by John Creasey
He wanted to shout.
He changed his mind, and trod water, facing the man and slowing him down. The Arab was waiting for a trick; he trod water too, ready to plunge right or left, whichever way Rollison plunged. Violette came up behind him with swift, near-silent strokes.
It was strange to see her golden brown hand close about his neck, and tighten.
The Arab choked.
Rollison plunged towards him.
The Arab sank, slowly, his mouth open. The red of blood tinged the blue water. The knife was in Rollison’s hand. Some way off, the other Arab was swimming back towards the Maria. Violette and Rollison were floating on their backs and side by side, gradually recovering their breath. They hadn’t spoken from the moment when Rollison had plunged the knife between the Arab’s ribs.
Soon they were breathing normally.
“Better start,” said Rollison. “Ready?”
“When you wish.”
“One minute,” said Rollison.
He felt as if all the strength had been drained out of him.
He wished that he had not killed; it had been one of them or the Arab, but the taking of life had a finality which brought its own horror. Yet with one man dead and the other in flight, he could call it a miracle. But he didn’t try to raise a smile, and he sensed that Violette felt much the same as he.
“We’ll start now,” he said.
The girl turned. They headed for the shore, with the cool waters about them and the sun still warm, although not striking on the backs of their heads. Rollison faced a new danger; or a danger which had been forgotten - the task of swimming so far.
Could Violette?
Could he?
It could not have been ten minutes later that he heard the rumbling sounds of an engine again. This time it was not an aircraft, but a little outboard motor-boat with a young couple on board.
The youngsters were American, fresh, clean-limbed, eager, curious, generous.
“Why, sure, we’ll take you ashore, sir. Glad to have the opportunity. How did you come to be swimming out this far?”
“It’s two miles offshore, at least,” the girl declared.
“Don’t exaggerate, honey,” said the youth. “It’s no more than a mile, but that’s plenty. How—”
“There are young fools and old fools,” quoth Rollison. He was sitting in the thwarts, with a borrowed white sweater round his shoulders, smoking, Violette sitting close by his side, wearing a pale blue sweater that was wickedly small for her. “We’re the middle-aged variety.” He grinned at Violette, whose English was not good enough to understand what that implied. “Do you know the Ile de Seblec?”
“Oh, sure, way across there.” The youth pointed.
“We challenged ourselves to a swim from the He to Cap Mirabeau,” said Rollison. “See what I mean by fools?”
“Why, that’s eight miles!” cried the American. “You swam this far—say, that’s what I call swimming, sir! I’d be proud if I could swim as far as that. We’ll be glad to take you anywhere you like.”
“Cap Mirabeau will do fine,” Rollison said; “we’ve friends near there.”
The stuttering noise of the engine was like a lullaby.
Rollison felt tired out, but no worse. He had dropped the knife when he had seen the outboard, and with it, something of the nausea had gone.
Violette’s eyes were droopy. The American girl, who had a complexion nearly as dark as the Arabs, and the nicest way of talking, looked at them, marvelling.
The youngsters talked eagerly.
She was Janet Wetherby; he was Slade Mikado, and you didn’t have to think of Gilbert and Sullivan or the English Member of Parliament! His father was in textiles, mostly underwear, and you couldn’t think of anything more prosaic than that, could you? They were going to be married soon. He’d been sent out here to get a little idea of what the European agencies of Mikado Textiles were like, and Janet was the daughter of the manager of the Paris office. Everything was fine. Europe was fine. The Riviera was fine. The weather was wonderful. They were going to be married in New York, were to fly back in a week from now, and after that he’d have plenty of work to do – his father’s health wasn’t so good.
Hadn’t he seen Mr. Rollison somewhere?
Rollison?
Why, could he be that private eye he’d heard so much about?
“Mr. Rollison,” said Slade Mikado, shaking Rollison’s hand vigorously, “I hope you and Miss Monet will come and have dinner with us, and maybe go to a dive afterwards. The Baccarat’s not bad at all. We’re staying at the Royal, if you find you’ve time—”
“You’ll have dinner with us,” said Rollison firmly, “but not tonight, if you’ll forgive us.”
“Any time at all,” breezed Slade. “Right now we’re going to visit some friends, and tonight wouldn’t be so good, anyway.”
“You will let us see you again, won’t you?” pleaded Janet Wetherby. “You’re quite a hero, Mr. Rollison; but I expect you know all about that.”
“People talk too much,” Rollison said. “You see what really happens when I do try to do something unusual. Yes—we’d hate to let you go back home without seeing you again.”
He looked towards the jetties. The largest one at Cap Mirabeau was public, where anyone could call and tie up; and from where a few cabin cruisers took sedentary-minded tourists on trips along the coast. The breeze was coming up now, and boats were moving up and down a little. There was craft of all sizes, from a three-hundred-ton yacht with magnificent lines, to skiffs. There were many people on the jetty, too, but only one whom Rollison recognised.
He grinned, in spite of his mood.
Simon Leclair sat on the side, with his knees doubled up and his long chin resting on them. He wore an old, shapeless white hat, a cigarette drooped from the corner of his mouth, and his eyes were half-closed. His long feet actually overlapped the edges of the jetty, which was very long and freshly painted. Half-way along, two old fishermen in blue blouses and jeans were mending fishing-nets, and looking as if they had all the time in the world.
