by John Creasey
Rollison didn’t answer.
She spoke again, and her voice became harsh and grated in his ears, almost as if she had struck him.
“Or are you lying? Has de Vignon sent you?”
He opened his lips.
“Well? Did he send you?” she leaned forward until he could see her eyes behind the slits in the mask and could imagine the passion in them. “Tell me the truth. Hurry!”
“I don’t know who you mean. You’ve ruined—” He broke off.
She sat back, and laughed; he had never known anything more uncanny than the motionless mask and the sound of laughter coming from the gap for the lips. It was easy to imagine cruelty in the laugh.
“So you nearly told me who,” she said. “I wonder if you’re telling the truth?” She stood up and came towards him, surprising him by her speed. Before he realised what she was about to do, she was behind him. Her hand pressed against the back of his head, then a finger probed, against the bruise. He had to set his teeth to stop himself from crying out. “Does that hurt?” she asked softly.
He didn’t answer.
“I know how badly it hurts,” she said, “and you know how much more I could hurt you if I wish. Imagine more blows there—not hard enough to make you unconscious, just a series of light blows. Would you like that?”
He growled: “I’d expect it.”
“You’ll get it if you lie to me. Have you come from de Vignon?”
She pressed her hand again, more gently, but the pressure hurt.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
She moved away; his head throbbed. She didn’t return to her chair, and he looked towards the corner, by a closed door. She moved her hand, there was a series of sharp clicks, and every light in the room went on. The brilliance hit against his eyes like a cloud of stinging dust, and he closed them in agony. Through the drumming of the blood in his ears he thought he heard her laugh.
The light went out, until only the one was left.
“Did you come from de Vignon?”
“No!”
“I hope you are telling the truth. The consequences would be most unpleasant for you. Tell me of the girl who inspired you to come here.”
Rollison didn’t answer.
“She won’t be hurt—it isn’t her responsibility that she has a fool as a champion. If you don’t name her, I shall assume that she doesn’t exist. If I do that, I shall assume also that you’ve come from de Vignon. I do not like de Vignon or his friends.”
Rollison said: “I didn’t come from de Vignon, whoever he is, and I’ve said all I’m going to say.”
He put his hands on the arm of the chair, and stood up. He managed without swaying. He took a step towards her, and behind the mask she laughed again.
“I shouldn’t be foolish.”
“Let me get out of here.”
He took another step.
“So the gallant avenger has lost his courage! Here am I, a candidate for murder, and you anxious to escape and leave me alive. I don’t think your passion is as great as it was when you came.”
He took a third step.
“Stay where you are,” she ordered.
She looked beyond him, suggesting that someone else was there. He ignored it and went on. Then he heard a faint whistling sound, felt a breath of wind pass his face – and a knife sprang into the door, a yard away from Madame Thysson; it had passed within an inch of his face.
He darted a glance behind him. A man, with another knife poised, stood in the other doorway.
“He is very clever with knives,” said Madame Thysson musingly. “I believe that he can persuade anyone to talk. It was so, during the war, when he learned how to use one. On all kinds of people, especially on those who were spying on the Underground. He had reason to hate, and learned how to hate effectively. Would you like him to practise on you?”
Rollison hadn’t moved since the knife had passed; but he wanted to move. He was only half himself, it would be some time before he had recovered from the blows over the head. He was in no state to play cat-and-mouse with mask-like beauty.
“So you wouldn’t,” said Madame Thysson. “Tell me the truth. Did you come because you’re in love with a girl, or because de Vignon sent you to kill me? The first I could forgive. The second—”
The man in the doorway moved forward and took the knife out of the door. He stood by, feeling the point of the blade as if it were something he loved; he didn’t glance at Rollison. He was near a table on which were Rollison’s weapons, the knife and the gun.
“I shall soon lose patience,” the woman said. “Which girl do you say you are avenging?”
Rollison saw the man’s eyes for the first time; also saw the way he gripped a knife, by the blade, as if to throw it. The woman laughed again. He wished he could tear the mask from her face, but she was out of reach; and the knife-thrower was not likely to miss at this range.
“Tell me her name,” insisted Madame Thysson.
Rollison backed to the chair, sat down, wiped a hand across his forehead; and that wasn’t all pretence. He could sense that the woman was gloating; the man seemed indifferent. He took out his cigarettes again and lit another cigarette, and then he took his life in his hands; or so he believed.
“Odette,” he said. “Odette Rivière.”
The little man jerked his head up, the woman thrust out her hands as if to fend off an invisible assailant. For the first time, she was off her guard; astounded.
“Incroyable!” gasped the man.
“It isn’t possible,” Madame Thysson said in a whisper. “Not Odette, she—”
She broke off.
Rollison felt as if new life had been breathed into him. He drew in the tobacco smoke and played with his cigarette-lighter, even laughed and stood up. Then he turned the tables completely. It was all done quickly, before the others had recovered. The cigarette-lighter was almost in the little man’s face before he knew that Rollison had thrown it. He dodged to one side, but Rollison reached him before he could steady himself, wrenched his wrists and forced the knives out of his grip. They fell to the floor. Rollison stamped on one, leaned across and picked up his gun and knife. The woman was backing towards the door, but stopped when he stood within a yard of her, poising the gun.
