The Toff and the Deep Blue Sea (5 page)

 

Rollison swam powerfully. There was no current here; or if there were, it helped him. When he raised his head, he could see the launch, almost straight ahead; and all the time the chugging of the engine travelled clearly over the water. He could not see the girl, but saw that the launch was slowing down: the note of the engine changed, and it was turning a wide circle, to search for the girl. The Toff dived. For a few seconds the bows pointed almost directly at him, as if he had been seen and the men were heading for him. When he surfaced, he could see one of them leaning against the side of the launch, back towards him.

They were looking towards the girl.

Was she still swimming?

Rollison dropped into a fast crawl, and seemed to skim the water rather than go through it. The cruiser loomed up, much closer, with the little dinghy bobbing along behind. When the Toff stopped that furious burst of speed he was only a few yards away from it.

The engine of the cruiser had been cut out.

Ropes dangled from the stern, because the two men had been in too much of a hurry to pull them aboard. One dragged softly through the water, and there was the usual soft lapping sound.

Rollison heard a loud splash, as if one of the men had dived overboard; it was impossible to be sure. He trod water until he was able to breathe more steadily, then gripped the dangling rope and began to haul himself up. It wasn't far and it wasn't difficult. When his head was level with the deck, he raised one hand and gripped the railing which protected the stern. Then he hoisted himself up, and peered on to the cruiser.

No one was inside.

The cabin and the engine-house superstructure were between him and the two men. The boat was drifting, but there was not even the suspicion of a roll. Rollison climbed up and over, water streaming off him. He stared at the pool he made, and at the puddle that formed after a single footstep. He would leave a trail which might be seen at a single glance. He glanced round, saw nothing that would help to mop up or to dry himself. He pulled off his singlet, wrung it out, and began to rub himself down.

Men were talking quietly, in French. So both were aboard.

Rollison wrung the singlet out again, and then mopped up the water on the deck; the sun would dry the little that was left. He tossed the singlet out to sea, then cursed himself, for the splash sounded very loud. He stared towards the superstructure, which was made of beautifully polished wood, but no one appeared.

He heard one man say: “Together, now, pull hard.”

Was the girl at the end of a rope? Or a life-belt? Rollison couldn't guess, and it no longer worried him; they hadn't been alarmed by the splash he'd made. He walked across the deck, and the heat of the scrubbed boards stung his feet. He reached the engine-room; over the polished wood, which was hot enough to make him wince. He crept towards the end of the engine-house, and found himself at a little gangway between the engine and the cabin. The cabin was approached by a flight of wide stairs, and he glimpsed luxury below.

He reached the edge of the gangway.

Both men were hauling at a rope, and putting a lot of effort into it. There wasn't much doubt that the girl was at the other end. One man's hair was black, and brushed down tightly; and there was a look of the driver of the killer Renault about him.

They paused.

One of them spoke, but what he said didn't reach the Toff. The other leaned on the rope. Then the man who had spoken bent over the rail and began to pull.

The girl's head appeared; in spite of the water, it still glistened like jet. Her shoulders gleamed a beautiful golden brown. It was impossible to tell whether she was conscious or not.

Rollison could move now, and the men wouldn't have a chance. He could pick up the spanner from the engine-casing and crack their skulls, as the beggar's had been cracked. He could knock them out, and could pitch them overboard. In that moment he felt that he hated them both, that nothing would be more than they deserved.

He watched.

The man leaning over was, grunting. He had his arms beneath the girl's, but she was too heavy for him to lift over the rail. The other man dropped the rope and went to help; but it took experience and skill to lift a dead weight over the deck's rail, and they had neither.

The Toff turned, went down the stairs – stairs, not gangway, was the word. They were carpeted in deep red, and the carpet had thick pile. At the foot was a door leading into a saloon, or lounge, and a passage seemed to run right round this saloon, with more doors leading off it.

The Toff heard the sounds of the men above his head as he took a quick look round.

The saloon was surprisingly spacious. The door was open, and showed the corner of a tiny chromium bar, with a mirror behind it, upholstered seats round the walls and several low chairs and tables. The whole place had an air of opulence.

Rollison glanced inside, and saw photographs on the walls – all beautiful studies of girls, mostly in the nude.

