The Toff and the Deep Blue Sea (15 page)

His engine had stalled.

De Vignolles opened his mouth to say something excessively unpleasant; and closed it again. Two of the workmen had turned towards him and the Cadillac. A man suddenly appeared from the side of the road, and pulled open his door.

The chauffeur exclaimed:
“Nom d'un nom,
get away from here!”

Then he saw the gun in the other man's hand.

 

“You can't want to move more quickly than I do,” said Rollison earnestly. “Take off your hat and coat—and' hurry!”

The chauffeur gulped, and de Vignolles started to speak, but bit on the words. He looked dreadful. The chauffeur took off his hat and coat, and one of the ‘workmen' hurried towards him and put them on; the other forced the chauffeur to climb out.

Rollison got in next to de Vignolles.

“Drive on, my man,” said he grandiloquently; “you know our destination.” He turned to de Vignolles, and rested a hand lightly on his arm. “And don't you wish you did?”

De Vignolles was trembling violently.

Obviously he didn't like the knife in Rollison's hand.

 

 

At a lonely spot on the road between Nice and Cannes, they reached some cross-roads, and slowed down. De Vignolles had hardly uttered a word on the journey. Rollison glanced round at him, and saw that his face was almost colourless, that his eyes had the sick look which fear could give to a man.

Gérard had had the same kind of fear.

They drove towards the back of the towns, and turned off the main road. Soon the country was broken and untidy, and the grass was burned more yellow than green. A few fruit-trees looked listless in the sun. Big, circular haystacks cast huge shadows. Two oxen, pulling an ancient plough with a woman in a huge sun-bonnet behind it, plodded noisily through the sun-baked earth. Then they came to a hill and, on the other side, took another narrow lane which led to a small farmhouse.

A few chickens scratched; a pig grunted. Hanging on either side of the small doorway were three pairs of coloured
sabots.
Tobacco hung from the top of two barns, being cured in the sun. The farmyard smell was potent, and de Vignolles seemed to find his nostrils twitching without any command or effort of will.

The car turned through the open gateway and stopped in front of the house itself. It was narrow and tall, with plaster walls and a pink wash which hadn't been renewed for several years.

“Home again,” said Rollison brightly. “Quite a change, isn't it? Mind you step high when you get out; we didn't think to bring your valet.”

“Rollison—”

“Out,” said Rollison, and took his wrist. “Now.” He pulled, and de Vignolles grunted, then stepped out quickly. “De Vignolles,” went on Rollison in a hard voice, “you may be a Count. You may be a millionaire. You may have powerful friends.” He paused, and then pointed to a pig-stye, where a huge sow was grunting and muzzling. “Do you see that pig?”

De Vignolles licked his lips.

“I'd give tomorrow's bacon more consideration than you,” Rollison said, and he sounded as if he meant it. “The farm is owned by friends of mine. No one will hear any noise you make. You can scream from now until next Monday, and no one who matters will hear. Understand?”

“What is it—you want?”

“Chicot,” said Rollison. “Remember?”

He let de Vignolles go, and turned towards the open front door. Violette was just inside. He didn't see Fifi, although he knew that she was here somewhere. Violette gave him a lazy smile, and looked at de Vignolles as if he were something that crawled.

The room into which Rollison stepped was large and poorly lit. Some big old-fashioned chairs stood about, a large table with a red chenille table-cloth on it, a sofa, two big oil-lamps. The floor was bare, but looked as if it had been recently scrubbed.

De Vignoles was thrust in, behind Rollison. He had hardly spoken a word. His pallor was greater, and green-tinged, now. His lips moved, and his tongue showed before he closed his mouth.

Violette looked at him with that same supercilious expression when he glanced at her, as if imploring help.

In the large fireplace there was a wooden rocking-chair.

“Sit down,” said Rollison, and when he Vignolles hesitated, he took his wrists and thrust him into it. The chair rocked backwards alarmingly; de Vignolles thought that it was going to tip over. He panicked and tried to get up, fell back, cried out; and gave his head a sickening bang on the back of the chair.

The chair steadied.

“The few that are brave,” said Rollison bleakly. “Listen to me, de Vignolles. You're so scared of Chicot that you do what he tells you. You saw me because he told you to. You were to offer me a thousand pounds, and I was to tell you what I knew about Chicot.

