by John Creasey
Policemen came running.
Quite a crowd gathered round Rollison, all agog for blood. He lay with his eyes flickering and his lips tightening as if in pain. Hands touched him, men shouted orders – to lift him, to leave him there, to turn him on his back, to straighten his legs, to move his arms, to give him air, to give him water; advice flew hither and thither in great debate. Rollison, convinced that the young man had known what he was doing, wanted to feign injury, but he was desperately anxious about Simon.
That anxiety was dispersed in a flash. He heard Simon’s deep voice – it was very deep for a Frenchman – delivering a prodigious variety of epithets at the Citroen’s youthful driver. Through his lashes, Rollison saw the red hair and the bald patch; there was nothing at all to worry about – except perhaps the girl with the beautiful black hair. She was on the fringe of the crowd, and something of her terror still showed in her eyes.
Those eyes reminded Rollison of the beggar’s.
“Void M. le médecin!” an excitable little man cried out, and Rollison submitted himself to the ministrations of a doctor …
Simon gave unstinted unprofessional advice.
Rollison was poked, prodded, and moved gently; then he let it be known that he was coming round. Whenever anyone touched his left leg, he winced or groaned. He was given a sip of water, then some brandy, next a whiff of smelling-salts – which did in fact do much to clear his head; the only bruise he had was just above his left temple.
He grunted, opened his eyes as if bewilderedly, listened to this gabble of comment, saw that Simon was positively pinning the youthful driver with the sleek black hair against the trunk of a phoenix pine, holding him there with one long forefinger and gesticulating generously with his free right hand. A gendarme was aiding and abetting. The girl sat in her seat, her eyes closed. The beggar found a way through the crowd, looking very hard at Rollison, and for the first time Rollison tried to convey a message.
The difficulty was to know what message, for he was as eager to know more of the Citroen driver as about the black-haired girl. But the police would surely take the driver’s name and address, whereas the girl might vanish.
So Rollison looked from the beggar to the girl with the black hair and brown eyes.
The beggar followed the direction of his gaze, and with a nod that was almost imperceptible, he turned away. By then, willing hands were helping Rollison to his feet. He stood on one leg, leaning against a burly porter from the San Roman.
The beggar now stood near the raven-haired girl.
“M’sieu must have rest,” pleaded the porter, who knew this Englishman as a most generous client. “If you please, M. le médecin, M. Rollison must have rest.”
It was most confusing for the next five minutes. Finally, a kind of canvas sling chair, used for helping the helpless in and out of cars, was brought into service. Rollison was loaded on to it, and the gendarmes hurried, with their batons raised, to form a kind of guard of honour across the road. By then the crowd had swollen from dozens to many hundreds. The orchestra outside the San Roman was playing to almost deserted terraces, and would have no love for the cause of such desertion.
Simon stayed away from the hotel.
The doctor accompanied Rollison and the porters carrying him. The raven-haired girl stayed on the promenade, the beggar nearby.
In the hotel it was cool.
Upstairs in Rollison’s bedroom it was pleasant, too. The room had a balcony overlooking the bay, and the tree-clad hills which fell into the sea, all dotted with white villas. The coloured awning was down, to shut out the sun. A chambermaid was already on duty, turning down the bed, most eager to help. Rollison was stripped of his coat and of his trousers. The doctor prodded at his knee, and Rollison winced. He also gave a long-suffering look, although it did not hurt at all. The doctor prescribed bathing with a lead lotion, and then a tight bandage, gave precise instructions, and went out with the porter and the under-manager, who had tagged along from downstairs. So Rollison was alone, except for the maid.
She was a pretty little thing, also possessed of brown eyes and dark hair. She was a little timid, too, for she came from one of the vine-valleys of Bordeaux, and did not know or greatly like the ways of some of the wealthy patrons of the San Roman. Some pinched, kissed or poked, none of which was nice, but this Englishman …
“Suzanne,” said the Toff.
