by John Creasey
Jolly opened the door to him.
“Hallo, Jolly,” said Grice, almost heartily. “Still up.”
“There has been a little excitement, Mr. Grice,” said Jolly. He stood aside, watching the Superintendent closely, getting keen satisfaction from Grice’s exclamation, when Grice saw the man sitting against the wall. “I think Mr. Rollison can see you,” added Jolly, with mild malice. “Please come in.”
Chapter Five
Bright Morning
Grice was tall and rangy of figure, with brown hair going thin on top, brown eyes, a sallow complexion; he looked rather like a wax figure. On one side of his face and forehead was an ugly red scar, the result of an explosion when he had been working on a case with Rollison. He had a pointed chin and a prominent nose, the skin stretching so tightly across the bridge that there it was almost white.
He had learned to take nothing for granted when on a visit to Gresham Terrace, and recovered quickly from the shock of seeing the man on the floor.
Rollison appeared at the doorway, a dressing-gown over his singlet and trousers.
“Welcome, Bill! You’re late!”
“Too late,” said Grice. “If I’d started a bit earlier I might have kept you out of mischief.”
“The undying optimist,” beamed Rollison. “Let the Frenchie be for a bit, and I’ll tell you the whole sad story. Including the part you won’t believe.”
“That’ll be most of it,” said Grice.
“You haven’t changed,” the Toff said sadly. They sat down in the big room, and Grice said, “Thanks,” when Jolly suggested coffee. It was a little after two o’clock.
“First, Bill—two hours ago, I was sitting all peaceful like, brooding over my past sins, and I hadn’t a notion that violence would disturb the peaceful night,” the Toff began. “That’s the part you won’t believe. The rest …”
Grice was a good listener, Rollison a believer in brevity. But he made the picture live, from the moment that Bill Ebbut had first telephoned. He came at last to his failure to make the Frenchman talk, then lit a cigarette and let smoke coil from his lips.
“Nice and untidy, isn’t it?”
“At least you had the sense to report at once. You must be losing your grip.”
“Thanks. That will make me rush like mad to tell the police about the antics of wicked men. Before you go on, what’s the news from Brill Street?”
“No one’s dead, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s what I meant.” Rollison looked much more cheerful. “I was afraid one chap mightn’t come round.”
“He’s on the danger list, but the chances are that he’ll pull through. He was one of Ebbutt’s men, who was keeping a watch on Noddy’s house. Both of them were attacked. Three men were involved, altogether—this man here, Downing and another, who hasn’t been identified. Did you see him?”
“I didn’t recognise him.”
Grice grunted.
“I hope that’s true. This job shows an unmistakable French angle, and you can’t play the fool with the French police as you sometimes do with us. They’ve a sharp way of dealing with amateurs.”
Rollison grinned.
“On the other hand, it might serve a turn if you had a brush with them,” Grice mused. “You’d learn to appreciate the Yard more, Rolly. Is this gospel truth? You didn’t know any of these men before tonight?”
“I know vaguely of Downing. Real bad man, isn’t he?”
“As bad as they come, and dangerous.”
“That’s why Noddy helped the girl. She has a lot to thank Noddy for.” Rollison leaned back and looked at Grice through his lashes. “We both start from scratch, and the prisoner’s yours. With judicious pressure, he might talk.”
“Didn’t you try to make him?”
“Not seriously, I thought I’d leave something to you. The girl can’t be moved, and probably won’t come round tonight,” Rollison added. “I’ve arranged for a nurse, who’ll stay on duty with her, and if there’s any outpouring of explanations, I’ll let you know. I doubt if there will be.” He stretched across and picked up the pearls, then tossed them into Grice’s lap. “You’d better have a look at these, and keep them safe. Motive is not robbery, you see.”
“Any idea what the motive is?”
“I simply know that the girl is terrified, and that if a certain Madame Thysson had known what was going to happen, she would never have allowed the girl to leave the gay city. Ever heard of a Madame Thysson?”
