by John Creasey
“That proved to be successful, sir.”
“Wonderful! Does it help?”
“It may help you,” said Jolly. “And it is instructive, in that she is really terrified of the thought of returning to Paris at this juncture. She—”
“Jolly,” said Rollison, heavily.
“Yes, sir. I am trying to marshal my words effectively. The young lady’s story is quite brief, and I don’t want to give any part undue emphasis. She says that for some time she worked for Madame Thysson, as a mannequin. She was quite happy with Madame until she began to hear rumours about her activities. Then she met Marcel Blanc—BLANC, sir. She fell in love with him. Reading between the lines, I would say that it was because of stories of the less-savoury activities of Madame Thysson, of whom she had become very fond, that she flung herself at Marcel Blanc’s head, as it were. A kind of emotional rebound.”
Jolly paused; this time Rollison did not hurry him.
“She wanted to leave Madame Thysson, but that was not easy. It was evolved, between the young couple, that Miss Rivière should ask for a holiday, permission to visit London with Marcel and two others, an elderly married couple. Madame Thysson raised no objection. On arrival in London, the girl was taken to the home of a lady she had never seen before—the description is that of Lady Murren, sir.”
“Well, well,” murmured Rollison.
“However, this lady refused to receive her, and she was taken to a smaller house—Downing’s. She did not know what had happened, but overheard the men saying they had killed the other woman and were planning to murder her. She ran away.”
“And who shall blame her?”
“Very few people would,” Jolly said soberly. “She says she is afraid to return to Paris in case she is attacked. My personal view, for what it is worth, is that she was and is terrified and” – Jolly paused – “very innocent and inexperienced, sir.”
“Possibly.”
“She says that she feels safe while here. She does not seem at all sure who is involved in the plot against her life—she doesn’t want to think of it, and is very confused. She cannot understand why it is being done—she has no money, no position. She claims that she is—I suppose the right word is psychic, sir—and she is sure that harm will befall you in Paris. She says she feels it most strongly at this moment. She is a little hysterical, if I may say so, and talks of being surrounded by an aura of evil and corruption, but—”
“She was,” Rollison said heavily.
“And she begs you to return. She doesn’t want you to suffer by trying to help her.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” promised Rollison. “Meanwhile, some things are clearer. As Odette knew they had killed Lady Murren, obviously they had to get rid of her. Ruthlessness the watchword. Tell Grice about all this, Jolly, and ask him to inform Poincet at the Sûreté Générale.”
“Very good.” Jolly sounded both surprised and a little disapproving.
“And ask him to make sure the flat’s watched, back and front, until it’s over. I wouldn’t put it past them to have another go at her. I think she’ll be all right until tomorrow morning, I’ve an interesting appointment tonight. But if I miss my bus, big trouble may flare up pretty quickly. Do all that, won’t you?”
“Without fail, sir. May I inquire how you have been progressing?”
Rollison laughed.
“I shouldn’t, too closely. Odette’s forebodings are on the mark, but you know the old story about being forewarned. Look after yourself, Jolly.”
“Look after yourself, sir.” Jolly coughed. “I shall hope to see you back very soon. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” said Rollison.
He looked at the telephone for a few seconds before putting it back on its cradle, thinking of a girl who was psychic and who believed him to be in acute danger now. His back was towards the door, as he turned on his side to make himself more comfortable. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled faintly, rejecting the uncanny, trying to see through the girl’s story to the motives which lay behind it.
Then he turned round.
Downing stood in the doorway, covering him with a gun; grinning.
Chapter Sixteen
Sam Downing
Downing’s was the kind of grin that wouldn’t relax, the grin of a man who hated and who intended to kill. He closed the door softly behind him; the click as it latched sounded very loud. He had a picklock in his left hand, and dropped it into his pocket. He moved two or three cat-like paces forward. He was dressed in a brown overcoat which made him look more of a barrel than ever. The great physical strength of the man was obvious. He had a flat forehead, wide-set eyes and a big but flattened chin; it made his head look as broad as it was long.
His big hand dwarfed the automatic.
“So you’ve an interesting appointment tonight, have you? With the Count. And you’re afraid you might miss the bus. You’ll miss it all right—and the appointment. I didn’t think I’d take long to deal with you.”
Rollison settled back on his pillows.
“Hallo, Sam,” he said.
“Being smart won’t help you.” The grin remained as Downing talked; his face was almost as mask-like as Madame Thysson’s – but a satyr’s mask. “When I learned that the Count was thinking of playing ball with you, I did some quick thinking. There’s just one way to deal with slugs like you, Rollison. Rub them out. See?”
“I see, Sam. May I have a cigarette.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Not even the condemned man’s last privilege?”
“I’m not an ordinary executioner,” Downing said. “I’m glad you know you’ve had it. Keep your hand away from that telephone, too.”
Rollison said: “All right, Sam.”
