A Mask for the Toff

by John Creasey

  “Not yet,” said Rollison. “Listen …”

  Not once, during the next five minutes, did Poincet touch his glass. His smile began slowly and became beatific. When Rollison had finished, the detective was wholly speechless.

  The car from Yvonne arrived for Rollison on the dot; he had not driven himself once since reaching Paris, and regretted it. He did not regret the comfort of this limousine, and contrasted it with the Renault used by Madame Thysson. This time the blinds were not drawn, but he did not pay much attention to the route. It was a short journey, and at a quarter to seven he found himself outside a house on the Rue de Marin, not far from the Rue de l’Arbre.

  He was taken to the first floor, and admitted by a prim, middle-aged maid to the appartement, which was furnished with modern furniture, tasteful, delightful. The colour scheme was blue and grey, the lighting was subdued. In a small room, Yvonne-was sitting on a couch, with a magazine open in front of her, and she looked up as if she hadn’t realised that he was coming. Her lashes swept her cheeks for a moment, the seductive smile played at her lips. She stretched up her arms and drew him down to her.

  He went on one knee, extravagantly.

  “Must I worship?” he asked.

  “Don’t you want to?”

  “Beauty is a shrine.”

  He moved his head back and studied her with one-eyebrow raised. She was superbly made-up, but for one thing; she had on no lipstick. He brushed-his lips against hers, and drew back again.

  “Short of handkerchiefs?” he asked.

  “You are being too English,” she said. “I am short of nothing.”

  “I’ll live to prove it,” Rollison said, and pulled her up suddenly, until they were standing face to face; then he kissed her. She yielded against him, and they were close together for what seemed a long time; again she was breathless when he let her go.

  “Not so very English,” she said. “Are you all ready for tomorrow night?”

  “Must I skip a day?”

  She laughed. “I think perhaps you should prove by results that you are as good as you have convinced Paul you are.” It was the first time she had used de Vignon’s Christian name. “There must be a consideration for favours. The target for tomorrow’s charity is ten million francs.”

  “It’s bespoken.”

  “Bespoken?”

  “Promised,” Rollison explained.

  “Paul will be delighted! And I think you will be, too.”

  Rollison laughed, turned away and poured out drinks at an open cocktail cabinet. He carried gin and Italian to her, and had a sherry himself. He offered her cigarettes, and she refused. She took the drink, but stared at him with a fixed expression, as if she were trying to understand what had passed through his mind when he had laughed.

  “What is funny?” she demanded.

  “Success tomorrow.” He raised his glass.

  “That is serious.”

  “So you think so,” said Rollison, and laughed again. “I’m beginning to understand why Paul has made such heavy weather of it so long. One needs imagination as well as organising ability to make a real success of anything like this. But Paul’s the boss.”

  “I do not understand you,” said Yvonne. How could you? He’s trained you.”

  “I am not sure that I like what you are saying, and I am sure that Paul would not.”

  “We don’t have to be as brothers,” said Rollison. “My dear, a word in your ear.”

  He crossed to her, held his glass in his left hand and slid his right arm round her waist. He drew her close, and let his cheek touch hers. In front of them was a mirror; the reflection would have pleased most people, and there was a bright glow in Rollison’s eyes in contrast to the frown of uncertainty in Yvonne’s.

  “Who will be at the Ball tomorrow?”

  “All Paris.”

  “All the rich people of Paris,” corrected Rollison.

  “Only they matter. I still do not understand.”

  “The men, of course, will come by themselves.”

  “Absurd! It will be the event of the season, the greatest for many years. The women—”

  “Oh, so you know they’re coming. And what do you think they will be wearing? If you say ‘clothes’ I shall refuse to kiss you ever again.” He laughed at her reflection, but no longer saw a puzzled gleam; she understood. Her eyes shone, she turned so abruptly that she knocked his glass and wine fell on to his hand; neither of them appeared to notice it.

