by John Creasey
He stepped into the bedroom.
Then he saw the depth of his folly.
Two brown-skinned men, very like the two who had climbed aboard the Maria, were behind the door. One showed a knife, the other a wooden club. They watched him closely, warily.
Gérard leapt forward, as if he were terrified of what the Toff would do, and as he turned round he cried:
“I had to do it, they tortured me!”
“So you had to do it,” said the Toff. Nothing in the world would ever sound more contemptuous. “May your con science for ever—” He broke off. “Oh, what the hell! I ought to have expected it. What are the riff-raff here for?”
Words bubbled out of the Frenchman.
“You—you have to come with me. They’re to make sure that you do. If you don’t, they’ll kill—they’ll kill you!”
“And where are we supposed to go?”
“The Villa Seblec,” Gérard said. His teeth chattered. “They made me tell them; I tried to hold out, but I couldn’t.”
Rollison didn’t answer.
He looked at the two brown-skinned men, concentrating on the one with the knife. His heart was hammering. The worst of the situation was that they were on different sides of the door, could attack from two directions. They had moved a little nearer; threateningly. He did not know whether to believe Gérard or not. They were more likely to follow him out of the hotel, let him start out for the Villa Seblec, and then – a knife in his back, his body tossed over the rocks and into the sea.
Neither of them spoke.
“Can they speak English?” Rollison asked, and slid his right hand towards his pocket; and the lighter.
“I speak English,” one man said. “Take your hand away, quick,” It was like ‘queek’. “Go now, wis Gérard.”
There was no certainty that Rollison would get out of the hotel alive, but obviously they would prefer to kill somewhere else, where the body could be hidden.
Yet they’d tried to poison him.
Why hadn’t Gérard waited alone, lured him out, and spotlighted him for an attack?
One answer was obvious: that Chicot didn’t trust Gérard.
Was that all?
Rollison said: “I want a cigarette, and you can do what you damned well like.” He took out his cigarette-case and the lethal lighter. The Arab who had spoken held the knife as if to throw it; but he didn’t. The cigarette-case and lighter were in the Toff’s hands. He began to sweat. He opened the cigarette-case, put a cigarette to his lips, and then made as if to light it. He moved, so that he could see both Arabs. The man with the knife was nearer. One of the tiny bullets in the eye would blind, one in his neck might kill. One in his hand—
Rollison flicked the lighter.
The click! was like an ordinary lighter-sound. There was just a wisp of flame. The tiny bullet struck the hand holding the knife, and as the Arab cried out, Rollison spun round. The other Arab was already moving, club raised. In that vivid moment, Rollison knew how the brown-eyed beggar had been killed.
He didn’t fire, but jumped forward, crashed bodily into the man, and carried him back. The impact jolted the Arab, whose club fell. Rollison raised both hands and gripped the lean brown throat, then crashed the man’s head against the wall. The thud was dull and sickening, and the dark eyes rolled. Rollison let the man slide down the wall, unconscious, and turned sharply. The other Arab, knife in his left hand, was moving, towards him.
The lighter—
Gérard shot out a leg.
The Arab kicked against it, and fell sprawling. The Toff let him pass, then clipped him sharply behind the ear to help him on his way.
Gérard watched with rounded eyes and rounded mouth, as if he couldn’t believe what he had done.
“Thanks,” said Rollison, not even slightly out of breath; “there’s hope for you yet.” He moved quickly to the telephone. “Get out, wait for me in the toilets. I’m going to call the police.”
“But—”
Rollison didn’t look at him, but spoke into the telephone. The operator said: “At once, m’sieu,” then came back on the line, puzzled. “The Commissariat de Police, m’sieu?”
“Please, and quickly,” said Rollison.
The second Arab was picking himself up, but was a long way from his knife, which lay on the floor.
“Hurry, Gérard,” said Rollison; “they’ll soon be here. Tread on that knife before you go.”
Gérard hesitated.
Then abruptly he moved forward, and stamped his heel on the shining blade. It broke. He stamped again and again in sudden fury, ‘then went out, his face a flaming red.
One Arab was unconscious, the other watched the lighter in Rollison’s hands as if he expected it to spit fire.
A man answered …
“M. l’Inspecteur, if you please,” said Rollison. He knew that his name would be known, for he had worked in the South of France before. The police would listen to him, and the police would soon be here.
There was a pause, followed by a deeper voice. Rollison talked briskly. There were two Arab thieves whom he had surprised in his room, would M. l‘Inspecteur …
M. l‘Inspecteur most certainly would! What hotel?
Soon Rollison replaced the receiver. His expression hadn’t changed. The expression of the Arab hadn’t, either. It was not the man who could speak English; he was still unconscious by the wall. They stood watching each other. If the man made a dive for the door, it wouldn’t be easy to stop him. These pellet-bullets were too scarce to be wasted, and would not stop a man unless they struck exactly the right place.
He should have used Gérard more.
Rollison moved slowly, seeing the club on the floor near the claw-like hand of the unconscious man. The other saw what he was going to do, then took a desperate chance and ran towards the door.
