The Toff and the Deep Blue Sea Page 6

  “I know where to find some,” Violette said. “I will go and get it.”

  She stepped towards the door. The rug cloak could not hide the animal grace with which she walked. She seemed strong again, and able to do whatever she wished. She went up the stairs towards the engine-house, legs smooth and rounded, ankles beautifully defined. Rollison watched her – and Raoul tried to scramble to his feet.

  “Don’t be silly,” said the Toff, and pushed him heavily against the wall. Raoul flopped. “If you really want to get hurt, try tricks like that. Who is Chicot?”

  Raoul opened his mouth, and closed it again. There had been fear in the girl’s eyes, but no greater than that in Raoul’s.

  “I said, who is Chicot?” Rollison repeated. “I—I don’t know,” muttered Raoul, and tried to look anywhere but into Rollison’s eyes. “I don’t know!”

  “You know what trick you tried to start with Violette, don’t you?” murmured Rollison. “I could try it on you. In fact I’d like to try it on you now. I’d like you to know what it feels like to know your arm is being broken. What it feels like when a car is leaping at you, and you don’t think you’ve a second more to live.” His eyes were very hard, and no man could look more deadly. “Who is Chicot?” he asked softly.

  Raoul tried to push the question away, actually made a motion with his hand. He opened his mouth, but words wouldn’t come.

  “Chicot is—the—the great one.”

  “The great what?”

  “He—he is the leader,” Raoul said, but he hesitated over the word leader, and then burst out into English: “You understand, he is the boss!”

  “I understand,” said Rollison, now quite mildly. “Does he live at the Villa Seblec?”

  “No! He—he comes there sometimes; he—he has many names.” Raoul was sweating, and it was not all due to the heat of the cabin. “Chicot is what we call him, but only Chicot. Who he is I do not know.”

  That could be true.

  “What does he look like?” demanded the Toff.

  “He is—he is just a man, smaller—smaller than you. Ordinary!” The word burst out.

  The Toff looked into the frightened eyes for fully thirty seconds, then decided that if Raoul were to talk more freely, it would have to be later. He took the man’s arm, turned him round, and thrust him towards the door.

  Violette was coming down.

  She had left the rug on deck, and wore only the flimsies. Her hair hung lank yet gleaming down her back, beginning to show signs of curling under the drying warmth. She carried a coil of cord over her arm, and a knife in her hand. It wasn’t her beauty of figure or the way she moved that impressed the Toff; it was the way she looked at Raoul, as if she would gladly thrust that knife into him. The desire was so obvious, the hatred so naked, that Raoul actually cringed away.

  “Go on,” Rollison said; “she won’t hurt you—yet.”

  He pushed the youth towards the cabin, where Gérard already lay. Gérard was coming round, but was still dazed.

  He remained like that while Rollison tied his ankles together, and then his wrists. He left him on the upper bunk, and turned to Raoul. He tied Raoul’s wrists more tightly than he had Gérard’s; he felt, like Violette, the brutal desire to hurt. He left the men trussed up, and went out with Violette, feeling vaguely dissatisfied, although so much had been done to give him cause for satisfaction.

  He said: “Now we can have a drink, and relax. I’ll make sure where we’re going first, and then—”

  She raised her hands, and her eyelids flickered.

  “We have—” she muttered thickly. Then her eyes closed and she fell forward into the Toff’s arms. Her body was heavy, her arms bent in front of her in a strange, huddled posture. For a moment Rollison just stood supporting her; then he smiled gently, shifted her, lifted her, and carried her into the saloon. It was collapse from the strain, and would do her no harm. He covered her with the rug, then picked up the knife she had dropped and went up on deck.

  They were well out in the bay, and Nice was still in sight, white buildings clear against the grey shape of the coast. He altered the helm, so that they didn’t head too far out to sea, but ran parallel with the coast itself. He didn’t feel so good, and two things were the matter with him – the first, hunger. It was after two o’clock, and his only breakfast had been coffee and rolls; in Nice one did as the Frenchmen do. The other thing, that sense of dissatisfaction was less tangible; surely it couldn’t be with anything that he had done.