  “Jewels,” she breathed.

  “Jewels,” agreed Rollison soberly.

  “But the police will be there.”

  “Of course they will, and in strength. I’m told that a certain Poincet is so worried by the size of the ball and the brilliance of the gathering, that he will be there in person. Now, Yvonne, breathe this into Paul’s ears. The police, being on duty, will need a little refreshment. It is proper to offer them wine and food. But usually they get little, it is all done casually, and no one is really interested. Tomorrow, there will be special catering for the police, if Paul has the sense to pay for it. Not extravagant, but thoughtful; and it will include the particular Bordeaux wine which Poincet likes most. I will arrange it myself. I am told that Poincet cannot resist that wine.”

  “It is true.” Yvonne moistened her lips.

  “And there can be just a little drug in the wine which the police take. Not much, sufficient to make them drowsy, and sluggish. They will start yawning, and be ashamed to let their colleagues see it, and hurry out. At the time when the drug begins to take effect—voilà! Hasn’t M’sieu le Comte the men and the wits to take advantage of sleeping policemen and bejewelled beauties? It is so simple.”

  “Simple!” breathed Yvonne.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Bal Masqué

  “My, my!” said Rollison, admiringly. “You look beautiful. I didn’t know an Englishman could dress like it. Turn round. Let me look at you. If Jolly were here I’d get him to take a photograph, you’re worth preserving.”

  Latimer, in evening-dress, was not amused.

  “Did you ask me to come simply to be funny?”

  “I’m being serious. But it’s not why I invited you. Pete, you asked for a scoop.”

  “I did.” Latimer looked eager. “Is anything really going to break? I’ve come especially for this, and had a devil of a job to make the old man let me. He thinks you’re going to the dogs, the lure of the fleshpots has been too strong for you. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s right, too.”

  The newspaperman’s eagerness did not wholly fade.

  “Except that it’s nothing new, he’s right. Have a special telephone reserved for yourself tonight. Not at the Palace, but somewhere just outside. There’ll be such a scramble for telephones at one stage in the evening that you’ll never get your scoop unless you’re off to a lightning start.”

  Latimer considered.

  “Do you mean this?”

  “Yes, and I’m sorry, Pete, but that’s the lot.”

  “Well, I suppose I mustn’t grumble,” said Latimer. “Sure it’ll come off? Can I ask London to hold some space?”

  “As much space as they’ll give to the biggest sensation in Paris since the Liberation.”

  Latimer threw up his hands.

  “I don’t think it ever occurs to you that you could make a mistake, does it?”

  “Mistakes? I litter life with them! But this isn’t a hunch, this is certain knowledge. Keep a special eye on the policemen, including Papa Poincet.”

  Latimer rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  “You’ve got that saint-cum-devil look about you again. I suppose it couldn’t be possible that my old man’s right, and you’ve gone completely off your rocker.”

  “Is anything impossible?” />
  Latimer looked uneasy, but didn’t speak again. Rollison let him out of the room, and he was then escorted from the Royal Suite by a quietly dressed flunkey who had been given the privilege of waiting on Rollison. Rollison strolled across to the window and looked out on to the busy road, at the seething mass of traffic and people. It was nearly half-past six; rush hour was later in Paris than in London.

  He went into the room which had been turned into an office for the business of the Bal Masqué. An excited but tired little middle-aged woman, exquisitely dressed, was standing at the desk with a bundle of papers in her hands; they were cheques. She had a dazed look as she glanced at Rollison, and beckoned him; as if her heart were too full for words.

  “Good news?” asked Rollison, joining her.

  “I can hardly believe it,” she stabbed a finger at a sheet of paper on the desk, covered with figures. “Regard that, Mr. Rollison. The total already received is twenty-five million francs. Twenty-five million!”

  “Twenty-five thousand pounds,” murmured Rollison. “No, it isn’t bad.”

