The Toff and the Deep Blue Sea Read online

  His gaze fell upon Rollison.

  He looked hard at Rollison, smiled faintly, and came towards him. He was tall, elegantly dressed in a dinner-jacket of a deep purple colour, and smoked a cigarette in a long holder. He was the Frenchman of half a century ago, and unquestionably he had something. Vitality? Personality? Whatever it was, no one could mistake it.

  He stopped a yard from Rollison. Alphonse did something which Rollison had never known him do before: he bowed low, and spread his hands.

  “M. le Comte,” he murmured, “what is your pleasure?”

  M. le Comte de Vignolles ignored him, and smiled at Rollison.

  “I think we are to dine together,” he said. “You will know me as M. Blanc.”

  “M. Blanc” breathed Alphonse.

  Chapter Fourteen

  M. Le Comte De Vignolles

  They went straight into dinner.

  It was like being with royalty. Alphonse and two myrmidons went as far as the door of the cocktail bar; Alphonse and two minor waiters went as far as the dining-room. There, the ceremony of recognition and welcome took place with complete disregard of the fact that at least eight people were waiting for attention from the head waiter. This was Jules, with waxed moustaches and a small waxed beard, for the San Roman believed in giving its clients all the atmosphere it could. Jules bowed very low indeed. Two other waiters, his chief deputies, stood by, just slightly relaxed from attention. Two lesser men stood waiting upon them. The guests who were waiting were so taken by this performance that no one appeared to be even slightly impatient.

  M. le Comte de Vignolles not only looked and acted the part of a prince; he seemed to live it. There was the proper carelessness in his manner, as he leant an ear to the platitudinous courtesies of the head waiter, a kind of half-hearted attention, as if he knew that he must be polite but really, it was so wearying. He took it all for granted, and for a few seconds he seemed to forget that the Toff was there.

  The Toff walked meekly by his side.

  The best table in the room was laid for four people. A reserved ticket was on it, but was whisked away by one of the underlings. It was near the terrace, overlooking the promenade gay with fairy-lights, near enough to hear but not too close to the patient orchestra; and a space was cleared, so there were no tables or people to obstruct the view.

  Chairs were drawn back in readiness …

  A stir of movement switched attention towards the other end of the huge dining-room. It was the head chef, complete with white stove-pipe hat, his apron stained with juices, followed by three members of his staff …

  After fifteen minutes, during which the venerable wine waiter was also brought into the conference, the acolytes withdrew. During the whole performance, Rollison’s opinion had been invited and even considered, but as often as not rejected. It was done with utmost suavity. He was not left out, but M. le Comte made it quite clear that he was not of very great importance; that was the one mistake he made.

  He attempted to put it right with a broad smile.

  “Now, M. Rollison, we can enjoy each other’s company! I would have invited you to my home, where there would be less formality, but I was persuaded that you were not likely to accept the invitation.”

  “From M. le Comte de Vignolles, yes,” said Rollison mildly. “From M. Blanc, the friend of M. Chicot—”

  “My joke,” declared M. le Comte genially. “Sometimes, when I am incognito, I use the name. You like it?”

  “The name’s all right, but I don’t like the company you keep,” said Rollison. “The M. Chicot I know about has a shocking reputation.” He looked into M. le Comte’s mocking eyes, and decided that he did not greatly like this exquisite who had made himself such a reputation. He did not like being made a fool of either, and de Vignolles was trying to do exactly that. “Perhaps you’ve chosen a dangerous friend, M. le Comte.”

  “Oh, a little danger,” said de Vignolles carelessly. “Would you have the world without any? M, Rollison, I was very anxious to have a talk with you, and I think this is the best way. From now on you will be held in very high esteem by everyone who matters in Nice. This is only the third time in a year that I have entertained a guest in public. When I do, it is to show the world that I expect him to be treated with the utmost courtesy. And I am sure that you will be.”

  “They weren’t exactly brusque before.”

  “From now on you will find it very different,” de Vignolles assured him airily. “You will be allowed to go wherever you wish, your command will be law. You might even be welcome at the Villa Seblec, M. Rollison, provided you go to the front door! But that is one thing I cannot promise you. My friendship with M. Chicot is somewhat strained. In fact, we are not friends, but I felt that the use of the word would intrigue you.”

  “I am intrigued,” said Rollison dryly.