He moved out of the main saloon, and stepped along the passage. This ran right round the main cabin, and formed a square with one side missing. A narrow door led off each side, and when he opened one, he saw two bunks, one atop the other. The others were the same, so the cruiser could sleep six with comfort. He didn't know where the crews' quarters or the galley was, and didn't trouble to find out, for he heard a thud on deck.

Then came footsteps; they were bringing the girl down.

The footsteps were slow and heavy; sliding noises came with them from time to time. Were the men so badly out of condition? Rollison stood in the passage behind the saloon, out of sight of the stairs. He heard the couple when they reached the head of the stairs and when they started down.

One man was gasping for breath. There were more thumping and bumping sounds before they stopped moving, and Rollison judged that they were at the door of the saloon.

A man said gaspingly: “Where shall we take her?”

“To the bunks – shall we?”

They paused, still gasping, until one of them said: “No, in here, I think. We shall take her ashore when we get back, it will not be so long.”

More sound of movement came, and seemed much closer. Rollison didn't move. He heard them go inside the saloon. When silence fell, he guessed that they had laid the girl on the floor. After a moment there was the unmistakable sound of clinking glasses; one of them was pouring out drinks.

There were the usual platitudinous comments. Gradually the heaving breathing quietened. A man chuckled.

“She nearly got away.”

“She has courage,” the other said.

“Courage—
pst!”
There was a pause. “After this, she will not try to cheat us again.”

The other man didn't speak, and Rollison sensed constraint between them. That was a pity. The more they talked, the more he was likely to learn, and he had come down here and let them bring her so that he could have a chance to listen-in.

Matches scraped.

“Sautot has a very bad hand,” said the man who had remarked upon the girl's courage. “The bullet went right through it. Ugh! The blood made me sick. He will not be any use for a little while.”

“Don't you believe it; Sautot is tough.” This was the man who had sneered at the girl's courage; he had dark hair, unless the Toff had missed his guess. “He'll soon be all right. Old Morency was very frightened, too. He is no use, that one; too old.”

“He has been very good.”

“Gérard,” said the sneering man, “when are you going to learn that there is no room for sentiment? He is old, he will soon be useless, and one day he will be snuffed out.”

There was a full minute of silence before the same man went on:

“It is a good thing we got the girl; if we had lost her, Chicot would have been like a fiend.”

The voices were muffled by the wall of the saloon and by the distance; and yet in the way the man said ‘Chicot would have been like a fiend' there was a different note from anything that had gone before. Fear? Awe? It was something like that. Chicot mattered; Chicot could afford to rage, and the possibility that he would worried even the man who sneered at the girl's courage.

Violette.

The Toff remembered her when she had come for the audition. She was not as beautiful as some, but most beautifully made, with a skin as lovely as the skin of a fresh peach. She had deep, violet eyes, so was well-named. Now she lay on the floor of the saloon, and the Toff did not know whether she was hurt, or unconscious, or conscious and terrified.

He did not even know if she was dead.

One man said: “It is time we start back, Gérard. Will you go and start the engine?”

The other man didn't answer. That sense of estrangement was noticeable again, quite unmistakable. The sneering man was Raoul, the other Gérard; and clearly Gérard didn't trust Raoul.

“You will not hurt her,” he said at last.

“Why should I, you fool?” Raoul said tartly. “Look at her; she is half dead. Go and start the engine; I'll get some blankets for her.”

The man named Gérard still didn't move.

“What is the matter with you?” Raoul sounded ill-tempered.

“My friend,” said Gérard quietly, “you remember what Sautot said. He was questioning her about this letter to the Englishman, Rollison, who calls himself the agent of Ram-beau. And he was—hurting her.”

“Why be squeamish?” Raoul rasped. Rollison could remember the way he had looked when at the wheel of the Citroen. “He was making her talk, wasn't he? If he had to twist her arm or bend her finger back to make her open her mouth, what does it matter? What is your trouble, Gérard?” The constraint was near the open now; they weren't far from a sharp quarrel. “Does she mean anything to you? Do you wish to have her for yourself? Is that it?”

Gérard didn't answer.

“Because if it is,” sneered Raoul, “Chicot will be
very
interested.”

“Raoul,” said Gérard softly, “don't you do anything to her. Understand? Sautot had his orders, to find out how much she had said to this Rollison, but you haven't any. You don't know what he was trying, to find out from her. Wait until we get back, and telephone Chicot for orders. Make sure of that, because you might do the wrong thing.”

Silence fell.

“I won't hurt her,” Raoul said.