Slade Mikado nursed the little boat alongside, and a fisherman caught the rope he threw. He helped Violette out; and every man in sight watched her as she moved. She still wore the clinging sweater, and carried herself proudly; yet Rollison knew that she looked round, already frightened of whom might be there to see and to welcome her.
He jumped on to the jetty.
“You’re all right here,” he said quickly. “Walk along with our two rescuers, and wait for me at the end of the jetty.”
She nodded, without arguing.
“I’ll catch you up in a couple of jiffs,” Rollison said to Slade Mikado.
The Americans and Violette went on, still watched by all the men in sight, while Rollison moved towards the fisherman who had hauled them in and was now tying up the outboard. To do this, Rollison had to pass behind the faithful clown, who hadn’t moved at all.
“You saw the girl I brought ashore,” he said to the back of Simon’s neck.
Simon did not turn round.
“I could also tell you what Fifi would call her.” he said.
“She’s in acute danger,” Rollison told him quietly, “wherever she goes and wherever she is. Take her to a small hotel, and let me know where to find her. Somewhere or someone you can trust with her life, even if a large bribe is offered.”
Simon said: “So.”
“Will you?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll tell her to go with you,” Rollison said. He appeared to be looking out to sea, for the sight of a sail or a boat he thought was due. “If you’re followed, I’ll follow you.”
He moved away. Simon still sat there, chin close to bony knees. Rollison walked quickly after the young Americans and Violett
e, who was between them. All the men watched her; and one of them or more than one might work for the man called Chicot.
Chapter Twelve
A Message From Chicot
Rollison had a taxi waiting for him. Simon had caught up with them, and was now helping Violette into his ridiculous little bumble-bee of a car, the roof of which was still wide open. The evening breeze was making his red hair wave, and by the side of the little car he looked ridiculous. But he was envied. Any man escorting Violette would be envied. Englishmen, Americans, Swedes and Belgians, Swiss, Italians, and even Frenchmen at their leisure looked at her, and it wasn’t only because of her superb carriage. She had a disturbing influence; she even disturbed the Toff.
Simon bent double, and insinuated himself into the car. He slammed the door. When that was done, there seemed to be an audible sigh from fifty pairs of lips. Then he started the engine and drove off.
Rollison sat in a taxi.
Two or three cars were moving along the road from the esplanade at the Cap Mirabeau, but none seemed to follow the midget Renault. Rollison told his taxi-driver to move on, and followed fifty yards behind. A mile further on he felt quite sure that no one was following Violette; and equally sure that no one was following him.
He could relax.
He hadn’t any cigarettes, and missed them badly. He could have had a hundred for asking, from Slade Mikado. Slade had driven his Janet off in a purring Buick, the colour of cream from a Jersey cow. They’d gone in the other direction, for they were to call at a villa approached from the Middle Corniche.
Rollison sat back in the car, and was jolted and swayed from side to side. It was warmer ashore than it had been at sea. The evening air wasn’t yet really cool, for it was full daylight. The sea was darkening. He closed his eyes, and seemed to see nothing but the blue water and the snaking brown figures. Sitting here, it was hard to believe that it had happened; harder to believe that the threat had been so acute, yet had been beaten off.
He could see a knife, falling, pointing upwards.
He could see blood, discolouring the sea, and the open mouth and the teeth of the Arab who had sunk out of sight.
Soon he was driving along the main promenade. Traffic was much thicker than it had been that morning, the promenade itself was thronged with people taking a stroll before dining at leisure. Everyone seemed to be taking the air. The tassels hanging from the coloured umbrellas and the gay awnings, on the front, at the terraces, and high up on the face of the great hotels, all bobbed gently to and fro in the breeze. Nice was its warm and beautiful self. A dozen fiacres were being drawn, a thousand sleek cars purred.
The taxi drew up outside the Hotel San Roman. A porter sprang to open the door, looked startled at Rollison’s garb, then beamed upon him.
“Pay the bill, please,” Rollison said, and gave a mechanical smile.
“But of course, sir!”
That was easy. It was equally easy to skip across the terrace, where the orchestra was back – dressed in different clothes – to play for dinner and the evening’s relaxation. The big foyer was almost deserted, except for Alphonse, who was behind the desk. His eyes widened at the sight of Rollison, his stubby hands were raised.
“M’sieu, you walk again!”
“Yes,” said Rollison, and summoned up his mechanical smile. “It wasn’t so bad, after all. I’m in a hurry, Alphonse. Have there been any messages?”
“But no,” said Alphonse. “Unless they are in your room.”
He came away from his desk in order to escort M. Rollison to the gate of the lift, and that was a signal honour. A lift-boy, looking corsetted in wine-red and silver buttons, stood nervously on one side. “If the new girl is not satisfactory, m’sieu, you will please advise, and we shall arrange for another,” Alphonse said.
“New girl?” echoed Rollison.
“The chambermaid, m’sieu.”
