by John Creasey
Then – why attack?
They would not take such a chance merely to stop him from interfering; for he had not yet shown any sign that he could be a serious threat to their organisation in Paris. He might threaten nuisance value, but nuisance value hardly justified an attack on the road which would start the police buzzing. A discreet attack might have been meant as a warning, but they wouldn’t use as warning, methods which would set the police agog. They’d meant to kill.
Why?
Possibly because they believed the girl had talked to him, and told him something of significance. But they – this nebulous “they” – had no guarantee that she hadn’t already talked to the London police.
He had seen both the girl and the silent Frenchman; but so had the police. “They” would certainly not attack him for the sake of it, and they would know that it would quicken the interest of the London police.
He let the thoughts sift through his mind idly, and felt a warm sense of well-being; he had eaten well, he had come through the worst safely, and – he was enjoying himself.
He smiled faintly into a gilt mirror.
Why pick him out for such an attack? Why go to the trouble of finding out whether he had left for Paris, of having him followed and so warmly received? There was another question; the shadowing had been done brilliantly. Was he wise to assume that he had fooled anyone by the visit to the hospital? He had not noticed anyone following his taxi, but the rear window had been small and there had been a lot of traffic. Unless he credited Downing’s friends with exceptional cleverness, he would walk into more trouble.
He was still sitting there when a knock came at his door.
Latimer? Surely Latimer would have the sense not to come in person.
A man from the Sûreté? That was much more likely.
He got up, as the knock was repeated, took the automatic pistol from his coat pocket, slipped it into his dressing-gown pocket and kept his fingers round the handle. Then he approached the door. There was a narrow foyer, and the bathroom led off it; there wasn’t much room to move.
He turned the key as the knocking started again; the sound of metal on metal couldn’t be heard above it. He stepped into the bathroom and half-closed the door, then called: “Come in!”
Whoever was outside had seen the door move slightly when Rollison unfastened the catch. It was already being pushed wider, with no attempt at concealment. He saw part of the narrow passage beyond, and then the girl. She was quite young and she appeared diffident; nervous.
He had never seen her before.
She said in English: “Where are you, please?”
Chapter Nine
Decoy
Rollison did not answer, but watched her. She pushed the door wider open, and he could see beyond her; no one else was there.
“Come in and close the door,” he said.
She glanced towards the bathroom, hesitated only for a moment, and then stepped inside. She closed the door and stood still, looking into that part of the bathroom she could see.
“Go into the room,” Rollison said.
She went in, moving with easy grace. She wore a tailor-made suit of a fawny brown colour, with a mink collar. She had a small brown hat, her makeup was superb, and she had legs worth looking at. She wore gloves, and carried a small handbag beneath her right arm. She obeyed him without a word, and didn’t look round.
“Go to the mirror and look into it,” Rollison ordered.
Again, she obeyed.
He stepped into the foyer, locked the door again, and let the gun go for the first time. It made a heavy weight in his pocket. The girl could see him in the mirror, but she didn’t look round.
“Put your handbag on the table,” Rollison said.
She obeyed.
“Stay where you are.”
The astounding thing was that she accepted his orders without question, as if obedience were instinctive. She stared at him in the mirror, and he could see her lovely, oval face; her blue eyes were starry bright, she had a look of great innocence.
He patted the sides of her coat, and made sure that she had no gun there. She might have one rucked into her stocking; he patted her legs, but felt no lump. She didn’t move or object.
“Turn round,” he said.
She obeyed, and stared again because of his smile. He looked young, gay, amused.
“But how wonderful!” he said in French.
“There can’t be many women in Paris who can hold a candle to you. Hold a candle—that makes sense?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
Rollison picked up her bag and opened it; there was no gun, no weapon of any kind inside. Nor was there anything he might find of interest, no letters or papers. Lipstick, compact, tiny handkerchief, purse and a note-case filled with the thin French paper money, which looked a fortune but was less than five pounds in value. He closed the bag, and said: “What will you have to drink?”
“Thank you, nothing.” She persisted in speaking English with a marked accent.
“Oh, that’s too bad. Can’t we be friends?”
“I am your friend,” she said, and for the first time, showed some kind of feeling.
“Wonderful! Then you’ll have …”
“Please, I will not drink,” she said, and then saw the coffee-tray. “Perhaps—coffee?”
“Like a shot.”
He switched to English, went across and lifted the telephone, ordering coffee and liqueurs. Then he went across to the girl and offered her a cigarette; she shook her head.
“No vices?” murmured Rollison.
“I do not understand. I have come to ask you to return to London.”
“Oh, too bad! I was hoping—”
“It will be a mistake to remain here.”
“Who said so?”
“I am telling you.”
“How do you know?”
She said: “You talk so much, I do not understand you. I do not mean to injure you. I have come to warn you that it is not good for you in Paris. Already, you have been hurt. Perhaps you will be hurt again, and that will be worse. Please, be wise.”
“Who sent you?”
