by John Creasey
“Look here, Bill,” said Rollison more sharply, and as if he was really annoyed, “I’ve had enough of this. I lost my head for a moment, but in view of the way you’d been high-pressuring me, that isn’t surprising. Instead of acting like some high and mighty chief copper, supposing you listen to facts. If I’d got away and you’d put that general call out for me, the Press would have had it in a few minutes. It would have been all over the headlines. That’s chiefly why I came back: I don’t want to make the Yard look small.”
Grice began to stare, as if he wasn’t quite so sure of himself.
“The Press would make a Roman holiday of you all right,” he growled.
“They’d laugh you and the Yard to shame,” Rollison declared, still sharply. “I wasn’t at Hill Court. I was miles away, and can find a dozen eye-witnesses to prove it. Your man made a mistake. Harrison knows I’m working for Zana, and saw a chance to stop me.”
Grice kept very still.
“What witnesses?”
“Plenty of them, and without records.”
“If you’re lying—”
“I’m not lying. I was at the Blue Dog. I wanted Ebbutt to do a job for me, and decided I’d better see him myself. I went straight to his place from here.”
Grice relaxed, very slowly. He moved and sat on a corner of his desk. The bleakness of his gaze eased, and he actually began to smile, but there wasn’t much humour in his expression. Rollison felt the easing of tension, and believed that he was really at the edge of the wood; but he couldn’t be sure. One policeman’s evidence was worth a great deal, and other policemen might have seen him.
Dare Grice put his men’s evidence to the test?
“So you’ve fixed Ebbutt before you got here, have you?” Grice said, “and he and his pals are going to perjure themselves for you.”
“They’ll tell the simple truth.”
“I see,” said Grice, and nodded. “You’re not only risking your own neck, but that of a lot of others. You sure they’ll give this evidence?”
“Yes.”
“Supposing I break them down.”
“Be yourself, Bill. You couldn’t force Ebbutt’s men to deny that they’d seen me.”
“No, I don’t suppose I could,” conceded Grice slowly; “they owe you too much, and Ebbutt will get hold of the men who owe you most, and who’ll cheerfully take risks for you.” He rubbed his pointed jaw, slowly and very thoughtfully. “All right,” he went on at last, “if you can put a crowd of Ebbutt’s men in the witness-box, I’ll have to pass this one up. But be very careful from now on. Several policemen will hate your guts for this.”
“Not if you handle it in your own inimitable way,” said Rollison airily, and he stood up. “Appeal to their sense of justice and fair play, and above all their sense of humour. You might also tell them that I didn’t kill Beryl Ward.”
“Why did you go to see her?”
“I didn’t go to see her,” said Rollison gently. “Why don’t you learn some new tricks, Bill? But if I had gone to see her I would have asked her why she fired at Zana this morning. Zana told me that he remembered where he’d seen her before: she was a temporary model for him some time ago. Another thing: find out if Percival James Harrison runs a black Ford Consul, because after shooting at Zana, Beryl Ward escaped in one, and a man drove her away. The day’s full of urgent things to do without trying to put me in jug! May I go now, Bill?”
Never had so many pairs of policemen’s eyes been turned towards the Toff. Never had so many policemen, seeing him, stopped to stare. Seldom had a group of twenty Flying Squad men, gathered near their cars in the courtyard, been so intent upon a man whom they were not hoping to arrest.
A policeman actually opened the door of a taxi.
“Nice of you,” murmured Rollison politely. “Courtesy cops in more than name only.” He beamed. “Thanks.” He was driven out of the Yard on to the Embankment, and the sun was shining on the river, which looked blue, and on the Houses of Parliament, which looked like a coloured photograph. The cool, keen air was good to breathe. He told the driver to go slowly, feeling that he needed a little time to readjust himself, and wondering what Grice would say when he learned that the Toff had telephoned from the messengers’ room.
Gradually all this faded.
