A Mask for the Toff by John Creasey Page B

“Cognac?”
    â€œI thought we might come to understand each other,” purred Rollison.
    â€œI think perhaps we shall,” murmured de Vignon. “The glasses are heated. Mr. Rollison, why did you come to Paris?”
    â€œTo find out everything I could.”
    â€œWhat did you know of Odette Rivière?”
    Rollison smiled; the lines at his mouth were deep and there was merriment in his eyes.
    â€œPoor Odette,” he said, and plunged on with outward confidence. “She thinks that she is with friends. Why disabuse her? I tried to make her talk, but she wouldn’t—can you imagine, she pretended to lose her memory, to save herself from answering questions! Quite remarkable.”
    Would the guess be right?
    â€œExcellent,” said de Vignon. “When did you first hear about her?”
    When my spies told me that Downing was a regular visitor to Paris,” said Rollison. “I watched him, and eventually came to Marcel and Odette. Marcel is in serious trouble. Will he crack?”
    â€œIf you mean, will he talk—I expect so. If you wonder whether anything he can say would harm me, no, it will not. It might harm Odette and others, but not me.” De Vignon’s voice became gentle. “Mr. Rollison, I think there might be room for a man of your attainments in Paris, after all.”
    â€œAh,” said Rollison.
    â€œI should like to think about the possibilities,” said de Vignon. “I need to find out whether what you say about yourself is true. I have remarkable ways of finding out, and have friends in the most unexpected places. Will you do me the honour of having dinner with me, tomorrow night? By then, I may have some further information. Because—” De Vignon leaned forward, and his eyes became clouded; it was possible to imagine pictures following each other through the man’s mind. “Because I cannot work for ever with such imbeciles as Downing, and I need an English agent.”
    Rollison’s eyebrows shot up.
    â€œAgent or partner?”
    De Vignon laughed again in great good humour.
    â€œVery well, partner! I might even welcome some assistance in Paris, Mr. Rollison; there are some individuals who might be more effectively dealt with by a stranger. Now! I have work to do. Can I offer you entertainment for the night? Or company? Anything you wish.”
    â€œI need just one thing,” said Rollison. “Sleep. I’m going to need my wits about me tomorrow night!”
    He went across the room and picked up his overcoat. De Vignon helped him to put it on, by which time Rollison had his stick in his hand, the gun and knife in his pocket. They smiled. De Vignon did not offer to shake hands; it was one of the things for which Rollison was really grateful.
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    Latimer was sitting in a taxi, round the corner. He must have been looking out of the back window, for the door opened before Rollison came up. Latimer didn’t get out, but called him, and Rollison got in. The stick poked into Latimer’s legs, and he winced.
    â€œSorry.”
    Rollison began to toy with the gold handle of the stick. The taxi started off, obviously under orders.
    â€œAll in one piece,” said Latimer.
    â€œSo far. But contaminated.”
    â€œDid you see him?”
    â€œHe was our Slav. Not a Slav, but a slug. As foul as they come, far worse than the things that crawl. This job is full of atmosphere, but I don’t want to have much of the gaiety at the Rue de 1’Arbre. He despoils beauty and—”
    â€œAll very high-sounding,” growled Latimer. “What the dickens are you doing with that stick?”
    â€œNervous tension. I’d like to use it on de Vignon’s head.”
    â€œRelax. Anyway, why didn’t you?”
    â€œDon’t be silly,” said Rollison. “We’re buddies. Partners in embryo, if only I can make sure that de Vignon gets the right dope about me in the morning.