The Toff and the Deep Blue Sea (16 page)

 

The water was warm.

Rollison swam steadily towards the jetty of the Villa Seblec. He had a waterproof bag fastened round his waist, with the oddments of clothing and the gun and the knife he knew he would need. He made hardly a sound. He knew that the police dinghies were as close inshore as they dared come; it was a moonlight night, and if they came too close, they might be seen.

He reached the jetty.

Had the police raided the Villa from here they would have talked among themselves, and the sounds would have been heard over the loud-speaker system inside. That would have given Morency and the others all the warning they needed.

He would make no sound; he must make none.

He climbed up the steps.

He crouched low, moved along the jetty, and found the first path of shade, behind a clump of bougainvillea. He rubbed himself down quickly, then slid into shorts and a pair of rubber-soled shoes. The small automatic was in the pocket of the shorts, and a sheathed knife was fastened inside the waist-band.

He moved cautiously until he could see the back of the Villa and the narrow road which led from it. Two or three cars passed along the main road; their headlights appeared and as quickly disappeared.

Another car approached from Nice.

He heard it change gear, and a few seconds later knew that it was coming along the private road. He kept in the shadows of the walls. The front of the house was floodlit, but not the back or sides.

The car pulled up.

He heard the mutter of voices, then the sounds of men getting out of the car; then a rough curse, and: “Make her come.”

There was a pause: men grunted: then in the dim light, Rollison saw Violette dragged out of the car. He watched as they pushed her towards the back door. One of them opened it with a key, the other pushed her inside.

“I shall put the car away,” the second man said.

“Yes. Hurry.”

The man who had opened the door turned round. Violette was out of sight, with the second man. Rollison moved swiftly, to the side of the car. The man got in, reversed, and then swung into the garage, which took four cars. He did not give a thought to danger.

Rollison was waiting at the end of the garage. The man came, whistling. Rollison let him pass, then shot out a hand and clutched his neck.

The cry was strangled on the night air. The man kicked, struggled, and fell silent.

Rollison dragged him into the garage, tied him up with a length of cord from his pocket, stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth. Then he went to the house.

The door wasn't locked.

There would be microphones here and elsewhere; he dared not make a sound. The lights were on. He heard no noise at all, but knew that the women servants were almost certainly in the kitchen. The tour he had made the previous night helped greatly now. He slipped past the kitchen door. A radio was tuned in to dance-music, which came softly. There was no sign or sound of the man, or of Violette.

Rollison went towards the room of satyrs. He saw that a door was open, and white light came through. He drew nearer, making no sound.

Raoul was saying: “I'll make her talk.”

That was all.

Rollison went nearer still, but couldn't see inside. He was near enough to hear the
sss-sss-sss
of Morency's hands. He didn't think about that; he didn't really think about Violette at that moment. There were the other girls, not far from here; and at the touch of a switch they could be buried alive, buried without trace.

And Simon?

Morency said: “Didn't your fine friend Rollison save you from the police, after all?”

“I was to meet him at the Cafe Lippe,” she said. “He did not come, the police came instead.” She sounded as if she were frightened beyond all words. “Don't—don't hurt me again, please don't hurt me.”

“We shall hurt you again,” Raoul said, “whenever you tell us a lie. What happened at the farm this afternoon? Did de Vignolles die?”

She caught her breath.

“Yes.”

Rollison heard a movement, followed by another gasp. He couldn't see but could guess what had happened; Raoul had snatched at her wrist. The brute in the youth would always be close to the surface.

“Did de Vignolles talk first?”

“No!”

“Tell me the truth. Did he talk?”

“Not”

“Did he name Chicot?”

“Please let me go, let me go,” she sobbed; and Rollison knew that nothing would have persuaded her to beg like that except the fact that she was trying to help him; and to help the others. So she sank her pride. “Please let me go!”

“Did de Vignolles name Chicot?”

“No!”
she screamed. “He said he did not know who he was!”

“Wait one moment, Raoul,” said Morency. “Let me see whether a little hot tobacco will persuade her to tell the truth. Violette, my dear, did the late lamented Count tell Rollison—”

“He was killed, he didn't say a word!” Violette cried.