“You probably want him dead.”

“You daren't let him or his men realise that you do. You daren't name him, but—you
will.
When I came to see you, you wanted to get help, and instructions. You could not telephone, so planned to see—
whom?
”

“No!” cried de Vignolles.

“Ask him first,” said Fifi from a doorway, “is Simon dead or alive?”

 

She moved towards the Frenchman. Her hands were empty, and her arms hung by her side. Her little plump body looked shrunken in a blue overall. Her hair was still untidy, and she hadn't put on any lipstick or rouge. The deadliness which terrified the Frenchman was in her eyes. Rollison saw it, and knew that if ever a woman stepped towards him as she was moving towards de Vignolles, he would also feel afraid.

De Vignolles tried to get up. The chair rocked. He licked his lips again, grabbed the arms as if to steady himself, but only made it move more rapidly.

“Is he alive or dead?” asked Fifi very softly.

“I do not know!” de Vignolles sobbed. “That I swear to you.”

“If he is dead,” Fifi said, “I shall kill you, M. le Comte.” The sneer in the way she uttered that title must have made the Frenchman writhe. “Where is Simon?”

“He—I do not know!”

“Where is he?”

“If you know you'd better talk,” Rollison advised. “Fifi really wants to know. She was in the Resistance during the war, and learned a lot of tricks, especially on how to use scissors. You wouldn't want that kind of face-lifting, would you?”

“Keep her away!”
screeched de Vignolles.

“I
could
use a whip,” Rollison said musingly. There was one hanging by the fireplace, a bullock's whip with several knotted ends to the leather thongs. He went towards it. “A very pretty thing. Who is Chicot?”

“I do not know!”

Fifi stood watching, but Violette had turned away, and was looking out of the window. No one stirred outside, except the old sow, which kept grunting and pushing against the rotting fence which surrounded her. Chickens scratched. The men who had come with Rollison Were at the back of the farm, out of sight and hearing.

Rollison had a strange feeling.

It was nearly over; this man would crack very soon. He must have been living on fear for months; perhaps for years. His bluster and his arrogance had been built on the shifting sands of fear, and they were crumbling fast. His hands would not keep still.

He almost squealed.

“I do not know Chicot, but I know what he does. Please take that woman away. I will tell you all I can.”

“Hurry, and never mind the woman.”

De Vignolles gulped.

“Years ago I—I killed a man, an accident, you under stand, but Chicot found out. I had—I had known his sister, he—”

“We know, you can skip that,” Rollison said.

The man's face worked.

“So, Chicot blackmailed me, for many years. Then he went away, I became rich—until he returned. I had the
Baccarat,
much money, everything and—Chicot began again. I was to have—to have some girls come to the
Baccarat,
made drunk, and—and go to the Villa with certain men. You understand? Afterwards, I did not see them again. That—
that is all I know
!”

Rollison said stonily: “Who is Chicot?”

“I swear I do not know!”

“What happens to the girls?”

“How can I tell?”

“Must I use the whip?”

“I do not know Chicot,” babbled de Vignolles, “but I am told he will be at the Villa Seblec tonight. I am to see him there, but he will be disguised. And—and more things, I can tell you. I have threatened to tell the police, to confess all; and what does he say? If the Villa is raided, if the police go, then there will be a great explosion!” His eyes looked wild; glaring. “I do not lie to you. The girls are hidden deep in the cliff, and there is a powerful charge of dynamite under the place. They will be buried, no one will know how it happened. Already there are some pieces of an old bomb on the cliff; it will look like the explosion of a bomb dropped years ago by a crippled aircraft. Believe me, they will all be killed. That is how Chicot plans.”

De Vignolles stopped, and silence followed. It lasted, heavy and menacing, for a long time. Then Rollison said slowly: “Where is the dynamite?”

A sharp, explosive sound outside cut across his words. It made him break off, made the others turn swiftly, even the Frenchman looked towards the window.

Fifi cried out.

Rollison saw one of Papa Mulle's men fall full length in the muck of the yard.

A small, brown-clad, brown-skinned man appeared at the doorway, knife in hand.

The knife flashed.

