Read Online The Toff and the Deep Blue Sea by John Creasey - Free Book Online

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.
    â€œAre you—are you Rollison? ”
    â€œAm I?” murmured the Toff, and added very softly: “Look where you’re going.”
    Gérard turned his head back.
    â€œLash the helm.”
    â€œI—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.
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    â€œHallo, 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.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œHe 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.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œDon’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.
    â€œI 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!”
    â€œYou 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