Rollison stopped thinking about a sinking Arab face and a battered skull and a swarm of flies. His voice sharpened.
“Where’s Suzanne?”
“It was unfortunate, m’sieu,” said Alphonse, and spread his hands. “She must have leaned out of the window too far. By good fortune, she did not fall right down to the terrace, but to the main balcony. No one else was there.”
They were in the lift; the gates were closed; the old porter, with his silvery hair and silvery beard, had a finger on the button for the third floor. There was the usual clicking sound, and the lift began to climb; it was surely the slowest climbing lift in France.
Horror crept upon the Toff as he said tautly: “What do you mean? Is Suzanne hurt?”
“Hurt?” echoed Alphonse gently. “Yes, badly, m’sieu. It is a good thing for her that she died. The doctor said that her injuries were so bad she would not have walked again. It is very sad.”
The lift was still crawling up.
The truth came starkly to Rollison, but he did not want to believe it; he rejected it wildly, and his wildness was a measure of his horror.
“What happened?”
“She fell out of the window, m’sieu.”
“My window?”
“But yes,” said Alphonse.
Rollison said: “I see,” and clamped his teeth together. Soon he went on: “I’m very, very sorry.” He pictured the country girl, with the clear skin and the innocent eyes, and he remembered her tales of her home in the valley near Bordeaux; how in the harvest time she went back to the village, but in the season came to earn some money in the fine hotels of Nice. Except for unpleasant men, she had enjoyed every minute of it; and she had had a specially soft spot for him.
“When did it happen?” asked Rollison.
“At a little after one o’clock, m’sieu.”
He’d been gone about half an hour, then. Suzanne had helped him to get out of the hotel without being noticed. She had dropped her keys with a thump when danger had threatened, and beckoned eagerly when it had passed. He could see the gleam in her bright eyes, and her astonishment when she saw him in the blue jeans and the jacket.
“The new girl is not very experienced,” Alphonse informed him. “You will tell me if she is all right?”
“Yes,” said Rollison. “Yes, thanks.”
Alphonse, holding his key, went with him to the door, opened it, handed him the key, and went off. If he were puzzled by Rollison’s reaction to the news of Suzanne’s death, he didn’t show it.
Rollison closed the door behind him.
On the table by the side of the one armchair was a tray, with a glass, whisky, and soda; that was how he liked it, and Suzanne had left it for him there. Pain stung his eyes. The unexpectedness of this hurt most; that, and the thought of her innocence, battered and broken as the brown-eyed beggar had been on the rocky cliffs.
Why?
He poured himself a drink, and went to the balcony. The awning was still down, and if Suzanne had been here, she would have seen that it was not, at this hour. He pushed it up, and looked out at the darkening sea and the horizon which seemed to be drawing nearer. A white ship which might be the Maria was making its way slowly from headland to headland.
He saw scratches on the stonework of the balcony, perhaps made by Suzanne’s shoes.
Why?
Had they broken in to search his room, or to lie in wait for him, and come upon Suzanne, killing to make sure that she could not report that they had been here? Or had they wanted to know where he was?
He felt quite sure that this was to do with Chicot. Chicot was a name, and he hated the name as he had seldom hated in his life.
He looked at the whisky in his glass. A few bubbles from the soda-water were travelling upwards and vanishing in tiny, almost invisible explosions. He tasted the whisky-and-soda gingerly. It seemed all right. He held the glass up, and saw the sediment already settlin
g at the bottom; not much, but enough to be noticeable. He went inside, quickly, and picked up the bottle and carried it, upright and without shaking it, into the better light outside.
There was a filmy sediment.
Poison?
He sent for another bottle of whisky and syphon of soda, sealed the half-empty bottle with Selotape, and put it back in the wardrobe; he had checked for finger-prints, but all except his own had been wiped off. There would be a nearby chemist who would analyse the contents, and he wouldn’t be at ease until he knew the truth.
Any kind of ease seemed a long way off.
The telephone bell rang. He looked at it for a long time, before lifting the receiver.
“Hallo?”
There was a pause, and then Simon Leclair said: “Hallo, friend Toff. Is there more trouble?”
“What makes you think there might be?”
“Your voice, my old friend, but perhaps you are only thinking of Violette! I will tell you this. I have forgiven you for the trick you played on me, but Fifi has not and will not for a long time. To send me to Cap Mirabeau, when the trouble is elsewhere! Isn’t that true?”
“Simon,” said Rollison, a little less tensely, “you are a married man, remember, and for some odd reason Fifi loves you. Where’s Violette?”
“She is at a little hotel—oh, hotel is too important a name, a little pension in Rue de Guy de Maupassant,” Simon told him. “Very clean, very good food, very cheap, very nice peoples, very met patron, extra nice neighbours—because we are in the apartement next to Violette! I watch, or Fifi watches,” declared Simon, “and if she is hurt it is over our dead bodies!”
Rollison didn’t answer.
“Toff,” said Simon, suddenly anxious. “Are you there? Did you hear? It is nonsense to worry about Fifi; she wants to help as much as I do. Can we forget that it was you who once saved Fifi from much trouble, from years of imprisonment for what she did not do?” He paused, then cried: “My friend, are you there?”