“No. Have you?”
“Certainly not,” said Rollison. He stifled a yawn. “Sorry, Bill. Not boredom, exhaustion. You’ve a call out for Downing and the mystery man, I hope.”
“Yes.”
“Any help from the car I left at Piccadilly Circus?”
“I haven’t heard,” said Grice. “Can you tell me when the girl and the Frenchman reached England?”
“No.”
“Anything to identify the girl in her handbag?”
“She didn’t have one.”
“Or in the man’s pockets?”
“I haven’t looked,” said Rollison, virtuously.
“You’re either lying or slipping fast,” said Grice, and smiled unexpectedly. “All right, Rolly. Let me give you—”
“A solemn word of warning,” interrupted Rollison, straight-faced. “There is much here which I will not understand. I cannot play the fool with the Sûreté Générale as I can with Scotland Yard. I am to be a good boy, tell you everything, and then go away and have a nice holiday in the country, because Downing is dangerous and may have dangerous friends. Warning noted.”
Grice laughed.
“I’ll take the Frenchman away,” he said; “at least you won’t be able to try to persuade him to talk.”
Rollison woke, and through the lashes of one eye, studied Jolly’s back. Jolly was at the window, drawing the curtains. Bright sunlight shone into one corner of the room, and as it was nearly the end of November, that meant that it was late; at least nine o’clock and probably later. Rollison yawned, and opened the other eye. Jolly came from the window, and asked: “Shall I pour out, sir?”
“Thanks.”
By the side of the bed was a morning tea-tray, the newspapers and the post. Rollison sat up, opened the most sensational of the three papers, and put it away quickly. He glanced through the others, and stopped at a headline, titled, “Woman Murdered”.
“Lady Murren, widow of Sir Henry Murren, was found shot through the heart at her Mayfair flat last night. The discovery was made by her maid, who returned from a visit to relatives and found her mistress lying in the drawing-room. The flat had been ransacked. Scotland Yard officers …”
Rollison said thoughtfully: “Sir Henry Murren, Jolly. Who was he?”
“Very prominent in Anglo-French spheres before the war, sir. He lived in Paris for a number of years.”
“I thought there was a French association with the name. Sure?”
“There is no doubt, sir.”
“Thanks,” said Rollison. “Anything in the post?”
“Nothing of consequence, sir.”
“Our guest?”
“She woke up twice during the night, but the nurse reports that she has been comfortable, and there is ho fever. Dr. Mason looked in a few minutes ago, and appears to be quite satisfied.”
“Better than it might have been. Has she talked?”
“No, sir. Mr. Grice has sent a man, who is waiting in the kitchen. He said that he has orders to sit in the room with the girl, but I refused to allow him access until I had consulted you.”
“Hmm. Grice trying to stymie us, he was too affable last night.” Rollison yawned and sipped his tea. “We could do without the chap, but I suppose we mustn’t expect miracles. Bath ready?”
“It will be, in five minutes, sir.”
“Any bright ideas?”
“I have inquired, and am assured that there will be no difficulty in getting accommodation on any of the aeroplanes to Paris today. There is always more room during the winter, and an hour’s notice will be sufficient.”
Rollison sipped again.
“Madame Thysson?”
“I telephoned Mr. Latimer, of the Record, and he has promised to call at half-past ten,” said jolly. “He has just completed a series of articles on Paris for his newspaper, as you may recall, and it occurred to me that he was the most likely man to assist us. I did not mention Madame Thysson to him.”
“Jolly, you improve with keeping.”
“Thank you, sir,” murmured Jolly.
“Tell the flat-foot in the kitchen that as soon as I’ve finished my bath, I’ll come and see him.”
Jolly inclined his head, and went out. He enjoyed nothing more than suggesting that he was an automaton, and seldom showed any sign of human emotion; unless one knew him well, as few did.
