by John Creasey
Latimer stepped out of a taxi, a hundred yards away from the corner, and strolled briskly along. Rollison was in a doorway, and the newspaperman did not see him. No one followed Latimer, who went beyond the corner, so that he could not be seen from the Rue de l’Arbre. Rollison crossed the road and approached Latimer from behind.
“Looking for someone?”
Latimer, with his coat collar turned up against the thin rain, didn’t turn round.
“I’m beginning to think you’re worth your reputation.”
“What have I done now?”
“M’sieu le Comte is de Vignon, and one of the more unpleasant rogues of Paris, as I’ve said. Number 19 is a kind of night club. Not a nice kind. There are worse, but—” Latimer shrugged and turned. “I’ve told you that M’sieu le Comte and Madame Thysson are not considered good friends.”
“Know anything more about him?”
“The de Vignon family nearly died out under Madame Guillotine’s orgies, but one branch survived. Why do the worst branches always seem to have the luck? He’s an aristocrat by birth and a rogue by vocation. How did you get on to him?”
“He sent me a messenger. Any luck with Madame Thysson?”
“Luck is the word,” said Latimer. “I’m assured that she will be at her flat tonight, on the Quai de Bayenne. Near the Quai de Béthune. Number Twelve.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” said Rollison.
“You’ll soon find out. The next time I hear a shot I’m going to run like blazes. I felt safe until I allowed myself to bring you over here.”
“Think of the headlines in prospect,” encouraged Rollison. “I’m going to have a chat with M’sieu le Comte. I’d be a happier man if someone were nearby, with a taxi, ready to get me away if I’m driven out by the scourges. Of course, you could come inside with me, but we shouldn’t have a taxi to get away in, should we?”
“We shall have a taxi,” said Latimer firmly. “How long are you going to be?”
“If I’m not out in an hour and the police should come to investigate, I wouldn’t object,” said Rollison.
Latimer gave a strangled laugh. In the poor light, with the drizzle coming faster and cars swishing along the wet roads, there was an uneasy moment of waiting.
“Seriously,” Latimer said, “if you want me inside, I’ll come like a shot.”
“I’d much rather you stayed outside.”
“You know that you’re asking for trouble, don’t you? There’s a nasty stratum in Paris, and this is it. You wouldn’t be the first man to disappear without leaving a trace, if you were to interfere too much.”
“I have been warned,” said Rollison sepulchrally.
“And you can’t call on your friends of the East End to get you out of the mess.”
“Well,” said Rollison, “the press is behind me.” Latimer wasn’t amused.
The door through which Mademoiselle Blanc had gone opened when Rollison turned the handle and pushed. That did not get him far. He stood in a small courtyard. A single electric lamp burned immediately ahead of him. There were two staircases, one on each side, leading to apartments – odd numbers one side, even numbers the other. A dark window had a word printed on it in white: Concierge. There were also cards with the names and addresses of the tenants, but there was no Comte de Vignon. There was one which read: Club de l’Amour, and the appartement was Number 6. Rollison went up the stone staircase leading to the even numbers. There was a light at the first landing, but none at the second. Above, a glimmer showed, as if at an open door. There was a sound of music, which seemed a long way off; hot, rhythmic stuff. The sound became louder as he went silently up the stairs.
At a half-landing, he could see Number 6. A door stood ajar, and the light came from that. He saw a shadow, probably that of a man who was sitting just inside the flat. He kept close to the wall, to lessen the risk of being seen, but the shadow moved as he approached. So he stepped boldly forward, and saw a small, vicious-looking man standing in front of a chair, and glaring at him. The fact that the man had on a dinner-jacket, with a wasp waist and absurdly exaggerated shoulders, did not make him look any less vicious. He put one hand to his pocket, and held the other in front of him, palm upwards.
“Good evening,” said Rollison, in English.
“Your card,” the man said.
“I left it behind,” said Rollison, and went nearer. “M’sieu le Comte is expecting me.”
Dark eyes surveyed him sceptically. The man spoke in French, mixing a few words of English; in effect, he said that M’sieu le Comte was expecting no one who hadn’t a card which entitled him to enter the appartement.
Rollison said: “Oh, well,” and took out his wallet. It was bulging with French notes, sufficient to distract the eye of the vicious man, who immediately relaxed. Rollison selected one of his own cards, and said: “Show him both sides.”
“M’sieu?”
“Just show him,” said Rollison.
“Wait here, please.”
There was another door behind the man, who sat on guard in a little cubby hole; there was just room for the chair and for visitors to pass to the second floor. He tapped three times, sharply, and after a lengthy pause, tapped again. A spy-hole in the door opened; it was well calculated to impress the naive. The door opened and the vicious-looking man disappeared.
Rollison was being watched; he couldn’t see but sensed the eye at the spy-hole. He turned down his coat collar, and took off his hat, then lit a cigarette. The sound of music had stopped, but started again; there was dancing inside. The waiting lasted for several minutes, before the door opened and the little man appeared.
“Hallo!” greeted Rollison. “Not lost?”