“I wonder if we can believe her,” murmured Morency. “Perhaps we had better assume that she is telling the truth, for the time being. Chicot will soon be here, and he would like to question her himself, I'm sure. Don't you think so, Violette? Don't you look forward to seeing Chicot again?”

“No,” she gasped. “No, not Chicot; he—”

“The wages of treachery are pain and fear, my dear,” said Morency. “Raoul, take Violette along to the
salon.”
He gave a little giggle. “The small
salon;
she isn't to mix with the others, yet.”

There was a moment's pause, before Violette exclaimed, as if in a fresh access of fear. Rollison went closer to the door. He peered in, and saw the hole appearing in the floor. It was at the spot where Morency had stood for so long the previous night – a large, rectangular hole.

Raoul and the other man pushed Violette towards it. She stepped down on to steps which were invisible to Rollison. One after the other, they disappeared. Morency looked at the hole, and Rollison saw it gradually closing; a panel slid into position, and blotted it right out.

There was only one faint sound now.
Sss-sss-sss.

Rollison moistened his lips as he went forward. He opened the door wider. Morency was standing and looking at one of the little statuettes – and might almost have been looking at his own image. His back was towards Rollison. Rollison stepped right into the room. Perhaps there was a button to push, a way in which Morency could warn the others if the alarm were raised too quickly.

Two yards separated them.

Morency turned slowly

Rollison moved, hands shooting out. There was time for Morency to open his mouth, but none for him to shout. Rollison's fingers closed round his neck. He writhed for a moment, his eyes seemed to pop out of his head, but no sound came.

Then Rollison gradually slackened his hold. Morency gasped, and turned his head from side to side, tried to cringe away. Rollison held him by one arm; and all the fear that Violette had had of Raoul was nothing to the fear which this old man had of Rollison.

Any man, looking upon Rollison then, would have understood his terror.

“No,” muttered Morency. “No, don't kill me; don't kill me, I beg you!”

Rollison said: “I'll break your bones one by one, Morency, if you don't tell me where the girls are, and where the detonating switch is. Tell me—now.”

Morency was shivering, with the fear of death very close. Sweat smeared his forehead in glistening globules, and his mouth would not keep steady. He tried to point with his free arm, towards the spot where the hole in the floor had been.

“You go—you go down there. Walk—walk for twenty metres or more, and—and you come to a door. This—this door will open if you touch the black mark at—at one side. It is there for anyone to see, just a small black mark. Inside there will be—there will be Raoul and—and Violette. In the next rooms, all the others.”

“I am telling you the truth I” Morency suddenly screamed.

“Part of the truth. Where is the switch?”

“I—I do not know, I—”

“Morency,” said Rollison very softly, “you won't save your life by pretending ignorance. I'll kill you now, if you don't tell me where that switch is.”

No one could have doubted that he meant exactly what he said.

Morency whispered. “It is—it is above the doorway below—below there. Look.” He moved towards one of the statues. His left hand went out. Rollison gritted his teeth, knowing that the man might be trying to fool him, that whatever he was going to do might be deadly. Morency trembled so violently that he looked as if he were going to collapse.

He touched the cloven hoof of a statuette.

There was a moment of silence; then a soft, sliding noise. The hole appeared in the floor. Morency went towards it, his feet tapping on the floor itself. He pointed. Rollison, crouching, could see the steps which led towards a doorway, and, above the doorway, a switch. It was so very ordinary; just an electric-light switch set in a plastic surround, and above the door.

“That is it,” breathed Morency.

“Is there another?”

“No! No, I swear—”

He didn't finish; it wasn't necessary for him to say another word. Rollison felt certain that he was telling the truth.

The switch was within reach. He could dismantle it. He could make quite sure that the horror which Morency, Raoul and the still unknown Chicot were prepared to bring upon the girls below the cliffs need never happen. First, deal with Morency, then find tools, then—

He turned swiftly upon Morency.

The terror which leapt into the little man's eyes almost called for pity. He feared just one thing: death. Rollison did not plan to kill him; there was no need. He snapped a clenched fist at Morency's chin, felt the jolt, saw the head go back, and the eyes roll. It was swift, decisive, sufficient. He stopped Morency from falling. He would be out for several minutes, time to bind him hand and foot, make sure that when he came round he could do no harm.

There were the servants, too.

And little time.

