A Mask for the Toff by John Creasey Page A

I’m checking at the Division,” Grice said.
    â€œNot bad,” murmured Rollison. “Downing gets a stooge to come and show his ticket, and the stooge is sufficiently like Downing to get away with it. It’s the right time of the year, you can get away with a lot in electric light.”
    â€œWe aren’t certain, yet.”
    â€œYou could try to find out what name Downing uses when he goes to Paris,” Rollison said amiably.
    Outside, traffic rumbled past along the Embankment, and a car horn hooted, sudden and strident.
    â€œThe car they used?” Rollison asked.
    â€œHired from a garage yesterday afternoon—by a man whose description doesn’t tally with Downing’s. We’re trying to trace him; it was probably the third man at Brill Street.”
    â€œYou’re very helpful,” murmured Rollison. “You almost make me think you hope I’ll get results. What happened in court this morning?”
    â€œThere was a formal hearing, all over in two minutes,” said Grice. “It’s only the third time in my twenty years here that I’ve had to charge a man without being able to tie a label on to him. If you really mean, has the Frenchman talked—no. He’s frightened, but he won’t say a word. We’ve tried him with an interpreter, but no luck.” Grice picked up a photograph from his desk, and tossed it across. “That’s not bad, is it?”
    Rollison studied the weak but handsome face, and wondered what had given this man sufficient strength to defy the police; and wondered, also, what persuasion would be needed to make him tell his story. Silence had fallen like a cloak upon both of the two French people involved. In both, it was inspired by fear – probably by fear of the consequences of talking freely to the police or to anyone else.
    â€œCan you spare one of these?”
    â€œThey’ve been circulated to the Press, so why not?” said Grice. “I’m going to send a man over to take a photograph of your guest. And it’s no use saying we can’t, because—”
    â€œDon’t trouble,” said Rollison. “Jolly took some this morning; they’ll be ready when I get back. How many copies would you like?”
    â€œA negative.”
    â€œI’ll ask Jolly to oblige,” said Rollison. “By the way—Lady Murren. Or is that a professional secret?”
    Grice looked at him owlishly.
    â€œPutting two and two together?”
    â€œTwo odd things connected with Paris, yes.”
    â€œWe haven’t a clue,” Grice confessed. “Have you?”
    â€œOnly curiosity,” said Rollison.
    He left, twenty minutes after he had entered Grice’s office, and still had three-quarters of an hour before he needed to get to the B.E.A. Departure Station in Kensington. He was to meet Latimer there. He drove to Gresham Terrace, and saw Grice’s man in a doorway halfway along the street.
    There had been no messages, but Dr. Mason had been in again and was fully satisfied with the girl’s progress.
    Rollison felt as if he were in a state of suspended animation. The swift sequence of events the previous night had faded into inaction which didn’t seem real. There were other unlikely factors. Grice was being surprisingly affable, and laying down the law with a much lighter hand than usual. That wasn’t because Grice thought it good tactics; in his official approach, Grice followed the instructions from the Powers That Be at Scotland Yard, and those instructions had obviously been to soft-pedal with Rollison. Had there been any objection to his flying to Paris, they would have made it clear; in fact, they were glad he was going.
    One thing was reasonably certain; Grice knew much more about Madame Thysson than he had said.
    Rollison tapped on the door of the spare room, and the angular nurse called: “Come in.” The girl was sitting up and looking through