by John Creasey
If one had stolen jewellery on one’s hands, it was said that Madame Thysson would buy it, or have it bought; wasn’t she the owner of three of the most exclusive jewellers in the Place de Vendôme? If one had a consignment of costly furs unexpectedly on one’s hands, and separated from their legal owner, one might be advised to consult Madame Thysson; didn’t she own two of the finest fur salons in Paris? If one wanted a false passport, Madame Thysson – or one of her cronies – would provide it, at a price. If there was a price on one’s head and one wanted to hide, Madame Thysson could provide the hiding-place. If one had a charming friend anxious to obtain a part on the stage or at a night club, well – at a price, Madame Thysson would arrange it. She was a kind of universal provider, and there was nothing she could not dispense.
Latimer lost himself in his tale.
“I wanted to write about her, but it was too dangerous. She’s a fantastic creature, according to report.”
“Didn’t you try to see her?”
Latimer laughed.
“I wanted to write up Paris from the inside, didn’t I? Who else could give me all the dope? But I didn’t see her in person, although I got what I wanted.”
“At a price?”
“The price of friendly publicity,” said Latimer, “and recommendations to her different business houses. She’s a kind of modern Midas, and no fool; she keeps on good terms with the Press, home or abroad. Oddly, I didn’t dislike her aide.”
“What’s she like herself?”
“Why not try to see for yourself? Few people do see her, and I’m told she wears a mask when she gives an audience.” Latimer looked thoughtful. “I could arrange to flip over for a few days—like me to try to introduce you?”
“I would,” said Rollison.
“Provided she’s your Madame Thysson.”
“Would she be likely to have authority over my unknown lovely?”
“You bet she would,” said Latimer. “She keeps the sweetest lovelies on a kind of leash. Uses them as mannequins, for the night clubs and for less savoury purposes, if we can believe all we hear. She rules them with a rod of iron, too. Outwardly, there’s nothing to criticise about Madame Thysson, her girls are respectable unless it’s their job not to be respectable. Whatever she does, she does well. She is even renowned for her gifts to charity. Have I whetted your appetite?”
Rollison chuckled.
“Can you leave for Paris this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“You fix the seats, will you?”
“Yes,” said Latimer, and stood up. “What about my price?”
“What do you want?”
“As much of the London story as you can give me.”
“Why not stick to the known facts, and wait for the rest?” suggested Rollison. “I can’t give you much more than the Yard will release. I gave them Madame Thysson’s name, and Grice won’t be long catching up with this job. He’s probably in touch with the Sûreté by now. You scoop, as soon as you’ve helped to make a scoop.”
“It would be worth it, to see you in action with Madame,” said Latimer;, and laughed as if that were the joke of the week.
“Here’s something not so funny,” said Rollison. “Lady Murren was murdered last night. Any off-the-record news about that?”
“Why?”
“She was often in Paris, and her husband was quite a personage over there.”
“Now what are you up to?” Latimer frowned. “I don’t know about off the record. She was killed sometime before midnight. The police seem completely foxed. It’s true she was often in France. What made you pick on her?”
“I’m only guessing,” Rollison said hastily.
“I wonder. You’ve an uncanny nose, haven’t you? Lady Murren was a friend of another odd character in Paris—a man known as the Count. His real name’s de Vignon. He’s murky—no one has a good word to say for him. I couldn’t get anywhere near the man, but I picked up a few odds and ends, including the fact that he was friendly with a titled Englishwoman. One guess.”
“I’ve guessed.”
“I wondered then why Lady Murren should have anything to do with an unsavoury blackguard,” said Latimer. “I still wonder.”
“It’s odd—a murderous Frenchman roams London and a woman well known in Paris gets murdered; de Vignon and Madame Thysson are also acquainted, I take it.”
“De Vignon’s said to foam at the mouth at the very mention of her name.”
“The Count’s another good reason for going to Paris,” Rollison mused.
Latimer shrugged, and went off.
Grice did not disclose his private opinion of the genuineness of the girl’s loss of memory, but outwardly accepted it. His man was withdrawn, by midday. The nurse was replaced by a tall, angular woman whose French made Rollison feel as if he were back at school. She had worked for him before, and was wholly trustworthy. The girl with no name seemed content to lie in bed, apparently sleeping most of the time. Rollison saw her twice, again ; and the shadow of fear was certainly gone from her eyes. She was pale and still tired, but not seriously ill.
Latimer telephoned; they were to leave London at four o’clock.
At a quarter to three, Rollison drove from Gresham Terrace to Scotland Yard in his Lagonda, which had been returned by one of Bill Ebbutt’s men. Bill had sent a message that he didn’t know for certain, but believed that Downing had been to Paris a great deal lately, although the name he travelled under wasn’t Downing. The house near Brill Street was empty; Downing had lived there with a middle-aged housekeeper, who had also disappeared.
