A Mask for the Toff by John Creasey Page A

of practice in using it, too.”
    There was a different, inquisitive look in de Vignon’s eyes, almost as if there were a question in his mind which he could not pluck up the courage to ask. He put the knife down and picked up the card; he had shown no sign of nervousness, but a gun was within hand’s reach.
    â€œAnd this is the card which strikes terror, you say,” he mused.
    â€œI exaggerated,” said Rollison, apologetically. “I wanted to impress you. The idea’s quite neat, though. I collected a reputation for brains and brawn, and befriended the down and outs in the East End of London. Became almost their champion, so they say. All the little crooks who wanted protection from the police came and had a talk with me. I picked up odds and ends of information about the bigger crooks, and with that was able to—persuade shall we say?—the bigger crooks into doing practically what I wanted. Otherwise, with the knowledge I’d picked up, they might have found themselves in serious trouble with the police. Congratulate me.”
    â€œI wonder how true that is.”
    â€œAsk your friend Downing,” said’ Rollison promptly. “He has a grudge against me. I gave him away to the police when he had finished a job for me, and was no further use.” De Vignon smiled more easily. “I see. That is most interesting. Downing calls you a squealer, whatever that may mean. He says that you are as friendly with the police as with the criminals—having a foot in each camp.”
    â€œThat’s exactly what I’ve been saying,” said Rollison.
    â€œI wonder.” De Vignon turned the card over again, and read the orthodox printed words. “And this is where you live? Do you do anything for a living?” Rollison gulped: “You mean— work? ”
    â€œI mean work.”
    â€œLook here,” said Rollison indignantly, “we’ve kept this on a friendly footing, so far.”
    De Vignon stared – and then threw back his head and laughed. It was a deep and rollicking sound, and for a moment almost made the man likeable. But even the laughter could not take away the hint of corruption; the impression that this man lived as a carrion bird, upon the misfortunes and the follies of others. Rollison stood smiling, almost simpering, until the big man stopped.
    â€œFunny, isn’t it?” murmured Rollison. “After all, why work when you can live a useful life without it?”
    â€œObviously there are some things we have in common,” said de Vignon. “I wonder—”
    Rollison went to the desk. De Vignon’s right hand moved towards the nearer gun, but he did not pick it up. Rollison sat on the desk and took a cigarette from a plain gold box; then he lit it from the table-lighter.
    â€œI’ve been wondering when you would begin to wonder,” he said. “M’sieu le Comte, you have a mind. Use it. England isn’t the place it was. There isn’t the money, and we so-called men of the world have become bloated capitalists who batten on society. Some of us mourn a past age. But there are still countries where tradition and breeding mean something. Aren’t there? I’ve often thought—”
    He paused.
    De Vignon looked at him intently, with something like approval in his eyes.
    â€œYou have often thought what, Mr. Rollison?”
    Rollison said: “There aren’t many pickings left in London. The risks are too big, even if you get away with anything. Damn it, there are times when I have to be law-abiding! I’ve fooled both sides for years, but today it’s more difficult. I’m all for an easier life, I’m not getting any younger.”
    â€œI see,” said de Vignon. He turned, and pressed a button in what looked like a cupboard, flush to the wall, behind him. A cocktail cabinet opened slowly and soundlessly, with an array of glasses and bottles.