  “I am delighted,” said de Vignolles. “Let me be honest, M. Rollison. I have had many artistes at the Baccarat, a night-club of which you may have heard.” He paused.

  “Vaguely,” murmured the Toff.

  If de Vignolles sparked, it would betray a pompous con ceit. If he smiled—

  He laughed, off-handedly.

  “Your joke, m’sieu! Let me continue. I have the Villa Seblec watched, and I have discovered that M. Chicot has found it displeasing to be annoyed by you. Chicot is a strange fellow. He is a good friend, I am told, but a very bad enemy. He does not always behave in a way which we admire, but I have good reason to be wary of him. I also like the English, and I do not want you to run into trouble here in Nice. So I hope that by this meeting we might solve your problems, M. Rollison, so that you could stay in Nice for as long as you felt inclined, relaxing and enjoying yourself. I need not say that I shall be happy to provide everything you need for relaxation. Everything.” The mocking glint shone in his eyes again. “Especially if you find a way to—ah—harass our friends at the Villa Seblec.”

  Rollison said sharply: “Why do you want to cut Chicot’s throat?”

  “So crude,” murmured de Vignolles. “So English! I have told you a little. I have of course heard of your fame. It would please me to see the Villa Seblec change hands, and Chicot dead. It would be worth a large sum of money to me, M. Rollison.”

  Rollison said stonily: “How large?”

  “Shall we say a million francs? Or one thousand English pounds, m’sieu.”

  “And I have to kill Chicot to earn it?”

  De Vignolles said: “His death would be most welcome.”

  “What harm does he do you?” Rollison asked abruptly.

  “Too much,” answered de Vignolles.

  He saw a waiter approaching, and leaned back. Four waiters came in all, with snails for M. le Comte and oysters for the Toff; and the etceteras. Serving was another ceremony. Rollison looked about him, and saw a flower-girl moving towards them. Something about the way she moved attracted his attention. At first he didn’t know what it was. She was taller than most Frenchwomen, and had corn-coloured hair drawn tightly back from her forehead, and she wore a tiny mask. The San Roman like to titillate the curiosity of its clients that way; the flower-girls and the cigarette-girls were always either over-dressed or under-dressed. This girl wore a cloak which concealed her figure, but when the cloak opened as she handed out her wares, it showed that she had plenty to conceal.

  She looked at him.

  Those eyes were the eyes of Violette.

  He smiled at her faintly. She did not let her gaze linger on him for long, but turned to the Comte de Vignolles, and caught his eye. He looked at her dispassionately, and then looked away. She moved on, to nearby tables. Rollison did not watch her, but noticed when she slipped out of the dining-room into the foyer.

  The oysters were the best obtainable; from Whitstable.

  The snails, obviously, were from Auxerre, and
as obviously the Count relished them.

  A waiter brought a message for the Toff; just a folded slip of paper. He opened it, and read:

  “It is the Count de Vignolles.”

  He crumpled it up and put it in his pocket, aware that de Vignolles was watching him. He didn’t speak. This man was the man who was kicking up a fuss with Rambeau about the rival night-club coming to Nice. This was a man frightened of Chicot, if he could be believed.

  Could he?

  There was a sole baked in a wine and mushroom sauce which must have been made in the kitchens of Valhalla.

  There was venison …

  There was roast duck so delicious that it deserved to be regarded as food for the gods.

  The wines were perfect.

  Two beautiful baskets of fruit and two silver finger-bowls were placed on the table.

  “Undoubtedly they try to do well here,” said de Vignolles carelessly. “Some grapes, M. Rollison?”

  “Thank you,” said Rollison, and snipped off a small bunch which were brushed with the lustre of the vine. “They do very well. I still want to know why you want Chicot dead.”

  “That is my business, m’sieu,” de Vignolles said. “I do not like what happens at the Villa Seblec.”

  “What does happen?”

  “Beautiful girls, who belong to my cabaret, go there and vanish, m’sieu. I cannot complain to the police, for they can go where they wish, but I think that this Chicot steals them to make it difficult at the Baccarat. Always, new girls in the act, always—but you understand?”

  “Remember Daphne Myall?” asked Rollison abruptly. “The English girl,” murmured the Count. “Yes, m’sieu, she was exceptionally attractive.”

