A Mask for the Toff

by John Creasey

  Latimer said: “And in less than seven hours! I don’t really believe it.”

  “All I’ve done so far is prepare a noose for my neck,” said Rollison, and yawned. “Poincet gave me some useful data about M’sieu le Comte. Now I want more on Madame Thysson, including a detailed plan of her apartment.”

  “I’ve got that.”

  “Wonderful! Feel tired?”

  “I’m never tired.” Latimer yawned very widely.

  “You know, Pete, you don’t have to come,” Rollison said. “You could find yourself in a nasty spot, and you’ve already done a job in a million. Have a good night’s rest, and—”

  “I’ve hired a car with a special driver—a reporter on Figaro. Soul of discretion, who doesn’t know what we’re up to, but wants to run a story on the Toff anyhow, and swears he’ll wait until this is over. The law about carrying guns isn’t so strict here as in England, either.” He patted his pocket, and grinned.

  The car, a new Renault, pulled up on the near side of one of the Seine’s many bridges, and Rollison got out. Latimer and the Figaro reporter wished him well in a whisper. He walked across the bridge briskly. There was a moon, and the drizzle had gone, although the streets were still damp. The moon reflected, shimmering grey, on the quiet waters of the Seine. The bridge was a new one which looked ghostly white. The houses on the far bank, Quai de Béthune on one side and Quai de Bayenne on the other, looked tall and dark against the powdery sky.

  Rollison turned left at the other side of the bridge. There was a wall, about waist high, alongside the river, then a narrow road, with just room for two cars to pass, then a yard-wide pavement in front of the houses. There were no more than a dozen of these. Each was approached through a courtyard, and the main doors, at each courtyard, were closed and probably locked; they might be bolted. They were like stable doors, and inlet in each was a smaller door.

  Rollison reached Number 12.

  It was in darkness, but so were all the others. He examined the Yale lock of the smaller door, then took out his knife. He opened a blade which was of remarkably thin and pliable steel, and began to push it into the lock. He made little sound. The blade gradually worked its way round the barrel of the lock, and poked out the other side.

  He turned the handle and pushed; and the door opened.

  He withdrew the blade, closed the knife and put it away, and stepped into the dark courtyard. He pushed the door to behind him, but didn’t close it; in any case it would not have latched, that method of opening a Yale lock had a disadvantage; the lock needed repair before it would work again.

  He stood in unrelieved darkness for some seconds, until his eyes gradually became accustomed to it, and he could see what had been invisible before. Madame Thysson’s appartement was on the left, although she owned both the houses, and the other appartements were occupied by different members of her family or her staff.

  Latimer had told Rollison this; and also told him that although he knew Madame Thysson had night watchmen who might be called bodyguards, he did not know where they might be stationed.

  Rollison moved across the yard, over uneven cobbles, and reached the doorway leading to the stairs and Madame Thysson’s appartement. There was no letter-box; nothing through which he could look; nothing to tell him whether anyone was on the other side or not.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Madame Thysson

  Rollison pushed the second door; it opened, and he stepped from darkness into darkness. There was no sound. He went forward cautiously, with his hand outstretched, and crouching a little. His hand touched the stairs, and the carpet covering them. He went back and closed the door gently, then began to walk up the stairs. There was a stone wall and a hand-rail; he kept a hold on the hand-rail all the time; his right hand was about his gun, which he kept in his pocket.

  He reached the first landing; Madame’s appartement was on the next floor.

  Latimer’s informant had been quite certain about the bodyguards.

  Rollison went past the door on this landing, but did not go straight up. He stood two or three steps above the landing, pressed tightly against the wall. His ears and eyes were strained to catch sound and light, but there was none. He kept still. The quiet made his heart thump, there was something almost uncanny about this; he had a feeling that he was being fooled. He obeyed the instinct to do nothing until he was quite sure that no one was near.

  He heard a creak.

  It might be a door; it might be a hand on the wooden hand-rail; it might be simply one of the noises of the night.

  It came again, from behind him.

  A door had opened.

  If he couldn’t see, no one else could. He was on the door side of the wall. He stepped across, flattening himself against the opposite wall. A third creak came, so faint that probably he would not have noticed it had he been on the move. He stared at the door, which was dark, and could only just make out its outline, couldn’t be sure whether it was wide open or closed. He heard a faint rustle of sound. Then he heard breathing, soft, bated.

  Gradually the figure of a man loomed black against the greyness, no more than a shape; it would have been invisible but for the lighter colour of the wall opposite Rollison. The man was close to the far wall, probably holding the hand-rail; almost certainly he was looking ahead, not expecting anyone on a level with him.

  He passed Rollison.

  Rollison let him mount two steps, then crossed the stairs again and went after him. There was still no light from inside, but there was a window at the next landing. Against this, the shape of the man showed more clearly. The head and shoulders looked big, although that might have been because of the shadowy effect.

  Rollison took two more steps quickly, the second muffled by the carpet. Before he could act, he must be on a level with the other.

