Chapter Three

Causes For Fear

The face of Hugo Zana missed being grotesque only by a hair’s breadth and nothing could save it from being comical. The face of Rose Mary was the face of a Botticelli angel. Yet here was the Beast, declaring his worship of her Beauty as if with a wholly selfless love.

“Please, Mr. Rollison,” Zana pleaded, “you believe me?”

“I believe you,” Rollison said, and made himself speak briskly. “Will you answer every question I ask, absolutely truthfully?”

“Yes.”

“What did the police say when you went to them?”

“That it is too early to say that Rose Mary is missing.”

“Did you tell them all you’ve told me?”

“Everything.”

“Whom did you see?”

“Superintendent Grice.”

“There isn’t a better man. Do you know who is behind this campaign against you?”

Zana’s eyes sparkled. “I do not, if I knew I could deal with him myself.”

“No ideas?”

“No, none.”

“Have you been attacked before today?”

“No.”

Rollison did not alter his tone or the direction of his gaze as he repeated: “Have you been attacked before today?”

“There is no need to answer more than once.”

“Sure you haven’t?”

“It has not happened before.”

“When did you first see the man who shot at you?”

“Man?” echoed Zana with a shrug. “It was not a man; it was a girl. If you—” He saw the gleam in Rollison’s eyes, and doubled his right fist and shook it vigorously; he was never very far from laughter. “You knew it was a girl, you try to trick me into lying to you. But I shall not lie, I tell you everything, I keep nothing back.”

“Absolutely nothing?”

“Absolutely.”

“Did you recognise the girl?”

“To tell you the truth, I do not know,” said Zana, and now he drew his brows together, wrinkling his broad forehead like a bewildered bloodhound. “No, I cannot say yes, I cannot say no. The face I do not remember, but I did not see so much. The figure, yes, perhaps. If she is not a model, she should be. She moves like one, she is built like one. Now there is a body on which I can build clothes, I can stand her there—so!—I can picture just what she needs, I—”

“But you didn’t know her well.”

“That I am sure about.”

“Right, thanks. How many models are still working for you?”

“Two. Oh, I could get the very bad ones, but not anyone will be good enough for the clothes I create, Mr. Rollison! Just now I am working on clothes for the spring. At this time I should be very busy, but instead—all this happens.”

“Who else works for you?”

“I have an artist, a man, and a woman who is invaluable to me. I trained them, also. The seamstresses and cutters—there are fifteen altogether, and—”

“Have any of these left your employ recently?”

“Oh, one, perhaps. Even two—”

“Not in the same way that the models have gone?”

“No, not at all!”

“Everything else is normal, but you can’t keep models that you do manage to get, and getting new ones is much more difficult than it was.”

“Precisely so.”

“Have any of them told you why they have left?”

Zana said, very deliberately: “Yes, each of them gives a reason. They go to better themselves. They go because they do not like the work. They go because they are to get married. All good reasons. One or two, perhaps, I believe.”

“What do you think is the real reason?”

“I think they go for the same one, each of them,” declared Zana. “I think it is because they are frightened. They do not tell me. They do not seem to tell anyone. But I think that is the reason. You are to find out.”

“Do you think Rose Mary disappeared because she couldn’t be frightened?”

There was a pause.

In it, a change came slowly upon Zana. He raised his hands as if to fend off fear. Horror seemed to creep into his body, and to spread to his eyes, his lips, his whole expression. When he went on, his voice was little above a whisper.

“That is what I fear,” he confessed hoarsely. “That they could not frighten her, but that they will try—or else they will make it impossible to use her as a model any more. You know how they would do that.” His lips worked, as if the very thought was more than he could bear. “They could spoil her face or they could spoil her beautiful, beautiful body, and—that is why I am so frightened. Mr. Rollison, I beg you to find her.”

Rollison moved to the big desk, sat on the corner, and lifted the telephone. Zana did not appear to notice what he was doing, but stood as if the horror was deep within him.

Rollison dialled a number, and after a moment said: “Is Mr. Ebbutt there?”

A woman asked him to hold on, and he watched Zana as he waited. Zana’s lips were beginning to work as if he was fighting for his self-control. There were odd sounds on the telephone, then a wheezing noise, followed by a gruff: “W’oossat?”

“Hallo, Bill,” said Rollison. “Keeping busy?”

“Why, ’allo, Mr. Ar,” said Bill, whose other name was Ebbutt. Warmth sprang into his voice. “Wondered when we was going to ’ear from you again, we did. How’re tricks?”