Rollison poured himself out a second cup of tea, and got out of bed. His shoulder was only slightly painful. He rasped his hand over his dark stubble, bathed his face in cold water, and then went into the spare room.
A solidly built nurse looked up from a chair, where she was sitting and knitting.
“Good morning, sir.”
“’Morning. Any change?”
“She is likely to—she is awake,” said the nurse, and jumped up.
The girl looked into Rollison’s eyes, not blankly: she had been awake when he had come in. She even smiled a little. The turban-like bandage could not hide the fact that she was lovely; and her face wasn’t marked. She looked pale, but even thus, her complexion was a maiden’s dream. She moved her hands as he approached, and he took them lightly, and spoke in French.
“Are you better?”
“Much, much better.”
“Wonderful! What else can I do to help you?”
The smiled faded.
“Tell me,” urged Rollison.
She said in a low-pitched, earnest voice: “I am so frightened. Please allow me to stay here.”
The nurse looked blankly from the patient to Rollison. The girl was watching Rollison closely; and he did not see any fear in her eyes. She was rested, probably had no more than a headache, and wanted to stay here. But she was no longer as frightened as she had been last night.
“Don’t you want your friends to know you’re safe?”
“I—I have no friends.”
“Madame Thysson?”
The girl looked blank; but a shadow that might have been fear entered her eyes.
“I do not understand.”
“Don’t you know a Madame Thysson?”
“Thysson? Thysson? No, m’sieu, I do not recall the name. I have no friends, I do not want to go—anywhere. Last night, I was so frightened. I remember that. I was attacked, yes?” She put a long, slim hand to her forehead, and touched the bandage. “Yes, I was attacked, but—I do not remember what happened. I remember only you, and you were so kind. If it is possible, I wish to stay here.”
She said it all sweetly, almost demurely, and without passion, or intensity. It was like a well-learned lesson – and it was a lesson which she had carefully rehearsed. To Rollison, she became a different creature, not a terrified girl but a scheming woman who would rely upon her beauty and her helplessness to make him grant her wish. “How,” she seemed to say, “could such a gallant turn me away?”
“You want to stay,” mused Rollison, “because you are frightened?”
“Yes!”
“Why are you frightened?”
The nurse walked to the window and looked out. Someone moved about in the flat; Grice’s man would soon lose patience. But he would have lost it already if Grice had not instructed him to allow Rollison to have his head.
“Why?” repeated Rollison, gently, and sat on the side of the bed and took her slim, pale hands. She had beautiful eyes, and they were shadowed; but he decided that it was not with fear, only with anxiety to gain his promise of sanctuary.
“I do not know,” she said. “I do not remember, only that I was attacked. When I think of it, I am—afraid. I cannot tell you why. Please—allow me to stay.”
Rollison said: “As long as you like.”
“So she’s French,” the nurse said with tacit disapproval. “That’s why she didn’t say anything to me, she couldn’t understand. You ought to have a nurse who speaks French, if there is such a thing.”
“Not a bad idea,” Rollison said. He looked at the girl, so hopeful and so beautiful, and said: “But don’t try to tell her so, will you?” He slipped the next question in: “What is your name, mam’selle?”
She said: “I do not remember.”
“Don’t you?” asked Rollison softly. “Do you know Lady Murren, by any chance?”
Terror flared up in the girl’s eyes, but she did riot-answer. Nothing he said made her explain that sudden surge of fear.
Rollison finished his breakfast, and glanced through The Times, without a great deal of interest. He had one ear cocked for the visit of Peter Latimer, of the Record, the other for a sound from the spare room. Grice’s man, whom he knew slightly and who confessed to be able to speak French fluently, had gone in nearly an hour ago. There had been a murmur of conversation for a while, then silence. Jolly had asked no questions, save about Rollison’s shoulder, which he had rubbed again with embrocation; it felt hot and uncomfortable but not painful. The sun shone brightly in at the window, but frost sparkled on the shadowy parts of the roofs of the houses opposite.