  The man reached the higher landing, and stepped forward.

  Rollison reached it, too, and was only a yard away; the other seemed almost afraid to breathe. Rollison stretched out his hands, then shot them forward, clutching at the man’s neck. There was a single gasp, a hissing of breath, and a heel kicked sharply against his shin. But his fingers were embedded deeply into the thick neck, and he pressed mercilessly on the wind-pipe. The man struggled and fought for breath, back-heeling desperately, but Rollison didn’t relax. The struggles gradually slackened.

  Rollison eased his pressure, and the man lay slack against him.

  Rollison moved to one side, let the man fall against his left arm, and put his right beneath the knees. The other was a dead weight, almost too much to carry. Rollison was gasping for breath when he reached the landing below. He leaned his victim against the wall, and opened the door through which the man had come. Then he dragged the limp form after him, and closed the door.

  Here, he had made some noise; but there was no sound from the appartetnent.

  He took out a pencil torch and shone it round until he saw an electric switch. He stood by this and shone the torch around a small hallway. Four doors, three closed and one open, led off it. He went into the room with the open door, and flashed his torch round. It was an empty sitting-room. He went back and switched on the light.

  His victim was big, dark-haired, young, with a fresh and rather open face. He was only just breathing. Rollison carried him into the sitting-room, then went back and put out the hall light. In the room again, he switched that light on.

  He loosened his victim’s collar, took out a brandy flask, paused, and then ran through the man’s pockets. He found a key-case, with several keys, and transferred it to his own pocket. He did the same with a sheathed knife and with a rubber cosh; the bodyguard had been well prepared. Rollison put the brandy flask back, unused, and studied the room more closely. In one wall, near the fireplace, was a light panel, like those used in hospitals and on some telephone switchboards; a light would glo
w when a bell was pressed. Rollison went across and studied it – and decided that it was the nerve centre of the burglar-alarm system. One of these lights had gone on when he had opened the outer door, another when he had opened the inner door.

  The watchman had been over-confident in thinking that he could handle this emergency himself.

  He was breathing more evenly.

  Rollison examined the bruises made by his own fingers, and felt the pulse; it beat unevenly, but fairly strongly. He waited until there was no doubt that the man was coming round, bound his wrists and ankles, then tied a scarf round his mouth; he could breathe only through his nose.

  Rollison went out, and closed the door.

  He stepped on to the landing, turned towards Madame Thysson’s floor – and lights flashed on, half-blinding him, and a gun was poked into his side.

  The gun hurt. Rollison moved, and was pushed to one side. He caught a glimpse of a man behind him, then felt a heavy weight descend on the back of his head. He didn’t lose consciousness, but a second blow, on the nape of the neck, seemed to split his head in two; he collapsed.

  A bright light was on when he came round. It hurt his eyes. He was lying on something hard and yet soft – a carpet. He could feel the pile beneath his hands. He kept his eyes closed. At first, he could feel only pain in his head, and could not think. But gradually the pain eased, and he felt his other senses stirring. He could smell perfume. He didn’t open his eyes, for the light was too bright even with them closed. He didn’t move. But his hands weren’t tied – one rested against the floor, the other on his own waist. He did not know whether he was alone, for there was a loud drumming in his ears; he could not detect the sound of anyone else breathing.

  If he could sit upright, his head might feel better; but he did not think that he had the strength to do that, yet. He waited for a while, then moved his right hand slowly, to keep the light off his eyes; that was better. He pressed his other hand against the floor, to lever himself up, and heard a rustle of movement. The perfume seemed stronger.

  He felt a soft hand at his wrist, an arm slid between his back and the floor. He was able to sit up, with that help. He couldn’t see the woman, but the folds of her dress brushed against his head. Even that was painful.

  She didn’t speak, but let him sit there without anything to lean against; later, he felt something push against his back – a chair. She had given him the support he badly needed, he could relax. He kept his eyes closed and his right hand in front of them, but still the light was too strong.

  It dimmed.

  He took his hand away, and dared to open his eyes. There was light behind him, but most of the room was in shadow. It was a salon, in the old tradition; a woman’s room with Louis Quinze furniture, silvery greys and cream colouring; restful. The woman was behind him, and he had no idea whether anyone else was with her. All he could see was the furniture, the dressing-table, chairs and a fragile-looking couch. Another door, opposite, was ajar; he guessed that was the bedroom.

  He heard a movement behind him, but didn’t try to move his head to see the woman. The perfume-became more noticeable again, subtle and pleasing.

  Then a hand was thrust in front of his face, a long, slim hand, on the middle finger of which was a single solitaire ring, which scintillated even in that poor light. In the hand was a small bottle, with the top off, and he smelt something stronger than perfume. The bottle was thrust under his nose; he hadn’t even the spirit to think “Smelling sails, for me!” The sharp smell stung his nostrils and helped his head. Tears came to his eyes, but when they cleared he felt better.

  The woman put the bottle in front of him again; he sniffed, bringing more tears, but didn’t try to look at her. He had enough sense left to play her game. She wasn’t ready for him to see her.

