A Mask for the Toff by John Creasey

It’s true she was often in France. What made you pick on her?”
    â€œI’m only guessing,” Rollison said hastily.
    â€œI wonder. You’ve an uncanny nose, haven’t you? Lady Murren was a friend of another odd character in Paris—a man known as the Count. His real name’s de Vignon. He’s murky—no one has a good word to say for him. I couldn’t get anywhere near the man, but I picked up a few odds and ends, including the fact that he was friendly with a titled Englishwoman. One guess.”
    â€œI’ve guessed.”
    â€œI wondered then why Lady Murren should have anything to do with an unsavoury blackguard,” said Latimer. “I still wonder.”
    â€œIt’s odd—a murderous Frenchman roams London and a woman well known in Paris gets murdered; de Vignon and Madame Thysson are also acquainted, I take it.”
    â€œDe Vignon’s said to foam at the mouth at the very mention of her name.”
    â€œThe Count’s another good reason for going to Paris,” Rollison mused.
    Latimer shrugged, and went off.
    Â 
    Grice did not disclose his private opinion of the genuineness of the girl’s loss of memory, but outwardly accepted it. His man was withdrawn, by midday. The nurse was replaced by a tall, angular woman whose French made Rollison feel as if he were back at school. She had worked for him before, and was wholly trustworthy. The girl with no name seemed content to lie in bed, apparently sleeping most of the time. Rollison saw her twice, again ; and the shadow of fear was certainly gone from her eyes. She was pale and still tired, but not seriously ill.
    Latimer telephoned; they were to leave London at four o’clock.
    At a quarter to three, Rollison drove from Gresham Terrace to Scotland Yard in his Lagonda, which had been returned by one of Bill Ebbutt’s men. Bill had sent a message that he didn’t know for certain, but believed that Downing had been to Paris a great deal lately, although the name he travelled under wasn’t Downing. The house near Brill Street was empty; Downing had lived there with a middle-aged housekeeper, who had also disappeared.
    A policeman at the gates of the Yard saluted, another at the top of the steps greeted Rollison with a smile, and said that he had half expected to see him and, yes, he could go straight up. Grice was sitting in his large office, overlooking the Embankment. The sun still shone, and made the sluggish Thames look bright. There were two desks in the room, but only Grice’s was occupied. He stood up, and waved to a chair.
    â€œCome to confess?” he demanded.
    â€œYes. I’m going to borrow French currency from a friend of mine who can get as much as he likes.”
    Grice smiled faintly. “I thought you’d soon be on your way to Paris. After Madame Thysson?”
    â€œAny crumbs from your table about her?”
    â€œLatimer can give you the whole loaf.”
    Rollison chuckled.
    â€œThere are times when you’re more than just average, Bill! So I’m being watched.”
    â€œYou’re not. Your flat is—we want to make sure that Downing or one of his friends doesn’t have another go at the girl.”
    â€œAny idea who she is?”
    â€œNo. The Sûreté is going to send us a list of missing girls. They’ve already sent us a dossier on Madame Thysson, and you’d better watch your step.”
    â€œDowning?” asked Rollison.
    â€œThere isn’t a clue,” said Grice, and frowned. “But last week one of our fellows was in Paris, and fancied he saw Downing at a café on the Boulevard de la Madeleine. The man got up and hurried away before he could make sure—which suggests he might have been Downing. Officially, he hasn’t been to Paris. In fact, officially—” Grice paused.
    â€œHe’s on his ticket and has to show up daily. Or has he got down to weekly?”
    â€œDaily.