“M’sieu?”
“Do you think you could bring me some tea?”
“At once, m’sieu!” She beamed her desire to serve, then hurried out.
The moment the door was closed, Rollison got up and used his left leg as if he had been practising for the long jump or the hurdles. He sped to the door, turned the key in the lock, moved round, and stepped cautiously on to the balcony.
Here, in spite of the shade, it was much warmer.
By keeping to one side, Rollison could make sure that he wasn’t seen, even if anyone looked up, and there seemed little likelihood of that. The crowd remained. Simon, standing in the shadow of the phoenix palm, was talking and moving his arms and legs about like pistons; one second his red hair looked like flame in the sun, the next it was dulled as he moved into shadow.
The youthful driver, freed from the pinioning finger, was now besieged by gendarmes, one of whom was making notes. The raven-haired girl was walking away, and the beggar following her; in fact, had it not been for the beggar, Rollison could not have been sure that it was the same girl.
The killer car’s driver did not once look at the blonde who had been sitting with him, and was still in her place. She looked nice, mused Rollison; he wished that there was a way to have her followed and so find out more about her; but if he was to keep up the legend of his injured knee and consequent incapacity, he couldn’t do a thing.
Well, the police would have that name and address.
Simon moved from the crowd, and crossed the road, and Suzanne arrived with the tea.
She should not have done, for that was a waiter’s privilege, but the San Roman also had its staffing problems, and a willing girl was ever welcome.
When she came in, the door had been unlocked and Rollison was back in bed. Before she left, there was a tap at the door.
“See who it is, will you?” asked Rollison, although he felt quite sure that it would be Simon.
It was a bell-boy, a curly-haired imp of mischief in wine-red uniform, a tight-fitting jacket, bright silver buttons, and a silver salver. Suzanne took the letter on the salver, shooed the boy away, and brought the letter to the Toff. Scrawled on it in faint pencilled writing was his name: M. Rollison. It was sealed, and at the back was the embossed crest of the San Roman.
“All right, Suzanne,” said Rollison, and smiled. “Leave the door so that anyone can come in, will you, please?”
“Of course, m’sieu.”
Rollison wondered what was keeping Simon, and guessed that the clown was involved in yet another argument. He also wondered who had written to him, opened the letter, and smoothed out a single sheet of the expensive San Roman letter-heading, with the same expensive embossed monogram.
He read the pencilled words: “Please, will you see me? I call at your room at twelve o’clock.” There was no signature, nothing except the sloping hand to tell him whether this was a man or a woman’s writing; and the slope did not indicate either for certain. He poured himself tea, lit a cigarette, and then heard footsteps outside. These were followed, a moment later, by a loud thump at the door of his room.
“Come in, Simon!” he called.
This time Simon appeared, bending low so that he could get into the room from the wide passage. Standing upright, he was two inches taller than the lintel. The room, though not over-large, had its own small bathroom, the door of which was open. One of Simon’s elbows vanished into the bathroom as he came in and closed the
passage door. Once inside, he straightened up to his full height, and bumped his head against one of two hanging chandeliers. Porcelain and gilt rattled; he swore, ducked, rubbed his head and glared.
“There should be one only, and that in the middle!”
“Agreed,” said Rollison politely. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
Simon looked blank.
“Your pardon?”
“I was offering you a cup of tea.”
“Tea,” echoed Simon, and regarded the tray. He had huge eyes, and the droop of the wrinkled lids was natural, not even slightly due to affectation. But he could open them wide, and did so now. They were a greeny-brown colour, very fine and clear, and filled with the deep repugnance that he felt.
“No,” he said roundly. “I would not.”
“There’s a bottle of whisky in—”
“You must be hurt very badly,” Simon declared. “You offer me tea. You talk to me of whisky. The one blows out my belly, and what do I have for déjeneur, hein? The second burns me like the vitriolic acid. And this in la belle France, where—”
“There is a spot of Belsac ’45 in the wardrobe,” murmured Rollison apologetically.
