The Toff and the Deep Blue Sea (11 page)

“At the hotel desk, waiting for you.”

“That's fine,” said Rollison. “I think I'll send it to the police, and have them analyse it for themselves, and ask for protection. Do you think that would be a good idea?”

Her eyes were suddenly radiant.

“If only you would,
m'sieu!”
she cried.

 

Rollison left Fifi, and went back to the hotel. There was a strange look in the eyes of the staff, as if they could not believe that such a gentleman as Rollison could have walked out on M. le Comte. Even Alphonse was slightly cool when he handed back the bottle, with an envelope fastened round it by a rubber band; that would be the analyst's report.

It was past time the police were told a little; not too much.

Violette's name had to be kept from them.

He stood in the lift, with the corsetted lift-boy studiously avoiding his eye. He watched the landings, but nothing happened; the constant awareness of danger could become a wearing thing. If he asked for police protection it would help a little; Could even help a lot. The police would give him a kind of ‘protection'. Chicot would have to be much more careful.

But the danger was here, everywhere, like men watching and ready to snipe at him.

He opened the door of his room an inch, paused, listened, and heard the faintest of faint sounds from inside.

Someone was in there, hiding in the darkness.

 

 

Rollison did not waste a moment then. If he closed the door he would tell whoever it was that he had been warned. So he pushed the door wide, then knelt down swiftly. He held his breath. Nothing would have surprised him then: the slash of a knife, the flash of a gun, the hiss of an automatic air-pistol. None of these things happened.

He took out the lethal cigarette-lighter.

He knew exactly where the switch was, put a finger on it, pressed, and stepped swiftly into the bathroom.

Light flooded the room, someone gasped – and silence followed.

Rollison slammed the passage door with his foot.

“Who
—
who is that?”
a man whispered.

He was French, for only a Frenchman could speak with that accent. There was nervousness in the tone, a quaver in the voice. Something suggested that he was young. Rollison, beginning to sweat now that the emergency seemed past, answered abruptly:

“Rollison. Who are you?”

There was a pause. Then:

“I am Gérard,” the speaker said.

That might be true; it sounded so. Rollison moved towards the other side of the bathroom door, so that he could see the entrance to the bedroom.

“Come to the door, and hold your hands in front of you.”

After a slow movement, Gérard appeared. His fair hair seemed unnaturally light, the ‘nice lad' look was spoiled by his nervousness. He kept licking his lips. He held his hands in front of him, and they were unsteady – the hands of a frightened man. Why had he taken such a wild chance?

“All right, relax,” said Rollison, and moved to the passage door, shot the bolt, and turned back to the main room. “Why did you come here?”

He stepped into the bedroom.

Then he saw the depth of his folly.

Two brown-skinned men, very like the two who had climbed aboard the
Maria,
were behind the door. One showed a knife, the other a wooden club. They watched him closely, warily.

Gérard leapt forward, as if he were terrified of what the Toff would do, and as he turned round he cried:

“I had to do it, they tortured me!”

“So you had to do it,” said the Toff. Nothing in the world would ever sound more contemptuous. “May your con science for ever—” He broke off. “Oh, what the hell! I ought to have expected it. What are the riff-raff here for?”

Words bubbled out of the Frenchman.

“You—you have to come with me. They're to make sure that you do. If you don't, they'll kill—they'll kill you!”

“And where are we supposed to go?”

“The Villa Seblec,” Gérard said. His teeth chattered. “They made me tell them; I tried to hold out, but I couldn't.”

Rollison didn't answer.

He looked at the two brown-skinned men, concentrating on the one with the knife. His heart was hammering. The worst of the situation was that they were on different sides of the door, could attack from two directions. They had moved a little nearer; threateningly. He did not know whether to believe Gérard or not. They were more likely to follow him out of the hotel, let him start out for the Villa Seblec, and then – a knife in his back, his body tossed over the rocks and into the sea.

Neither of them spoke.

“Can they speak English?” Rollison asked, and slid his right hand towards his pocket; and the lighter.

“I speak English,” one man said. “Take your hand away, quick,” It was like ‘queek'. “Go now, wis Gérard.”

There was no certainty that Rollison would get out of the hotel alive, but obviously they would prefer to kill somewhere else, where the body could be hidden.

Yet they'd tried to poison him.

Why hadn't Gérard waited alone, lured him out, and spotlighted him for an attack?