Gradually he found himself thinking of the main problem: the finding of Rose Mary, discovering why Zana was being subjected to this vicious campaign, and worrying about Maude Dennison.
Hers was far too lovely a face to spoil. He must find some way to prevent her from taking the inevitable risks – of death, as well as of disfigurement.
For now he knew beyond all doubt that Mr. Smith was a killer.
“First job, see Maude,” he said.
At that moment Maude Dennison was being interviewed by Hugo Zana.
Chapter Nine
New Model
“Yes, yes, I can see you have had some experience,” Zana said to Maude, “but why not admit the truth? You are an amateur. Don’t misunderstand me; some amateurs are very good. The trouble with many is that they will not work hard enough. They must work, work, work! The lazy ones who think that modelling for me is an easy way to money—woosh, out they go! Now, please, stand on the dais and put on this coat. Come, come, come, I haven’t all day … ah! Lean back a little. Your left shoulder is dropping; up, please. Twist round a little from the waist. Thrust your bosom forward. So. Hmm. Hmm. Hmmmmmm. Relax, now, relax.”
Maude stood at ease, watching the little man’s ugly face and marvelling. There were few Hugo Zanas in the world, and most of his kind were excitable, eccentric and aggressive. He was no exception, except in one thing. He didn’t smile, didn’t try to impress her as a man; he looked at her as if she was something made out of plastic, which could be pushed this way and that.
“Charles!” he called suddenly. “Charles, come here!”
They were in a small salon, beautifully decorated in cream and gold, and with luxurious chairs in the comers, two long mirrors, a salon for a few selected clients only; women who spent great sums of money on their dress. Three doors led from it, and one opened and a biggish, chunky man stepped through. He had reddish hair which curled untidily, grey-green eyes which were very bright, and many more than his share of freckles. His wide mouth was turned up a little at the corners, as if it would take a great deal to depress him. He wore a pair of grey flannel trousers and a short-sleeved powder-blue shirt, which was a crime with his colouring, and completely out of place in this room.
“Want me?” he asked. He glanced impersonally at Maude, and then at Zana. “I’ve lost a lot of time—”
“Then lose some more time if I want you to. I buy it, don’t I?” Zana glowered. “What do you think, for the spring? That new Shetland pattern, for instance, and the tartans, the Irish tweeds.”
The young man named Charles looked Maude up and down. He didn’t smile. He appeared to be quite indifferent to her face, and in fact hardly looked at it, but he studied her figure with a detachment which was too obvious to be embarrassing.
Suddenly Maude felt that his opinion mattered, that Zana set great store by it.
“Could do,” said Charles at last. “Can I see her in that scarlet and then the green and the ocean blue? Get the contrasts.”
“Yes, all right. Mitzi?” Zana called, and the same door opened and a little grey-haired woman with a slightly humped back appeared. She had a kindly face and big rather prominent eyes. “Mitzi, take this girl into the dressing-room, help her with Flame, Spring, and the Ocean Blue. Adjust as you consider necessary.” He nodded to Maude, who got off the dais and followed Mitzi and disappeared. But the dressing-room was just off the salon, and she heard Zana say: “I want your honest opinion, Charles.”
“You’ll get it, as always.”
“I am not so sure that it is always honest,” Zana said tartly. His deep voice jarred, and yet it wasn’t really unpleasant; more as if he hurt himself in the effort of speaking. “I do not want
models who are only second-rate, just because there are difficulties.”
“She’s better than that. Didn’t you see her walk?”
“Don’t be a fool. Of course I saw her walk. Yes, she can move her body, but the bosom—a little too flat, don’t you think?”
“Never heard of falsies?”
“You know I dislike using artificial aids to foundation,” Zana said crossly. “Once that is necessary, one can never be sure that what dress will fit today will fit tomorrow. But I am not sure that it matters; she is not really flat, and a supporting bra … well, we can deal with that if we decide she will do. How quickly can you do some sketches?”
“When do you want them?”
“Tonight.”
“Tomorrow night.”
