The Toff and the Deep Blue Sea (12 page)

“If it should happen,” promised Rollison, “you would be the first person I told.”

“Thank you a thousand times,
m'sieu.
And now I must go.” Panneraude moved towards the door. “This English girl, Daphne Myall. You understand, do you not, that she appeared for a little time at the
Baccarat,
which is owned by our friend M. le Comte? It was after that that she disappeared. The manager said that she was dismissed, as not good enough, and he knows no more of her. Have you found out more,
m'sieu?”

“Not yet.”

“I earnestly ask you to believe that the services of the police will be at your disposal if you should require them in the pursuit of justice, and I shall detail men to watch you,” said Panneraude solemnly.
“Au revoir, m'sieu!”

His handclasp was very firm.

 

There was nothing firm about Gérard Bourcy, when Rollison brought him from the magnificent splendour of the bathrooms. He was trembling, smoking, and licking his lips. Yet he had shot out a foot and perhaps saved Rollison from the business end of that Arab's knife. There was some good stuff in him.

“What happened in the cabin cruiser?” Rollison demanded.

“It—it was as you said,” muttered Gérard. “One man came, and later, two more. The boat was taken back, we came round when we were back at the Villa.”

“And then?”

“I tried to do what you ask, but I could not,” said Gérard tensely. “Understand,
m'sieu,
my own sister is in danger. There is much evil there; girls who come and—vanish! I am not strong enough. I am told to come to talk to you here, and—and you know what followed.”

“Yes, I know. Well—I'm going to the Villa Seblec,” Rollison announced and saw astonishment leap into Gérard's eyes. “I'll have police protection, which should help. You can go back and tell them what happened here, or you can stay here in hiding.”

“What—what do you think I ought to do?” muttered Gérard; he found it difficult even to ask the question.

“Go back,” said Rollison. “Telephone them first, say that the Arabs made a hash of the job but you escaped, and ask them for more orders. Don't tell them you know I'm on the way.”

Gérard said miserably: “I am so afraid.”

“Gérard,” said Rollison gently, “your sister is in danger. So are you. So are these other girls. You have a chance to help them all and wipe the slate clean. With you at the Villa, to help in a crisis, the impossible might become possible.”

“I—I will try,” Gérard promised, and tried to square his shoulders.

Rollison said: “You'll do it, Gérard. One thing before you go. Is the Comte de Vignolles known at the Villa?”

“Known?” echoed Gérard. “He is hated!”

“Do you know why?”

“No,” Gérard answered, “to me the Villa is full of mystery and evil things.”

“We'll clean it up,” said Rollison, but he had to force the note of confidence in his voice. He went towards the door. Gérard started to speak, but didn't; Rollison went out.

A
gendarme,
big revolver in his shiny holster, stood just outside, saluting.

“Where do we go,
m'sieu?”

“The Villa Seblec,” said Rollison, as brightly. “If I go in my car, will you follow in a taxi?”

“Whichever you wish,
m'sieu,”
said the policeman, and he walked step by step with Rollison to the lift. “There will be two of us, all the time.”

 

 

The moon was up, and bathed the He de Seblec with a soft light which quickened the pulse of all but cynics. The garden had been beautiful that afternoon; it was lovely now, although the colours no longer flamed. The Villa itself was gently floodlit, and stood out clearly at the tip of the He as Rollison, driving a hired Jaguar, drove along the main road. The Villa fell out of sight just about the spot where he had climbed the wall – and left a taxi-driver, who would have given him up a long time ago.

They turned on to the private road.

The other car, with the policeman in it, was only fifty yards behind. It had stopped, to let one policeman get out at a spot where he could watch the house. There had been very little traffic, nothing at all to hint at trouble.

The headlights of Rollison's car fell upon the back of the Villa Seblec. No one was in sight. The back door was closed. A path led to the front door, the one which had opened when Violette had run away from here, and Rollison followed this, looking about the grounds and towards the spot where the beggar had lain.

He rang the bell.

After a pause, a maid answered ; she was a middle-aged woman in black, with a tiny white apron and lace cap. Obviously she expected him.

“M. Sautot is not at home,” she said, “but Dr. Morency is. Will you see him?”

“Please,” said Rollison gravely.

“This way,
m'sieu.”

“Thank you. Will you be good enough to allow my escort to wait outside?” added Rollison. “He is from the
Commissariat de Police.”
He beamed. “If he could have a glass of good red wine, he would be grateful.”