A wave of weariness swept over him, and took away all the joy of living. He had been in many tight corners, but never one like this; never one in which death was so inevitable. Here was a man who hated; who had come only to kill; who had him completely at his mercy. No pleading and no bribing would serve a purpose, now; no tricks could turn the tables on the man who stood like a solid block, ten feet away, and with the gun unwavering in his hand.
Downing wanted time only for one thing; to gloat.
“Saying your prayers?” he sneered.
“In my own way,” Rollison said. Even if he started to get up, he wouldn’t have a chance. His gun was in his coat pocket; he had taken it for granted that there would be no danger today; that there was an armistice until he saw de Vignon. He’d forgotten Sam; or rather, forgotten that Downing would have his own hate motive.
“Well, be quick about it,” Downing said. “I’ve hated your guts for years, Rollison, but I didn’t think I’d ever be able to finish you off myself. It’ll be nice and simple, see—de Vignon will get the blame.”
“He won’t like that, Sam.”
“I don’t care what he likes. I’ve finished with de Vignon. I’ve done all his dirty work for him in London for a couple of years. Why, it was doing a job for de Vignon that I got my last stretch! Now he turns on me—blames me for what you did in London. Calls me a fool, says I don’t know the first thing about you. Maybe I don’t. He never will. Curtains for the Toff!”
He laughed – and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
The faint click sounded, clear, not loud. Downing’s eyes dropped, he moved the gun up, taken completely by surprise at this failure. Rollison twisted, grabbed a pillow and raised it. Downing pointed the gun again, his fat finger squeezed; and there was another click!
Rollison flung the pillow.
Downing threw the gun, and the missiles met in mid-air and dropped between the two men. Rollison leaned out of bed and grabbed at his coat. Downing leapt at him, kicked against the pillow and stumbled. Rollison felt his gun and pulled it o
ut – and the door banged open.
A man called in French: “Stop that, Downing!”
Downing ignored the order. As he levelled the gun Rollison saw two of de Vignon’s bodyguards. His mind worked swift as light. De Vignon had expected this, had taken the bullets out of Downing’s gun, had sent his own bodyguard to save Rollison from harm. All that went through his mind as Downing came at him, and the men behind called out harshly. The gun was in Rollison’s hand. Downing couldn’t harm him physically, but if he were taken prisoner and hauled back to de Vignon, M’sieu le Comte would use pressure to make him talk. Not that Downing would need much persuasion to repeat what he had heard of the telephone conversation; and it would be enough to make de Vignon doubt the story he had heard from the Sûreté.
Downing smashed a blow at his face. Rollison felt little as he moved his head, but heard Downing’s fist smack against the metal of the head-panel. Downing hid the others from sight, but they were almost on to him, in a moment would drag him off.
Rollison fired.
The shot sounded deafening; there was hardly a flash, because the muzzle was so close to Downing’s body. Downing’s eyes opened spasmodically, his mouth opened too; then they closed and he slumped forward.
De Vignon’s men stood back. There was a tiny wisp of smoke from Rollison’s gun.
The two men, who had obtained a master key from a maid, had taken Downing away. Rollison didn’t try to guess how they would get him out of the hotel. He felt the sickness of reaction. He had never liked killing and certainly had not liked this one. Probably no one would know that it had been done in cold blood; that he had killed Downing to make sure that he would be able to continue his work with de Vignon. There was plenty of reason and ample excuse, and Downing was a murderer; but he felt sick.
He stood in the bathroom, watching the top of the sheet soaking in the hand-basin. The water was bright red; there had been little bleeding before Downing had been lifted off him, and it had all gone on to the sheet; the evidence would soon be gone. He wrung it out, soaked it again for a few minutes, then felt satisfied that it was clean enough not to rouse anyone’s suspicions that it was blood. He wrung as much water out of it as he could, and spread it over the bath. Then he changed his mind, took it back to the bed and threw half a cup of cold coffee over it, making sure that the sheet was soiled. He shivered and started to dress.
Presently there was a tap at the door.
He looked up, and his heart began to race. Had that shot been heard? Could anyone near have failed to hear it?
“Come in,” he called.
A woman said: “The door is locked.”
He recognised the voice, went across and opened the door, and forced a smile.
Mademoiselle “Blanc” came in, smiling. She looked exactly as she had when she had left him last night; radiant and ravishing. The spiritless obedience to everything he had ordered had been a clever act. She wore a dark-red suit and waist-length mink coat.
“Now we can really be ourselves,” she said.
“Wonderful,” said Rollison. The word almost choked him. He had to snap out of this mood. He couldn’t trust himself to talk freely to the girl, to answer the questions which would be in her words, whether they seemed like questions or not. “Superb!” he said, and drew her nearer, put his arms round her and kissed her savagely. For a moment she was rigid; then she seemed to melt.
At last he let her go.
She laughed, a little breathlessly.
“I do not feel so safe, now.”
She opened her handbag and handed him a small red handkerchief. He took it, looked into the mirror, and saw the red smear at his lips, very like blood. He laughed; and laughter did him good. He didn’t try to stop himself, but went on, wiping his lips at the same time. He could see the girl’s reflection in the mirror, and she was smiling, as if delighted.