After a moment's pause, more movement followed. Gérard left the saloon and walked briskly up the stairs. Odd noises began soon after he reached the engine.

There was no sound inside the saloon, and Rollison made none.

He had learned a little, and it might become a great deal. Chicot was the man they feared. Sautot was the stocky man with a bullet-hole through his right hand. Morency – a name which might be English or American – was the old man, and a doctor. These two were Raoul and Gérard, and they knew that Sautot had been questioning the girl when she had escaped and run, screaming, to a desperate hope of safety.

Violette—

Rollison found himself smiling at thought of her grace.

Then the engine started.

It ran more smoothly from the first note this time, and in a few seconds they would be on their way. It wasn't far back to the jetty.

He moved round to the saloon, trying to remember whether it was possible to glance down the stairs and see the front door of the saloon. He didn't think so. He was nearly sure that Gérard would look down, trying to make certain that Raoul was not ‘questioning' the girl. There wasn't much that Raoul would stop at.

Rollison reached the doorway, and peered inside.

Raoul stood with his feet apart, his right elbow crooked, as if he had a glass in his hand. His sleek black hair was slightly out of place – not very much, just ruffled out of its usual sleekness. He wore a biscuit-coloured suit, like the driver of the Citroen; beyond doubt it was the same man.

The girl lay on the floor, with two blue rugs over her. Her feet showed at one end, and she had lost her shoes. Her hair was lank and wet, and a large dark patch on the carpet seemed to be spreading. She faced the door, and her head lolled. She looked as if she were unconscious; but Rollison saw that her eyes were flickering.'

Suddenly Raoul moved.

He flung the contents of his glass into the girl's face. She gasped, her body heaved, her eyes opened wide, and her hands appeared, and she put them to her face. Raoul bent down on one knee, snatched at her right wrist, and twisted savagely. The blankets fell back from her lovely shoulders. She was held in a torturing grip – the kind of grip she had tried to escape when in the villa.

“Now you'll tell me what was in that letter to Rollison,” Raoul said in a voice which only just reached the Toff. “Tell me, or I'll break your arm.”

He sounded as if he meant it.

If the Toff went in now, a shout would bring Gérard running.

 

 

The greatest danger would come from the girl.

She lay there helpless, mouth open in a strangely muted scream. Her head was raised. Raoul knelt between her and the Toff, who could see her so plainly that he knew that if she caught a glimpse of movement she would give him away.

“What was in the letter?” growled Raoul, and a slight movement of his wrist made her gasp; he clapped his right hand over her mouth, to silence the sound, twisted again, and then took his hand away.
“What was in it?”

“I asked him to see me,” she gasped; “that is all, everything.”

Raoul didn't believe her.

Rollison was inside the room now, behind the man. If Violette looked up she would see him. There were only seconds to spare, for Gérard might come at any moment. The Toff moved, swift as a gust of wind, and his hands were stretched out to grasp Raoul by the neck.

Violette saw it.

She gasped again and her gaze shifted; Raoul couldn't fail to understand that someone was there. He would expect Gérard. He sprang to his feet, twisting round as he did so; and the Toff stopped clutching at his neck, just clenched a fist and smashed it into his chin.

Raoul toppled backwards. He caught a leg against Violette, and fell. He banged his head on the edge of the shiny bar, a bottle quivered and rattled against two glasses. One toppled. Raoul slithered down the wall, and Rollison went after him, reached him, struck again.

Once …

Twice.

Raoul slumped down inert, the little gasp coming as he fell. He didn't move, but lay between Violette and the wall, eyes closed and mouth slightly open, but very slack. There was a trickle of blood at his lips and chin.

The girl just raised her hand towards the Toff, as if wanting to hug him in the ecstasy of her relief. Long, bare, shapely arms—

Rollison took her hands and squeezed.

“Lie still,” he warned; “don't make a sound.”

He moved towards the bar, and picked up one of the bottles. It was whisky; either Raoul or Gérard didn't share Simon Leclair's tastes. Holding it like a club, Rollison went to the door. The thing he dreaded was to see Gérard peering down, but there was no sign of him. The engine was chugging away peacefully; the cruiser seemed to be going at a good clip.

Rollison started up the stairs.

He could see Gérard's back, bent over the engine, as if there were something amiss, after all. He reached the deck.