“You may come.” The words were uttered gratingly, and with dislike. Rollison beamed and followed him, but he was handed over immediately to another, taller man. The first went back to his post. This was an ante-room; through an open door he caught a glimpse of dancing, and he didn’t like the glimpse; he preferred his dancers more décorously dressed. All that Latimer had told him about le Comte de Vignon promised to be true.
He was led through another room. Outside a far door, a big man sat back in an arm-chair; obviously a bodyguard. Rollison’s escort tapped at the door, which was painted white, and a man said in a deep voice: “Come in, at once.”
It was a large room, beautifully furnished in modern style; the décor was green and gold, the carpet was thick, there were portraits of nudes round the walls. Across one corner was a desk of black oak, intricately carved, and behind the desk sat the man whom he had last seen getting into the Buick; the Slav type.
The man smiled.
“Good evening, Mr. Rollison.”
“Nice of you to see me,” murmured Rollison.
“I—” He broke off, for the man who had brought him here suddenly grabbed his right arm and twisted it behind his back. A practised hand slapped his pockets, and the gun was pulled out, followed by the knife. The man let him go, and took the spoils across to the desk.
“A little precaution, and so necessary,” said de Vignon. “Won’t you take your coat off, Mr. Rollison?”
Rollison said: “Thanks.”
He took off his coat and dropped it across a chair, propping the stick up by its side. The stick fell, he had to fiddle with it. The man who’d taken the gun went to the chair.
“No,” said Rollison.
The man picked up the coat.
“I said no,” said Rollison. He went across, pulled the coat out of the man’s hand, and added: “We don’t want a rough-house yet, do we?”
“You are hardly in a position to start a rough-house now, Mr. Rollison.” De Vignon’s English was excellent if accented, and his smile charming.
“If he takes the coat away, you’ll see,” said Rollison.
De Vignon hesitated, then shrugged.
“Leave it, Leon. Wait outside.”
The man obeyed as promptly as the girl had obeyed Rollison at his hotel. The door closed silently. De Vignon still held Rollison’s card, and glanced down at it again.
“Do sit down, Mr. Rollison. I see you are quite an artist. What is this little drawing supposed to represent?”
“Oh, that. That strikes terror,” said Rollison amiably. “Didn’t you know?”
“I know you are out of your element in Paris.”
“Really? A bullet kills in Paris as well as in London, and bad men go to prison in both places for more or less the same kind of thing. Of course, we hang the worst and you guillotine them, but I don’t think that makes much difference in the long run. How’s Mademoiselle Blanc?”
“Charming and beautiful, as ever. And she tells me that she gave you my message. I received yours. Why did you come, after asking me to see you?”
“I couldn’t be sure you’d accept the invitation,” said Rollison. He sat down and stretched out his legs. The coat and stick were by his side, within reach. He took out cigarettes, and saw the other’s eyes narrow, almost in alarm; that faded when Rollison lit up. “Nice little place you have here. There’s always a fortune in crime for the lucky ones, isn’t there?”
“There is always a fortune in fools,” said de Vignon, in the same friendly voice, “and that is how I make mine, Mr. Rollison. You, however, are not a fool. You have a young lady in your care who was foolish enough to run away when” – he shrugged – “it was in her best interests, and mine, to stay in Paris. However, she is not likely to do me any harm while in London, and I do not think she will be foolish enough to say anything which might harm her—or harm me. Go back and look after her, Mr. Rollison, and you will not meet any more difficulties. I believe that certain mutual friends did inconvenience you in London, but they won’t again. They were most ill-advised. Just return and look after your protégée, and be a sensible man.”
“Or else?” murmured Rollison.
De Vignon smiled blandly.
“This is a strange city, Mr. Rollison, and you know it only as a visitor.” He stood up, went across to the chair, and picked up the stick. He swung it, like a club, and took it back to his desk. “Paris is so gay, enchanting, amusing. But it has its ugly sides, and you are close to one of them now. Don’t get any closer.”
Rollison said: “I see.” He got up leisurely, and again the big man’s eyes narrowed, and his right hand hovered near a bell-push at the side of the door. “I’ll be on my way,” said Rollison, and reached the door and turned the key in the lock. He turned, looking amiable. “Now I’m on my way back, and we can’t be interrupted so easily. What were you saying?”
Chapter Eleven
And Takes His Leave
Rollison dropped the door-key into his pocket. De Vignon, with a taut smile, picked up Rollison’s gun, and while holding it, opened a drawer and took out another. Then he placed both on the table in front of him, and picked up the knife.
“This is a barbaric-looking weapon, Mr. Rollison.”
“Your mistake. You should know what it is.”
“And what is it?”
“A cracksman’s tool. Any cracksman worth his union rate could—”
“Cracksman?” de Vignon frowned, as if this skirmish were important. “I don’t quite understand what—oh, of course! I had forgotten your Raffles. You mean, it is a thief’s equipment.”
“That’s right.”
“Are you a thief?”