“It shall be done,
m'sieu.”

“You are very good.”

The Toff stepped into the hall.

The first glance told him that this was not just another villa; this was the home of a millionaire, and had probably been built at a time when money had not mattered. One did not have to like the Bacchanalian
motif
in order to admire the magnificence of the painting – dark brown upon cream walls – or the carved recesses, from whence the light came; or in the ceiling itself. It reminded him vaguely of the villas at Pompeii; there was much beauty, much loveliness of design, of sculpture and painting; but everything was slightly tainted; corrupted.

Was that because of what he knew about Dr. Morency, about Raoul, and about some of the things that were believed to happen here?

The lights were concealed inside nude figures; or some part of the human form, and carved out of alabaster or made of lovely hand blown glass – some green, some pale amber. There were no pictures, just the recesses – and the carvings inside them showed all that was beautiful in the art of France and much that corrupts in the worship of art.

In its way, this was like the ante-room of a palace.

A man came, briskly. Rollison did not believe that the old doctor could walk with such speed.

It was not Morency, but Raoul.

In some ways, Raoul was twice the man Gérard was, and he had recovered fully. His look was aggressive, there was an open sneer on his face. He was dressed in a well-cut suit of cream linen, and hadn't a black hair out of place.

“Hallo,” greeted Rollison pleasantly. “Feeling better?”

“I am not feeling so well as I shall one day,” said Raoul. “What do you want?”

“Chicot, or else—”

“No one named Chicot lives here.”

“Poor clown,” said Rollison. “Have you murdered him too? Who killed poor Gaston, Raoul? Was it the man who was to crack my head in like a piece of china?”

“Your head will crack soon enough.” Raoul was roughly truculent. “And all the police in the
Commissariat
won't save you when we're ready! You'd better come this way.” He turned and led the way out of the room, along a narrow passage which was decorated in exactly the same fashion, into a long, narrow room.

Rollison stopped, missing a step, for suddenly this room changed colour.

Raoul gave a savage grin.

“The hell
motif”
he sneered. “You'd better get used to it; you'll be visiting the real place soon enough.”

Rollison hardly heard the words.

The lighting came from red glass or red porcelain, set in the floor, the ceiling, and the walls. Everything was washed in the same deep, blood red. Here the figures were different: Machiavellian, instead of Bacchanalian. Here were tiny statues of devils with cloven hoofs, worked into all the carving; all the paintings were the same, and lit with intense white light sharp against the general crimson. Carpet, polished floor, dadoed ceiling, and imitation windows, were all red. At the windows, fire seemed to blaze. It wasn't truly fire, but a simulation, and the light kept moving, flickering over the faces of the devils and the devils' angels.

Into this room shuffled Dr. Morency.

 

“I am glad to have the pleasure of meeting you, Mr. Rollison,” said Dr. Morency. He had a gentle, lisping voice, gentle, tired eyes, tinged with red, and a soft-looking hand. Everything would have been gentle about him, had it not been for his face. Just as the devil was depicted in all the statues and the statuettes here, as well as in the paintings, so it was in Dr. Morency. If a man had said: “Meet Dr. Mephistopheles,” no one would have been surprised.

He did not offer to shake hands.

“I wanted to see you, although I understand that you are under a misapprehension,” went on Dr. Morency. “No one named Chicot lives here.”

“That's hard,” said Rollison. “I'd been told that I would find him.” He took his cigarette-case out, and selected a cigarette with finicky care. He knew that, in spite of his truculence, Raoul was on edge; and Dr. Morency could hardly wait to hear what the visitor really wanted.

He asked: “Did you find my clothes by the beach, doctor?”

“Some clothes were found—”

“And the gun, I hope,” Rollison murmured. “I was fond of that gun, but I can manage without it.” He paused to let that sink in deeply. Then: “We've had quite a time, haven't we? Violette ran away from the clutching hands, your killers killed at sea, and others taken prisoner at the San Roman. I wonder what story they'll tell the police?” He laughed, and startled them; they watched him warily now, as if worried about what he would do next. “I had to come to France to ask for police protection, but it's there, remember; Panneraude knows. One policeman's outside, another is watching from the main road. The one thing you dare not do is to stop me from leaving. Agreed, doctor?”

“We have no desire—” began Dr. Morency smoothly.

“Doctor,” said Rollison. Suddenly he looked and sounded savage, and he clutched at Morency's thin shoulder. “You are a liar. You are a degenerate. And you are a fool. Chicot's here, and I want Chicot. I also want Daphne Myall.”