One answer was obvious: that Chicot didn't trust Gérard.

Was that all?

Rollison said: “I want a cigarette, and you can do what you damned well like.” He took out his cigarette-case and the lethal lighter. The Arab who had spoken held the knife as if to throw it; but he didn't. The cigarette-case and lighter were in the Toff's hands. He began to sweat. He opened the cigarette-case, put a cigarette to his lips, and then made as if to light it. He moved, so that he could see both Arabs. The man with the knife was nearer. One of the tiny bullets in the eye would blind, one in his neck might kill. One in his hand—

Rollison flicked the lighter.

The
click!
was like an ordinary lighter-sound. There was just a wisp of flame. The tiny bullet struck the hand holding the knife, and as the Arab cried out, Rollison spun round. The other Arab was already moving, club raised. In that vivid moment, Rollison knew how the brown-eyed beggar had been killed.

He didn't fire, but jumped forward, crashed bodily into the man, and carried him back. The impact jolted the Arab, whose club fell. Rollison raised both hands and gripped the lean brown throat, then crashed the man's head against the wall. The thud was dull and sickening, and the dark eyes rolled. Rollison let the man slide down the wall, unconscious, and turned sharply. The other Arab, knife in his left hand, was moving, towards him.

The lighter—

Gérard shot out a leg.

The Arab kicked against it, and fell sprawling. The Toff let him pass, then clipped him sharply behind the ear to help him on his way.

Gérard watched with rounded eyes and rounded mouth, as if he couldn't believe what he had done.

“Thanks,” said Rollison, not even slightly out of breath; “there's hope for you yet.” He moved quickly to the telephone. “Get out, wait for me in the toilets. I'm going to call the police.”

“But—”

Rollison didn't look at him, but spoke into the telephone. The operator said: “At once,
m'sieu,”
then came back on the line, puzzled. “The
Commissariat de Police, m'sieu?”

“Please, and quickly,” said Rollison.

The second Arab was picking himself up, but was a long way from his knife, which lay on the floor.

“Hurry, Gérard,” said Rollison; “they'll soon be here. Tread on that knife before you go.”

Gérard hesitated.

Then abruptly he moved forward, and stamped his heel on the shining blade. It broke. He stamped again and again in sudden fury, ‘then went out, his face a flaming red.

One Arab was unconscious, the other watched the lighter in Rollison's hands as if he expected it to spit fire.

A man answered …

“M. l'Inspecteur,
if you please,” said Rollison. He knew that his name would be known, for he had worked in the South of France before. The police would listen to him, and the police would soon be here.

There was a pause, followed by a deeper voice. Rollison talked briskly. There were two Arab thieves whom he had surprised in his room, would
M. l‘Inspecteur …

M. l‘Inspecteur
most certainly would! What hotel?

Soon Rollison replaced the receiver. His expression hadn't changed. The expression of the Arab hadn't, either. It was not the man who could speak English; he was still unconscious by the wall. They stood watching each other. If the man made a dive for the door, it wouldn't be easy to stop him. These pellet-bullets were too scarce to be wasted, and would not stop a man unless they struck exactly the right place.

He should have used Gérard more.

Rollison moved slowly, seeing the club on the floor near the claw-like hand of the unconscious man. The other saw what he was going to do, then took a desperate chance and ran towards the door.

Rollison snatched up the club and threw it. The thick end caught the Arab on the back of the head. He pitched forward, shouting out more with fear than pain. Rollison went after him, picked him up by his collar and the seat of his trousers, and bustled him into the bathroom. Then he slammed and locked the door.

The other man was still unconscious.

A waiter came, in alarm …

 

All that Rollison could tell the police about le Comte de Vignolles was that they had dined and talked, and the Count had called himself M. Blanc. All he could say about Chicot was that a girl whose reputation wasn't exactly unsullied had said he was bad. He could tell of the murdered beggar, but the body would have been taken away by now. He could say that Suzanne had been murdered, and the police would be polite but incredulous, because she had fallen from the window.

The safest thing was to tell part of the truth; his suspicions of the ‘accident' on the promenade, the attempt to poison him, and the visit of the two Arabs. The police would have to take him seriously.

He had never felt that he needed help more; for not one, but many girls had disappeared.

Were they alive?

Or were they dead?

