Model for the Toff

by John Creasey

  A man crouched close to the floor. This man came in, moving almost as fast as Rollison; Rollison only glimpsed his dark, shiny hair, his pale face with a large nose, and his doubled-up figure, clad in pale grey. Rollison could not see whether the caller was hurt, but judged that he was scared.

  “Mr. Rollison?” Jolly cried.

  “Look after him,” Rollison said, quite softly, and shot out of the flat, also bent almost double and still moving fast.

  Below were footsteps of someone hurrying; light footsteps, too. Rollison reached the top of a flight of stairs and put a hand on the rail and then bounded down, reached a half landing, and repeated the performance. This was a well-shaped staircase, and by looking over the banisters he could see every flight of stairs below him, although not every part of the landings.

  He saw a girl.

  There she was, running. She wore a wine-red suit, a small red hat; had dark hair, and very nice legs. She glanced round as if in terror, but that might be Rollison’s imagination. She was half-way towards the street level, and Rollison’s chances of catching up with her were slim, but that didn’t stop him from trying. His own footsteps echoed loudly, but he could distinguish hers quite clearly, and she must know that he was close upon her heels.

  She disappeared at one of the landings, but soon appeared again, moving with a grace which was beautiful to see, notwithstanding the skirt rucked up above her knees. She hadn’t lost much ground.

  Half-way down the next flight of stairs, Rollison put a hand on the banisters and vaulted over. This way he should gain almost a flight, and still win a chance of catching her up before she reached the street. He landed, slipped on a stair, grabbed the banisters again and straightened up; and lost some of the precious seconds he had gained.

  He couldn’t see the girl.

  He couldn’t hear her.

  Crack! came a shot.

  He flattened himself against the wall as chippings from it showered on his face, some of them very sharp. That had been a lot too close for comfort. The footsteps came again, but Rollison had lost nearly all that hard-won time. If the girl had a car waiting outside, or even a bicycle, she would have a good chance to get clear away.

  She leapt the last few stairs, and ran along the hall. Rollison, two half-flights above, saw that the front door was open. So he still had a chance, and with luck the girl would run into someone outside who would delay her for the seconds that mattered. He raced down the last flight as the door was slammed, but he felt exultant, close enough now to be sure that he would have a chance.

  Then he kicked against string stretched across the stairs, and crashed down helplessly. Instinctively he turned his shoulder to the ground, but in spite of that he bumped his head, and the blow made him feel as well as look quite silly.

  He stood up slowly, his head ringing and painful. His shoulder hurt, but that didn’t greatly trouble him. He glanced down at the stairs, and saw a piece of dark twine, one end tied to the banisters, one to a piece of lead which had moved under the impact; that trip-cord could have been set in a second. The old, old trick, and he had fallen for it. He had seen the girl jump clear, but had taken it for granted that she had jumped out of haste, not to hurdle.

  He went to the front door with long but steadier strides, rubbing his head, hearing the sound of a car engine fading. It had started up as he had fallen, and he had little doubt that the girl was in the car.

  He hadn’t even time to see what model it was.

  He opened the door, a little warily, but there were no more tricks. The bright day greeted him, and a puzzled wire-haired terrier glanced up perkily. A neighbour’s dog; and he knew that the neighbour would not be far away. She was about to pass the door, a middle-aged, spindly woman, carrying a leather lead.

  “My goodness, Mr. Rollison,” she said in high good humour, “you haven’t started chasing young girls now, have you?”

  “It’s been my lifelong practice,” said Rollison solemnly, “but this one got away. Which way did she go?”

  “I’m not sure that I should tell you.” This neighbour was the roguish kind, a spinster who knew exactly how to handle handsome bachelors. Rollison was in no mood for her, but no one else was in the street.

  “What make of car was it?” he asked, without much hope.