“Yes,” he said, “I am a friend of Odette. A good friend. I don’t like what has been done to her.”
He laughed again, in spite of the furious throbbing in his head. He knew that he couldn’t stay to fight this out; unless he moved now, while he had a chance, he’d be finished. He moved towards the door. The woman stood as if she were made of stone. He stretched out a hand to touch the mask, and pulled; it wouldn’t move. Then he heard the little man rushing at him, turned and thrust out his foot. The man ran into it, and went flying. Rollison reached the door, turned the key in the lock, and pulled it open. A man was standing only a yard away, gun in hand. Rollison fired, and the other’s gun went flying against the wall. The roar of the shot merged with a cry of pain.
Rollison turned and ran across the hall, out of the door and on to the landing, then down the stairs. His head was pounding, he could keep going only by will-power and the knowledge of what would happen if he once faltered.
The front door was ajar. He rushed into the cold night air, with two men after him. He stumbled on the cobbles, recovered and went on. The little door in the large one which led to the street was also ajar. He scrambled through and slammed it behind him, but with the damaged lock it wouldn’t close properly. Then he ran towards the bridge. He hadn’t the breath left to shout, feared every moment that the door would open again and the men give chase. He stumbled; he didn’t think he could get to the other side of the bridge. He reached the near end and glanced over his shoulder.
The moonlight shone on the tall, dark houses
and – on closed doors.
The car at the other end of the bridge started up.
Chapter Fifteen
Sleep
“And now I hope you’re satisfied,” said Latimer, leaning over him. “I’ve never seen such a mess. If you take my advice, you’ll be on the first ’plane back to London in the morning—if you’re still alive then.”
Rollison lay back on his pillows at the Hôtel Mulle, and grinned weakly.
“First, sleep,” he said.
“Sleep! You need a month’s convalescence.” Latimer straightened up, and moved to a chair.
They had been back for half an hour, and with Latimer’s help Rollison had struggled out of his clothes. They lay in a heap near the foot of the bed. The reporter of the Figaro had driven away as soon as they had arrived here; on the journey Rollison had heard him talking to Latimer, but he had not taken in any of the conversation.
“It’s nearly five,” Latimer said. “I think I’ll kip in the arm-chair. Any objection?”
“Do what you like, Pete. And thanks for everything. It’s been quite a day. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“I’ll feel—” Latimer broke off, and chuckled.
“All right, Rolly. I’ll put out the light, you can sleep some of it off. Er—just one thing.”
“What?”
“Did you see her?”
“Mask and all.”
“So she had that on, did she?” Latimer frowned. “In her sleep, too?”
“I was the one who went to sleep. All details when I wake up, and—” Rollison stopped abruptly, and sat up more quickly than he should have done.
After he had taken a cold shower Latimer had rubbed salve gently into his head, but he wouldn’t know what it was like to be without a headache for a day or two.
“Good lord, I’m crazy!”
“You’re the last to discover it.”
“Get me Jolly on the telephone,” begged Rollison. “Tell him I must speak to him.”
“But—”
“Mayfair, London, 13—”
“I know your number,” Latimer said. He seemed to know when to be obstinate and when to give way, for he lifted the receiver at once. “I’ll probably take some time to get through, I’ll wake you.”
The call came through in three minutes, and when Rollison spoke to Jolly, his man sounded as if this were in the middle of the morning.
“It’s good to hear from you, sir.”
“Thanks. Jolly, this matters. I don’t know how much, but it matters. The girl’s name is Odette Rivière. How is she?”
“There is no change, except that she is more rested.”
“Any trouble?” asked Rollison.
“I would not rate it that high, sir, but a man has been watching the house. I know he is French. He has shown no sign of activity at all, but for security I have enlisted the help of Bill Ebbutt, and the man is being watched in turn.”
“Good,” said Rollison, and paused.
“Have you any instructions about the young lady, sir?”
“As soon as she’s awake, tell her that I have seen both the Comte de Vignon—got that?”
“The Comte de Vignon, yes.”
“And Madame Thysson. Just tell her that, and see if it will make her talk. You must make her talk, Jolly. Find out whether she was running away from de Vignon or Thysson—no, wait a moment.” He pressed a hand against his throbbing head. “She probably did escape from de Vignon, but she had some connection with Madame Thysson. Find out what it is. Get her story, and—”
He heard another sound at the other end of the line; and thought he heard Jolly gasp. He was prepared for anything, for indications of an attack, for another voice. Instead, he heard Jolly say: “Excuse me one moment, sir, the young lady is at the bedroom door.”
Rollison said: “Then you can start on the questioning now. I—”
He stopped when he heard the girl speak. Her voice came faintly, but every word was distinct.
“That is Mr. Rollison. Tell him to come back, tell him not to stay in Paris.”
“The young lady—” Jolly began.