  It had been the kind of success that made one wonder when the luck was going to turn and the outlook darken. But the immediate outlook was as clear as the blue Mediterranean sky.

  He went back into the saloon, took a cigarette from a packet which had been left on the bar, lit it, and contemplated Violette. He found ice in a small ice-box behind the bar, rang a cloth out in chilled water, bathed her face and forehead. Then he put a spoonful of brandy to her lips.

  She swallowed, and her eyes flickered.

  He watched her closely. There was some quality about this girl, which wasn’t only to do with her looks or her figure. She had a kind of natural shamelessness, as if she was proud of her body and did not mind who knew it or who saw it.

  She opened her eyes. He gave her a spot more brandy, told her to lie still, and went into the cabin where the prisoners were. He looked at Raoul, and knew how terrified Raoul was; but he didn’t speak as he began to untie the knots at his wrists. Raoul’s teeth chattered; he just couldn’t stop himself. Rollison simply loosened the knots, and left them secure and went out without a word.

  One could hate a sadist without imitating his methods.

  Rollison went on deck again. No other craft was in sight.

  He felt happier.

  He poked around, and found the tiny galley, with a built-in refrigerator and a built-in larder, behind the engine-house; and near it were two bunks, for the crew. He opened the larder door, and his eyes brightened; here was food. There was even bread, some croissants which felt fresh, like this morning’s bake, some butter was in the ’fridge – and a tin of ham – everything he needed. He opened the tin, sliced ham, laid a tray, and carried it jauntily down to the saloon, placed it on a table, and looked upon Violette. She seemed almost herself again.

  “We’ll eat first and drink after,” he said. “But I’d better go up and switch the engine off before we start. We’ll drop anchor.” He buttered a croissant, bit a piece off, winked at her, and went hurrying up the stairs.

  He started for the stern and the anchor, heard another engine, looked towards the distant shore, and saw a launch bearing down upon the Maria.

  Standing in the thwarts were two gendarmes.

  Chapter Eight

  Violette Explains A Letter

  One gendarme was fat, the other thin. They were approaching very fast, and into the slight wind, which had carried away the sound of their approach. Rollison stood and watched, his teeth clamped together. There was no doubt that they were bearing down on the Maria. At four hundred yards the fat one put a pair of binoculars to his eyes.

  Rollison moved slowly to the engine-house, and deliberately switched off. Few things had ever cost him more effort; now nothing could stop the men from coming aboard. If he had made a run for it, he might have got ashore before they could catch up with him.

  He’d taken his chance.

  The Maria began to slow down. The launch with the two gendarmes was now only two hundred yards away. The tall policeman turned to the lean one, and said something; the other nodded.

  Was this the vessel they were after?

  The only reassuring thing was the fact that their revolvers stayed in their holsters.

  The fat man bent down and picked up a megaphone. Rollison’s French was good enough to understand nautical terms in spite of the distortion of
the great horn.

  “How many people have you on board?”

  “Two, messieurs!” called Rollison, cupping his hands to make the words carry. His heart thumped, but his voice was steady. “Mademoiselle, et moi aussi!”

  “Where is mademoiselle?”

  Rollison hesitated.

  He couldn’t even begin to guess what this was about; the questions gave him hope that the police would not come aboard – unless they found new reasons for suspicion. Violette in a bikini would not cause a moment’s surprise; nylon flimsies might be a different matter.

  “Below deck!” he called.

  “We wish to see her.”

  “I’ll tell her to come.” Rollison turned away.

  His heart was beating with steady, threatening thuds. The police might be looking for Violette. They might be intending to come aboard, just fooling him by pretending that they weren’t in any great hurry.

  He called down the saloon.

  “Violette, will you come on deck?”