“When I was a young man and learning to paint I could have produced my work in half the time it takes you.”
“Granted. That’s why you’re a dress designer.”
Maude heard Zana catch his breath, and expected an outburst of bad temper; instead, Zana burst out laughing. For the first time the little grey-haired woman, who had been busily helping her to dress, handing her each garment, tucking here, pinning there, selecting shoes from a shelf at the foot of a large sliding-door wardrobe and generally hurrying, showed Maude that she had heard everything; and that she could guess what Maude was feeling.
“He and Charles,” she said in broken English, “are ver’ good friends.”
“Who is Charles?”
“Oh, he is the artist and assistant designer, a clever one, Charles, but you know how it is.” Mitzi shrugged. “He has not the feeling like Zana; he cannot close his eyes and see a woman without clothes, and imagine the exact clothes for her.”
“Perhaps that’s as well,” Maude said.
“So,” said Mitzi, and put in another pin and stood back, like a little tame sparrow. “So. You will—”
“Mitzi, in there, are you going to be all day?” roared Zana.
“We are ready, coming,” called Mitzi, and pushed open a curtain and stood aside. “Walk naturally. Do not swing your hips, do not pose at all,” she whispered, and Maude obeyed, seeing the two men in a far corner of the salon, close together, staring at her. She went towards the middle of the room, then turned, and walked round the walls, much more self-conscious than she usually was when modelling.
It really mattered whether these men thought she would “do.”
“Thank you,” Zana said after a long, cold appraisal. “Mitzi! Next, the green?”
“They are very pleased with you,” Mitzi whispered when Maude was behind the curtain again. “I could tell by the way they looked at you.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Maude fervently.
After Maude had finished with the three suits, and was putting on her own clothes, Charles Russell stood in the doorway, and when she drew up her skirt rather hastily, he said: “You’ll have to get used to having me around, and I’ll want to do some sketches of foundations, too. Do you blush easily?”
“Not in the way of business.”
“Fine. Can you start at once?”
She caught her breath. “Yes.”
“Now?”
“Now?”
“That’s right, straight after a cup of tea. I’d like to do some sketches, and I must get the right stance and the right angles to do you full justice. I do all the finished drawings, Zana only sketches. He would like you to have a month’s trial, and if it’s satisfactory, a permanent engagement. Is that all right?”
She thought of the condition she had imposed, and swiftly rejected it.
“Yes.”
“That’s fine,” said Charles, casually. “By the way, I’m Charles Russell, odd-job man as well as artist. If you take my advice you’ll leave terms to the old man himself, he’s more likely to be generous if he’s happy at the end of the month than he is if you pin him down to anything. If he isn’t going to offer you a permanent job, he’ll be generous because he’s got about the softest heart this side of the American coastline. If you need a few pounds to keep you going—”
“No, I’m perfectly all right, thanks.”
“That’s good,” said Charles Russell, and shifted his position, so that he leaned against the other side of the door. “One other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I am to tell you that some peculiar things have been happening to Zana’s models lately, and that Zana’s had a lot of difficulty in getting girls to stay. This does not mean that as a result he has lowered his standards, but does mean that the job isn’t as straightforward as it might sound. He believes that some of his models have been frightened away, and doesn’t want you to be scared away, too.”
“I’m not easily scared.”
“No,” said Charles, looking at her face and smiling faintly, “I don’t think you are. You’re the answer to our Hugo’s prayer. He needed a little fillip this morning, everything’s gone wrong since dawn. An ex-model shot at him, for one thing.”
“What?”
“Not with a bow and arrow, either.”
“Are you really trying to put me off?”
No,” said Russell, “that’s the last thing I’d want, but the great man is anxious that you should know about these things before you start.”
“I see,” said Maude, and added dryly: “Well, I know about them.”
“Let’s go and seal the bargain over a cup of tea,” suggested Russell. “There’s a little place round the corner where we usually go. By the way, I ought to make sure we have your proper name and address. Miss Maude Dennison, isn’t it?”