  The bottle disappeared.

  A door opened, there was a clinking sound, as of china. Someone else was in the room, but didn’t speak. In a few seconds a cup of strong black coffee was held in front of him, and he took it and sipped. It was hot and very sweet; the best thing he could have had. He went on sipping. The door closed, and he believed that he was alone with the woman again.

  Why did she play this game of hide-and-seek?

  He finished the coffee and groped in his pockets. The first thing he realised was that his gun had gone, but an old brass cigarette lighter was still there, part of his props. He fumbled for a cigarette, and as he put it to his lips a light was thrust close to his face. He lit the cigarette, and coughed; it brought the pain back to his head, but that soon turned into a dull, throbbing ache, and he was glad of the tobacco.

  He didn’t speak.

  Doubtless she was waiting for him to start, but two could play that game. Game! He was in the appartement of Madame Thysson, who, if Latimer’s information was accurate, had a reputation as bad as de Vignon’s.

  Then he saw the mirror.

  It was in front and a little to one side of him; he didn’t notice it until a light above it was switched on, from behind him. He caught a glimpse of a long skirt, but then the woman disappeared, and he could see only himself. He did not make a pretty picture. He was dressed in old, torn, dirty clothes, obtained from the man to whom Poincet had recommended him. His face was dirty – partly with real dirt, partly with make-up. Thick stubble already showed at his chin and cheeks. The make-up artist whom he had visited had done a good job. His eyes looked narrow, his nose broader; and his hair was untidy. On the right temple was an ugly bruise, and at his hip there was a cut which had bled slightly. He wore a muffler knotted loosely round his throat; he would have been a credit to the East End or to the worse district of Paris.

  But anyone who looked closely could see that he was disguised.

  The light above the mirror went out.

  Now he could see only shadowy reflections in it, and the red glow of his own cigarette. He was feeling much better and could get up; but should he make the first move, or force her to make it? He would be more comfortable in a chair than leaning against it, but—

  He sat unmoving.

  He heard a rustle of movement, and thought that the woman was coming in front of him, but she stopped just behind him. He had one cause for satisfaction; she spoke at last, in a charming voice. She spoke in French, which meant that she took it for granted that French was his language.

  “Who are you?” she asked. “Why have you come to see me?”

  He was sure, now, that she was Madame Thysson.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cat And Mouse

  Rollison did not answer and did not move. The woman was close to him, speaking just above his head. While it amused her to hide from him he would indulge the whim; that wouldn’t harm him.

  “Answer me, please. Who are you and why have you come?”

  He said softly: “I came to kill Madame Thysson.”

  She caught her breath; whatever she had expected, that wasn’t it. Something brushed against his head, and set it throbbing again; probably her hand. She moved away from him.

  “Why did you wish to kill me?”

  He started, deliberately, to suggest that he hadn’t realised that she was Madame Thysson. He turned his head to the right; her voice had come from the left, and so he didn’t see her.

  “Tell me, why?” she insisted.

  He had come in the guise of a Paris apache, but she knew that was a disguise; so he had spoken in ordinary French. He had invented two stories to use in an emergency, and one was now an obvious choice, but he mustn’t be too ready to answer.

  She showed no impatience, only insistence.

  “Why did you wish to kill me?”

  “You sent one girl too many to her ruin.”

  “Oh, she said, and sounded amused. “So it is an affaire de coeur. How gallant!”

  He turned round, slowly, put out a hand to s
upport himself against the chair and got to his feet. He saw her for the first time – and although he was prepared he felt a sense of shock. He leaned heavily against the chair, staring at her.

  The half-light increased the effect of the mask she wore.

  It was a beautiful thing, which fitted over her face, hiding it completely; but he could just see where it joined her neck, and where it finished at her forehead. It was the face of a young and beautiful woman, but a woman without expression, as a mask must be. He was fascinated, and she stood quite still.

  He could not tell how old she was. She was tall, and no one could complain about her figure. She wore a cream-silk dressing-gown, fastened at the waist with silk ribbons, and beneath it a silk nightdress or pyjamas of a deeper cream colour. The sleeves were long, and both garments were high at the neck. Only her hands really showed, and as he knew, they were long and thin – the hands of a woman more young than old. She held them by her sides.

  “Sit down,” she said.

  He pulled the chair round with an effort, so that he could sit facing her. He didn’t have to pretend that she had startled him, and that he couldn’t look away from the uncanny repose of that masked face. It was as if beauty had been donned to hide raddled corruption. She moved across to another chair and sat down. Her movements were flowing and easy, with studied grace. She rested one arm on the side of the chair and looked completely at ease.

  “Who are you?” she asked. “Which of the girls has stirred you to such passion?”

  “Supposing I told you?” he growled. “You’d make her suffer more than she’s suffered already.”

  “I see. And if I ask your name, you will say that I can trace the girl through that, and make her suffer so much. Are you her lover? Her master? Her brother? Or” – there was a hint of laughter in her voice – “her father?”