He pushed Morency back, and swung round on Raoul, the last thing the youth had expected. He snatched Raoul's arm and twisted, until Raoul clenched his teeth and began to bend at the knees. Then Rollison dipped into his pocket, touched an automatic pistol, and drew it out. He let Raoul go, and broke the chamber of the gun, making sure that it was loaded. He clicked it back into position, and beamed.

“Just what I wanted,” he said. “Thanks. Doctor, I am now going to have a look through the Villa. I'm sure you won't mind. I could call the police to help me, of course, but there might be some little formalities if I do that. Shall I manage on my own?”

Raoul said thinly: “I'll kill you first!”

“But I have to leave here alive,” murmured the Toff. “You see what a delicate situation it is. I have been attacked in my hotel. Attempts have been made to poison me. If there's trouble, I simply tell the police that I discovered you were responsible for the crimes. If I die, the police will have a long statement, delivered by a bank. It will tell everything I know about Chicot, Sautot, and you two, as well as a great many other little things. Will you come with me, doctor, or shall I go alone?”

He wasn't sure that they would let him go.

They were afraid of what he might find, and afraid of the police getting a reason for coming and searching. The whole of his gamble depended on which they feared most.

Morency said in his lisping voice.

“You must do what you think best, Mr. Rollison, but it is a big mistake to think that there is anything here to shame us.” His hooded eyes blinked, and he rubbed his long, thin hands together. “And there is no other man here except us and one servant.” He paused, moistened his lips, kept rubbing his hands, and then asked thinly: “Tell me what it is you wish to find; I may be able to help you.”

“First, find me Chicot … Then the English girl,” said Rollison. “The girl named Myall.”

Morency blinked.

“There is no one here named Chicot,” he insisted, “no one at all. As for the girl Daphne—” He shrugged his narrow shoulders and wrung his Heep-like hands. Then he turned towards the door and muttered what sounded like an imprecation.

It opened, and Daphne Myall came in.

 

 

The thing that surprised Rollison, when the first shock was over, was her size. She was so tiny. She didn't lack anything in the way of a figure, for she was beautifully formed. In the flesh, she was lovelier than her photograph had suggested. She wore a strapless dinner-gown, leaving little to the imagination, yet it was not greatly different from many that might be seen in Mayfair.

Her fair hair was beautiful. If she poked her fingers through it a little more, it would be unruly; now, it was just right. It was really more golden than blond, and that showed even in the red lighting.

The lighting changed, to normal.

Daphne Myall looked at Rollison coldly. She had a tired look about her, the look of one who had just been woken out of a deep sleep; or perhaps, one who had been in a dark room or a cinema.

“Daphne, my dear,” said Dr. Morency, “I would like you to meet Mr. Richard Rollison.”

She hardly looked at Rollison. “Did you have to bring me out here?”

“Yes, I had to,” said Morency. “Mr. Rollison would like you to leave the house with him. He would like to take you back home.”

The sleepy look vanished, her eyes sparked, her tone was sharp; angry.

“Who the devil does he think he is?”

“As a matter of fact, my dear,” said Morency, “he has a very high opinion of himself, and I would like you to help to deflate him.”

Morency smiled; and so turned himself into a satyr.

“What is all this about?” the girl asked Rollison abruptly.

She was annoyed, she'd been discourteous, apparently she was puzzled. Yet there was something about her Rollison liked. Her voice was slightly husky, the product of a good school. She carried herself well. When one recovered from the shock of finding that she was so tiny, she was likely to grow on one.

“I had a job to do, for your mother and father,” Rollison said.

“Oh,
no!”

“Didn't you expect them to be worried about you?”

She looked at him steadily. She had big eyes shaded with mascara, and very blue; he remembered Myall's being as blue.

“No,” she said, deliberately, “I didn't expect them to care a damn about me. I don't think they do.”

“You're wrong, you know. Your mother—”

“I'm sorry,” Daphne Myall said firmly, “I don't want to hear any more about them. I made the break, and it is final. I don't think they were surprised; certainly my mother wasn't. I'm sorry if you've wasted your time, but there it is. Will you excuse me?”

She turned on her heel and went out. The door closed softly behind her.

The lights changed again, to a pale blue, and succeeded in making Dr. Morency look a most unhealthy creature, and in making Raoul look ill. He was grinning with that restrained savagery which characterised him.

