A Mask for the Toff Read Online Free PDF Page B

spite of arguments to the contrary, quite a deterrent to men of violence. Why did you try to kill your fiancée?”
    The man licked his lips.
    â€œWho is she?” asked Rollison.
    The man wouldn’t speak, but averted his gaze. Rollison squatted down on his haunches, and then Jolly appeared, with a bottle of embrocation.
    â€œWho is she?” repeated Rollison sharply.
    The Frenchman turned his head away and let his chin drop on to his chest, as if he were fainting. Jolly rubbed steadily, and soon the bruised shoulder began to sting. Rollison stood up, looking down on his prisoner. Probably it would, not take a great deal of pressure to make the young man talk, and he would be more likely to talk to Rollison than to the police; but the police would soon be here. For the first time, Rollison regretted sending for them so quickly.
    He said abruptly: “All right, keep it to yourself. You’ll be charged with murder in the morning, and unless you tell the truth, you won’t have a chance.”
    The man didn’t move.
    â€œI think it would be more convenient if you were to sit in a chair, sir,” said Jolly. “Would you rather leave this until you have had time to persuade him to tell you why he did this thing?”
    â€œNo,” said Rollison, “there isn’t much time, I may have to go out again.”
    He sat down, and Jolly kept rubbing. The Frenchman glanced up, covertly, then dropped his gaze again, but the silence was getting on his nerves. He began to lick his lips, and then to move his head from side to side.
    â€œI think that will do, sir,” said Jolly.
    â€œThanks.” Rollison moved again, and now the Frenchman looked up at him with fear naked in his eyes, his lips twitching.
    â€œWho’s the girl?”
    There was no answer.
    â€œWho is Madame Thysson?” Rollison demanded sharply.
    The Frenchman’s head jerked up, as if the name itself struck terror. His lips worked, but he didn’t speak. He kept silent until footsteps clumped on the stairs, and Rollison knew that the police had arrived.
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    Superintendent William Grice of Scotland Yard did not like getting out of bed after midnight, and might have been tempted to leave the night’s inquiries to the Division and to a junior at the Yard, but for the magic in the name of Rollison. Grice had been to Brill Street, talked to the police at the Divisional Station, gone to Scotland Yard and studied the dossier of Samuel Arthur Downing, and liked nothing of what he read. Downing had twice been convicted of robbery with violence, and by the age of forty-three had spent fourteen years in prison. He was still on his ticket-of-leave and had reported regularly to the nearest police-station since his last release. He was classified as “Independent — No Trade or Profession” , which meant that he had never earned his living. There were two notes on the card, which showed that he had served for twelve months in the Armed Forces before being jailed for theft; and much of that time he had spent in France. The final remark in the dossier was: “ Dangerous”.
    On the way to Rollison’s flat, Grice reflected that it was in the order of things that Rollison had contrived to clash with Downing. There were the little crooks in the East End to whom Rollison was a friend; but there were some who hated the Toff simply because of his reputation and because they knew what he thought about them and would do to them if he had half a chance. There was no doubt that Downing knew of and disliked Rollison.
    Rollison would not be impressed by that.
    One part of Grice’s mind could easily become angry with Rollison, who was prepared to take the law into his own hands with a carefree abandon which made all dutiful policemen gnash their teeth; another part admired and respected the man – in fact they were good friends.
    Not everyone at the Yard had a good word to say for Rollison; but the