De Vignolles's scream was cut off when the blade entered his chest.

 

 

The rocking-chair went to and fro, to and fro, while the echoes of the scream faded; the rockers of the chair scraped a little on the stone floor. The blade was buried in de Vignolles' breast, on the left side; a little of the steel showed. His hands were cupped close to the handle, but did not touch it. His mouth was wide open.

The brown-skinned man moved from the doorway, swift as a flash of light.

Rollison moved after him, and saw one of Papa Mulle's friends running. Rollison stopped, and swung round. Even if they caught the Arab there was no certainty that he could talk to help them. Somewhere under the cliff near the Villa Seblec were those helpless girls; and de Vignolles knew about them, and might know how to get them out.

Fifi was standing close to the Count, one hand raised, as if she could not believe that this had happened.

Violette was saying: “What can we do for him? What can we
do.”

“Get water, towels. Hurry!” Fifi suddenly became a moving bundle, and swung round.

In fact, there wasn't a thing they could do.

Rollison knew, and de Vignolles knew. For the first time since they had met they eyed each other as equals, and without any measure of pretence. The expression in de Vignolles's eyes was different. He was not afraid. That was the startling thing: the fear had gone.

His lips moved.

“Get me—a priest,” he whispered. “As you are a man, send for a priest.”

Rollison said quietly: “Violette, talk to the men, find out where the nearest priest is, and send for him. Or go and fetch him. Hurry, please.”

The girl looked at de Vignolles with a strange expression, then turned and hurried out of the shadowy room. Fifi was in the wash-house, next door. Rollison and this man were alone together, and Rollison knew that there was little time left. Minutes? He couldn't be sure. There was not much bleeding, but if that blade were withdrawn, blood might flow swiftly. Now it was internal. If he pulled the blade out, then the bleeding might kill de Vignolles on the instant.

The Frenchman lowered his hands, very slowly.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“She will hurry,” Rollison said. “Do you know who Chicot is?”

“I—I do not know. I am—am given orders by Morency. Twice—twice I have seen Chicot, always in disguise—as Mephisto, you understand, as—Mephisto.”

“Are
there girl prisoners at the Villa Seblec?”

“Yes.” The tone of de Vignolles's voice was so weak that Rollison could hardly hear. His lips moved slowly, painfully. “Yes, there are—prisoners. Young—women. In the cliff, behind—the Villa. But—”

He gave a funny little cough.

Fifi came in, carrying a bowl of water which slopped over the side, and a towel draped on her arm. She missed a step. Rollison did not look round at her, but felt sure that she had realised that no ministrations could help to save the dying man.

De Vignolles's eyes closed, his lips moved as if he were trying to drink. Fifi seized a glass, filled it with water, and put it to his lips. Her hands were shaky.

“A spoon,” said Rollison quietly.

She hurried off to get one.

De Vignolles opened his eyes, waveringly. The light seemed to hurt them. He moved his right hand, and Rollison put out his own, to take the Frenchman's; already the flesh felt cold.

“Do not take—police,” de Vignolles said. “If the police go, they will—be—” He gulped, opened his mouth again, made that strange, haunting little noise. Fifi, close at hand, put a spoon of water to his lips. He felt that it was there, the tip of his tongue showed for a moment, seeking the moisture. “Be—blown up,” he went on. “Buried alive, in—in the cliff. Do not raid—do not attempt to—to rescue them by—”

He stopped again.

This time he did not notice when the spoonful of water was close to his lips. It was a long time before he tried to speak; then the words came as a whisper.

“Do not use force,” he said; “do not use force.”

He fell silent, and then moved spasmodically, gripped Rollison's hands with startling strength, and cried: “Father! Father!”

Outside, there were no sounds.

Inside, there was only Fifi's heavy breathing.

“Is he—is he dead?” she asked, in a hushed voice.

“Not quite dead,” Rollison said. He shifted his position, and in doing so made the rocking-chair move. It looked ludicrous; a big, handsome man sitting there with the blade of the knife protruding from his chest, rocking to and fro, to and fro, with his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open.

But he was breathing.

He was still breathing, although each breath was very shallow, when Violette returned with the priest from a nearby village.