A policeman at the gates of the Yard saluted, another at the top of the steps greeted Rollison with a smile, and said that he had half expected to see him and, yes, he could go straight up. Grice was sitting in his large office, overlooking the Embankment. The sun still shone, and made the sluggish Thames look bright. There were two desks in the room, but only Grice’s was occupied. He stood up, and waved to a chair.
“Come to confess?” he demanded.
“Yes. I’m going to borrow French currency from a friend of mine who can get as much as he likes.”
Grice smiled faintly. “I thought you’d soon be on your way to Paris. After Madame Thysson?”
“Any crumbs from your table about her?”
“Latimer can give you the whole loaf.”
Rollison chuckled.
“There are times when you’re more than just average, Bill! So I’m being watched.”
“You’re not. Your flat is—we want to make sure that Downing or one of his friends doesn’t have another go at the girl.”
“Any idea who she is?”
“No. The Sûreté is going to send us a list of missing girls. They’ve already sent us a dossier on Madame Thysson, and you’d better watch your step.”
“Downing?” asked Rollison.
“There isn’t a clue,” said Grice, and frowned. “But last week one of our fellows was in Paris, and fancied he saw Downing at a café on the Boulevard de la Madeleine. The man got up and hurried away before he could make sure—which suggests he might have been Downing. Officially, he hasn’t been to Paris. In fact, officially—” Grice paused.
“He’s on his ticket and has to show up daily. Or has he got down to weekly?”
“Daily. I’m checking at the Division,” Grice said.
“Not bad,” murmured Rollison. “Downing gets a stooge to come and show his ticket, and the stooge is sufficiently like Downing to get away with it. It’s the right time of the year, you can get away with a lot in electric light.”
“We aren’t certain, yet.”
“You could try to find out what name Downing uses when he goes to Paris,” Rollison said amiably.
Outside, traffic rumbled past along the Embankment, and a
car horn hooted, sudden and strident.
“The car they used?” Rollison asked.
“Hired from a garage yesterday afternoon—by a man whose description doesn’t tally with Downing’s. We’re trying to trace him; it was probably the third man at Brill Street.”
“You’re very helpful,” murmured Rollison. “You almost make me think you hope I’ll get results. What happened in court this morning?”
“There was a formal hearing, all over in two minutes,” said Grice. “It’s only the third time in my twenty years here that I’ve had to charge a man without being able to tie a label on to him. If you really mean, has the Frenchman talked—no. He’s frightened, but he won’t say a word. We’ve tried him with an interpreter, but no luck.” Grice picked up a photograph from his desk, and tossed it across. “That’s not bad, is it?”
Rollison studied the weak but handsome face, and wondered what had given this man sufficient strength to defy the police; and wondered, also, what persuasion would be needed to make him tell his story. Silence had fallen like a cloak upon both of the two French people involved. In both, it was inspired by fear – probably by fear of the consequences of talking freely to the police or to anyone else.
“Can you spare one of these?”
“They’ve been circulated to the Press, so why not?” said Grice. “I’m going to send a man over to take a photograph of your guest. And it’s no use saying we can’t, because—”
“Don’t trouble,” said Rollison. “Jolly took some this morning; they’ll be ready when I get back. How many copies would you like?”
“A negative.”
“I’ll ask Jolly to oblige,” said Rollison. “By the way—Lady Murren. Or is that a professional secret?”
Grice looked at him owlishly.
“Putting two and two together?”
“Two odd things connected with Paris, yes.”
“We haven’t a clue,” Grice confessed. “Have you?”
“Only curiosity,” said Rollison.
He left, twenty minutes after he had entered Grice’s office, and still had three-quarters of an hour before he needed to get to the B.E.A. Departure Station in Kensington. He was to meet Latimer there. He drove to Gresham Terrace, and saw Grice’s man in a doorway halfway along the street.
There had been no messages, but Dr. Mason had been in again and was fully satisfied with the girl’s progress.
Rollison felt as if he were in a state of suspended animation. The swift sequence of events the previous night had faded into inaction which didn’t seem real. There were other unlikely factors. Grice was being surprisingly affable, and laying down the law with a much lighter hand than usual. That wasn’t because Grice thought it good tactics; in his official approach, Grice followed the instructions from the Powers That Be at Scotland Yard, and those instructions had obviously been to soft-pedal with Rollison. Had there been any objection to his flying to Paris, they would have made it clear; in fact, they were glad he was going.
One thing was reasonably certain; Grice knew much more about Madame Thysson than he had said.
Rollison tapped on the door of the spare room, and the angular nurse called: “Come in.” The girl was sitting up and looking through a French copy of Vogue; doubtless Jolly had obtained it for her. She smiled, fleetingly, almost blankly; but Rollison was quite convinced that her blank expression was assumed; like the loss of memory.
“How are you?”
“So very comfortable and grateful,” she said. “I feel as if I am at rest for the first time. Some thing terrible must have happened, and now—”
She broke off.