“Satisfied?” he sneered. “There's your missing girl. That's how grateful she is to you for putting your nose into her business.”

“I noticed it,” murmured Rollison. “Little Girl Lost and she doesn't know it.”

In fact, he was on very dangerous, shifting ground. He had expected all kinds of things, but hadn't dreamed of this. Daphne seemed to be as free as she could be; a willing ‘prisoner'. She wasn't the first girl to have left home because she had quarrelled with her mother or felt stifled by the home atmosphere, and she wouldn't be the last. There was nothing to indicate that anything she had said had been under duress. Neither Rollison nor the police could make her leave.

“Now you can tell her parents that she is safe and well,” murmured Dr. Morency. “I am sure that in the circumstances there is nothing else you require here.”

“I can't wait to show you out,” Raoul said.

Rollison beamed at them.

“Oh, not yet; I want to look round. If you keep this up, I may be able to give you a reference as a home for Nice Young Ladies.”

The thing that worried him, and was likely to for a long time, was the way the ground had shifted from under him. If he'd seen Daphne Myall twenty-four hours before, he would have gone back to England and reported that there was nothing he could do. She'd been kept out of the way until then.

Now—

He began to smile.

They had cause for alarm; greater cause, now that he had called upon the police. They were frightened of what might happen if he and the police probed too far. He had come for Daphne Myall, and they had produced her, hoping that it would satisfy him, that he would have no further cause to probe.

Only desperate men would have done that. Probably their position was weaker than he had realised.

“There is nothing here that will interest you,” said Dr. Morency flatly.

“My interests are flung so far and wide,” said Rollison brightly, “you'd be surprised how many things they include.” He raised his eyebrows, for the lighting changed again, becoming red. “Don't you find this spotlighting a little trying?” He lit another cigarette. “Forgive the banality, but would you mind showing me where your cloakroom is? Ah—toilet.”

“Raoul, show Mr. Rollison,” said Dr. Morency. The lisping voice wasn't at all satyrish, nor was his tired manner. But it had to be remembered that Violette thought him more evil than Raoul. This old man!

Morency stood in the middle of the red-tinged room, washing his hands softly, as Raoul led Rollison along a narrow passage, round a corner, to a closed door. With exaggerated courtesy, Raoul opened the door. The toilet was large, faced with green tiles with a hand basin and towels, and with a ventilation grille, but no window.

“Exactly right,” said Rollison. “After you.” Rollison let his hand fall on to the Frenchman's wrist, and twisted; Raoul found himself propelled into the closet. It was easy because it was the last thing Raoul expected. He was still staggering when Rollison took the key out of the inside of the lock, closed the door, and locked it. He was at the door of the red-lit room when the first shout came, but the door, tightly sealed, kept it down to a subdued murmur.

Dr. Morency was just standing.

“Hallo, Doc,” said Rollison, and made the old man swing round. “Raoul's having a rest; I thought it would be nice to be alone. Do you mind taking me to the room where Daphne is?”

Morency gaped.

“Unless you'd rather I put you to sleep and foraged round for myself,” suggested Rollison. “That would take longer.” He took out the automatic which he had taken from Raoul, and put it back. “It would blow a big hole through you—like the hole in Sautot's hand. Where is poor Sautot, by the way?”

“He—he is away,” Morency choked. “His hand is so bad—Rollison, what do you want?”

“Chicot.”

“There is no one here named Chicot!”

“I'll make sure for myself,” said Rollison, and took the old man's arm. It seemed to be all bone and gristle. “What about his friend, the Comte de Vignolles?”

Morency winced:

“
That
criminal? That—” He didn't finish.

“Could thieves have fallen out, I wonder,” murmured the Toff. “But let's get a move on, I don't mind where we start.”

As in a dream, Morency led the way …

 

Fabulous was the word.

Each room had a different
motif;
each room had beauty of colour and line, and each that faintly corrupted atmosphere; it was impossible to say exactly why. The dining-room was long and narrow with a table which could seat a dozen on either side and one at each end and, unexpectedly, was in Louis Quinze style. The huge murals were of French Court scenes; not the most licentious kind, but quite licentious enough. Library, morning-rooms on the ground floor,
salons
and bedrooms on the floor above, were all very much the same. Comfort, luxury, beauty. Even the kitchens were modern to the last word, with chromium and coloured tiles. A staff of four, all women, were on duty there.

But Morency had not taken him to see Daphne Myall.