He finished.
“Thanks. But is once enough?”
“At midday, yes, I think so,” she said, and her eyes mocked him. “You are truly a remarkable man.”
“Judging from one kiss? I—”
“No, no.” She went across to the chair and sat on the arm; and her movements had a subtle, willowy grace, everything about her was seductive. “Anyone who can kill a man one moment and laugh and make love the next—that is what M’sieu le Comte would really call a man.”
“I see. But Downing would have killed me.” He didn’t ask her how she knew about the shooting, but finished dressing, taking great care with his collar and tie. His head was muzzy,-but he already felt the good effect of the potion which Latimer had brought him; and it was time he had another. He went to the bathroom and took it. The girl hadn’t moved when he returned. “And he was in our way, my dear.”
“And in the Count’s way. Did you know that you owed the Count your life?”
“I thought he had something to do with it.”
“There was a quarrel. The Count thought that Downing would come here, in anger, and removed the bullets from his gun. But for that—” She broke off. “I think you understand that, as well as one other thing, Richard.”
“Not fair,” he said.
She frowned. “I do not understand.”
“My Richard to your what?”
The frown cleared, and she laughed gaily. She came across and gripped his hands, put her cheek against his, and whispered: “Yvonne, Richard!”
“And what’s the other thing you think I understand?”
She drew back and pouted, making herself provocative, and yet he could see that she was assessing him shrewdly; she was older than he had thought at first.
“Are you so slow? This is a fine city, Richard, and the police are very good—sometimes. They would not like to think that two Englishmen quarrelled in a Paris hotel, and one killed the other. It is true, there is no evidence now, but—the body, it will be found if necessary. And the bullet in it. And the bullet will be found to have come from your gun. You understand?”
Rollison laughed. “Forget it.”
“I don’t think you should forget, Richard.” What is the death of Downing between friends? M’sieu le Comte can keep the body and use it as a threat. Why should that worry me? We’re going to work together, aren’t we?”
“M’sieu le Comte is so anxious you should not forget that,” said Yvonne Blanc.
Last night he had thought Blanc was an assumed name; now, he doubted it. There was Marcel Blanc, awaiting trial in London; and while it was a common name and could be a coincidence, he didn’t think that was likely. There was a family likeness between Marcel and Yvonne, and each worked for the Count.
“I’ve a good memory, when I need it,” Rollison said. “Did they get the body away safely?”
“But of course. They used a large basket, but such details, they do not matter.”
“Good. And why have you come to see me?”
“Just to remind you that there are some things you must not forget,” she said. “And one of them is that M’sieu le Comte expects you to do what he requires. He will require to see you, at the Rue de l’Arbre, at half-past six—”
“I see.” Rollison patted his coat into position, and refilled his cigarette-case from a box which Jolly had put in with his luggage. “Mistake number one, Yvonne—not at half-past six, half-past seven or any time tonight or any other night. I’ve paid my first and last visit to the Love Club.”
He beamed at her. He felt better and was almost himself; shock and the physic probably shared the responsibility for that. He relished the frown which wrinkled her forehead, and stopped her from looking just a lovely young woman.
She waited for him to go on.
“That’s all,” said Rollison.
“You say you will not see him?”
“Oh, no,” said Rollison. “Just that I won’t mee
t M’sieu le Comte at the Rue de l’Arbre. If I’m to be any use, I mustn’t be seen there again. He must meet me somewhere else, and if he’s wise, it will be somewhere he isn’t likely to be known, or where everyone’s discretion can be relied on. Your turn to understand.” He proffered cigarettes. She didn’t take one, but was smiling again.
“And we shall meet soon—and often, yes?”
“Very often,” said Rollison, and there was a glint in his eyes. “I don’t think you’re safe here. Au revoir.”
“Au revoir. But wait! I nearly forgot the most important message. M’sieu le Comte will be engaged tonight, the meeting will be tomorrow. He needs more time to make inquiries, I believe. Au ’voir again!”
She laughed, and turned to the door. Rollison reached it ahead of her, and watched her go to the lift. He went back, frowning. He was glad of a day’s respite; but de Vignon could use that killing against him, a development he hadn’t considered in that tense moment of decision.
He had left the gun under his pillow, a little factor that de Vignon had forgotten. He pulled the pillow aside.
The gun wasn’t there.
Neither de Vignon nor Yvonne would forget anything that mattered.
Chapter Seventeen
Dinner With The Count
A closed car drew up outside the Hôtel Mulle and the chauffeur sprang out. He opened the door as Rollison stepped from the hotel. It was exactly six-thirty; a message had said that the car would arrive at that time. The streets were dark, but the night was fine. Rollison sat back against luxurious upholstery, and had room to stretch out his legs. He felt physically much better, although his head was tender, and a few of the bruises were still painful when touched. Nothing of interest or excitement had happened since Yvonne had gone the previous day. A disgruntled Latimer had called in, to say that he had been detailed to a job by his London office, and hadn’t been back.
Rollison had taken it easy for twenty-four hours, and had lunched lightly.
