by John Creasey
Rollison glanced left, as they went towards Piccadilly.
A small black saloon-car, with a girl at the wheel, moved off from the side street; no one else followed. Rollison smoked and closed his eyes and recalled the effect of the French girl’s condition on the nurse; whatever one might think about his own attitude of mind, the nurse was completely objective, and she could hardly have been more emphatic.
The taxi driver knew the short cuts to Kensington.
So did the girl in the small car.
Latimer, standing by the back door of the office, where an Airways bus was waiting, shook his fist as Rollison hurried in. A steward brought in his cases, and Latimer had his ticket. Rollison weighed his luggage in, attended to all the formalities and moved off with Latimer.
“I thought you’d backed out,” Latimer said.
“Not until it gets dangerous! I’ll hold the bus up for thirty seconds, you go and see if a Morris Eight, registration number 8BU154, is still outside, and if the girl driver is alone. Please.”
Latimer moved off without a word. Rollison took his seat in the bus, and an attendant damned Latimer under his breath. He wasn’t gone for long, and soon slid into the seat next to Rollison. There was plenty of room.
“The car’s there, the girl isn’t.”
“Gone to telephone,” Rollison commented.
“So you were watched.”
“Well, it could be someone after my autograph. On the other hand, we shall need eyes at the backs of our heads when we get to the airport.”
“You’ll give me the willies, soon,” said Latimer.
There was an air of bustle at the airport, and eagerness to cut short the Customs and the passport formalities. There were fifteen passengers, mostly men; only two had been waiting at the airport. Rollison finished with the authorities, and studied the passengers and officials. He picked out a tall, heavily built man who appeared to have nothing in particular to do, and strolled across to him.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Not unknown at Scotland Yard, are you?” murmured Rollison.
The other smiled.
“No, Mr. Rollison.”
“You couldn’t be here to watch me, could you?”
“I could be, but I’m not. Just general duty.”
“Good. There were two people waiting for the ’plane when we arrived—notice them?”
“Yes.”
“Either of them book his ticket at the last minute, do you know?”
“I can find out,” said the Yard man. “I’ll send you a message at the ’plane.” He glanced at the two passengers who were standing by the steps leading to the aircraft; one was noticeably taller than the other. “We’ll call the tall one A and the other B—I’d better look slippy, or I shan’t find out before you leave.”
He moved away, and Latimer came across, looking suspicious.
“Now what?”
“Restless mind,” said Rollison.
“I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t come,” Latimer said, but he grinned. “Not expecting fireworks on the ’plane, are you?”
Heaven forbid! I hate sea-water in the winter.”
Latimer chuckled.
They settled down in their seats, side by side. The taller of the two men who had roused Rollison’s interest was immediately in front of Latimer, the other nearer the front of the cabin. There was comfort amounting to luxury. The engines were still warming up, but there was greater hustle, and men came forward to remove the chocks from the wheels, The stewardess talked to a woman with a child in her arms, and who seemed nervous. There was no sign of the Yard man. A steward came out from the airport buildings and spoke to one of the crew, who climbed up into the ’plane.
A loudspeaker gave voice pleasantly.
“Fasten your belts, please, and may I remind all passengers that there must be no smoking until further notice.”
“Someone let you down?” asked Latimer. “Either that, or no news is good news,” said Rollison.
He leaned back and closed his eyes. The machine taxied, quickly gathering speed, and suddenly the slight bumping sensation ceased, and they were airborne. The stewardess knelt by the side of the woman, making faces at the baby. Rollison kept his eyes closed. Latimer rustled newspapers. The stewardess left her charge and came along the gangway offering newspapers and giving each passenger a form.
“Fill that out, please; it’s the Customs Declaration, and you’ll need it as soon as we land.”
She leaned across and touched Rollison’s shoulder.
He opened his eyes.
“Hallo.”
“Here is your form, Mr. Rollison.” She handed him a slip of paper as well as the form, and when he unfolded it, he saw the single letter “A”.
So the man in front of him had bought his ticket at the last minute; possibly as a result of a telephone call from the girl in the Morris Eight.
It was dark when they reached Le Bourget. They made a good landing, and the airport staff promptly surged round the machine. Rollison gripped Latimer’s arm, and they hurried to the buildings, reaching the main offices first. The tall man was some way behind.
“What’s eating you?” demanded Latimer testily.
“I don’t know, yet. Remember the tall chap who sat in front of us?”
“Broad nose, broad face, oozes money, could be a Slav?”
“He could be a friend of Madame Thysson’s, too. We’ll take a different taxis, and you come behind me, just to check whether I’m being followed. Any objection?”
“I wish I’d brought a gun,” Latimer said.
The Customs Officers were affable and did not appear to be thorough. Rollison was first out of the room and first into a taxi; it may have been chance that the man who could have been a Slav was immediately behind him. A private car was waiting for this passenger, and stood out among the motley collection of Renaults and Citroens of all shapes, sizes and stages of dilapidation. It was a powerful Buick, glistening in the bright lighting just outside the airport building. Rollison’s taxi was an old Renault, the driver plump and unshaven. Latimer had the fifth taxi, and neither of them had the speed of the Buick. If the car went ahead, there was a fair chance that the man who had got into it was not interested in Rollison.