 

Rollison had met Inspector Panneraude on a previous visit to Nice; a brisk, middle-aged man, as lean as Rollison himself, aware of the soubriquet ‘Toff' and much that went with it. He took it all very seriously, and ventured to say that he had personally investigated the ‘accident', and whatever one might suspect, no one could prove it had been intentional. Several witnesses had seen a little dog …

The Inspector hoped M. Rollison had told all the truth. Why was he in Nice? The story of the missing girl satisfied him, or appeared to; the two Arabs were taken off, handcuffed, the other police went out. When they had all gone, the Inspector became much more a human being, and accepted a glass of the wine which Rollison had bought for Simon Leclair.

“Merci bien, m'sieu!
Your very good health and safety in France!” He held up his glass and beamed; then drank. “Ah, this
very
good.” He read the label on the bottle, nodded as with a connoisseur's approval, and changed the subject briskly. “These Arabs, we have very much trouble with them. Some have French passports, of course, although many of them cannot speak a word of French. Others come from Spanish Morocco. They are brought here as servants because they will work almost for nothing; we have too many of them, far too many. We try to control their entry, but the Spanish are smuggled ashore at lonely spots, so what can we do? These two—were they just thieves, or was it connected with this whisky, do you think?”

It was a deliberately naïve question.

“I wouldn't know,” said Rollison mildly. “I hope you'll find out.”

“But of course,
m'sieu!”
The Inspector smiled wryly, as if he appreciated the
naïveté
of evasion. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“There's one thing,” Rollison said. “Will you telephone M. Chicot at the Villa Seblec, explain who you are, and say that I have been delayed, but hope to get there later?”

“You are sure he lives there?”

“It'll be a way to find out.”

“But you are free to go at once,
m'sieu.”

“I'd like M. Chicot or others at the Villa to know that the delay wasn't my own fault,” said Rollison. “I'd like them to know I'm with the police. It might be—ah—safer.”

“But of course, I understand.” The Inspector moved to the telephone. “Chicot,” he echoed. “I remember there was a cabaret star named Chicot, some years ago; he was very funny. So droll. Only one man in all France was ever funnier than Chicot, and that is Simon Leclair. Leclair will be here next week—now there is a man to see! At the
Baccarat.”

The operator answered; Panneraude asked for the Villa Seblec, and held on. “Yes, Simon Leclair will appear at the
Baccarat”
he repeated. “That is owned by M. le Comte de Vignolles. Am I permitted an indiscretion? … 'Allo, M. Chicot, please … He does not? Then M. Morency … Dr. Morency, I am sorry. Be good enough to pass on this message. I am
Inspecteur
Panneraude of the
Commissariat de Police …
Yes,
Inspecteur
Panneraude … I speak for Mr. Richard Rollison, who has had a burglary at his hotel and is delayed. Please tell Dr. Morency … You are sure M. Chicot does not live there?”

He rang off.

He had been eyeing Rollison very thoughtfully; shrewdly. As he put the receiver down, he went on: “The maid who answered does not know a M. Chicot. You heard that. The other—is it permitted?”

“The indiscretion? Of course.”

“Tonight you had the honour of dining with M. le Comte de Vignolles,” said Panneraude musingly. “You left him abruptly, and it is said that you insulted him. Would you like to tell me why you quarrelled, M. Rollison?”

Rollison murmured: “He would like to find out who Chicot is, and offered a fat fee.”

“Fee,
m'sieu?”

“I thought it would be as well to find out if it were a bribe.”

“So you did not like M. le Comte?”

“I don't yet know him well enough to be sure.”

“What else did he say?”

“That girls who perform at the
Baccarat
go to the Villa Seblec, and don't come back.”

“And,” Panneraude said soberly, “that is true.”

“Have you ever visited the Villa?”

“We have no evidence of crimes committed there,” Panneraude countered smoothly.

“But suspicion?”

“We suspect so many people. Now, of the other gentleman. I confess that I would like to quarrel with M. le Comte myself. He has great wealth, he is of great influence, but I am not convinced that he is above suspicion. If it is possible to suggest any—shall we say any little misdemeanour on his part which would enable the police to make some investigation of his affairs, the
Département
would be very grateful to you.”

Rollison was smiling.

“So you don't like him either.”

“M'sieu,
one is a policeman. One does not like any gentlemen who regard themselves as above the law. One lives perpetually in the hope that such gentlemen will make the important mistake which will enable the law to show interest. If such a thing should happen …” He broke off.