“Fine, Bill. I’ve got a job for you that I don’t think Liz would approve of.”

Ebbutt gave a sort of a chuckle. “Sounds right up my street. Give it a name.”

“Come round yourself, or send someone as good,” said Rollison. “Make it two o’clock, no later, please. I’ll have a few dozen photographs ready for you, and I want you to hand them round to your boys. Stick them up in the pub, too. She’s a pin-up girl with a vengeance; she’s missing, and I’m anxious to find her.”

“Cor blimey, Mr. Ar, you don’t change a bit!” Ebbutt chuckled and wheezed. “Okay, I’ll ’ave someone there at two o’clock sharp. Won’t be too risqué, will it?”

“Eh?”

“You know, too decollett,” Ebbutt said. “Strewth, what’s happened to you, Mr. Ar? There won’t be too much of a plunge neck-line, will there? Not in the pub, I mean. You know how Liz—“

“Just head, and possibly head and shoulders,” Rollison assured him solemnly, and because Zana was watching him, he didn’t grin. “Thanks, Bill. One other thing: bring or send along three or four of the younger chaps who’ll take a chance for a bit of bonus and a lot of fun.”

“I’ll fix it, Mr. Ar.”

“Thanks, Bill,” said Rollison, and rang off.

Zana had recovered his poise, and his mouth was twitching in a kind of smile. He didn’t speak at once, and Rollison went on in exactly the same tone of voice as he had used with Ebbutt: “Next question: have you told the newspapers?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“When a thing like this happens, they all think the same thing: it is a publicity stunt,” declared Zana, “and they brush me off. There have been some big stunts that have succeeded, and the newspapers are very careful these days. Until this morning, also, I hoped she would come back and that I would not have trouble, but now—”

“If I persuade the newspapers that Rose Mary is really missing, is that all right with you?”

Zana hesitated.

“Is it or isn’t it?” insisted Rollison.

“It is easier to ask than to answer,” Zana said, fire sparking in his eyes again. “What is best for Rose Mary? That every newspaper says she is in danger? Or that they say nothing?”

“What is best for Hugo Zana?” asked Rollison. “That all the newspapers and therefore all the world knows that he’s in serious trouble, and might not be able to get his spring and summer collections ready in time?” Rollison saw the glitter spring into Zana’s eyes, saw the big mouth working, as if he was chewing on nonexistent gum, saw his body swaying from the hips in that stance which was so like a boxer’s in the ring.

“Am I here to be insulted?” Zana demanded angrily. “There is no spring, no summer, no next year collections—what do I care? Understand me, Rollison, I am a wealthy man, I have all the money I require. I can retire, I can sell my business. It can even be ruined and made worthless, but what do I care? You go about this matter whatever way you like. Never study my feelings, never study anything except—find Rose Mary.” He broke off, and then shook a clenched fist. “This Bill, who is he? You start quickly, one good thing. You want pictures of Rose Mary?”

“Dozens of them.”

“I have hundreds upon hundreds, a recent photograph taken for publicity only—publicity for Rose Mary, you understand. Shall I telephone for them now?”

“Yes, please,” Rollison said. “And I’d like a list of the names and addresses of all the models who’ve stopped working for you, the agents who won’t supply new ones, the girls who still work with you—and I’d better have the names and addresses of all your staff now, from the artists upwards or downwards. Will you arrange that?”

“Two minutes,” said Zana, and pounced upon the telephone. “I begin to understand how you have obtained your reputation. I—”

As he touched the telephone, it rang. He was so close that the sudden ringing startled him, and he snatched his hand away. Then his reaction seemed to amuse him, and he gave a fierce grin.

The bell kept ringing.

Rollison stretched across and picked it up. As he did so he heard Jolly come in and close the front door. Jolly moved towards the rest of the flat, not needing to pass through this room.

“Richard Rollison,” Rollison said into the telephone. “Good morning, Mr. Rollison,” a girl said in a pleasant voice. “I’ve a message for you from Mr. Smith.”

“From whom?”

“Mr. Smith,” the girl said, as if the name should be as meaningful or as striking as Nat King Cole. “Have you a pencil handy, sir?”

“Yes,” said Rollison, and tried to think who Mr. Smith might be, for there were several on his list of acquaintances, although none from whom he expected a message. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you. Mr. Smith says that if you attempt to give Mr. Hugo Zana any assistance, you won’t live to see the week out. Good morning.”