  “First, I’m here to find her,” Rollison said, with great deliberation. “I intend to take her back to England with me. Second, I like men for their worth, not for their social standing, their money, or their influence. I liked the little man, Gaston, whose head cracked like an egg-shell in the grounds of the Villa Seblec. I also liked Suzanne, the chambermaid here. She was a pretty little thing with a young, pure body, more girl than woman. So two lives wait for avenging. Two people, foully murdered by friends of Chicot. I expect to live to see his head roll from the guillotine, but not to earn your million francs.”

  De Vignolles said sharply: “What are you saying?”

  “That I don’t kill for any man,” said the Toff coldly. “But if it is any consolation, if I find Chicot and it looks as if he’ll cheat the law, I am prepared to kill him with my two bare hands.”

  He did not smile.

  He knew that even de Vignolles would be impressed by that display of feeling, and perhaps be more ready to talk. There was so much to suspect about de Vignolles, too; if Chicot wanted to find out how much the Toff knew, what better way than to send a man who professed hatred?

  De Vignolles had plenty to think about, whatever his motives.

  Rollison pushed his chair back, stood up, bowed distantly, and walked away. Everyone in the room stared at him, including de Vignolles. Most mouths gaped. Only after the first shock did the head waiter recover and come hurrying to escort him to the door; but he didn’t catch Rollison up.

  Rollison reached the terrace.

  It had been hot inside the dining-room, and the evening air was cool. The orchestra was having a rest. The big crowd in the street was waiting for the next playing session.

  Rollison crossed the road. A fiacre passed, the lovers in it sitting very close together. An idyll. The sea murmured. The orchestra started to play. A little pudding of a woman in a dark suit followed Rollison across the road, and stood near him when he leaned against the rail, looking out to sea. Some people were bathing, laughter floated upwards.

  “Hallo, Fifi,” said the Toff. “How is Simon?”

  “Simon is a fool,” declared Fifi Leclair, but she spoke without conviction. “And you are a bigger fool, M. Rollison. I have a message for you.”

  “Yes?”

  “In the whisky, arsenic.”

  The orchestra’s tune sounded louder here than it had inside the dining-room. It drowned most other sounds. But the words of Simon’s wife seemed very loud, each syllable thrust itself into Rollison’s mind.

  “In the whisky, arsenic.”

  “I’m not surprised,” he said very quietly. “Fifi, do you know what I would do, if I were you?”

  “Invite for myself more trouble!”

  “No,” said Rollison, and turned to look at her. She barely came up to his shoulder. She had a round, chubby face and pretty eyes and fluffy hair; once she had been a pretty young thing, now she was a matron – and a perfect foil for Simon’s clowning. “No, Fifi. I’d go back to Paris. I’d tell the Baccarat that you can’t stay on the Riviera. Say there is some trouble in your family, say anything you like. Go away from here. Because the pace is getting hotter, and I don’t want my friends to get hurt.”

  “If I tell that to Simon, he will blow the raspberry,” declared Fifi. “So.” A rasping sound offended the night air, but her expression didn’t change. “How can we help more, m’sieu?”

  “Go back to Paris.”

  “How, m’sieu?”

  “Find Violette somewhere else to stay, or move yourselves. Deny that you know me.”

  “How can we help, m’sieu?”

  “Two people have been brutally murdered.”

  “What is it that we can do?’ asked Fifi, still without a change of tone or expression.

  Rollison found himself chuckling, partly with relief.

  “Very well, you win! Ask Simon to find out all he can about the Comte de Vignolles, who owns the Baccarat and is frightened of competition. That’s why he’s brought Simon and you and other artistes down here—to kill that competition stone dead. Why is he afraid of it? Does he use the Baccarat to lure pretty girls down here, and then spirit them away to the North African coast? Is he being shouldered out of that racket? Don’t probe too dangerously, just find out more about the Baccarat—that’s reasonable enough, as you’re going to work there. Dig out the things that the police wouldn’t hear about. All clear?”

  “Very well, we shall try,” promised Fifi. “And you? Will you stay at the San Roman, or will you go somewhere else, where they do not know how to find you?” Now her tone changed – she became pleading in turn. “Do not make more trouble than you already have. Protect yourself.”

  “Soon enough,” said Rollison, “but I’ll stay at the San Roman for a little while longer. Where’s that whisky bottle?”

  “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 i
nch, paused, listened, and heard the faintest of faint sounds from inside.

  Someone was in there, hiding in the darkness.

  Chapter Fifteen

  News In Advance

  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?”