  “Not bad! It is miraculous. The poor of Paris will owe you an everlasting debt.”

  “Owe me?” Rollison looked startled. “I’ve had the fun, you and the committee have done the work. Tomorrow, or perhaps the next day when you’re all rested, we’ll have a little celebration. I hate to say it, but if you are to be ready in time to come and see the great climax, you’ll have to hurry.”

  “I had to make up the total,” she said, and took Rollison’s arm. “The good God will thank you.”

  Rollison looked embarrassed; when he came back from the door, after seeing her out, he still wore a faint look of embarrassment. He went into the office and studied the figures; the big donors and the small ones, on list after list of names and addresses. There was a mark against those whom de Vignon had named; these were the really wealthy. Each was married; each man’s wife, that night, would be weighed down with jewels.

  Rollison’s lips curved. Had Latimer seen him then, he would have said that the Devil had exorcised the saint.

  There was a knock at the outer door, and he strolled into the main room. Men were talking outside, and the door opened to admit the flunkey; and behind the flunkey stood Jolly.

  “M’sieu, this gentleman—” the flunkey began.

  “Always tells the truth! Come in, Jolly.” Jolly slid by, and Rollison gripped his hand. “I couldn’t let you miss the big moment.” He drew his man farmer into the room, and Jolly’s eyes glowed with deep pleasure. “How are you?”

  “Mademoiselle Odette is very well, sir,” said Jolly mischievously.

  “So she should be, after five weeks under your influence. No trouble with her?”

  “None at all. As you instructed, I have arranged for Bill Ebbutt and others to guard the flat, and all the arrangements went off perfectly. The Frenchman has not been near for the last few days, in my opinion he no longer thinks that he serves a useful purpose. At no time has he offered any threat.”

  “Just a watching brief,” said Rollison. “She hasn’t said any more?”

  “No, sir,” said Jolly. “I don’t want to hurry you, but if you are to be ready in good time you should start dressing. I left your costume with the valet here, and it should be along very soon.”

  An hour and a half later, Rollison stood in front of a full-length mirror and surveyed his reflection. He did not recognise anything of himself. The costume fitted perfectly. The mask, specially made in London, was cunningly contrived; Mephisto to the life. It was pliable and fitted snugly, and the short horns stuck out of his forehead with wisps of what looked like smoke, coming out of them. At the feet, the cloven hoofs seemed real. The red body of the dress had a dull, mottled finish, giving an impression of smouldering heat.

  Rollison murmured: “I wonder what the Devil would think if he were looking at himself, Jolly.”

  Jolly, severe in black and white, smiled indulgently.

  “Not at all what you are thinking, sir.”

  “You ask Latimer,” said Rollison cryptically, and turned away. “Don’t be late yourself. I’ll point out Yvonne Blanc as soon as I can, and you’re to watch her closely. If Madame Thysson turns up, I’ll point her out, too—but Yvonne first. All clear?”

  “Perfectly clear, sir,” said Jolly.

  Outside the Palace, cars were crowded in a hopeless jam, but drivers somehow sorted themselves out. Excited gendarmes rushed hither and thither, swinging their white batons, blowing their shrill whistles. A cordon of them were lined up on the other side of the road, beneath an avenue of chestnut-trees, and in front of wooden barricades which had been erected to keep the sightseers from pressing too close. The crowd had gathered hours before the first revellers had arrived, there were thousands of them now, and fresh throngs were arriving; many poor, many old, many more young. From here they could see the floodlit steps of the Palace and the great entrance hall, where beauty foregathered and where laughter already rippled on the air.

  Near the doorway, just inside and beneath a bright light, stood a plump clown; an ordinary clown to look at. He watched the wealthy arrive, the harlequins and shepherdesses, the gallants and the dairy maids, the Grecian beauties and the Roman gods, the savages and the space men; past, present and future were represented, moving in a steady stream down the two wide passages which led to the ballroom.