Rollison lowered Morency to the floor, and turned towards the door; and stopped.

Hope oozed out of him.

He had not heard a sound. Nothing had warned him, nothing given him the slightest cause for alarm. But a man stood there. He knew, at that first startled, bewildering glimpse, that this was Chicot. He
knew.
Here was the man who had organised all this, the man who could plan with utter ruthlessness, who could kill, and warp, and hate.

And he, the Toff, knew this man as a friend.

 

It was not Leclair.

It was Rambeau, the Night Club King, the man whose help he had sought when he had first planned to visit Nice.

Rambeau,
alias
Chicot, stood there smiling; and the gun in his right hand fed the smile with menace.

 

 

Rambeau's smile broadened, very slowly.

He was rather a stocky man with broad shoulders and a broad face, but ordinary enough. There was just a hint of rugged handsomeness about him, and a hint of recklessness in his expression. He looked very sure of himself, and he had good cause to be.

The Toff did not move.

“My dear friend Rollison,” Rambeau said, “you have done very well to get so far. I was afraid that you would; that is why I came so quickly. I decided that it was wise to make quite sure that no one who can connect me with Chicot could talk about it to the police.” He spread his one free hand, but didn't move the gun. “I am sure you understand that it would be most unfortunate. Much better that this phase in my activities should end now, don't you agree?” His smile became almost gay. “It has worked very well; I am an extremely rich man. In future I shall be able to give the very best in my clubs, the supreme artistes of Europe. And America; yes, why not America? And you, my friend—you did not guess. Something your servant said made me think that you did; that is why I hurried, why I sent orders to kill you. But you are so utterly surprised, you could not have suspected me for one moment.”

The Toff said: “No, Chicot, I didn't.”

“Always so truthful,” marvelled Rambeau. “That is one of the things that I admire so much in you. Truthfulness and good looks, eh? And good luck! But eventually the good luck has to come to an end.”

“What did Jolly say?” asked Rollison steadily. “What made you think I knew?”

“He said that he was sure that you were on the point of success.”

Rollison winced.

Yes, Jolly had told him he had said that, to Rambeau – to
Chicot.
No irony could be greater, none could hurt more.

“So—” Rambeau shrugged. “I fly here, and find out what is happening. It is decided to create another Chicot, to have someone whom de Vignolles and others can blame as the villain. I was to tell de Vignolles to name him. Who, do you ask?”

He was grinning.

“Who but your old friend Simon Leclair,” he went on, very smoothly. “So, he is framed. But he is a friend of yours; perhaps you confided in him. So—poor, poor Simon. And—poor Toff!”

He spread that hand again, palm downwards, and kept the gun absolutely still and menacing in his other hand.

“It is a great pity, Rollison. I could have finished this task and gone away, and met you again without you suspecting the truth. You could have lived. Now you will have to go, like the others. Just one little touch of a switch. You—the girls—Raoul, of course, Raoul is down there, I think—and of course, Morency. Simon Leclair, also. Everyone who knows or might know me as Rambeau. You think I am ruthless?”

“Ruthless,” murmured the Toff, “is just one word.”

“It is good enough,” said Rambeau. “But of course I am ruthless; one gets nowhere in this world without that. When I was just an honest man, producing night-club shows, what did I get? Pretty, empty-headed girls with their tantrums, imbeciles who got drunk on champagne and had to be thrown out of the
boites de nuit,
and worry, worry, worry. Never enough money. So, what did I do? I persuaded one of the pretty girls, one who was not a fool, to work on a wealthy old man. She won a fortune from him. Did he report her to the police? Of course not; he was afraid that his wife would find out. So, it all began.”

Rollison said slowly: “All right, Rambeau. I can guess what happened next, and how it grew. I can understand why you'll have to kill me, too. But the girls—”

“Those who are hidden here could send me to prison for life, and could ruin all I have done. They were to have been on the way to Algiers soon—some also for the Far East, some for South America. But now—” Rambeau shrugged, and the gun moved, but it did not give the Toff any chance to leap. “It is necessary to wish them all a sad farewell, my friend. I have never killed for the sake of it, but this is necessary. My men have been careless enough to kill, but—”

“Did Violette know your real name?” Rollison asked.

