Free A Mask for the Toff by John Creasey Page B

over the meal, and sat back in an easy-chair with cognac and coffee for company. The Hôtel Mulle was a find; there were few better chefs in Paris, so where to eat was no problem.
    What to do now? He let thoughts trickle through his mind, and even spent a little time reconstructing what had happened and trying to see the motive for all this.
    And he thought of the girl with “second sight”.
    He had come to Paris to find out her identity; and Downing and his friends realised that. But why go to these lengths to stop him? They knew that the police were already involved, that Scotland Yard had, by now, asked for help from the Sûreté Générale. Downing was no fool, Madame Thysson even less of a fool, and she wasn’t likely to be surrounded by blockheads. Everyone concerned, then, must know that by the morning at the latest, the Sûcreté would have a photograph of the girl, and would be making attempts to trace her. Sooner or later, they would; probably they would identify her before Rollison did, so – no one in their senses would have attacked Rollison simply to prevent him identifying the girl.
    Then – why attack?
    They would not take such a chance merely to stop him from interfering; for he had not yet shown any sign that he could be a serious threat to their organisation in Paris. He might threaten nuisance value, but nuisance value hardly justified an attack on the road which would start the police buzzing. A discreet attack might have been meant as a warning, but they wouldn’t use as warning, methods which would set the police agog. They’d meant to kill.
    Why?
    Possibly because they believed the girl had talked to him, and told him something of significance. But they – this nebulous “they” – had no guarantee that she hadn’t already talked to the London police.
    He had seen both the girl and the silent Frenchman; but so had the police. “They” would certainly not attack him for the sake of it, and they would know that it would quicken the interest of the London police.
    He let the thoughts sift through his mind idly, and felt a warm sense of well-being; he had eaten well, he had come through the worst safely, and – he was enjoying himself.
    He smiled faintly into a gilt mirror.
    Why pick him out for such an attack? Why go to the trouble of finding out whether he had left for Paris, of having him followed and so warmly received? There was another question; the shadowing had been done brilliantly. Was he wise to assume that he had fooled anyone by the visit to the hospital? He had not noticed anyone following his taxi, but the rear window had been small and there had been a lot of traffic. Unless he credited Downing’s friends with exceptional cleverness, he would walk into more trouble.
    He was still sitting there when a knock came at his door.
    Latimer? Surely Latimer would have the sense not to come in person.
    A man from the Sûreté? That was much more likely.
    He got up, as the knock was repeated, took the automatic pistol from his coat pocket, slipped it into his dressing-gown pocket and kept his fingers round the handle. Then he approached the door. There was a narrow foyer, and the bathroom led off it; there wasn’t much room to move.
    He turned the key as the knocking started again; the sound of metal on metal couldn’t be heard above it. He stepped into the bathroom and half-closed the door, then called: “Come in!”
    Whoever was outside had seen the door move slightly when Rollison unfastened the catch. It was already being pushed wider, with no attempt at concealment. He saw part of the narrow passage beyond, and then the girl. She was quite young and she appeared diffident; nervous.
    He had never seen her before.
    She said in English: “Where are you, please?”
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Chapter Nine
Decoy
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    Rollison did not answer, but watched her. She pushed the door wider open, and he could see beyond her;