  “A moment,” she answered, so quickly that he guessed that she had heard the shouting. At least she wouldn’t be taken by surprise. The steadiness of her voice was a help, too. If she draped a rug round her – but would that make sense? The sun was so hot that flimsies would look more reasonable than a woollen rug.

  He turned back to the launch.

  It was coming up from the stern, after encircling the Maria, and was much nearer. The police could come alongside and on board at any moment. At closer quarters the fat man looked tough and leathery, and the lean one wiry. Both had shiny brown belts and holsters, with the revolvers easy to get at. A man at the helm of the launch was just another sailor, wearing a faded blue blouse and a pair of jeans. His blue beret was pushed to the back of his head. He could turn that launch almost in its own length.

  Rollison heard the girl coming.

  He didn’t look round, but scanned the faces of the policemen for signs of surprise; and saw none. There was the same emotion on each; the look on their faces was the look of any man seeing Violette for the first time. The Toff turned to look at her.

  She was very, very good; and his heart warmed.

  She wore a fantastic modern beach-suit in the new fashion which looked like a harlequin’s dress. It was of jade-green colour, with splashes of gold, covering all of her lovely body. She might as well have appeared without a stitch on, she caused the same kind of sensation.

  She looked at the two gendarmes; and in her eyes was a kind of promise.

  Was she aware of that? Did she know that she seemed to promise so much?

  “Hallo, Violette,” said Rollison with commendable calm, and turned back to smile at the gendarmes. They had recovered from the sensation, but the moment when the man in each had pushed the policeman aside would live forever. “They want to speak to you.”

  The fat policeman said: “That is not the lady we are looking for. Have you seen a boat, like yours, named the Nuit Verte?”

  “Nuit Verte,” echoed Rollison, and found himself translating. “Green Night? No. But then, I haven’t seen a cabin cruiser at all. I’ve had the helm lashed and have been below most of the time. Who’s aboard her?”

  “A young lady,” said the fat policeman, all his suspicion apparently gone. “One Mademoiselle Bourcy. So—” He held a hand at shoulder height. “No so tall as madame, not so—” He made a delightful gesture with his big clumsy hands and somehow managed to make it seem quite natural. “With fair hair—hair the colour of corn when it is cut.”

  Gérard had hair that colour.

  So had the girl sitting next to Raoul in the Citroen that morning.

  “No,” said Rollison, “I haven’t seen anyone like that. Have you, Violette?”

  Violette looked down at the policemen as if at the most handsome men in the world.

  “No, Richard,” she murmured.

  “If you pass the Nuit Verte, inform the nearest commissariat de police at once, if you please,” said the fat man. He touched his peaked helmet. “M’sieu-Madame!” The lean policeman echoed the last two words, and the man at the helm formed them vaguely with his lips. Then the launch sheered off, and Rollison turned to look into Violette’s eyes. He knew that they were quite as beautiful as he had told himself before.

  “Where do you keep the other Dior models?” he asked.

  Her smile was just a flash of fine white teeth and of red lips. This was the first time that he had seen her without some kind of fear. The transformation seemed to have come with her clothes; she was gay, she was happy. Well, who could blame her? She had been through an ordeal by fear, she’d been rescued, she had fainted. When she had come round, she had heard the men talking, and somehow steeled herself to make another effort, and she had made it. Now, relief from tension, from urgent fear, showed in a gaiety that would probably fade as quickly as it had come.

  “There are several,” she said; “apparently they always keep some clothes on board.” She eyed Rollison much as a man might eye a girl whom he had not really seen before. Her eyes had a kind of radiant mockery, as if she knew that she was doing to him what he should be doing to her. She made him conscious of his lean, muscular body, of the tan of his skin; and he smiled almost warily into her face. Her eyes laughed. “There is plenty even for you, m’sieu.”

  “Naked and unashamed,” said the Toff, “I am going to eat first; I’m hungrier than it’s good to be. Would you care to stay up here and look for the Nuit Verte?”