“No, Toff. But one glimpse of me as Rambeau, and she would have known; so she would always be a danger. You have a soft spot for Violette?”

“Don't kill her,” Rollison said quietly. “Don't kill any of them.”

“Oh, there are plenty of other attractive girls,” Rambeau said carelessly. “The sad part is that there is only one Toff. Go down those stairs, please, backwards. I shall cover you all the time. I shall shoot if you show any sign of trying to attack me.” He stopped smiling. “At once, please.”

The Toff said softly: “No, Chicot. If you kill me, you'll kill me up here. Then the police will come, and the hunt will be up. It doesn't matter what you do, you're finished. Better not have any more murders on your conscience.”

Chicot said: “But I have no conscience. If you do not go down those stairs, I shall shoot you where it will cause you a lot of pain.” The muzzle of the gun altered its direction, pointing towards Rollison's stomach. “I can satisfy the police. Don't make me hurt you; do what I say.”

The Toff stood absolutely still.

There might be a chance, but it was slim; so slim that he did not think that he had a chance to live. There was no real hope for him, but there might be hope for the girls. If he could keep Rambeau away from the switch just long enough for the police to arrive.

So he began to smile.

He saw the puzzlement creep into Rambeau's eyes. He knew that Rambeau felt absolutely sure of himself, but yet could not understand this. He placed the first two fingers of his right hand into his mouth, and kept his left hand raised.

He pulled down his lower lip—

He let forth a whistle, so loud, so piercing, that it made Rambeau wince, and shook him off his guard.

Rollison whistled again.

The sound would travel out of this room, through the garden, over the jetty and the sea, and to the waiting police. They would come racing.

As the second whistle came, Rollison swung round and leapt for the hole in the floor. He heard a shout, then the snap of a shot from Rambeau's gun. He felt a sharp, stabbing pain of a bullet in his side, just below the ribs. He reached the top of the steps, gritting his teeth and preparing to jump. If he knew how to close that hatch from below he might yet have a chance.

A shot roared.

Another came, and he felt nothing.

He couldn't jump, the pain in his side was too great. He felt the warmth of his own blood as it oozed out. He expected another bullet in the back or in the head, but didn't feel it. He started down the stairs, then heard another shot, then two more in quick succession, and realised what he hadn't known before.

The shots were coming from different guns,
and were not at him.

He was half-way down the steps. He turned, slowly, as pain streaked through his side. He saw Rambeau collapsing, the gun dropping from his hand. In the doorway, water dripping from his body, which was naked but for a pair of blue swimming-trunks, was Panneraude, who held a smoking gun in his right hand.

Out in the dark night, police whistles were shrilling and men were shouting.

“Two men could come here, unheard, if one could do so,” declared Panneraude, and his teeth flashed in a delighted smile. “I heard all, my friend, and—”

Rollison hardly heard anything that he said. He saw the change in the Frenchman's expression. Panneraude stopped talking, and jumped towards him. Rollison felt wicked pain. Panneraude seemed to be going round and round. Rambeau was still and silent on the floor, and yet also seemed to be moving. The steps were whirling. The ceiling, the satyrs, Morency, everything was going round and round.

Rollison fell off the steps, losing his balance as unconsciousness swept over him.

He did not know what followed.

He was not there when the girls were brought from the
salon
beneath the cliffs; or when Raoul was brought out, with two other men, by the police; or when Simon Leclair was found, locked in a small room.

Nor was he there when the detonator was taken to pieces and the charge which would have killed a dozen or more people was made harmless.

Instead, he was in hospital.

 

“The wound, is it serious?” Simon Leclair demanded. He was looking at Panneraude, hands clenched as if he would strike the policeman. “Answer at once: is it serious?”

Violette was staring tensely, too.

Panneraude had just put down the telephone, after talking to the hospital.

“No,” he said, “it is not serious. In a week, or two at the most, he will be walking again. It will be longer than that before he can swim so much or race about, but even that one must rest sometimes.” He chuckled. “Now, please, we have work to do, inquiries to make. Understand, the police are not ogres.” He looked round at the little statuettes, and shuddered. “And not devils. Much that has been done has been under threat from Rambeau, who called himself Chicot. That applies to you, Mam'selle Monet, and to the other young ladies. I do not think you have great cause to worry.”