“Nothing terrible will happen,” Rollison said. “I’m going away for a day or two, and—”
“No!” she cried. “No, you must not go away, you must not!”
The mask dropped away. She was natural again – and fear-stricken. She dropped the Vogue, and it fell noisily to the floor. She stretched out her hands, as if in supplication, and he hated the look in her eyes.
“You must not—not leave me. Please, unless you are here, I am so frightened.”
She was frightened.
He said: “I must go, my dear. I shall be back in two or three days; you’ve nothing to worry about. You needn’t go out of the flat until I’m back.”
She whispered: “You—should—not—go.”
And there was terror in her eyes; not because he was leaving her, but because she sensed where he was going and was afraid of what he would find out; or else of what would happen to him.
She sat erect, hands stretched out pleadingly, and trembling; and her eyes were huge.
Chapter Seven
Second Sight?
Rollison took her hands; they were icy cold and gripped his tightly. The girl seemed to put her very soul into the appeal.
“Please—do not go.”
“Why not?”
“There will be danger for you.”
“What makes you think so?”
“You should not go to Paris.”
“Who said that I was going there?”
She closed her eyes; it was as if a powerful light had been switched off. Her hands went limp, and she drew them away slowly. Without opening her eyes, she said: “I know that you are going to Paris and that you will be in grave danger. I know.”
“So you remember Paris,” Rollison said.
“Oh, yes, I remember Paris.”
“What else do you remember?”
“That you have been good to me, and I do not wish you to be hurt.”
“What makes you think I might be?”
“The danger is everywhere,” she said, “but mostly in Paris. You are foolish to go.”
She dropped back on to her pillows, tacitly giving up hope that he would listen to her. She didn’t speak again, and didn’t open her eyes. He went outside, and brushed his hand across his forehead; it was slightly damp. The interview had been curiously affecting, almost unnerving. He laughed at himself, and moved to his desk, bent down and unlocked a bottom drawer. He took out an automatic pistol, a spare clip of ammunition and a fat knife which had a dozen blades and gadgets.
Jolly came in, and watched him.
“I think I’ll take a stick, Jolly.”
“I think you are wise,” said Jolly mildly. “I will get one. Your case is packed, I have put in everything that you are likely to need.”
He spoke like a fond aunt, and went out as the nurse came in.
There was a forbidding expression on her angular face. Her large red nose was shiny, but this failed to make her look ridiculous.
“Mr. Rollison.”
“Yes?”
“There’s something queer about that girl.”
“So you felt it, too?”
“If I were going to Paris—” the nurse hesitated. “Is that where you‘re going?”
“Yes. And it would be anybody’s first guess. Don’t let her fool you, nurse. She might be very innocent, but she could be full of cunning. I don’t believe she has lost her memory; part of your job is to find out if she lets anything slip to prove she’s lying.”
“She hasn’t said anything that matters, but that’s probably because she doesn’t know I speak French. If you ask me—”
“Yes?”
“I’d have a second opinion,” the nurse said. “I don’t care what anybody says, that woman isn’t normal.”
“You could be right,” murmured Rollison. He went straight to the telephone. “I’ll fix it.”
He had only five minutes to spare before leaving for Kensington, and was listening to the brr-brr from Dr. Mason’s number when Jolly came in again, carrying the stick and an envelope. It was a handsome, gold-topped walking-stick, with a top which could cause a nasty injury if used as a weapon.
A woman answered. Dr. Mason was engaged.
“Tell him this is urgent, please,” Rollison said. “Richard Rollison speaking.” He waited, and Jolly opened the envelope and showed three photographs of the girl, taken from different angles; and one of them was a work of art, for Jolly had removed the bandages on it, and sketched in her hair; it made an astonishing difference to her appearance. “Good,” said Rollison. “Very good, in fact. Grice wants a negative. Grice is to have practically everything he says he wants, while I’m away. Messages to the Hôtel Rivoli … Hallo, Mason, sorry to drag you from your forty winks … Weren’t you, really? … It’s the girl. The nurse thinks that she’s a bit odd … Call it fey, or second sight … Can you find a specialist who speaks French; the ostensible reason being that she says she’s lost her memory.”
“Well, that could happen,” Mason said. “I’ll have another look at her myself and get another opinion if it seems necessary. My French will serve.”
By the time Rollison had finished, Jolly already had the front door open, and was standing with a large suitcase, a small pigskin valise and the walking-stick. Rollison took his hat and gloves and struggled into his overcoat as he went downstairs.
A taxi was waiting.
“Safe journey, sir,” murmured Jolly.
“Hold the old fort, Jolly!” Rollison beamed and looked inane, a little over-dressed and almost foppish; the stick helped with that. He sank back in the corner of the cab and lit a cigarette, but before they had turned out of Gresham Terrace he was looking out of the back window. He saw no one except Jolly, who waited until he had turned the corner; Grice’s man was out of sight.