Morency talked …

“I do riot know why you have become so hostile, Mr. Rollison. I assure you that there is no need for it. We are not criminals. You saw Violette running away from here, but Violette—” He touched his forehead. “It was necessary to try to stop her from leaving. You understand? And of course we tried to get her back. Whoever is with her now will find out that she isn't quite sane; she will appear sane for a few hours or perhaps a few days, and then—”

He shrugged. “The truth will become apparent.”

“So you're just good, honest citizens,” said Rollison.

“In our way, Mr. Rollison, yes. You talk of violence—
we
are not responsible. Of attempts to poison you—
we
did not make them. Of Arabs who come to attack you—
we
employ no Arabs. It is all a big mistake.”

They were back in the Room of Devils. The lighting was white now; it had been for some time, the automatic switching system obviously wasn't working. Morency just looked a tired old man, with wrinkled skin and a raddled face, more disappointed lecher now than satyr.

“Where is Daphne?” asked Rollison sharply.

“Oh, she must have gone out; she may be swimming,” said Morency, spurred to a touch of impatience. “She is not kept here against her will.”

That was almost convincing.

He was standing in the same spot that he had when Rollison had first come in. He kept there, most of the time, in the middle of the room. He was near a chair, and occasionally he sat on the arm. Something about the way he seemed to be locked to the spot made Rollison look about him carefully.

“Come and see for yourself,” Dr. Morency invited.

He led the way to the wide loggia which overlooked the garden and, some distance off, the sea. The moon spread its softening light – and even softened the
gendarme
who sat on a stone seat, with a large bottle and a glass by his side; he appeared to be communing with the stars. As the two men appeared, he jumped up.

“Messieurs!”

“Has a young lady come out here?” asked Rollison.

“But yes,
m'sieu!”
One could tell from the tone of this man's voice that the young lady was really something. Dr. Morency let his hands slide together.
Sss-sss-sss.
Rollison strolled towards the end of the garden. Nearing the jetty, he heard a splash. He reminded himself that this was the path along which Violette had run, chased by Sautot, who had tried to shoot her and so prevent her from escaping.

He knew that everything Morency had said was a lie, but it wasn't going to be easy to prove.

For there was Daphne Myall.

She was climbing up wooden steps to the jetty, and didn't look at him. The moonlight glistened on her wet body. She wore a pink bathing-cap and a pink
bikini
– so natural in colour that at first she appeared to be stark naked. She went to the side of the jetty, poised on the edge, and dived in.

She made little sound.

“She is happy here,” declared Dr. Morency. “Everyone is happy here. Why do you persecute us, Mr. Rollison?”
Sss-sss-sss.

“Why did you kill the beggar, and why did you try to kill Violette?”

“I have said all that I can say,” declared Dr. Morency, “and shown you everything there is to show. I am sorry, there is nothing else that I can do.”

He turned and walked away. He didn't hurry. His hands swung loosely by his sides, and his narrow shoulders were hunched. His footsteps hardly sounded. The ripple of water as the girl whom Rollison had come to find swam back to the steps was the loudest sound. Not far off, the moon shimmered on the gently moving sea.

The girl climbed up again.

Morency had left him here to talk to her alone, as if he wanted to make it clear, without another word, that she was free to talk, to do exactly what she liked.

Rollison waited at the top of the steps. She climbed up, moving superbly. That inbred courtesy prevented her from pushing past him, as she obviously wanted to.

“Miss Myall,” Rollison said, “I would like to take a message back to your parents. What shall it be?”

She said slowly: “You can tell them that I am happier here than I have ever been. Much, much happier.”

Then she pointed downwards to the post at the top of the steps. He didn't guess why, but realised that there was a difference about her; a great tension. She moved to pass him, went close to the edge, and slipped.

“Steady!” he cried.

She grabbed his arm, to save herself, and he leaned back to take the strain. Out of the pulsing silence she whispered two words. He felt the warmth of the breath in his ear, and doubted whether he had heard aright.

“Fall in”
she whispered.
“Fall in.”

She toppled backwards, let go of his arm, and dropped. Water splashed up, drenching him.

He had to go in after her, or stand and watch. The second in which the decision had to be made dragged out for an age.

The gun would get wet, and the lighter. He—

He was swaying towards the water, as if off his balance, pretended to slip and went down feet first. As the water closed about him, he felt the clutch of fear.

If he drowned, Panneraude would never believe, but might have to accept the verdict:
“Accident.”