Gérard was fiddling with something, with that peculiar application of born engineers. His head was on one side, as if he were listening for a faint irregularity in the beat of the engine. Rollison looked only at him, but not far away there was the green-topped villa and the beautiful garden, the jetty and the other craft.

Other men, too?

Rollison couldn't see over the roof of the engine-house without making himself visible to anyone watching from the house or the jetty. He didn't stand upright, but took another step towards the man at the engine.

Gérard straightened up.

“Gérard,” said Rollison very softly.

The youth started violently, and turned his head. He was fair-haired, fresh-faced, open-mouthed; no ghost could have affected him more than the sight of Rollison then. He didn't move, but leaned further back. The engine purred, and the green-topped villa seemed to draw nearer.

“Who—who—who—” began Gérard, and gulped in desperation. “Who—”

“Gérard,” said the Toff, still softly, “turn her round. We're not going back to the He de Seblec; we're going to Cap Mirabeau. Head her out to sea, get the right bearing, and then lash the helm.”

“Bu—bu—bu—” began Gérard.

“Or I'll smash your head in,” Rollison said, and raised the whisky bottle.

The youth turned, too frightened even to shout or to argue. He touched the helm. There was nothing to stop him from heading straight for the jetty, ramming it, making sure that they couldn't get away. He didn't. He glanced over his shoulder once, at the near-naked figure of the Toff, who was holding the bottle as if it were a club. The cabin-cruiser swung round in a sweeping arc, and then headed south from the big bay. Out at sea there was little danger; in the bay there were so many small boats that he dare not leave the cruiser with her helm lashed. Later, to reach Cap Mirabeau, they would have to swing inshore and head for a spot where there was plenty of anchorage and public as well as private jetties. Now the Toff needed time more than anything else. He looked round, tensely.

No one was in the grounds of the villa, which lay burning in the sun. The heat rose in a shimmering haze from the tiled roof, from the paths, from the water itself. Never had water looked so blue as it did close to the
Maria.
The
Maria,
the Toff repeated to himself, and saw the name painted in gilt letters on a lifebelt fastened to the top of the engine-house.

He felt the fair-haired youth's pocket for a gun, and found only an ordinary pen-knife. He took this, then watched the distant, open sea.

Gérard turned his head, and Rollison had a feeling that he had seen him before. He was scared out of his wits, yet there was something almost attractive about him. Seen sunning himself on the pebbles at Nice, or sun-bathing aboard one of the yachts at Cannes, one would have noticed him and thought ‘nice lad'. His hair was very fair and very curly; he had the kind of skin that never really tanned, yet didn't redden.

“Are you—are you
Rollison?
”

“Am I?” murmured the Toff, and added very softly: “Look where you're going.”

Gérard turned his head back.

“Lash the helm.”

“I—I am about to,” said Gérard. ‘Lash' was too strong a word; there was a loop of rope nearby, and a row of wooden pins; he put the loop over one of the pins, so that the wheel couldn't move, and then turned round again. “What are you going to do when we—”

The Toff struck him beneath the jaw.

 

“Hallo, Violette,” said the Toff, reaching the saloon and smiling amiably at the girl. “Feeling better?” She was sitting on the edge of the wall seat, and had been watching Raoul, who hadn't moved. “You won't know yourself when we get ashore. There's another one—Gérard by name. Know him?”

It was good to feel that he could relax, even for a few minutes.

The girl said huskily: “Raoul is the bad one.”

“I don't think we ought to be too sorry for Gérard yet,” said Rollison dryly.

He started to drag the unconscious Gérard into the saloon, but changed his mind. Raoul was stirring, but would be too dazed to be dangerous for a while.

“I'll be back,” Rollison said. He edged his way out of the saloon, still holding Gérard by the shoulders, then dragged him to the nearest of the three bunk-rooms. The porthole was too small for men of the size of Gérard and Raoul to squeeze through. He lugged Gérard inside, and hoisted him to the upper bunk.

He went back for Raoul.

Violette was standing near the dark-haired man, with a bottle in her hand. Hatred showed in her eyes. She had a rug draped round her shoulders, she shivered, and yet she looked strangely magnificent; as a Red Indian squaw might look with a tribal blanket round her shoulders and eyes ablaze with the fire of war.

“He tried to get up,” she said thinly. “Try to find some string,” Rollison said briskly. “Strong stuff, please; cord would be better. Once they're tied up we can take it easier.”

“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.