Rollison snatched up the club and threw it. The thick end caught the Arab on the back of the head. He pitched forward, shouting out more with fear than pain. Rollison went after him, picked him up by his collar and the seat of his trousers, and bustled him into the bathroom. Then he slammed and locked the door.
The other man was still unconscious.
A waiter came, in alarm …
All that Rollison could tell the police about le Comte de Vignolles was that they had dined and talked, and the Count had called himself M. Blanc. All he could say about Chicot was that a girl whose reputation wasn’t exactly unsullied had said he was bad. He could tell of the murdered beggar, but the body would have been taken away by now. He could say that Suzanne had been murdered, and the police would be polite but incredulous, because she had fallen from the window.
The safest thing was to tell part of the truth; his suspicions of the ‘accident’ on the promenade, the attempt to poison him, and the visit of the two Arabs. The police would have to take him seriously.
He had never felt that he needed help more; for not one, but many girls had disappeared.
Were they alive?
Or were they dead?
Rollison had met Inspector Panneraude on a previous visit to Nice; a brisk, middle-aged man, as lean as Rollison himself, aware of the soubriquet ‘Toff’ and much that went with it. He took it all very seriously, and ventured to say that he had personally investigated the ‘accident’, and whatever one might suspect, no one could prove it had been intentional. Several witnesses had seen a little dog …
The Inspector hoped M. Rollison had told all the truth. Why was he in Nice? The story of the missing girl satisfied him, or appeared to; the two Arabs were taken off, handcuffed, the other police went out. When they had all gone, the Inspector became much more a human being, and accepted a glass of the wine which Rollison had bought for Simon Leclair.
“Merci bien, m’sieu! Your very good health and safety i
n France!” He held up his glass and beamed; then drank. “Ah, this very good.” He read the label on the bottle, nodded as with a connoisseur’s approval, and changed the subject briskly. “These Arabs, we have very much trouble with them. Some have French passports, of course, although many of them cannot speak a word of French. Others come from Spanish Morocco. They are brought here as servants because they will work almost for nothing; we have too many of them, far too many. We try to control their entry, but the Spanish are smuggled ashore at lonely spots, so what can we do? These two—were they just thieves, or was it connected with this whisky, do you think?”
It was a deliberately naïve question.
“I wouldn’t know,” said Rollison mildly. “I hope you’ll find out.”
“But of course, m’sieu!” The Inspector smiled wryly, as if he appreciated the naïveté of evasion. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“There’s one thing,” Rollison said. “Will you telephone M. Chicot at the Villa Seblec, explain who you are, and say that I have been delayed, but hope to get there later?”
“You are sure he lives there?”
“It’ll be a way to find out.”
“But you are free to go at once, m’sieu.”
“I’d like M. Chicot or others at the Villa to know that the delay wasn’t my own fault,” said Rollison. “I’d like them to know I’m with the police. It might be—ah—safer.”
“But of course, I understand.” The Inspector moved to the telephone. “Chicot,” he echoed. “I remember there was a cabaret star named Chicot, some years ago; he was very funny. So droll. Only one man in all France was ever funnier than Chicot, and that is Simon Leclair. Leclair will be here next week—now there is a man to see! At the Baccarat.”
The operator answered; Panneraude asked for the Villa Seblec, and held on. “Yes, Simon Leclair will appear at the Baccarat” he repeated. “That is owned by M. le Comte de Vignolles. Am I permitted an indiscretion? … ’Allo, M. Chicot, please … He does not? Then M. Morency … Dr. Morency, I am sorry. Be good enough to pass on this message. I am Inspecteur Panneraude of the Commissariat de Police … Yes, Inspecteur Panneraude … I speak for Mr. Richard Rollison, who has had a burglary at his hotel and is delayed. Please tell Dr. Morency … You are sure M. Chicot does not live there?”
He rang off.
He had been eyeing Rollison very thoughtfully; shrewdly. As he put the receiver down, he went on: “The maid who answered does not know a M. Chicot. You heard that. The other—is it permitted?”
“The indiscretion? Of course.”
“Tonight you had the honour of dining with M. le Comte de Vignolles,” said Panneraude musingly. “You left him abruptly, and it is said that you insulted him. Would you like to tell me why you quarrelled, M. Rollison?”
Rollison murmured: “He would like to find out who Chicot is, and offered a fat fee.”
“Fee, m’sieu?”
“I thought it would be as well to find out if it were a bribe.”
“So you did not like M. le Comte?”
“I don’t yet know him well enough to be sure.”
“What else did he say?”
“That girls who perform at the Baccarat go to the Villa Seblec, and don’t come back.”
“And,” Panneraude said soberly, “that is true.”
“Have you ever visited the Villa?”
“We have no evidence of crimes committed there,” Panneraude countered smoothly.
“But suspicion?”
“We suspect so many people. Now, of the other gentleman. I confess that I would like to quarrel with M. le Comte myself. He has great wealth, he is of great influence, but I am not convinced that he is above suspicion. If it is possible to suggest any—shall we say any little misdemeanour on his part which would enable the police to make some investigation of his affairs, the Département would be very grateful to you.”
Rollison was smiling.
“So you don’t like him either.”