“My friend,” said Simon, with new, strange gentleness, “your body may be broken, but your head is still very sound. Thank you.” He went to the wardrobe and had to go down on his knees to get the bottle out; glasses were on the dressing table. He poured the wine as if it were liquid gold, and savoured and sipped as if it were the finest brandy from Cognac. That done, he pulled up an arm-chair and sat down, thrusting his long legs in-front of him. He seemed a long way off, although his feet were actually hidden beneath Rollison’s bed. “The man driver,” he announced, “will have severe punishment. He is an imbecile. I,” declared Simon, with great satisfaction, “told him some things or two.”
Rollison grinned.
“For the girl with him, I feel sorry,” went on Simon. “For myself, I feel sorry. For you, I feel sorry. For the driver, I would like to break his neck. What a thing to do! Sixty kilometres an hour. Sixty! Criminal that he is. He blames the dog, a little dog that goes pit-pat-pit across the road.” Simon moved the fingers of his right hand when he said pit-pat-pit, and it was almost as if a little dog were running. “.Sixty kilometres. He should be put in prison for—”
“There was no dog,” announced Rollison.
“It was only a little dog. You understand,” went on Simon, earnestly, and as if it had been a mistake to speak English, “un petit chien. Pit-pat-pit it went across the road, and the imbecile was travelling so fast that—”
“There was no pit-pat-pit,” murmured Rollison, “because there was no dog.”
“Un petit chien,” pleaded Simon.
“Non, man ami, il n’y avail pas de petits chiens, de grands chiens, de chats, ou de souris.”
“But it was just a little dog,” begged Simon.
“That was the driver’s excuse. He tried to run us down. Have you any enemies?” inquired the Toff earnestly.
“Have I?” breathed Simon. “Enemies? No, it is—”
He stopped, licked his thick lips, and opened his huge eyes at their widest. Then he leaned forward. “You have the enemy. He tries to kill you.”
“Kill or injure,” compromised Rollison. “I’m afraid so.”
“But—but, my friend, why?” asked Simon, in a faltering falsetto. “You are—” He stopped again, and the light of understanding dawned slowly in his eyes; it was remarkable that it had not shown before. “You mean, you are here on the business? The detection? Sapristi, what a fool I am not to know about that, of course! The detection! What, who, where, why, how—”
“I’ll tell you,” promised Rollison; “but before we go any further, do you know who the car driver is?”
“The first name, Raoul—the second I did not secure. He resides at the Villa Seblec—”
“Near here?”
“I do not know. I can find out if—”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted the Toff urgently, and the clown stopped; and outside there sounded the clear sound of a big bell. “Isn’t that twelve o’clock striking?” He listened, and the notes of a nearby clock became unmistakable. “Go and hide in the bathroom, will you? I’m expecting a visitor. Don’t let her know you’re there.”
Very slowly, Simon uncoiled himself. Standing at his full height, he looked down upon the Toff from great, wide open eyes. Slowly, he closed one of them, and the resultant wink was the best-known wink in the whole of France. From the stage of the Folies Bergère to the most exclusive night-clubs of the Champs Elysées, it had made thousands upon thousands roar with laughter, for it was a wink which conveyed the meaning of all the winks in the world, and passed all language barriers.
“I begin to understand,” he said hollowly. “I go. I shall return.”
He stalked off, disappeared into the bathroom, and left the door ajar. There was no sound from him, no sound in the hotel. But the strains of a lilting tune travelled up from the orchestra, more vigorous now because it was after midday, and the slothful could be disturbed.
Someone was to come at twelve o’clock.
It was now three minutes past.
Chapter Three
Tale Of A Missing Girl
It was fifteen minutes past twelve. The orchestra below on the terrace was playing an air from Guys and Dolls, and it did not sound incongruous. Occasionally other sounds floated upwards: the scrape of chairs on the mosaic of the terrace, the chink of glasses, the hoot of horns, the clip-clop-clip-clop of the horses drawing the fiacres. The room was still deep in shadow, but through one chink in the awning Rollison could see the vivid light of the sky; outside it was really hot.
