunched … and deadly.

  “She has committed all these crimes. She is mad; she must be mad” Zana gasped. “To hate me so, to kill—”

  “You can talk as much as you like,” Mitzi said in that hard voice, “it will not help you or anyone.”

  “Mitzi,” Zana said chokingly, “Mitzi, all the things I have done for you, and you repay me like this.” His eyes glistened, as if with tears. “Rollison, I did not know until tonight. She telephoned me, I was to come here, and when I came she attacked me. I was not ready, I had no chance. And she is mad—mad!”

  “But sane enough to make a fool of you,” Mitzi sneered, “and sane enough to know this is the end for all of us.”

  “Mitzi ”

  “It is the end,” Mitzi said. “Now that Rollison is here, it is complete. Talk if you must.”

  “Mitzi” Zana whimpered. “All our days together.” The woman’s eyes glittered as if with rage, but she took no notice of Zana, just motioned to Rollison.

  “Turn round,” she said, “and do not move abruptly. There is some nitro-glycerine very delicately poised. Vibration will make it fall.” She tapped Rollison’s pockets and felt under his arms and his waist swiftly and efficiently; it was easy to imagine her hardy and capable as any man. She took out the gun he had taken from Allen, then drew back. She hadn’t found the knives.

  Rollison turned round and made himself say: “Why pick on me, Mitzi? And why pick on Maude?”

  Mitzi gave a queer little laugh. “So you hope to buy Maude’s safety by promising to keep silent? Is that so?”

  She believed that Rollison was unarmed, was as helpless as the others.

  Maude sat there, her eyes trying to talk, quite helpless.

  “I came because I hoped to save Maude,” Rollison said.

  Was there a cylinder of the explosive perched precariously near by? That mattered most of all. The reason for Mitzi’s determination to kill him hardly counted; only time mattered, and the measure of their danger.

  Then Rollison saw a little table with a small metal cylinder on it, like the one
which had been tied to the self-starter arm of his car.

  Mitzi gave a taut little smile.

  “You have seen it,” she said.

  “I’ve seen it,” Rollison said. “So you can blow us all to smithereens. I can also see that it’s useless to reason with you, but—why pick on me?”

  Cautiously, fearlessly, he flexed the muscles of his arm to bring that knife down to his hand.

  Mitzi didn’t speak.

  “I know the reason,” Zana said despairingly. “Since I came here she has told me every single thing. How she hates me, how—” He broke off, and looked with desperate pleading into the woman’s eyes. “How can you do this to me, Mitzi, how—”

  “How can I do it? How can I do this?” She stepped swiftly towards him and struck him across the face time and time again; and Rollison seized the moment to draw the knife much farther down.

  Mitzi swung round on him.

  If she had seen that movement of his arm she might—

  “I can tell you,” she screeched at him. “We are prisoners together, we starve together, I save him from the guards, I escape with him. Always we shall be together, he says, and we travel great mountains and cross wide rivers, and for his food I sell my body. Even that I do for him! And together we come here, and work together, and I—I who have the genius, what do I say? I say to him: ‘Hugo, no woman can succeed in this business; it must be a man.’ So I design the dresses, I create them, he only pretends. I created the dresses, so I created him!”