“M’sieu le Comte.”
“Oh,” said Rollison blankly, but he thought of Latimer’s talk of a man named de Vignon with a bad reputation. “The Count of Monte Crista?”
“This is not a joke,” she rebuked him. “I shall not tell you the name of M’sieu le Comte, that is my order. I am to advise you to leave Paris.”
“Will you come with me?”
She frowned. “I do not understand.”
“If I go, will you come with me? I mean, make it worth my while?” His smile looked hopeful, eager.
“Perhaps,” she said slowly, speaking as if this were a difficulty she hadn’t expected to meet. “M’sieu le Comte did not suggest that, but perhaps he will approve. Where would you wish to take me?”
Rollison said: “Forget it. Who are you?”
“I am Mademoiselle Blanc.”
“In English, Smith, I suppose.”
She looked puzzled.
“Forget that, too. Did the Comte tell you what to say if I refused to leave Paris?”
“No.”
“Does he expect me to go.”
“He would not have sent me, to waste my time or yours,” she said. “Please understand, it will be for everyone’s good. M’sieu le Comte regrets what happened on the road from Le Bourget. He has reason to believe that it could happen again, if you were to stay in Paris. He asks you to believe that you cannot hide, it was quickly known that you are in this hotel. This is not London. He told me to say, this is not your home ground.”
“Not bad,” said Rollison. “Why do you do what the Count tells you?”
“It is my duty to do what he tells me.”
“Everything?”
“But of course.”
The waiter came in, with coffee. Mademoiselle Blanc sat down, and allowed Rollison to pour out; she chose black coffee. She refused a cigarette again, and he remembered that there had been no cigarette-case in her bag. She sat quite erect, superbly beautiful – and empty? Everything she had said seemed to have been repeated, like a well-learned recitation, as if someone else were prompting her and she was only the vehicle for the words. She had not once smiled; he wondered what she would be like when she did.
“Where does the Count live?”
“I am not to tell you.”
“Pity,” said Rollison. “How many more beautiful young women work for him?”
“Many,” said Mademoiselle Blanc simply.
Rollison gulped his coffee, and nearly choked.
“Well, you’re honest about that if nothing else. I have some bad news for you.”
“I do not understand.”
“I am going to stay in Paris.”
“No!” she cried, and he was astonished at the sudden passion; and reminded of the way the girl in his flat had pleaded with him not to leave London. She put down her coffee-cup abruptly, leaned forward and stretched out a hand, to touch his. “No, you must not stay here.”
“I’ve a lot to do.”
“It will be dangerous!”
“Danger soon passes.”
“Not this,” she said, “and not for you, M’sieu Rollison.” She was still intent and put everything she could into her words. “To stay here will be a big mistake. You should be grateful to M’sieu le Comte for telling you of the danger. Go, please.”
Rollison said: “You almost make me nervous.”
He stopped smiling, jumped up and turned away; but he saw the girl in the mirror, and saw a smile. It was gone in a flash, but he hadn’t imagined it; she thought that she was on the verge of success, and couldn’t repress that quick smile of satisfaction. He moved across to the wardrobe, took out his coat and waistcoat, took off the dressing-gown and put the other things on. All the time the girl looked at him intently; her eyes reminded him of the girl at the flat.
“You are going?”
Rollison said abruptly, almost angrily: “I don’t see why I should. Confound it, no! I’m not going to be frightened away.” He licked his lips; as nearly as Rollison could, he looked frightened. “Go and tell the Count I intend to stay here. I want to see him, here. If he can convince me that I ought to leave—” He broke off.
“I will tell M’sieu le Comte,” she said, and although she didn’t smile again, satisfaction sounded in her voice. “You will be wise to do what he advises.” She got up quickly, picked up her handbag, and went towards the door; and as she passed him, she held out her hand. “It has been a pleasure to meet you.”
Rollison said: “Has it?”
Then she smiled; and it dazzled him, as if it were intended to. She had seemed lovely before; now, she was radiant and ravishing. There was beauty and promise in her eyes, and she no longer looked young and innocent but worldly wise far beyond her years.
“I shall hope to see you again,” she said, let his hand go, and went out. She reached the door before he could open it for her.
The door closed on the girl, and Rollison turned the key again. Then went to the telephone, without a pause, knowing exactly what he wanted to do. All pretence of nervousness and uncertainty had gone, there was a glow of pure enjoyment in his eyes.
He asked for the head porter, and was put through at once.
“M’sieu?”
“Do you want to earn a thousand francs?”
“How can I help?” The man’s English was good, his eagerness obvious.
“A girl is about to leave the hotel—delay her. Don’t say why, but find a way to delay her for three or four minutes. You can find an excuse.”
“But, sir—”
Rollison hung up, grabbed his overcoat and put it on, put the stick under his arm and then went to get the gun. Within a minute of the girl leaving, he was at the door. He turned the key quietly and opened the door an inch, peering into the passage. He saw no one. He opened the door more widely, and stepped boldly outside, slamming the door. No other doors were open, and no one was about. He heard the whine of the lift, which was at the end of this passage. He hurried down the stairs and instead of going to the main hall, went into a room marked: Service. Two waiters and a maid looked up in surprise.
