Free A Mask for the Toff by John Creasey

wondered whether the words were heard above excited comments of the men in front. His driver had recovered, and was colouring the air with his opinions. Two or three other drivers had gathered near him, and listened in respectful silence.
    Latimer leaned in; the only one, so far, who had worried about the passenger.
    â€œPretend what?”
    â€œThat I’ve been hurt. Have them take me to a hospital—right in Paris, preferably. Be British, insist loudly, never mind whether they want to fetch a doctor first. I’m going to look half-dead.”
    â€œ Are you?”
    â€œNot yet.”
    An American asked: “Is anyone hurt?”
    Latimer backed out and began to talk quickly, in bastard French with a few words of English. The American looked in, and saw Rollison huddled in his corner with his eyes closed. Two people began to move him, and the American said: “You ought to send for a doctor.”
    â€œGet him to hospital!” cried Latimer. “Driver, hurry—use my taxi. Hurry .”
    â€œHe looks pretty bad,” the American said.
    â€œHe’s unconscious, might have cracked his skull.” Latimer was doing well, almost too well; he sounded nearly hysterical. But it worked. Rollison was carried out of the taxi and into another, handled as if he were made of delicate porcelain. He didn’t move of his own accord, and let his head loll back. It seemed a long time before the second taxi moved off.
    Latimer was in front, for he spoke to the driver. Rollison eased his position, and through his lashes looked at the little crowd now gathered round his first taxi. Most of them seemed to be taxi-drivers, and they broke up and went towards their own cabs; a line of seven or eight was strung out along the road.
    This taxi went more smoothly, with less rattling but at considerable speed. Latimer kept urging the driver to hurry, until Rollison felt nervous qualms. Before long, a cacophony of shrill horns, police whistles and throbbing engines told him that they were in thick traffic. Twice they passed through a quiet street and then they swung left and pulled up. In five minutes he was on a stretcher and being carried into a hospital.
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    Latimer contrived to be left alone with Rollison as soon as they were in the Casualty Room. Rollison was still on the stretcher, which had been placed on stands. A dim light shone.
    â€œNow what?” Latimer asked.
    Rollison sat up.
    â€œNothing broken, so we’ve something to be thankful for. How much did you learn?”
    â€œYou were shot at—one bullet hit a tyre and it burst. Your luck was in, most drivers would have crashed pretty badly. I gave your man my name, he’ll be after you for compensation, but—”
    â€œWe’ll refer him to Madame Thysson, in due course,” said Rollison. “Could it have been the Slav, I wonder? That would fit in. If he rushed ahead, conferred with his gunmen and told them what cab to attack, we needn’t ask ourselves any more questions. Feeling cheerful?”
    Latimer said: “Within an hour you’ve discovered more about the active side of the crime life of Paris than I did in a month.”
    â€œIt’s hypnotic influence,” Rollison said.
    He broke off, as the door opened and a middle-aged nurse and a young doctor came in, both dressed in white. Rollison beamed at them. The startled nurse raised her hands, and the doctor frowned. Rollison climbed off the bed, and spoke easily: “I was lucky, wasn’t I? Will you make sure there’s nothing broken?”
    The doctor’s frown changed to a smile.
    â€œImmediately!”
    He beckoned the nurse, and as they probed and prodded, Rollison talked briskly. It was, of course, impossible, but could a report be spread about that he was seriously hurt? That was, to anyone who inquired and, perhaps, to the newspapers. He had enemies, it would be better if they believed that he would be in the hospital for some