Chapter Four

Zana Remembers

Rollison put the receiver back slowly, looking very straight at Zana as he did so; and Zana, who would miss very little, obviously guessed that this had been no ordinary call, and waited as if with bated breath.

“They are up to all the tricks,” Rollison said, gently. “They must have read a latest crooks’ manual.”

“What are you talking about?”

“A nice-sounding girl told me that I wouldn’t see the week out if I gave you any help,” said Rollison, and decided that it was the moment to grin. “This is the time when I ought to call in Jolly, to double the fee! Mr. Smith doesn’t want—”

“Who did you say?” Zana shouted, and flung his arms wide, then began to pace the room in long, energetic strides. “Always, always the same. Threatening messages. Do not work for Zana, do not help Zana. Why should it be? Who hates me so much? But—it is time to face the truth.” He was no longer gesticulating and his face was set, while his great shining eyes looked as if they could set the Toff on fire. “I understand, it is not work for you. Please forget it, and perhaps—”

He broke off.

After a moment, he approached Rollison slowly, his tread now almost cat-like. He took Rollison’s arm and stared fiercely into his face.

“Perhaps if I give up my business I will have no more trouble. Perhaps Rose Mary will not be hurt. I cannot ask you to take such risks.”

“You could give me some facts,” Rollison said dryly. “What about a Mr. Smith. Do you know him?”

“I know dozens of him.”

“Anyone who hates you for being alive?”

“No,” said Zana after a moment’s reflection. “No Mr. Smith is important to me, or me to him as far as I know. But I know that some of the girls have been threatened, told they will be injured or disfigured, if they work for me. So they have gone.”

“Do you know anyone who hates you so much that he would like to ruin you?”

“No,” Zana said after another brief pause, as if he wanted to make quite sure. “Business rivals, yes, but no longer do I think it possible that any one of these is involved. Anyone else? I can think of no one. I only know that all this is happening, but it is wrong to ask others to take such risks for me. I shall give up. Now, may I use the telephone?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” Zana pounced upon the instrument again, as if to make sure that this time he got in first.

He dialled with a kind of restrained energy, while Rollison moved to the door and saw Jolly at the front door, using a small gouge to prise the bullet out. While Zana was still waiting, Rollison crossed to Jolly, who was making a neat hole about the bullet, and would soon have it free.

“Don’t stop,” said Rollison. “Learn anything?”

“It was a black Ford Consul, sir, which turned right into Piccadilly.”

“So it might have gone anywhere from Hyde Park Corner,” Rollison reflected. “Who told you?”

“The butcher’s roundsman happened to be near the corner when the car appeared, and remarked upon the fact that it was going very fast.”

“Did he see who was in it?”

“A man was driving and a young woman was next to him. The woman was nearest the roundsman, who failed to get a good view of the driver. The woman was most attractive, he said, fair-haired, and—”

“That squares with her figure,” said Rollison, and paused when he heard Zana burst into a flood of orders. He grinned as the hard voice with its heavy accent came like a series of short bursts on a machine-gun. “Jolly.”

“Sir?”

“A Mr. Smith has said that we will not see the week out if we help Zana, and Zana wishes us to leave him to his own devices.”

“Indeed, sir.” Jolly seemed to be clenching his teeth and making a final effort. “I don’t think I know Mr. Smith. Just one moment, I think—ah.” He put the gouge aside, and took out a pair of steel callipers, gripped the bullet in these and pulled it out. “There you are, sir. A .22, which rather tallies with the sound of the report, doesn’t it? That is the size of an automatic that a woman might be expected to use, too. Did Mr. Smith say anything else?”

“No. Hark at old clackity-clack in there. You’d think his voice would drive away his models whenever he gets excited. Jolly, listen.” Rollison told his man exactly what he had arranged, while he rolled the bullet round and round on the palm of his hand, only just preventing it from falling. “Now we have a lot to do, so we’ll postpone Sir Frederick Symes until another, lighter day. Telephone or write to him with our apologies.”

“Very good, sir, and thank you.”

“Forget it. As soon as the names and addresses arrive, ask Zana to indicate those girls who really left him to better themselves, and those who left without any known good reason. When Bill Ebbutt’s boys arrive, divide the names and addresses up between them, and ask them to check that everything is all right with the girls where they’re working now, whether they’ve moved their homes—all that kind of thing. A general comprehensive report on each, and they needn’t try to be discreet, let ’em tread heavy and tell the world that the Toff would like to know about these girls.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Better warn ’em that it could become dangerous; they’re not to take too many chances,” Rollison added thoughtfully.

“That will be somewhat superfluous with Ebbutt’s men, sir, but I understand what you mean.”