“Yes, I heard,” Rollison said. “Tell her I might come back at once if she’ll tell you the whole truth. If she won’t, there isn’t a chance. Try hard, Jolly.”
“You can be quite sure of that, sir. Are you still at the Hôtel Mullel? I received your telegram.”
“Yes. If you can’t get hold of me, speak to Poincet, at the Sûreté Générale. Make sure you’re talking to him in person.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Good night,” said Rollison.
He put down the receiver and dropped back on to the pillows. After the effort, his head throbbed viciously. He closed his eyes against the light, and hoped that Latimer would not talk. Latimer didn’t, and soon put out the light. In a daze, Rollison heard him walking about the room, but didn’t hear the chair creak as Latimer sat down for what remained of a night’s rest.
Rollison looked at himself in the mirror, and grimaced; he was the apache to the life. He walked to the bathroom unsteady but very upright, and bathed his face. His head, while not really bad, still needed a lot of care. He returned to the bedroom and sat in front of the dressing-table, removing the grease paint with spirit. That done, he went back and had a hot bath, followed by another cold shower; all he felt he needed were cold showers.
It was half-past eleven in the morning; Latimer had left a brief note, saying that he would not be long.
Rollison towelled his hair gingerly, then went back and ordered coffee. It had come by the time Latimer returned.
In his hand was a package wrapped up in white paper; it was the size of a small bottle.
“Hallo.” His droll grin had a wholesome look, and he was as familiar and welcome as an old friend. “I’ve been having a session with a chemist, introduced by a friend who knows—”
“I know the friend-to-friend system,” said Rollison, who had gone back to bed.
“And I have produced a pick-me-up. Guaranteed, the chemist says, to restore you to some semblance of order by tonight. I told him you were suffering from a combination of excessive drinking, gross over-eating and a fight in which you’d taken on six men all bigger than yourself. He still guaranteed his cure. Two doses now, and then one every two hours. You must have only light food, no wine or spirits, and you have to do all the usual things to the bruises on your head.”
“Three doses, please,” said Rollison. “Coffee?”
“I’ve had breakfast.”
“Don’t,” shuddered Rollison.
Latimer looked sardonically amused.
“On the whole, you didn’t come out of it badly, Rollison. Interviews with the Count and with Madame on the same night, and still one leg out of your coffin. Poincet doesn’t approve of the second venture, but doesn’t know it was you.”
“You haven’t been to see him?” Rollison looked horrified.
“My Figaro friend has. I’m to tell you that everything has been done as arranged, and that you have a terrible reputation at the Sûreté Générale. From today onwards, all well-dressed Englishmen in Paris will be suspect, and the jails will probably be full up by tonight.” As he talked, Latimer measured out a white emulsion into a glass, and held it out to Rollison. “Drink.”
Rollison drank; gasped; and shuddered.
“That’ll larn you,” said Latimer. “I can see I’ll have to be on duty to make sure that you take the other doses. Oh, I’ve fixed the money, by the way. My Paris editor was affable and helpful—I told just a little, but didn’t disclose the whole truth.”
“Let’s keep it in the family,” said Rollison. He accepted a thick wad of thousand-franc notes.
“Wonderful, Pete, thanks. Any news?”
/> “Not yet. I’m going out to try to find some. If anyone else knows that Madame had a visitor, it will probably be all over the town by now.”
Latimer laughed, and went out. Rollison drank more coffee, to get the vile taste of the physic out of his mouth, and decided not to get up. If he weren’t dressed, he couldn’t be tempted to go out. He sent for English papers and le Figaro, but when they arrived, did no more than scan the headlines.
At a quarter to one, the telephone bell rang.
“There is a call from London for you,” said the operator. “One minute, please.”
The minute seemed an age; and dragged into several before a man came on the line. It was a relief to recognise Jolly’s voice.
“Are you there, sir?”
“Has she come across?” Rollison was astonished at his own eagerness.
“I much regret to say that she has not,” said Jolly. “She has gone so far as to promise to tell you everything if you return to London, but she refuses to say a word to me. She will not talk to the police, either—Mr. Grice and an interpreter have just gone. She is quite adamant. Is there any chance of you returning in the near future?”
“Certainly not until tomorrow,” Rollison said.
There was heavy crackling on the line, and he had to concentrate to hear at all.
“I am extremely sorry that I can’t report more satisfactorily,” Jolly said, and sounded utterly miserable. “The language is a difficulty. I have a fair command of French, but cannot use quite the same approach as I could if she were able to speak English. Is there any other course of action you care to recommend?”
Rollison said: “Yes. Try again, and tell her that I’ve ordered you to bring her to Paris if she won’t tell you everything she can. Ring me back as soon as you can.”
“Very good,” said Jolly.
Obviously he did not feel optimistic.
It seemed an age, but was little more than an hour, before the telephone bell rang. It was a London call. Rollison adjusted the pillows, waited and began to wonder if he had been cut off; then suddenly Jolly’s voice sounded, this time with an undoubted note of satisfaction.