 

Papa Mulle's men had caught the Arab, a lithe, brown, frightened man with jet-black eyes, nervous movements, and hands which wouldn't keep still. He did not speak English, but his French was as fluent as a native of France, and he was eager to talk.

He had been told to kill de Vignolles, he said, and had seen him in the car. So he followed the tyre-tracks here, and carried out his orders.

Why?

He was employed to carry out such orders, by men whose names he did not know. He stayed at a small house near the Villa Seblec. He sometimes served on board a ship; the ship sometimes carried white girls to Algiers—

He swore that he knew nothing of the Villa Seblec, or the hiding-place under the cliff.

“Did anyone else at the Villa Seblec know of this farm?”

“No. I was alone,” he said.

“What shall we do with him?” Mulle's men asked.

“For the time being, leave him here,” said Rollison. He turned to Fifi. “I'm going into Nice. Will you stay here or come with me? I think you'd be safer here, and certainly I'd be happier.”

“Is there something I can do to help in Nice?”

“No,” Rollison assured her, “nothing at all, Fifi.”

She shrugged, and agreed to stay. She seemed very lonely, and more than a little frightened. The death of de Vignolles had shocked her; in fact, death itself had shocked her. She was without her Simon, and did not know what to do. Rollison, studying her, wondered what she would feel like if Simon were to die; if he
were
to be blown up.

Would that happen?

Would a dying man lie?

Rollison didn't know the answer, but he doubted it. Faced with death, de Vignolles had almost certainly told the truth. Somewhere inside the cliff, behind or near the Villa Seblec, there was the hiding-place where the girls were held.

If the police raided the Villa, or if anyone raided it in force, there was grave risk of that explosion, of them being buried alive.

Face it.

“What is there that I can do?” Violette asked.

Rollison looked at her, broodingly.

“You can come with me to Nice,” he said, and added very quietly: “And I may ask you to give yourself up at the Villa Seblec. That's one way that we might be able to save the others.”

Violette simply shrugged.

 

Rollison drove back to Nice.

He did not know the way, but all signposts, even those at tiny crossroads, pointed to the town.

Violette sat silent.

Rollison kept turning over the possibilities in his mind, and glanced at her occasionally, wondered what she was thinking. She had that strange, aloof courage, a kind of fatalism. She was prepared to die, and had been sure for some time that she would die soon.

So, she would take any risk.

He did not have to take risks with her, but – there were the others. Little Daphne Myall, and others like her; and Simon. He tried to make himself feel sure that Simon was in the same desperate plight, but at heart he wasn't sure.

Did Fifi suspect that Simon had betrayed him?

He said roughly: “Violette.”

“Yes?”

“I don't know if I made it clear. The girls are in that chamber somewhere in the hillside. If the Villa is raided, it'll be blown up and the girls will be buried alive. So the Villa mustn't be raided by force. You and I have to manage this between us.”

“Why not?” she said.

“It's a big risk for us both. But if you let them catch you and take you back, you can keep them busy while I come along. Will you take a chance?”

“I have told you that I will,” she said. “But how can I allow them to catch me, without showing that it is a trick?”

“We'll find a way,” said Rollison. “Go to the Cafe Lippe, which Chicot's men will be watching. I'll come for you there or send a message.” His foot stabbed down on the accelerator. “And I'll get you out of the jam,” he promised.

Just words?

 

“Well, if that is the case, then I believe you,” Panneraude said. He was in his office, unshaven, tired. “The Count was dying?” He shrugged. “Then he did not lie. So, what do I arrange? First, to send two men to the Cafe Lippe, to inquire for Violette Monet. That is easy. Then, to have her followed, but not caught. Good. And then—” He looked down at some notes he had made on a pad. “Some men at sea, in dinghies, close to the jetty at the Villa Seblec. When you give the signal, we shall raid. Is that right?”

Rollison said: “It's exactly right.”

“I still think that I shall be sending a sad message to your friends at Scotland Yard,” said Panneraude, “but this we shall have to try. What signal will you give?”

“A whistle,” Rollison said. He put his fingers to his lips, and drew a deep breath, but before he could utter a sound, Panneraude was on his feet. “Enough! One, two, three?”

“One ought to be quite enough,” said Rollison very grimly.