by John Creasey
Gérard said: “Yes, yes. If I fail—” He shrugged, touched with the same fatalism as Violette. “It can be no worse than it is,” he said. “I will try. Why do they wish to kill you, and where did they send this Daff-nee My-all?”
“That’s right,” said the Toff. “And now I’m going to give you a shot that will put you to sleep. It won’t hurt; just relax.”
Gérard said: “I will try, m’sieu.”
It was four o’clock.
No other craft had approached nearer than five hundred yards, but soon they would be among the craft in the bay.
On deck it was hotter than it had been – the first slight cooling breeze of evening had not yet touched the water. Nice seemed a long way off, and was visible through a faint haze. Heat shimmered off the deck and the roof of the engine-house and the cabin. Rollison, on deck alone,’scanned the sea in all directions, and saw no craft approaching. Chichot’s men would probably wait until dark before coming out, now that they had waited so long. The police-search for the other cabin cruiser probably explained why there had been no chase; no one at the Villa Seblec wanted to clash with the police, yet they would know there was trouble on board the Maria. Whatever it was, they would leave here soon. He didn’t want to take the Maria in too far: just far enough for them to be able to swim ashore.
They could use the dinghy for a mile or so, and leave the cabin cruiser anchored here.
He went towards the stern, and the spot where he had climbed aboard, and as he did so, saw the unbelievable. It was there in front of his eyes, but he didn’t believe it at first.
A hand gripped the deck.
Chapter Ten
The Faithful Clown
Rollison crept closer to the rails. The hand, more brown than white, gripped firmly. The ends of the fingers were flat and broad, and the half-moons had a yellowish tinge. He heard a new sound, a louder lapping of the water against the side of the Maria. The breeze, springing up suddenly, might be the reason for that, for it would first be noticed on the water.
A man, swimming, might also cause it.
Rollison went down on his stomach when he was close to the rail. The dark hand was several yards to his right. He inched himself forward, then peered over the side. There was imminent danger of being seen, but he needed only a second to judge the extent of the danger.
He saw one man, holding on to the deck; another, climbing up the rope which he himself had climbed; a third, standing in the dinghy, which was swaying to and fro, and causing the splashing sounds. The silence with which the three men moved was menace in itself. Obviously two of them planned to swing themselves over the side at once; they might then wait until the third was aboard.
Rollison slithered away, got slowly to his feet, crouched low, and scurried towards the stairway. A picture of the three men was as vivid as a photograph in his mind’s eye. Brown, wet bodies, dark loin-cloths, sharp features and big, bare feet; these men were Arabs from the other side of the Mediterranean, powerful swimmers, men to whom life was cheap. The rippling muscles of the man climbing the rope told of great physical strength. No craft was in sight, so they had swum from one a long way off.
Rollison reached the head of the stairs, peered over the top of the engine-house, and saw the hand; nothing else.
He went half-way down.
“Violette!”
She must have been waiting for a call, because she appeared from the saloon at once. The beach dress was gone. She wore a comparatively decorous swim-suit, and moved with cat-like grace that could take the Toff’s mind off most things, but not off the three brown men.
He whispered:
“Hurry, we’re being boarded.”
He turned and led the way.
The hand was still there, and another had joined it; that was what the brown-skinned men meant to do: wait there until all three could swing aboard at the same time, then make a rush for the cabins.
They might come at any moment.
“Up forrard,” he whispered, and took Violette’s hand. He swung towards the bows, bare feet making more noise than he liked, although Violette did not make a sound. “Three Arabs,” he told her, and he felt her muscles go taut, the sinews tighten. “We’ll be all right. Swing over the bows and drop into the water. Make as little noise as you can.”
“All right,” she whispered, and he let her go.
He turned, to look at the stern. The rail he meant to climb was two yards away; just two steps. Once he was over it would not matter if the brown men came aboard or not. He could not have moved more swiftly, and only a second was left; the second seemed an agonising time. He reached the rail and swung himself over. For a flash of time he was facing the stern, hands on the rail ready to lower himself to the deck and then to drop.
He heard Violette cleave the water with a gentle swiiiiish of sound.
Then the three men came aboard almost in one movement, lithe bodies stretched up, hands clutching the rails, ready to vault. They must have boarded ships like this a hundred times; it was over before Rollison could take his hands off the rails.
That was not all. He saw the knives in their mouths, all three glistening in the sun. The sharp, pointed blades were nearly a foot long.
The men were staring towards the engine-house, not the stern.
Rollison dropped down to the sea. He didn’t know whether a man glanced towards him and he had been seen. He kept his body stiff, his toes pointing downwards, until his feet and his legs were almost in one straight line. He went in, and deeply under. Water closed silently about him. He seemed to be going down for a long time, before he began to strike out for the surface.
When he reached it, the three men might be waiting with knives poised.
He gritted his teeth as he shot up out of the water, took one deep breath, and plunged under again. But saving himself wasn’t the only thing: there was Violette, who might not know the men were already aboard.