  “I really can’t tell one car from another,” the neighbour said blithely; “it was rather a small one, dark I think. Wasn’t it, Smitty? I call my dog Smitty,” she added, and beamed at the Toff. “As a matter of fact, the car went towards Piccadilly, Mr. Rollison, and I must say that I thought it was being driven much too fast, something really ought to be done about reckless drivers.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more,” said Rollison fervently. “How many people were in it, did you notice?”

  “As a matter of fact,” the neighbour said, “Smitty was pulling, and I only just saw this young woman get into the car.”

  It would be a waste of time asking her if she had noticed the number, although it might be worth putting Jolly on to her later. Now, Rollison smiled his thanks and said: “Have a nice walk, Smitty,” and turned and went back into the house. The neighbour stood staring after him, as if it was dawning on her that he looked dishevelled, which was not usual. Then he forgot her, for here was Jolly, panting.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Bowed but unbeaten,” Rollison said, and smoothed back his hair and straightened his jacket. “How’s Zana?”

  “Hardly hurt at all, sir,” said Jolly. “In fact he says there is little more than a scratch. I insisted that he should stay upstairs, but—”

  There were footsteps above their heads, sharp and impatient; and as they looked round Zana came towards them. Unlike Rollison, he was not dishevelled. He was a short man, beautifully dressed in that pale grey, with his large pointed nose and large, urgent eyes and large, loose mouth. Everything about him, including his thin black hair, seemed to shine, and there was an unmistakable hint of perfume about him.

  “You must teach me how to insist like that,” said Rollison, and moved forward. “Mr. Zana, there’s no need—”

  “It is my fault entirely,” Zana said, as if with anger. He had a hard, low-pitched voice, as if he spoke from the back of his throat and had to force the words out. “I come here, and what happens? You are shot at, your life is endangered. I regret it, Mr. Rollison; I can only offer you my sincerest apologies.” He made the word sound like a-pollogiss. “You are not badly hurt?”

  “Not hurt at all.”

  “To my very great relief,” said Zana. “Now I can well understand if you refuse to help me. I did not expect you to act as—what do you say? Aunt Sally, isn’t it?”

  “It could be,” Rollison agreed gravely.

  “Mr. Rollison,” declared Zana with great earnestness, “I beg you to believe I am desolated.”

  “It’s better than if we were both badly hurt.” Rollison smiled into the eager, ugly face, and put out his hand. “How are you?”

  “I—how am I?” A bright gleam sprang into Zana’s eyes. “I have told you, I am desolated!”

  “Let’s go upstairs and have a drink,” said Rollison. “Jolly, Mrs. Arbuthnot said the sharpshooter went off in a small dark car which turned towards Piccadilly. Go down and see if you can find anyone who noticed any more, will you? There may have been someone at the corner.”

  “At once, sir.”

  “Thanks,” said Rollison, and motioned Zana towards the stairs. He saw a tear in the smooth texture of the dress designer’s sleeve, and had little doubt that it had been caused by a bullet. “How’s your arm?”

  “It is nothing,” said Zana, and waved his arm as if to prove it. “If that were all there was to worry me, I would be so happy. Mr. Rollison, be honest with me, please. This does not make you decide you will not help me?”

  “It makes me decide that there’s nothing I’d like to do more.”

  Zana hesitated, as if trying to make sure he knew exactly what that meant, then
suddenly he seized Rollison’s right hand and gripped it with both of his, with great strength. At the first moment of the grip his fingers almost crushed Rollison’s, who was quite unprepared.

  “You are a good man, a brave man. I thank you very much!” Zana cried. “It takes much to frighten you, and I am very grateful. So many people are easily frightened.” He gave Rollison’s hand another powerful squeeze, and let it go. By then they were on the top landing, where the door stood wide open, the mat a little awry where it had been kicked. Rollison glanced at the front door, which was of dark stained oak.

  “The mark of the bullet,” Zana pointed.

  “I’ll get that out; it might be useful later,” said Rollison. He closed the door and led the way to the drawing-room-cum-study, seeing Zana’s eyes widen at sight of the trophies; but the dress designer made no comment. Rollison picked up a bottle.