“Hmm. Finally, ask each one to telephone reports, and you stay here and take the messages,” Rollison went on. “Don’t go out unless in acute emergency, and if you have to leave, try to make sure that someone’s here. Because when Mr. Smith knows that we’re really in business, he may come and give us a surprise packet. He’s doing everything else in the book. Take more than ordinary precautions about letting anyone in.”

“Very good,” said Jolly, quite unperturbed. “Will you look after the bullet, sir?”

“Yes. I’m going to see Grice, and then look in at Fleet Street,” Rollison told him. “I’ll try to arrange for most of the newspapers to carry the story in the morning.” He heard a sharp sound in the other room as Zana replaced the receiver, smiled faintly, and went on in a soft voice: “I’d like to learn more about Zana, too. Don’t ever try to wrestle with him, Jolly.”

He went into the big room.

Zana was standing by the telephone, looking restless and thwarted. As Rollison held out the bullet he made as if to grab it, but Rollison closed his fingers over it. “I’ll keep it,” he said, “but if that had caught you in the head, throat or one or two other places, it could have done a lot of damage. When, did you see this girl?”

“Twice,” said Zana promptly. “First, when she was outside the salon, this morning. That was when I realised what a good model she would make. I can remember more now. She turned away quickly as if to make sure that I did not see her well. And next time I saw her because I heard someone behind me, outside there, and turned round. If I had not—but I did, what does the rest matter?”

“Still not sure where you’ve seen her before?”

“I am trying to remember, but—I see so many girls, so very many. But I do not often forget completely; it will come back.” Zana tapped his forehead vigorously. “Not that it is important now. You understand I am most grateful for the time you have given me, and—”

“Zana,” said Rollison, gently, “I took on a job. I am still on that job, and with luck we’ll both be alive when it’s over.”

Zana tried to speak, but could not.

“Go back to the salon,” went on Rollison, “and telephone all the agencies, ask them for models, and try to find out why they won’t send any. Don’t shout abuse at them; just try sweet reason.”

“I would like to crack their heads together,” growled Zana, “but it is apparent that you will not give up, so I shall obey. And I salute a brave man. What are you going to do?”

“Look for Mr. Smith,” said Rollison.

In fact he left the flat before Zana, going out the back way, and was at a corner of Gresham Terrace when Zana appeared at the front door. The designer had apparently come by taxi; now, he walked briskly towards Piccadilly, his shoulders squared and his chin thrust out, as if defying the world to attack him. He looked straight ahead, but Rollison watched all directions, until he felt sure that no one was following Zana.

Zana took a taxi in Piccadilly.

Rollison hurried to his lock-up garage in a mews near Gresham Terrace, and took out his newest toy: a scarlet Bristol with a palpitating burst of speed. But he drove sedately to Scotland Yard, checking in his mirror all the time, and seeing no one who seemed to take any special interest in him.

He drove round Parliament Square, making quite sure that he wasn’t followed, and then went along the Embankment and turned into the pale grey building of New Scotland Yard, where the Criminal Investigation Department was housed. Policemen in uniform saluted him. He asked at the hall for Superintendent Grice, waited two minutes, and was told to go straight up. He knew this part of the Yard almost as well as he knew his own flat, and soon tapped lightly on the door of Grice’s office.

“Come in,” called Grice, and stood up from his desk, a tall man dressed in brown, with thinning and greying brown hair, a sallow skin stretched tight and white across the high bridge of his nose. The office was long and narrow, with two windows overlooking the Embankment; the windows were open, traffic noises came in, and the room was comparatively cool. “Hallo, Rolly,” Grice went on. “I didn’t think it would be long before you turned up. Sit down. Have a cigarette.”

“Thanks,” said Rollison, and relaxed in a green armchair, while Grice sat in a swivel chair behind his desk.

“Zana, of course,” went on Grice.

“What do you know about him?” countered Rollison. “Not really a great deal,” said Grice, “and nothing to his discredit. He had a rough time in concentration camps during the war, escaped by getting over a barbed-wire fence, and later swimming the Moselle near Coblenz. He spent the rest of the war helping others to escape from Germany and Italy into Switzerland, and then settled in Paris. He’s undoubtedly got a flair; he’s the only complete newcomer to break into the big dressmakers’ ring for a long time, and he’s made a fortune with his designing.”

“Really wealthy?”

“So the evidence says.”

“Why doesn’t he buy a yacht and a villa in Monte Carlo?” Rollison asked, as if of himself. “What do you make of this story of the models who won’t stay with him?”

“It could be that they’re scared off,” Grice conceded. “It could also be that he smells. Or else they don’t like the way he expects them to behave.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that he might paw them a lot.”

“Could be,” agreed Rollison, “but he wouldn’t be likely to start that suddenly, and they were all pretty loyal until twelve months or so ago. Any evidence of petting and pawing?”