He broke the surface, dashed the hair and water out of his eyes, and turned on to his back. The Maria was already twenty yards away, and the reflection of her white sides shimmered on the water.
The men were not in sight.
He turned his head, and saw Violette. She was twenty yards away and swimming strongly towards him. He turned over on his stomach and swam steadily, letting her catch up with him. They were so close, when she did, that their arms touched.
“Three of them, with knives,” he warned her. “Keep under water as much as you can.”
“Yes,” she promised.
They dived. There was a cleanness about the sea, and a sense of complete mastery which nothing else could give. Rollison kept his eyes closed, swam under water for fully sixteen seconds, then bobbed up. Violette wasn’t in sight. He felt a moment of panic, but she appeared only a few feet away, shaking her head vigorously. He glanced round at the cruiser, which was riding the still sea beautifully.
No one was at the rails.
“They’re bound to come soon,” he said, and wondered if she heard him. “Go as fast as you can.”
She nodded.
He took a few strong strokes towards the shore, then dived under again. When he came up he turned over on his back, so that he could see the Maria. It was a long way off now: a hundred yards or more. With luck, they wouldn’t be seen. He felt almost light-hearted with relief, and when Violette appeared, ten feet ahead of him, he waved, grinned at her, and caught her up.
“Race you!”
“Fifty strokes,” she said, and entered into the spirit of it swiftly, feeling the same kind of release from fear as he.
They struck out. After the first few strokes she was a foot ahead, swimming magnificently; Rollison wondered what she would be like if she were fresh. He kept just behind her. He could overtake her if he made an effort, but it would delight her to win; if he were close behind it wouldn’t m
atter. He kept glancing back, wondering why the men didn’t appear at the side. They would have been below by now, and found Gérard and Raoul. The first thing they would do, surely, was look over the side to see if anyone was in sight.
He swam on.
Rollison did not know that two of the men, knives in their mouths, were already in the water, swimming after him and Violette.
At fifty strokes Violette was an arm’s length ahead. She turned on her back with a single, easy movement, and smiled with gaiety good to see. She was as much at home in the water as she would be in a salon, in a Rambeau night-club, or in some stately home. He hair had been swept back by the water so that it was quite straight again: that was the best style for her, it threw the beauty of her bone structure into clear prominence.
“Very close,” she said. “Did you let me win?”
“I’ll beat you next time!”
“We must go steadily now; it is a long way.”
“We will,” agreed Rollison soberly. He wondered if it would have been wise to try to get into the dinghy. Was ‘wise’ the word? It would have taken them five minutes, they might have been seen before they were actually free of the Maria. Arabs could probably swim twice as fast as he could row a dinghy, even in this smooth sea.
It was warm, soothing, comforting. Nice was so far away that it was almost invisible; just a line of white seen through a haze. They were at least a mile offshore, but they wouldn’t have to swim all that way: there were bound to be small craft afloat, between them and the shore. There was a current, Rollison knew, which would take them towards Cap Mira-beau, where the craft of a yachting club were always at anchor.
The warmth of the sea and sun induced a kind of lassitude. It had been a mistake to expend so much energy in that wild burst of speed, but there were two advantages: it had got them further away from the Maria, and had worked the excitement out of their systems. It was going to be a long time before he forgot the sight of the three lean, brown men with the knives in their mouths, and their teeth flashing.
Violette had dropped into a long, steady side-stroke; she could swim for miles with it. He did the same. He had almost forgotten to look for the men, for he had given up thought of imminent danger. But he turned over again, not expecting to see a thing, just to make sure.
He saw a dark head appear out of the water, not fifty yards away.
Brown arms and shoulders appeared for a second, then disappeared, as the Arab dived. The sight was so momentary that it was like a mirage. Smooth, blue water with the Maria five hundred yards away – the dark head and moving arms – and the smooth water again, with no ripples which Rollison could see.
“Violette!” he called with sudden urgency, and immediately she stopped swimming and turned over on her back, kicking her legs to keep afloat. She couldn’t see his expression. “One of them is swimming after us. Head for the nearest point, and get in touch with Simon Leclair—ask for his address at the Cafe Lippe or at the Baccarat. Understand?”
She understood.
Fear touched her features as she turned round and started to swim again, those long, devouring strokes which hurtled her through the water. But fast as she went, she wasn’t likely to have the speed of the Arab.
Was there only one?
Rollison changed direction slightly, gradually widening the distance between him and Violette; if there were just the one man, he would have to let one of them get away, while he went for the other.
Rollison found it hard to breathe. His teeth were clenched tightly, and he was sick with the sickening thump of his heart. The Arabs were probably expert under-water swimmers, and would be accustomed to using knives – against sharks and octopi, perhaps against men.
He could see Violette, moving beautifully fast.
Then he saw the man bob up in the water, not twenty feet behind her; the sun glistened on the knife the Arab now had between his teeth.