He was tall and massive, wearing a thick overcoat, a scarf and a black Homburg hat. He wore American-type rimless glasses, and had little luggage; Big Business, to the last word. He could have started ahead of Rollison, but chose not to, and the Buick slid after Rollison’s taxi. Latimer came soon afterwards ; he had been luckier with his cab, which was small but new.
Half a mile along the road the Buick purred past Rollison. One moment the inside of the taxi was bright from its headlights, the next darkness fell upon him, and the red light grew rapidly smaller. Rollison hardly knew whether to be pleased or sorry. He sat back so that he could see out comfortably, half-prepared to find the Buick drawn up at the side of the road. It wasn’t. They were now in a built-up area in what appeared to be a squalid part of Paris, and there were few lights.
The Buick had disappeared.
“Well, it was worth trying,” Rollison mused, and looked through the back window. Several cars were in sight, and he couldn’t pick out Latimer’s. He yawned again, and the vision of the broad-faced business man faded. The engine was noisy, and the car rattled; the driver drove as if his life depended on reaching the heart of Paris in the shortest possible time.
Rollison dozed—
Then something smacked against a window with a sharp report. Instinctively, he drew back his head. He couldn’t see what had happened, but his right hand moved towards his pocket, for the gun. As he touched it there was a loud report, and the taxi skidded and went out of control. It swerved, and then leapt towards a wall which loomed up out of the darkness.
Chapter Eight
Warm Welcome
The front wheels hit a kerb; Rollison was thrown back and bumped his head against the rear window. He heard a rending sound. Then the car skidded again as the driver tried to regain control. The nearside wing scraped along the wall, there was another bump, and the car lurched to one side; as if it were turning turtle. Rollison hadn’t time to think or act, but instinctively kept his head low. There was another crash, but the taxi had steadied and was on all four wheels. It rocked to a standstill. The driver sat quite still, as if he couldn’t believe that the emergency was over.
Rollison didn’t try to get up.
He’d bruised his head and his knees, and his shoulder hurt more, but he stayed where he was. After the din of the crash, everything seemed quiet with a deathly hush. Then other taxis passed, two of them going at a mad speed. Another slowed down; so did a second and a third. Doors slammed, and men began to talk. One thrust his head in at the driver’s window, and began to speak in rapid French. A face appeared at a window near Rollison’s; he couldn’t be sure who it was, but he thought that it was Latimer.
It was. The door opened, and Latimer snapped: “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Pretend no.”
Rollison whispered, and wondered whether the words were heard above excited comments of the men in front. His driver had recovered, and was colouring the air with his opinions. Two or three other drivers had gathered near him, and listened in respectful silence.
Latimer leaned in; the only one, so far, who had worried about the passenger.
“Pretend what?”
“That I’ve been hurt. Have them take me to a hospital—right in Paris, preferably. Be British, insist loudly, never mind whether they want to fetch a doctor first. I’m going to look half-dead.”
“Are you?”
“Not yet.”
An American asked: “Is anyone hurt?”
Latimer backed out and began to talk quickly, in bastard French with a few words of English. The American looked in, and saw Rollison huddled in his corner with his eyes closed. Two people began to move him, and the American said: “You ought to send for a doctor.”
“Get him to hospital!” cried Latimer. “Driver, hurry—use my taxi. Hurry.”
“He looks pretty bad,” the American said.
“He’s unconscious, might have cracked his skull.” Latimer was doing well, almost too well; he sounded nearly hysterical. But it worked. Rollison was carried out of the taxi and into another, handled as if he were made of delicate porcelain. He didn’t move of his own accord, and let his head loll back. It seemed a long time before the second taxi moved off.
Latimer was in front, for he spoke to the driver. Rollison eased his position, and through his lashes looked at the little crowd now gathered round his first taxi. Most of them seemed to be taxi-drivers, and they broke up and went towards their own cabs; a line of seven or eight was strung out along the road.
This taxi went more smoothly, with less rattling but at considerable speed. Latimer kept urging the driver to hurry, until Rollison felt nervous qualms. Before long, a cacophony of shrill horns, police whistles and throbbing engines told him that they were in thick traffic. Twice they passed through a quiet street and then they swung left and pulled up. In five minutes he was on a stretcher and being carried into a hospital.
Latimer contrived to be left alone with Rollison as soon as they were in the Casualty Room. Rollison was still on the stretcher, which had been placed on stands. A dim light shone.
“Now what?” Latimer asked.
Rollison sat up.
“Nothing broken, so we’ve something to be thankful for. How much did you learn?”
“You were shot at—one bullet hit a tyre and it burst. Your luck was in, most drivers would have crashed pretty badly. I gave your man my name, he’ll be after you for compensation, but—”
“We’ll refer him to Madame Thysson, in due course,” said Rollison. “Could it have been the Slav, I wonder? That would fit in. If he rushed ahead, conferred with his gunmen and told them what cab to attack, we needn’t ask ourselves any more questions. Feeling cheerful?”