  “Later,” said Violette, and moved and touched his arm. The radiance and the gaiety had vanished, shadows came back to her eyes. What had brought them back so suddenly? “M’sieu Rollison,” she said, “I owe you so much; I owe you everything. I can never thank you.”

  But she tried.

  She took his arms and pulled him close, and kissed him fiercely, almost savagely. She willed him to put his arms around her, to add to the pressure of her sudden passion.

  Then they moved apart.

  Without a word, Rollison led the way to the saloon, to the . succulent ham and the fresh croissants, the unsalted butter and a Camembert cheese which was almost a dream.

  As it was almost a dream, anchored here, a few miles off Nice, between the place where he had seen death, and the place where he had sent Simon Leclair. He hadn’t thought of Simon for a long time. He wondered if the clown would ever know the whole truth of what had happened. He didn’t say much, and the mood of quietness was upon them both. There were a hundred things he wanted to know, but he had plenty of time to ask his questions; and he wanted Violette to begin to talk of her own free will.

  She did.

  “Last night,” she said, “I heard them plotting to kill you. There was Raoul, Morency and one other man, named Sautot. Morency is the English one.” She spoke as if Rollison knew all of these people, she had but to name them; and she looked into his eyes.

  “What had I done to offend them?” Rollison asked mildly.

  “You search for the girl, Daphne Myall,” Violette said flatly.

  “Is she at the Villa Seblec?”

  Violette shook her head, very slowly.

  “No,” she said. “At least, I have not seen her there, and I live there. Why do you want her?”

  Rollison said: “Her parents are nice people.”

  The girl closed her eyes, as if that hurt. Rollison waited, convinced that it would be better if she volunteered everything she had to say.

  She opened her eyes.

  “That is a very good reason,” she said. “You will not believe it, but it is because of very nice parents that I am here, and in such danger.”

  Rollison didn’t speak.

  “My own parents,” Violette went on. “They did not deserve to suffer, m’sieu, but suffer they did. Their other daughter, Marie, disappeared like this
Daphne Myall. Then it was discovered that her good name and that of our parents had been used to swindle a man of a large fortune.” Violette paused, and shrugged. “She was last seen in Nice, at the Baccarat Club. Then she vanished. I came to look for her.”

  Rollison said quietly: “And you haven’t found her yet?”

  “No,” said Violette. “I have not.”

  “What have you found?”

  Violette said bitterly: “I thought I had found happiness. I was fascinated, enraptured, blinded. I fell in love with—the Devil.”

  The way she spoke told Rollison that this was as she felt.

  He murmured: “This Chicot?”

  The name seemed to hurt.

  “What do you know of him?”

  “The two men are frightened of him.”

  “Yes, everyone becomes frightened of Chicot,” Violette told him slowly. “It was Chicot who made such a fool of me. I met him at the Villa Seblec, inquiring for Marie. When I think of it, I feel that he exerted a kind of spell. It was not his looks—they are not remarkable—but a kind of magic—”

  She meant it.

  Rollison waited.

  She said abruptly: “I stayed there, with him. That was for some weeks. I allowed myself to be dominated by him. I lent myself to a plot in which an old man was swindled of a great sum of money. Old men are so credulous when a woman is beautiful,” she added wearily.

  “All men,” Rollison murmured.

  She said: “Then I began to realise what I had done, but I was trapped, m’sieu. I could not leave Chicot or the Villa without my share in the great swindle being revealed. That would hurt my parents so much more, and I stayed, telling them that I still searched for Marie.”

  She turned away.

  He did not force his questions, then.

  The fans were on in the saloon. There was a kind of air-conditioning, which helped to cool the air. They had finished a meal, and had long drinks in front of them; hers a squash, his a lager. She still wore the harlequin beach-suit that was all concealing, and he had drawn on a pair of white shorts which he had found in the galley. It was cool, and they were well fed. But not for a moment had they been free from tension.