Jolly came in. “May I clear, sir?”
“Soon. Jolly.”
“Is there anything I can do, sir?”
“Advise me. The young lady declares that she has lost her memory.”
“Indeed, sir. And do you believe her?”
“No.”
“On what subject do you want my advice?” murmured Jolly.
“What to do with her. She pleads to stay here. Grice probably won’t object. He hasn’t a real excuse for leaving a man here, he’s had the statement, such as it is. Mason and a thousand doctors would admit that amnesia could follow the shock and injury. Are we to let her stay, or give her marching orders?”
“Hoping that in desperation at the thought of going, that she would talk freely?”
“Yes.”
Jolly considered.
“If she is set on maintaining a pretence of loss of memory, sir, then she will probably be adamant. Sending her away might frighten but not persuade her. She would not wish to stay unless she felt secure here. I imagine she will be more likely to talk if she has reason for gratitude. I should allow her to stay, until you have seen Madame Thysson. There will be little inconvenience here, and if necessary a bed can be put up in the spare room, for a nurse. I think she is more likely to give you the information you want if you let her have her own way than if you try any form of shock tactics.”
“The oracle has spoken. Then we want another nurse. One who speaks French like a native, but will pretend to our guest that she only speaks English.”
“I will arrange it,” promised Jolly, and then turned, looking towards the hall. “I think Mr. Latimer is on the way. Will you see him at once?”
“Yes.”
Rollison got up from the table.
The little dining-alcove was curtained off from the main room, and he was there when Latimer came in. Latimer was a small, wiry-looking man of thirty with intelligent green-grey eyes, a long and somewhat wriggly nose, full lips and a Punch of a chin; he had a droll look. He was one of the brightest men on the Street, but his reputation had not spoiled him. Crime was his strong suit; and recent
ly he had written a series of articles on the “Underworld “of Paris for his paper.
“Hallo, Rolly.” They shook hands. “What’s all the mystery?”
“Unknown French girl with lost memory, unknown Frenchman on a charge of attempted murder this morning, help wanted from a man who can give me all the latest news from Paris.”
Latimer rubbed the side of his nose.
“So it’s that job. I knew there was a Frenchman up, but had no idea you were behind it. What exactly do you want to know?”
“All you can tell me about a Madame Thysson,” said Rollison casually.
The droll look faded from Latimer’s eyes. The whole character of his face changed. It was suddenly possible to sense the strength of character in him, to understand why he was one of the stars of Fleet Street.
He sat on the arm of a chair.
“Well, well,” he said. “You do pick ’em, don’t you? Madame Thysson is—but there could be two Madame Thyssons, I suppose. What’s this one done?”
“My protégée mentioned her name last night, and this morning seemed to have forgotten all about her. Don’t ask me why.” Rollison moved across to the trophy wall and, as if by chance, touched the hangman’s rope. He held it between his fingers and toyed with it. “What’s yours done to make herself infamous?”
Latimer chuckled.
“Infamous is right! It would be nice irony if you managed to do what the Sûreté has failed to do, wouldn’t it? Listen …”
Chapter Six
Of Madame Thysson
Latimer could talk as well as he could write.
Rollison sat back in his easy-chair and listened; the room seemed to fade, and he was transported across the Channel, across France and to Paris. Through the Paris scene there walked – or stalked – this Madame Thysson. She was credited with having a finger in every unsavoury pie baked in the most unsavoury districts of the gay City. She was at once feared and hated, loved and admired. A minority refused to believe that she was guilty of any of the crimes laid at her door; the police had never been able to make a charge against her. She was said to rule as an uncrowned Queen over much of Paris theatreland, over the night clubs, over the gaming-rooms, over the dress salons; everywhere. She was believed to be fabulously wealthy. If her enemies were right, she had moved from the Black Market when its heyday was past, to every manifestation of vice and crime. She played no personal part in it, simply shared the huge profits.