“Lady Maude Dennison.”
Russell shot her a quick look. “Really. Er … the Marigold Club, W.1.”
“That’s right.”
“Records all in order,” said Russell, and led the way out of the little salon to a wide landing, and then down the spacious stairs. As they reached the foot of them, the door opened and Richard Rollison came in.
Maude stood quite still, half expecting him to tell her sharply that she shouldn’t have come on her own. Russell looked at Rollison with some interest, and there was a speculative “Haven’t I seen you before?” expression in his eyes. Then suddenly Zana came out of a ground-floor room, moving swiftly, and whirling about when he saw the tableau.
“Hallo,” said Rollison to Maude, and grinned. “Did you get your dress?”
“What’s this?” demanded Zana. “You two know each other?”
“We’re practically cousins.”
“Rolly, I applied for this job myself, and I got it, and I intend to keep it. There’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
“Say, what is this?” inquired Russell.
“Who is to stop you from what?” demanded Zana. “I take on a new model, I warn her there are possibilities that someone will try to frighten her away. I do not expect you to start that, Rollison.”
“I was going to try, but changed my mind,” said Rollison.
“Good lord, of course—the Toff!” Russell exclaimed.
“Supposing we all get round a table and sort this out,” suggested Rollison. “We could even do it over tea, they’d find us a small room round the comer, and I was always partial to their French patisserie.”
“So,” said Zana, shrugging. “If you really want it, but always tea, tea, tea! Cannot the English work without it?”
“I suppose when you were young they fed you on vodka,” said Russell. “I’ll put a jacket on, and follow you.”
Rollison noticed the way in which Maude watched Russell as he went off, and could not remember her showing such marked interest in a young man before. Russell went up the stairs two at a time, and disappeared. Zana opened the door for Maude, with a little nod of his head which was the equivalent of a bow. All three reached the square, with its parked cars and its plane trees, the hurrying people, the brass plates on the doors of what had once been private houses, the show rooms for luxurious motor-cars at one corner. Just round that corner was
a narrow street, and two doors along was Anne’s, a little tea-shop which looked like a small private house. Only those who had inside information went here, for Anne was a pastry and cake cook in ten thousand. Even Jolly patronised her on those special occasions when the Toff had guests to tea.
There was a narrow entrance.
Anne herself, youthful middle-aged and very slim, came briskly to greet them, and her face lit up at the sight of Rollison.
“Hallo, Mr. Rollison, it’s nice to see you again—oh, and Lady Maude. And Mr. Zana.”
“And the last should be first,” murmured Rollison. “Anne, is there a small room where we can have some tea and talk? There’ll be a fourth here in a few minutes.”
“Yes, of course,” said Anne, “there’s plenty of room upstairs.” She turned and hurried up, leading the way, on trim ankles and neat legs and sensible brown shoes. The staircase was of dark oak, the walls were panelled, but the little room overlooking the street was bright and charming, like a small Regency salon. A round table with five chairs about it, stood ready for tea.
“I’ll send a girl in,” Anne promised, and went off. Rollison moved to the door-window and glanced out, saw no one, and turned to face Zana, who wouldn’t keep patient much longer, and would soon start clacking. So Rollison told him what he had planned with Maude, and how he had changed his mind, and how she had changed it back for him.
Zana looked at Maude with sharp, fresh interest.
“Knowing all that, you will still work for me?”
“Yes.”
“That is excellent! You will not regret it, if—”
“If you haven’t told him your condition,” Rollison murmured, “don’t you think—”
“Please, Rolly?”
“Oh, well,” said Rollison, and as he did so, heard Anne speak to a man who was still coming up the stairs.
“They’re in there, sir.”
The man, presumably Russell, didn’t answer. Maude turned to look at the door, which was ajar, and Zana was looking at Rollison, who certainly expected to see Russell. But he frowned, for the door opened and the sleeve of a dark grey jacket showed, and a small, sallow hand.