Violette did not say a word.

Simon Leclair put a hand on her shoulder.

 

In London, at Rollison's Mayfair fiat, Jolly put down the telephone after a call had come through from Nice. He was smiling, and his brown eyes glowed. He did not know everything, but he knew a great deal. The important thing was that Rollison would be back before long. Perhaps one day he would meet his match, and lose and die; but not this time, thank God; not yet.

 

Rollison sat up in bed, and stared out of his window over the deep blue sea. He saw a small white sailing-yacht stealing gently out of sight, and then a motor launch which might have been the
Maria
or the
Nuit Verte.
He heard the odd sounds of the street and the beach, and then a tap at the door.

“Come in,” he called.

It was ten days since he had been shot. He felt lazy. His side was stiff, and the wound had been rather worse than the doctors had at first thought. It was all very trying. But when he saw the tow-like red hair of Simon Leclair, he grinned. The hair, surrounding the bald patch, arrived first. Simon advanced into the room behind it, bent almost double, and then looked up and gave that inimitable wink.

“Stand up,” said Rollison; “you've won your applause, and I've laughed.”

“Laughter,” announced Simon, “feeds the gods. But friend!” He struck an attitude, opening his mouth wide, raising his hands, long fingers poking towards the ceiling. “You have lost the handsome tan, you are so pale. What is needed for you is the sunny south coast of old England, no?”

“I am as patriotic as the next man,” said Rollison, “but no.”

“So.” Simon sat down. He drew up his bony knees and let his long chin rest upon them. “You know everything?” he inquired.

“Nearly everything,” admitted Rollison modestly. “You tell me the rest.”

Simon said soberly: “I have made the inquiries of policeman Panneraude, who is not bad for a policeman, and Violette and” – he shrugged his shoulders and that seemed to shrug his knees and his chin.
“Les
girls. Nothing will be done with them, friend Toff. They acted under the pressure, wasn't it? The police decide, no cases. Plenty of money is found at the Villa, and will be refunded to the poor old men who were made the fools of. I am tempted to declare,” said Simon, “that they were served the rights.”

Rollison neither agreed nor disagreed with this sentiment or grammar.

“So Violette returns to the fond papa. She is,” declared Simon, “a much nicer girl than I believed at first. Just the mistakes, that is all. I 'ope she finds a nice man and he marries her. You,” he added, opening one eye very wide, “do not consider marriage. Yes?”

“No.”

“It is Fifi,” declared Simon. “Matchmaker the incorrectible.”

Rollison allowed that to pass, also.

“I was a prisoner, without hope. Thank you,” added Simon simply, “for the rescue.”

“Thank Violette,” murmured Rollison.

“A little Violette, a big Toff.” Simon hugged himself tightly. “More things? Gérard is killed in my apartment to make it look like I kill him. Arsenic is planted to make it look I kill you. I am the scrapegoat. A peculiar thing comes next,” went on Simon, and wrinkled his nose. “Two of those bad men they employ kill Gérard but leave Violette, because Chicot wants her alive. So, Violette lives to fight another day. I now decide,” declared Simon, “that I like that girl very much.”

“Don't like her too much,” advised the Toff. “Fifi might not approve.”

“Oh, one thing is one thing, the other the other,” said Simon, with fine exactitude. He waved one hand, dismissing such problems. “Next, please, is the statement made by the Arabs about the poor little maid, Suzanne. The brown boys come to search your room, she finds them, she is going to run for help. So. Very wicked men, all these,” Simon declared, and gave the convulsive shrug again. “Like Ram-beau. He is the son of the first Chicot, you understand, a bad one. It began because of de Vignolles being a
roué.
Chicot, who loved his sister, had the hatred for rich people, and enjoys to make all of them suffer.

“Right?”

“Grammatically, yes.”

“My English improves all the days,” boasted Simon proudly. “Some other things. The man Gaston, that beggar who you employ, he is killed. That was Sautot.”

“So that was Sautot,” echoed Rollison slowly. “Gaston had the photograph of a little girl in his pocket. I would like to find her, and—”

“She is found,” Simon said simply. “His child, yes, whom he placed with a poor family, and for whom he paid all he could. But you need not worry, friend. Fifi and I, we have no children. This child is a nice one. So—”