It was plenty warm enough in the room.
A woman approached the room, hurrying. Rollison sat up against his big, square pillow, the bedspread over his legs, a half-smoked cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. But the woman passed, and only the sounds from the orchestra floated into the room.
The bathroom door opened, and Simon’s red nose and red hair and bald patch appeared, rather as if he were peering into the room from the ceiling.
“Stood up,” he declared.
“Let down,” said the Toff mournfully.
“May I come out of here now?”
“I think you’d better,” said the Toff. As Leclair came into the room, he took the letter from the bedside table and held it out. “Man or woman, boy or girl?” he mused. “Whoever it was might have telephoned, unless prevented by forces beyond his or her control. Sit down, Simon, and be patient.”
“Friend,” said Simon, lowering himself into the chair, “you must have been very badly hurt. You are upset. The detective does not detect, no?”
“No.”
“What,” asked Simon earnestly, “does the detective look for?”
Rollison regarded him, long and lingeringly, and then said with great precision: “A beautiful blonde.”
“For beautiful blondes, you have only to crook your finger,” Simon remarked. “If you do not believe me, there is Fifi as evidence. She may not be beautiful, but she is certainly a blonde, and whenever she sees you—”
“This one is English.”
“You know her?”
“I’ve never seen her. It is not an affair of the heart,” asserted the Toff. He was still cocking an ear in the hope that a sound would come from the passage, heralding the caller. “This is important but secret business,” he went on. “I’m looking for a poor little rich girl who disappeared from her home three months ago. Her parents are frantic, not knowing where she is. She was known to have come to Nice, and to be with a man whose description is very vague. A wealthy man was swindled of a big sum of money, and there was plenty of evidence that this beautiful English blonde helped to make a fool of hi
m. Her parents don’t want to believe it, but it’s true. That’s the last that was heard of her. The police were asked to find her, and traced her to the Baccarat, where she sang for a few nights. Then—vanish.”
“My friend,” said Simon Leclair, with great earnestness, “you and I, we are grown men. We look the facts in the face. There are many pretty girls, blonde girls, dumb girls, who come to the Riviera for the gay life.” Without a moment’s warning, he flung up his hands, shrugged his shoulders to a swift, contagious rhythm, and emitted a saxophone solo from his rounded lips.
He stopped.
“They get into the hands of the rascals, and they ruin themselves,” he went on. “What then? They are ashamed to go home to poppa and mama, so they stick around. Sad, but true. My Fifi could tell you a thing or two about girls who thought they would win fame or fortune here, and lost everything. When pretty bodies are taken out of the sea on the Cote d’Azur, my friend, the police do not embalm them and place them on the promenade for all to see. It is hush, hush, hush, and a very quiet funeral. Hush, hush, hush,” repeated Simon sombrely, and moved the fingers of his right hand in a slow rhythm; as men in a cortège would move. “It is sad, it is life, it is death. And the father of this girl asks you to look where the police succeeded not?”
“Yes.”
“I can understand that,” remarked Simon. “In the desperation they want the amateur, and in these parlous days it is necessary for you to earn the odd penny, eh? Three-figure fee and all expenses paid, that’s it?”
“Simon,” murmured the Toff.
“Toff,” murmured Simon.
“You’re quite right. But I’ve met the mother and father of this pretty little blonde, and don’t like to think of them unhappy as they are.” Rollison could be impressively sincere. “She’s their only child, and came late in their life. One of the tragedies. They spoiled, petted and fussed her, were more like grandparents than real parents. Then they woke up one day to find, to their horror, that she had gone. They believed she would come back. They prayed she would. They were ready to forgive anything. She didn’t return. They tried every means to find her, and as a last resort, asked me to help. I’d like to.”