“No.”

“Any evidence of trouble for his models?”

“Well, yes and no,” Grice said. “We checked with one or two after Zana came here. They wouldn’t say why they left, but we did discover one who’d had vitriol thrown at her, and left Zana soon afterwards. We couldn’t question the girl; she’s left the country.”

“Sure?”

“She’s in Canada—no doubt about it. There was another model who had an accident which ruined her career,” Grice went on. “There’s no evidence that it wasn’t an accident, but when added to the rest, it’s peculiar.”

“Have you tackled the agencies?” asked Rollison.

“They say the girls who go to Zana soon get scared, and Zana has now such an unsavoury reputation that they won’t recommend anyone.”

“Mm,” murmured Rollison, and smiled. “Nice of you to be so ready to answer, Bill. Anything about this Rose Mary?”

“The known facts about her are that she went to her apartment in Chelsea the evening before last, packed a bag, and left home the same night,” Grice said. “There’s nothing positive to suggest that she was persuaded to go, nothing to suggest that she didn’t leave of her own free will. The same applies to all the others, Rolly, so you’re probably wasting your time. We’re keeping our ears open of course.”

“Mm,” said Rollison again, and took the .22 bullet out of his pocket. “Here’s a pretty little thing, a very pretty lethal time-waster, too.”

Grice’s mood changed on an instant as he leaned forward to take it.

“Where did that come?”

“My front door, after missing Zana by inches. A certain Mr. Smith doesn’t want me to help him.”

Grice was sharp: “When was this?”

“An hour or so ago.”

“Are you committed to helping Zana?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t take any chances with things like this flying about,” said Grice urgently. “I’ll have it sent up to Ballistics; there’s just a chance they’ve got one with the same rifling.”

“If they haven’t, there may be some later,” remarked Rollison. “I’ve come round to the view that Zana’s in real trouble, Bill. You haven’t any idea why, have you?”

“No,” Grice answered. “We’ve been checking quietly and I’ve told you all we know. After this we’ll step up the pace. If you—”

“Bill,” interrupted Rollison apologetically, “mine not to reason with you, but could you pretend to the world that you know nothing about this, yet? No official story of a shooting, I mean. Nothing to suggest to Mr. Smith, that I’ve told you about it. Let him think that I’m playing big lone wolf. That way I fancy he might take more chances than if he thinks you’re on his tail.”

Grice’s expression showed obvious suspicion.

“What’s really on your mind?”

“Hope, mostly,” Rollison said. “Here’s what I’ve done so far.” He talked briskly, and Grice made notes, until the whole tale was told. Then Rollison sat back easily and said: “The key to it all may be the method Mr. Smith uses to frighten the models off. Don’t you tackle them openly yet, though; leave that to Ebbutt’s men. If they get a line that’s worth following up, I’ll pass it on to you. And never tell me again that the Toff doesn’t consult the police at every stage in an investigation,” Rollison added virtuously. “No sober citizen could do more.”

“I’m already wondering why you’re behaving yourself for a change,” said Grice, “but that’ll reveal itself as we go on. At least I’ll talk to the Assistant Commissioner, and let you know what he says. He might decide that we’ve got to take the case up in a big way. This bullet—”

“Could have been meant to kill and could have been meant to frighten,” Rollison said, and stood up and pushed his chair back. “All right, Bill, and thanks for listening.”

“Where are you off to now?”

“I’m going to see a girl about a. job,” Rollison said, and winked, and went out.

He was half-way along the passage towards the lift when the door opened and Grice called him; he turned round, expecting some last moment exhortation, but instead Grice beckoned and said: “Telephone for you.”

“But only Jolly knows I’m here,” objected Rollison, and went back at the double. “Thanks, Bill … Hallo, Jolly?”

“I thought I ought to tell you this at once, sir,” said Jolly in his calmest voice. “Mr. Zana has just telephoned to say that he remembers where he has seen that girl before. She is a Beryl Ward, who acted as a relief model for him some time ago, and, according to his records, she lives at Flat 19, Hill Court, St. John’s Wood.”

“Fine, thanks,” said Rollison briskly. “I’ll look her up at once.” He rang off and smiled brightly at Grice, knowing that if Grice had this information he would have to take swift action. “Urgent message from my Aunt Gloria,” he went on. “I hope I’m not going to have any distractions. Thanks again, Bill.”

Grice said: “One of these days you’ll lie to me and wish you hadn’t.”

“Oh, William,” protested Rollison, “where is your charity?”

He winked, and went.

Instead of going to Fleet Street, he telephoned a friend of a friend on a large news agency, and so made reasonably certain that the disappearance of Zana’s Rose Mary would make news. Then he hurried to the address which Jolly had given him.