“M’sieu, one is a policeman. One does not like any gentlemen who regard themselves as above the law. One lives perpetually in the hope that such gentlemen will make the important mistake which will enable the law to show interest. If such a thing should happen …” He broke off.
“If it should happen,” promised Rollison, “you would be the first person I told.”
“Thank you a thousand times, m’sieu. And now I must go.” Panneraude moved towards the door. “This English girl, Daphne Myall. You understand, do you not, that she appeared for a little time at the Baccarat, which is owned by our friend M. le Comte? It was after that that she disappeared. The manager said that she was dismissed, as not good enough, and he knows no more of her. Have you found out more, m’sieu?”
“Not yet.”
“I earnestly ask you to believe that the services of the police will be at your disposal if you should require them in the pursuit of justice, and I shall detail men to watch you,” said Panneraude solemnly. “Au revoir, m’sieu!”
His handclasp was very firm.
There was nothing firm about Gérard Bourcy, when Rollison brought him from the magnificent splendour of the bathrooms. He was trembling, smoking, and licking his lips. Yet he had shot out a foot and perhaps saved Rollison from the business end of that Arab’s knife. There was some good stuff in him.
“What happened in the cabin cruiser?” Rollison demanded.
“It—it was as you said,” muttered Gérard. “One man came, and later, two more. The boat was taken back, we came round when we were back at the Villa.”
“And then?”
“I tried to do what you ask, but I could not,” said Gérard tensely. “Understand, m’sieu, my own sister is in danger. There is much evil there; girls who come and—vanish! I am not strong enough. I am told to come to talk to you here, and—and you know what followed.”
“Yes, I know. Well—I’m going to the Villa Seblec,” Rollison announced and saw astonishment leap into Gérard’s eyes. “I’ll have police protection, which should help. You can go back and tell them what happened here, or you can stay here in hiding.”
“What—what do you think I ought to do?” muttered Gérard; he found it difficult even to ask the question.
“Go back,” said Rollison. “Telephone them first, say that the Arabs made a hash of the job but you escaped, and ask them for more orders. Don’t tell them you know I’m on the way.”
Gérard said miserably: “I am so afraid.”
“Gérard,” said Rollison gently, “your sister is in danger. So are you. So are these other girls. You have a chance to help them all and wipe the slate clean. With you at the Villa, to help in a crisis, the impossible might become possible.”
“I—I will try,” Gérard promised, and tried to square his shoulders.
Rollison said: “You’ll do it, Gérard. One thing before you go. Is the Comte de Vignolles known at the Villa?”
“Known?” echoed Gérard. “He is hated!”
“Do you know why?”
“No,” Gérard answered, “to me the Villa is full of mystery and evil things.”
“We’ll clean it up,” said Rollison, but he had to force the note of confidence in his voice. He went towards the door. Gérard started to speak, but didn’t; Rollison went out.
A gendarme, big revolver in his shiny holster, stood just outside, saluting.
“Where do we go, m’sieu?”
“The Villa Seblec,” said Rollison, as brightly. “If I go in my car, will you follow in a taxi?”
“Whichever you wish, m’sieu,” said the policeman, and he walked step by step with Rollison to the lift. “There will be two of us, all the time.”
Chapter Sixteen
The Villa Seblec
The moon was up, and bathed the
He de Seblec with a soft light which quickened the pulse of all but cynics. The garden had been beautiful that afternoon; it was lovely now, although the colours no longer flamed. The Villa itself was gently floodlit, and stood out clearly at the tip of the He as Rollison, driving a hired Jaguar, drove along the main road. The Villa fell out of sight just about the spot where he had climbed the wall – and left a taxi-driver, who would have given him up a long time ago.
They turned on to the private road.
The other car, with the policeman in it, was only fifty yards behind. It had stopped, to let one policeman get out at a spot where he could watch the house. There had been very little traffic, nothing at all to hint at trouble.
The headlights of Rollison’s car fell upon the back of the Villa Seblec. No one was in sight. The back door was closed. A path led to the front door, the one which had opened when Violette had run away from here, and Rollison followed this, looking about the grounds and towards the spot where the beggar had lain.
He rang the bell.
After a pause, a maid answered ; she was a middle-aged woman in black, with a tiny white apron and lace cap. Obviously she expected him.
“M. Sautot is not at home,” she said, “but Dr. Morency is. Will you see him?”
“Please,” said Rollison gravely.
“This way, m’sieu.”
“Thank you. Will you be good enough to allow my escort to wait outside?” added Rollison. “He is from the Commissariat de Police.” He beamed. “If he could have a glass of good red wine, he would be grateful.”
“It shall be done, m’sieu.”
“You are very good.”
The Toff stepped into the hall.
The first glance told him that this was not just another villa; this was the home of a millionaire, and had probably been built at a time when money had not mattered. One did not have to like the Bacchanalian motif in order to admire the magnificence of the painting – dark brown upon cream walls – or the carved recesses, from whence the light came; or in the ceiling itself. It reminded him vaguely of the villas at Pompeii; there was much beauty, much loveliness of design, of sculpture and painting; but everything was slightly tainted; corrupted.