  “Whisky? Gin?”

  “Thank you, no, not in the middle of the day.”

  “Sherry?”

  “Well—a little, thank you.”

  Rollison poured out a whisky and soda for himself. His head was aching a little and his shoulder was sore, but these were mild and passing nuisances. He studied the little man, who now turned to look with unveiled interest at the trophy wall until he said abruptly: “Today you nearly added my scalp, isn’t it?”

  Rollison grinned. “I only scalp the bad men.”

  “And how do you know I am not a bad one?” demanded Zana, his eyes glowing. “Is it not possible?”

  “Are you?”

  “We-ell,” said Zana slowly, while he swayed slightly from the waist, as if trying to make up his mind. “Comme çi, comme ça. Yes and no. Now I am bad, now I am good, would you expect me to be perfect?” He had the most mobile face and most brilliant, challenging eyes Rollison had seen for a long, long time. “Some say one thing, some say the other. It is the same about you. Before I come to you I ask my friends, and still I have many friends. What do they say? One of them, that you are a brilliant detective, a great man, honest as the day, that even the Scotland Yard detectives respect you and perhaps are a little afraid. And the other? Well, I am honest with you, so you will be honest with me! The other says Rollison is a big mouth, he does very little work, he puts up the big front. Which one do I believe?”

  “You take the very question out of my mouth,” said Rollison dryly.

  “Good! Now I tell you the answer. Neither! You are not so good as the one, not so bad as the other. But—”

  Zana’s mouth was huge, especially when he spread it in a grin, as now, and he looked like a circus clown. “I have friends, I have one who asks the big shots at Scotland Yard. What do they say? They say that you are good enough for me.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Today you have proved it,” said Zana, and waved as if it couldn’t matter less. “Now, are you ready to listen?”

  “Yes, but first let’s go into the bathroom and have a look at that wound.”

  “What wound? Oh, this is nothing,” Zana waved his arm again to prove it, and saw the bright red of blood on his wrist and the back of his hand. He put his head on one side, more clown-like than ever, and looked at Rollison with a quick smile. “Well, perhaps it is a little worse than I thought. We go and see, eh?”

  Rollison led him to the bathroom, which was sumptuous in pale green. Zana took this in with one swift glance, and began to take his coat off. Rollison eased it from his shoulders. The shirt beneath was unbelievably white, except at the left sleeve which was stained crimson from the middle of the forearm downwards. Zana held this over a hand-basin as Rollison turned on the taps, then moved to find some antiseptic.

  He stopped abruptly.

  Zana had pulled up his sleeve so that it was above the elbow. The wound, as a wound, was so covered with blood that it was impossible to see how deep it was, but Rollison did not stop because of that.

  It was the sight of Zana’s arm which had startled him.

  It was very powerful, with the muscles so well developed that any professional strong man might have looked at them with interest, if not envy. But that was not all. Round the elbow, half-way down the forearm, and obviously continuing towards the shoulder, were old scars so deep and twisted that they looked like tiny writhing snakes. At some time or other Zana must have been mauled almost to pieces.

  Rollison brought the antiseptic and poured a little into the hand-basin. Zana had already torn off a piece of cotton-wool and started to dab vigorously, as if impervious to pain.

  “How did you begin life?” Rollison inquired mildly. “As a lion tamer?”

  “Oh, that,” said Zana, and shrugged as he glanced at the scars. “No, when I was young I was an artist. The human body, it has always fascinated me, the strong man, the beautiful woman, even animals. But that wound was caused by something very different from claws. It was caused by barbed wire. Once I was in a concentration camp, and I did not want to remain. So I climbed over the barbed wire. I made friends with the prison dogs, but not the wire! It curled up, all around me. Such a night that was.”

  “So they took you back,” said Rollison.

  “Oh, no, they did not catch me” Zana said proudly. “I kept very quiet as I tore myself free. That took a little time, and afterwards I stayed many hours in a river. There was no doctor, no first aid such as this, so the wound took much time to heal. This—this is nothing.”

