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

wouldn’t come.
    â€œChicot is—the—the great one.”
    â€œThe great what?”
    â€œHe—he is the leader,” Raoul said, but he hesitated over the word leader, and then burst out into English: “You understand, he is the boss!”
    â€œI understand,” said Rollison, now quite mildly. “Does he live at the Villa Seblec?”
    â€œNo! He—he comes there sometimes; he—he has many names.” Raoul was sweating, and it was not all due to the heat of the cabin. “Chicot is what we call him, but only Chicot. Who he is I do not know.”
    That could be true.
    â€œWhat does he look like?” demanded the Toff.
    â€œHe is—he is just a man, smaller—smaller than you. Ordinary!” The word burst out.
    The Toff looked into the frightened eyes for fully thirty seconds, then decided that if Raoul were to talk more freely, it would have to be later. He took the man’s arm, turned him round, and thrust him towards the door.
    Violette was coming down.
    She had left the rug on deck, and wore only the flimsies. Her hair hung lank yet gleaming down her back, beginning to show signs of curling under the drying warmth. She carried a coil of cord over her arm, and a knife in her hand. It wasn’t her beauty of figure or the way she moved that impressed the Toff; it was the way she looked at Raoul, as if she would gladly thrust that knife into him. The desire was so obvious, the hatred so naked, that Raoul actually cringed away.
    â€œGo on,” Rollison said; “she won’t hurt you—yet.”
    He pushed the youth towards the cabin, where Gérard already lay. Gérard was coming round, but was still dazed.
    He remained like that while Rollison tied his ankles together, and then his wrists. He left him on the upper bunk, and turned to Raoul. He tied Raoul’s wrists more tightly than he had Gérard’s; he felt, like Violette, the brutal desire to hurt. He left the men trussed up, and went out with Violette, feeling vaguely dissatisfied, although so much had been done to give him cause for satisfaction.
    He said: “Now we can have a drink, and relax. I’ll make sure where we’re going first, and then—”
    She raised her hands, and her eyelids flickered.
    â€œWe have—” she muttered thickly. Then her eyes closed and she fell forward into the Toff’s arms. Her body was heavy, her arms bent in front of her in a strange, huddled posture. For a moment Rollison just stood supporting her; then he smiled gently, shifted her, lifted her, and carried her into the saloon. It was collapse from the strain, and would do her no harm. He covered her with the rug, then picked up the knife she had dropped and went up on deck.
    They were well out in the bay, and Nice was still in sight, white buildings clear against the grey shape of the coast. He altered the helm, so that they didn’t head too far out to sea, but ran parallel with the coast itself. He didn’t feel so good, and two things were the matter with him – the first, hunger. It was after two o’clock, and his only breakfast had been coffee and rolls; in Nice one did as the Frenchmen do. The other thing, that sense of dissatisfaction was less tangible; surely it couldn’t be with anything that he had done.
    It had been the kind of success that made one wonder when the luck was going to turn and the outlook darken. But the immediate outlook was as clear as the blue Mediterranean sky.
    He went back into the saloon, took a cigarette from a packet which had been left on the bar, lit it, and contemplated Violette. He found ice in a small ice-box behind the bar, rang a cloth out in chilled water, bathed her face and forehead. Then he put a spoonful of brandy to her lips.
    She swallowed, and her eyes flickered.
    He watched her closely. There was some quality about this girl, which wasn’t only to do with her looks or her figure. She had a kind