Rollison beamed.
“A way out, please—not the front way.”
One man protested, another was quick on the uptake, and led the way through a small pantry, then across the kitchen, which was spotless, to a side door.
“Which way is the front entrance?” asked Rollison.
“A droit, m’sieu.”
“Thanks.” Five hundred francs changed hands, and Rollison stepped into the cold night air; it seemed colder here than in London, and the wind struck at him as he reached the corner. He didn’t turn it. The lights outside the hotel shone brightly, and no one came out. There was no waiting car. He stayed where he was for several minutes, beginning to fear that the head porter had failed him.
Then the girl appeared.
She turned and walked towards Rollison. He backed away. She passed without looking down the side street; and she moved quickly. He followed her, making little sound. She was heading for the Champs-Élysées, and within a few minutes turned along an unlit path, beneath the chestnut-trees. The headlights of cars, moving fast along the wide road, showed her in clear silhouette. Twice, Rollison glanced over his shoulder, and the girl also looked round. Rollison paused by a seat, looking behind him. There was no one else in sight; but he would take a lot of convincing that he wasn’t being followed.
There was a pause in the stream of traffic, and the girl hurried across. She was nearer the Place de l’Étoile than the Place de la Concorde, and there were buildings on either side of the wide road. He crossed the main road, running to avoid a car; the horn blared out stridently, perhaps enough to warn the girl that someone else was in the road. She didn’t seem to notice; and in Paris there was nothing remarkable in a car horn blaring without good reason.
Another lull in the traffic enabled him to pick out the sharp tap-tap-tap of her heels. She walked beneath the trees, then past a row of shops and cafés, most of the cafés open but without any chairs or tables outside. Next, she turned left.
He knew that there was a rabbit warren of streets on this side of the Champs-Élysées, it would be easy to lose her between here and the Seine. He ran as far as the corner, and a traffic gendarme, swinging his white baton, looked at him inquisitively. So did several people who were coming towards him. He ignored them and turned after the girl. She reached another corner, and turned left; he would have lost her, had he not run. When he reached the next street, he saw her beneath the light of a lamp. He was only just in time, for she turned into one of the doorways, and disappeared.
“Now I wonder if M’sieu le Comte could live in there,” murmured Rollison. “And whether he’d like to see me.”
Chapter Ten
The Toff Pays A Visit
Rollison walked briskly past the house into which the girl had gone. The door was closed, but the next one was open. This showed a narrow courtyard, with doorways on either side; typical French style. Almost immediately opposite was a bistro, where half a dozen men leaned, against the counter, drinking, and a few couples sat at shiny-topped tables. No one took any notice of Rollison, who went farther along and entered a large café. Here there were red-leather chairs, red-topped tables, an inner room with tables round the side, and everywhere, bottles of wine. The floor was covered with sawdust, the patron and his assistants were dressed in black, and were without exception plump.
He ordered a beer, and took it to a table near the door. From here he could see the entrance to the house where the girl had gone, and also along the street in each direction. Two couples, a gendarme, an old woman with a tiny dog on a long lead and three pig-tailed girls passed in quick succession. No one lingered, no one else called at the house in which he was interested.
There was a telephone in a corner of the café, an open box – but he was in a hurry. After he’d asked for the Hôtel Rivoli, there was a long wait. Two or three of the customers and the patron eyed him thoughtfully.
“Rivoli,” a girl said.
“Mr. Latimer,” Rollison said.
“Please wait one moment.”
One moment grew into many. More people passed the open doorway, but no one else came in. Then Latimer spoke quietly.
“Hallo?”
“Pete, get a pencil,” Rollison said in English.
“Ready.”
“Try to find out,who lives at 19 Rue de l’Arbre, near the Champs-Élysées on the river side,” said Rollison. “Especially if there’s anyone with a real or courtesy title of ‘Count’ or if it’s associated with Madame in any way. Or even your pal de Vignon.”
“Rue de l’Arbre—Number 19.” Latimer was quick. “And then?”
“If you feel energetic, meet me at the corner of the Rue de l’Arbre, in an hour’s time.”
“Which corner?”
“Champs-Élysées,” Rollison said.
He rang off, aware that in the café people were looking at him openly or covertly. He went to the door and glanced out. There was a spitting of rain in the air, and the ground was damp and greasy. A taxi tore past, endangering life and limb, and a dog scampered out of its path. Rollison looked both ways, but particularly towards Number 19. A man came out and walked towards him; the man’s face showed up in the café light, but Rollison had never seen him before. Rollison looked at his watch, as if impatiently, went across to a corner table from which he could see Number 19, and ordered another beer.
He had been there for a quarter of an hour when Sam Downing walked past and disappeared into the house.