Chapter Eleven
The Battle In The Sea
Rollison did not know if there were another Arab in the water, near. There was the girl and the man behind her, no longer trying to keep under water, but skimming it. Only Violette’s speed kept him at bay, but he was catching up on her slowly; in a few minutes he would be close behind. The recollection of the beggar’s battered skull told Rollison what would happen then. One slash from that knife would be enough in Violette’s smooth body.
He did not see the other man, only a little way from him, still under water, but with his eyes open, and able to see Rollison’s pale body.
The man surfaced, with hardly a sound.
Unaware of him, Rollison struck out towards Violette and the Arab near her. He had never swam with such power or such desperation. Hurling his body through the water, he waited for the moment that would come, to shout a warning.
He closed the gap.
He would not be able to keep the speed up for long, but this one burst would give him and her a chance. There wouldn’t be another.
Ten yards …
Five yards were between him and the Arab, who was no more than five behind Violette.
Then the Arab turned his head, as if sensing danger. The sun glinted on the knife. His hand moved as he snatched his knife from his teeth, leapt out of the water and plunged under.
Violette, knowing nothing of this, went on.
Rollison had no idea that the second man was only yards behind him. The danger he knew was quite enough. The Arab could see under water and would be coming at him now, knife in hand. He could not slash through the water, his cutting motion would have to be slow and deliberate.
The Toff saw him.
Legs moving, arms cleaving the water, he was a brown streak only a foot or two from the surface, and very close at hand. His chin was up, and he stared at Rollison. Rollison did the only thing he could, and doing it, he felt a strange despair; strange, because he had seldom known it.
He could not beat these men.
On land he’d have a chance; on deck, too; if only he had stayed on board. Instead, he had acted on impulse and thrown his life away.
He jumped up in the water, and then dived, striking out so that he could plunge as deep as possible. He felt something touch him; an arm. He shivered. He struck out harder, head still towards the bottom, but he could not stay under too long; he would be exhausted when he surfaced.
His speed slackened.
He struck out for the surface and the precious air. He could see the quivering lines of the water; a school of tiny, colourful fish, their tails moving sluggishly – and two men.
They were close together, and seemed to be some distance off. Two of them—
He broke surface, and couldn’t see them. Panic touched him, for he couldn’t see Violette either. Then he caught sight of her, still swimming strongly towards the shore. There was a different sound, too – a kind of rumbling. Rm-rm-rm-rm-rm-rm. Was it the water in his ears? He started to swim towards the shore. The Arabs were behind him, and he couldn’t be sure that they could see him, but he hadn’t much doubt.
Rm-rm-rm-rm-rm-rm.
It was an engine? A motor-launch? Hope leapt. An aeroplane? Yes, that was it. He saw it passing over his head, the sound strangely muted by the water; a small petrol-engined machine which wasn’t flying very high. It didn’t offer any hope at all. There wasn’t any, unless the Arabs gave up; and there was no reason to believe that they’d do that.
Rollison turned on his back, and faced a man only two yards away, knife in hand. The man was diving.
Here it was.
Rollison swung himself round and hurled himself at the spot where the man had been. He saw the lithe brown figure slip beneath him. Agile as a fish, the man would turn in half the time it would take Rollison. He trod water for a few vital seconds, and saw the shape again. Man for man, he would take a chance, but that knife and th
at expertness threatened too much. He saw the Arab about to break surface—
And then he had his luck.
The man changed his mind and dived again, coming straight towards Rollison without knowing exactly where Rollison was. The end of that first diving movement should bring him very close – he should break water close by.
Rollison let himself fall forward, and floated easily. He saw the brown streak, slowing down and very near him. He saw the knife under the water, the black head, the muscular shoulders. He thrust his hand down in a snatching movement, his fingers crooked, hoping desperately that he would strike the wrist close to the knife.
He did.
He felt the bone between his fingers, clutched and twisted. The hand was so near the surface that he could exert powerful pressure. The man broke surface wildly. Rollison heard him gasp, heard the bubbly intake of his breath. He thrust the wrist back savagely and brought a squeal of pain.
The fingers opened, the knife dropped.
Rollison saw it going down slowly, the point showing. The handle was carrying it down. He felt a hand at his neck; brown fingers clutched and then slid off his wet skin. He turned, and butted the Arab in the nose with his forehead.
The man fell back, splashing noisily.
Rollison swung himself round, gasping for breath, knowing that it would take all the strength he had left to reach a boat. Then he saw the second Arab, only a few yards away, with the knife in his mouth.
The sense of despair swept over him again.
He couldn’t fight, couldn’t hope for such luck twice running. Compared with him, the Arab was fresh, and he had probably seen what had happened and would be out for blood. Well, here it was. Should he go forward and try to fight it out, or turn and swim and hope?
He wanted to swim away.
Even then he found himself trying to work out what chance he had. He was actually on the turn, with the brown-skinned man coming towards him very fast, when he saw Violette’s head bob up a little to the left of the Arab, and out of his line of vision.