“Supposing we don’t go into that too closely,” murmured Rollison. “You’d hate to embarrass me. If I can’t get into places where I want to get in, that little gadget helps a lot. I’ve had a lot of practice in using it, too.”
There was a different, inquisitive look in de Vignon’s eyes, almost as if there were a question in his mind which he could not pluck up the courage to ask. He put the knife down and picked up the card; he had shown no sign of nervousness, but a gun was within hand’s reach.
“And this is the card which strikes terror, you say,” he mused.
“I exaggerated,” said Rollison, apologetically. “I wanted to impress you. The idea’s quite neat, though. I collected a reputation for brains and brawn, and befriended the down and outs in the East End of London. Became almost their champion, so they say. All the little crooks who wanted protection from the police came and had a talk with me. I picked up odds and ends of information about the bigger crooks, and with that was able to—persuade shall we say?—the bigger crooks into doing practically what I wanted. Otherwise, with the knowledge I’d picked up, they might have found themselves in serious trouble with the police. Congratulate me.”
“I wonder how true that is.”
“Ask your friend Downing,” said’ Rollison promptly. “He has a grudge against me. I gave him away to the police when he had finished a job for me, and was no further use.” De Vignon smiled more easily. “I see. That is most interesting. Downing calls you a squealer, whatever that may mean. He says that you are as friendly with the police as with the criminals—having a foot in each camp.”
“That’s exactly what I’ve been saying,” said Rollison.
“I wonder.” De Vignon turned the card over again, and read the orthodox printed words. “And this is where you live? Do you do anything for a living?” Rollison gulped: “You mean—work?”
“I mean work.”
“Look here,” said Rollison indignantly, “we’ve kept this on a friendly footing, so far.”
De Vignon stared – and then threw back his head and laughed. It was a deep and rollicking sound, and for a moment almost made the man likeable. But even the laughter could not take away the hint of corruption; the impression that this man lived as a carrion bird, upon the misfortunes and the follies of others. Rollison stood smiling, almost simpering, until the big man stopped.
“Funny, isn’t it?” murmured Rollison. “After all, why work when you can live a useful life without it?”
“Obviously there are some things we have in common,” said de Vignon. “I wonder—”
Rollison went to the desk. De Vignon’s right hand moved towards the nearer gun, but he did not pick it up. Rollison sat on the desk and took a cigarette from a plain gold box; then he lit it from the table-lighter.
“I’ve been wondering when you would begin to wonder,” he said. “M’sieu le Comte, you have a mind. Use it. England isn’t the place it was. There isn’t the money, and we so-called men of the world have become bloated capitalists who batten on society. Some of us mourn a past age. But there are still countries where tradition and breeding mean something. Aren’t there? I’ve often thought—”
He paused.
De Vignon looked at him intently, with something like approval in his eyes.
“You have often thought what, Mr. Rollison?”
Rollison said: “There aren’t many pickings left in London. The risks are too big, even if you get away with anything. Damn it, there are times when I have to be law-abiding! I’ve fooled both sides for years, but today it’s more difficult. I’m all for an easier life, I’m not getting any younger.”
“I see,” said de Vignon. He turned, and pressed a button in what looked like a cupboard, flush to the wall, behind him. A cocktail cabinet opened slowly and soundlessly, with an array of glasses and bottles. “Cognac?”
“I thought we might come to understand each other,” purred Rollison.
“I think perhaps we shall,” murmured de Vignon. “The glasses are heated. Mr. Rollison, why did you come to Paris?”
“To find out everything I could.”
“What did you know of Odette Rivière?”
Rollison smiled; the lines at his mouth were deep and there was merriment in his eyes.
Would the guess be right?
“Excellent,” said de Vignon. “When did you first hear about her?”
When my spies told me that Downing was a regular visitor to Paris,” said Rollison. “I watched him, and eventually came to Marcel and Odette. Marcel is in serious trouble. Will he crack?”
“If you mean, will he talk—I expect so. If you wonder whether anything he can say would harm me, no, it will not. It might harm Odette and others, but not me.” De Vignon’s voice became gentle. “Mr. Rollison, I think there might be room for a man of your attainments in Paris, after all.”
“Ah,” said Rollison.
“I should like to think about the possibilities,” said de Vignon. “I need to find out whether what you say about yourself is true. I have remarkable ways of finding out, and have friends in the most unexpected places. Will you do me the honour of having dinner with me, tomorrow night? By then, I may have some further information. Because—” De Vignon leaned forward, and his eyes became clouded; it was possible to imagine pictures following each other through the man’s mind. “Because I cannot work for ever with such imbeciles as Downing, and I need an English agent.”
Rollison’s eyebrows shot up.
“Agent or partner?”
De Vignon laughed again in great good humour.
“Very well, partner! I might even welcome some assistance in Paris, Mr. Rollison; there are some individuals who might be more effectively dealt with by a stranger. Now! I have work to do. Can I offer you entertainment for the night? Or company? Anything you wish.”
“I need just one thing,” said Rollison. “Sleep. I’m going to need my wits about me tomorrow night!”