  The plump clown saw Mephisto arrive, and stared with bright-blue eyes from his white, mask-like face. He shook his head. Mephisto – the third one to arrive, but dressed most perfectly, with the very look of the Devil about him – raked the entrance hall with his gaze, and then went on, his cloak swinging behind him. At times there seemed to be more clowns than any other disguises here; for every clown was from the Police Department.

  The plump clown moved towards the ballroom.

  There, a distinguished personage, the only man in evening-dress and revered by all France, received the guests. Already the ballroom was thronged and the orchestra was playing. In the large anterooms refreshments were being served, drink was flowing. The Devil was by himself, standing in the doorway of one of the ante-rooms, when the plump clown passed him.

  “Well dressed, Poincet,” whispered Mephisto.

  The plump clown missed a step, then turned towards the man in red.

  “It is you, my friend?”

  “Myself to the life.”

  “I would not disagree,” said Poincet. “One look at you makes me more nervous than I am.”

  “Nervous?”

  “It could succeed, it could fail. Have you seen the jewels? What fools they are to bring them! No, no, I will not be told that most are imitation, I know real jewels when I see them. There is a treasure-house here tonight.”

  “You’ll catch your treasure-hunters.”

  “If I do not, I shall know where to come,” said Poincet meaningly. “Madame Thysson, I understand, will be here as Joan of Arc.”

  “A nice touch.”

  “Is de Vignon here?”

  “Probably. I advised him not to come, but he isn’t likely to take that kind of advice. Don’t forget to make sure all the clowns have their refreshment, if de Vignon isn’t here himself, he has his spies.” Rollison moved away, towards a shepherdess who stood by herself, her pretty mask turned towards him.

  “Will you dance with the Devil?” he murmured.

  She turned, and her laughing eyes were close to his.

  “Have you finished with the dangerous clown?”

  “Dangerous?”

  “That is Papa Poincet.”

  “He will soon be asleep,” said Rollison. He took her arm and led her towards one of the buffets. The crowd was now so thick that it was difficult to get through. Jolly, wearing only an eye mask, was nearby, and Rollison caught his eye and nodded. In the ballroom the crush eased a
little.

  Yvonne leaned heavily on his arm. You will make Paul jealous.”

  “Why tonight, especially?” He also thought of the Devil.”

  “The trouble with Paul is that he’s a fool. He shouldn’t have come. The police will recognise him, and if they know he’s been here—”

  “They will ask questions,” said Yvonne, sipping her drink. “He will be able to answer them. In fact, he will be able to prove that he was not here! How can a man be in two places at the same time?”

  “He’s the Boss, my sweet.”

  “I am glad you realise that,” said Yvonne.

  She danced well, seemed to give herself completely to the gaiety. Any doubts of the success of the ball had gone, the changing colours of the lights, the fantastic gaiety of the costumes, the rippling of laughter, the urgent quest for beauty and excitement, all came and quickened the pulse of the thousands present. The vast ballroom was thronged, the great chandeliers scintillated, and the jewels, on broad bosoms and round slim or scraggy necks, on the wrists and in the hair of the women, gave a kind of shimmering brightness.

  Rollison lost Yvonne.

  He watched the clowns, a few dancing, most standing at the doorways or at the sides, near the boxes. There were no tables in the ballroom, but the anterooms were still crowded. The smaller rooms, thrown open, harboured careless lovers catching at fleeting joy. Twice Rollison saw de Vignon, unmistakable to anyone who knew him, dressed in shimmering red – Rollison stiffened the third time he saw him.

  He was dancing with Joan of Arc.

  The mask-like face of Madame Thysson looked different now, more real because there were so many masks. Rollison watched them for a while. De Vignon was laughing. The dance was a waltz, and they danced together superbly; as if they had often danced together. He wondered what thoughts of bitterness and hatred were going through the woman’s mind. Then his attention was distracted.