Latimer said: “Within an hour you’ve discovered more about the active side of the crime life of Paris than I did in a month.”
“It’s hypnotic influence,” Rollison said.
He broke off, as the door opened and a middle-aged nurse and a young doctor came in, both dressed in white. Rollison beamed at them. The startled nurse raised her hands, and the doctor frowned. Rollison climbed off the bed, and spoke easily: “I was lucky, wasn’t I? Will you make sure there’s nothing broken?”
The doctor’s frown changed to a smile.
“Immediately!”
He beckoned the nurse, and as they probed and prodded, Rollison talked briskly. It was, of course, impossible, but could a report be spread about that he was seriously hurt? That was, to anyone who inquired and, perhaps, to the newspapers. He had enemies, it would be better if they believed that he would be in the hospital for some time … Yes he would gladly see a police-officer before he left, would as gladly make a handsome contribution to the funds of the hospital, if the little deception could be practised. There were doubtless many difficulties, but …
Difficulties, said the doctor, were made to be overcome.
An hour later, Rollison left by a side door of the hospital and got into a taxi. Instead of going to the Rivoli, where Jolly would have reserved a room by now, he went to a small hotel near the Champs-Élysées, recommended by the amiable doctor. It was called the Mulle. He booked in, surrendered his passport for formalities, and was taken up in an open lift to the third floor. The room was a large one, well furnished with white-and-gilt furniture, and had its own bathroom. He locked the door after the porter had delivered his luggage, and for the first time since he had reached Paris, felt that he could relax.
That didn’t last long, for the telephone bell rang.
Only Latimer and the hospital authorities should know where he was.
He lifted the telephone.
“M’sieu Rollison? Will you speak to M’sieu Latimer?”
“Yes, thanks.”
Latimer said: “So you’re there all right.”
“And no more fireworks,” said Rollison. “Were you followed to the Rivoli?”
“I don’t know, but I’m afraid so. How did you get on with the police?”
“No complaints. They’ve heard of Superintendent Grice, and I gave him for a reference. I hope you can call on plenty of money over here. I’ve promised the hospital twenty-five thousand francs.”
“Twenty-five pounds! You find life expensive, don’t you?”
“It’s surprising how money comes along,” murmured Rollison. “Pete, how well do you really know Madame Thysson’s friends?”
“I don’t know,” said Latimer. “I could have fixed an introduction to her chief aide, but if she’s behind this, do you want her to know you’re up and about?”
“Not yet. But if you went to see her or the aide, and talked angrily about what happened to your friend Rollison, and told her a little about him, and suggested that if she has any influence with the police, she will make sure that the villains were apprehended, it might be a help. You could give me a build-up, the lady a smile, and you might also find out if the Slav is a friend of hers. If he is, he’s probably seen her by now.”
“Not likely; at most he’d send a message. I can fix all that, I think. What will you do?”
“Stay here, eat and drink, and count my blessings,” said Rollison. “Then if you could find out when Madame Thysson will be somewhere more or less alone, I could look in later. Shock tactics are indicated, I think.”
“You have made your will, I suppose?”
“I’m heavily insured, too. But
don’t gloom, Pete. This is the gay city. When in Paris, do as the Parisians do. I’m going to have a good time and throw money about like water—that’s if you can draw on plenty for expenses.”
“On a story like this, I can fix it,” said Latimer. “Don’t think I’m backing out, but is this a job you can tackle on your own?”
“No. I need the help of Fleet Street’s most renowned crime reporter.”
“The thing is,” said Latimer, “I haven’t made a will. I’ll ring you when there’s any news.”
Rollison ordered a meal with a thoroughness which won the respectful approval of the waiter, gave precise orders as to the time he wanted to start eating, and had a hot bath to fend off the worst of the stiffness which was already beginning to make itself felt. Over his trousers and shirt he put a silk dressing-gown which had been embroidered with lilies of the valley by a loving aunt, and was ready when a pâté arrived. He spent an hour and five minutes over the meal, and sat back in an easy-chair with cognac and coffee for company. The Hôtel Mulle was a find; there were few better chefs in Paris, so where to eat was no problem.
What to do now? He let thoughts trickle through his mind, and even spent a little time reconstructing what had happened and trying to see the motive for all this.
And he thought of the girl with “second sight”.
He had come to Paris to find out her identity; and Downing and his friends realised that. But why go to these lengths to stop him? They knew that the police were already involved, that Scotland Yard had, by now, asked for help from the Sûreté Générale. Downing was no fool, Madame Thysson even less of a fool, and she wasn’t likely to be surrounded by blockheads. Everyone concerned, then, must know that by the morning at the latest, the Sûcreté would have a photograph of the girl, and would be making attempts to trace her. Sooner or later, they would; probably they would identify her before Rollison did, so – no one in their senses would have attacked Rollison simply to prevent him identifying the girl.