  The wound had gouged out a little flesh, and, provided it was well looked after, would soon heal. Rollison dabbed until the bleeding had almost stopped, then put on a salve, gauze and adhesive plaster. Zana hardly seemed to notice what was being done, and before Rollison had finished burst out: “Why do we not do three things at the same time? You patch me up, I talk, you listen. Please.”

  He began to tell the story which Rollison had already heard from Jolly, and it did not surprise him that it varied in no single detail. When it was finished, Zana had his jacket on again, and was waving his injured arm about as if the wound was completely forgotten.

  “So I ask myself what is it happening,” he went on. “At first I think of my rivals, it is a cut-throat business, you understand, we smile and bow at each other, but we will steal each other’s models like one o’clock. We will do anything and everything in this business, Mr. Rollison, except one thing. Understand that, please. Models, work-room girls, designers, artists, all those things we steal from one another, but the actual creations—no. There is an honour. A creation is made, it is inviolate. So I ask myself, am I so pre-eminent that someone wishes to ruin me? That is hard to believe. I am good, I am very good, at times I have the genius, but I am not so good.” His eyes and his lips smiled together, as if in huge delight. “Even I, Zana, admit that. So why does it happen? Why do my models desert me? One for this reason, one for that, the good and the bad, the young and the not very young, all of them go. Then the agencies say that they are sorry they can send me no more, there are no more. Lies. Then, and I come now to my great worry, Mr. Rollison, my greatest anxiety. You believe me, please.”

  Rollison said: “I think I shall believe you. Is it Rose Mary Bell?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Zana. “My dear, dear Rose Mary. Oh, it is one thing to have a model who is the best in the world. It is a good thing to know that she started with me from nothing. I have an eye for the figure that will wear clothes well. Not too big anywhere”—his hands followed imaginary curves over his own bosom and hips—“not too small.” They darted in swift, straight lines. “I discovered Rose Mary: she was beautiful, she had everything exactly right, she was even photogenic. Oh, the trouble I have to keep the Hollywood people away from her, so greedy they are. She becomes famous. She is very, very loyal to me. All the others go, but Rose Mary never. And then—she does not come back. Two days ago she left the salon. Next day, no Rose Mary. I was very worried. I went to find out why. She did not go home that night. She did not go home yesterday. She is not home now; she has disappeared, and for Rose Mary I am very frightened,
Mr. Rollison. Until this disaster I did not know whether to come to you, but quickly I decide. I ask you, find Rose Mary. If while you do that you explain the other things, good. If not—” He broke off, took Rollison’s hand again, with his great eyes like shining stars, his mobile mouth working as if he was fighting back tears. “Please, Mr. Rollison,” he begged, “find Rose Mary. You see, I love her.”

  Chapter Three

  Causes For Fear

  The face of Hugo Zana missed being grotesque only by a hair’s breadth and nothing could save it from being comical. The face of Rose Mary was the face of a Botticelli angel. Yet here was the Beast, declaring his worship of her Beauty as if with a wholly selfless love.

  “Please, Mr. Rollison,” Zana pleaded, “you believe me?”

  “I believe you,” Rollison said, and made himself speak briskly. “Will you answer every question I ask, absolutely truthfully?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did the police say when you went to them?”

  “That it is too early to say that Rose Mary is missing.”

  “Did you tell them all you’ve told me?”

  “Everything.”

  “Whom did you see?”

  “Superintendent Grice.”

  “There isn’t a better man. Do you know who is behind this campaign against you?”

  Zana’s eyes sparkled. “I do not, if I knew I could deal with him myself.”

  “No ideas?”

  “No, none.”

  “Have you been attacked before today?”

  “No.”

  Rollison did not alter his tone or the direction of his gaze as he repeated: “Have you been attacked before today?”

  “There is no need to answer more than once.”

  “Sure you haven’t?”

  “It has not happened before.”

  “When did you first see the man who shot at you?”