The Toff and the Deep Blue Sea Read Online Free PDF Page A

auditorium like distant thunder. “Is that what you think? That imbecile driver—”
    â€œHe’s certainly a man to watch,” agreed the Toff. “I wish I knew why he chose to run me down when he did, Simon. What do I know that scares him? Or what does he think I know?”
    Simon said: “We have to find that out! What is there to do next?” His great eyes were open at their widest. “How can I help you? Who is this missing blonde?”
    â€œThere’s a photograph of her in the top drawer,” Rollison said.
    Simon turned, stretched out a fabulously long arm, opened the drawer, and plucked out the photograph. He studied it, eyes narrowed, lids like shutters. The Toff could not see it, but knew it almost as well as he knew his own face.
    The girl was Daphne Robina Myall. She was pretty and she had charm, but she was not really beautiful. There was more character than beauty in her face – one of the things which surprised the Toff, for usually girls who lost their heads and tried to make a fortune or else to find fame in the demi-monde of France were empty-headed floosies, sisters to the original dumb blonde. Daphne Myall was not empty-headed. He had checked everything her parents had told him with many others: with friends, with the headmistress of her expensive and exclusive school, with her dressmakers, her milliner, her hairdresser; and all were agreed that she was no fool.
    And they said that whatever she wanted she was likely to get. She no more thought of taking no for an answer than she would have thought of entering a vow of silence. Like so many who had filled a pretty head with Stardust, she longed for the fame of the footlights; and someone unknown had promised her that fame here.
    Now she had vanished.
    If the little old beggar with the fine brown eyes had not lied to Rollison, she had been here a week ago.
    â€œWhat is it that we do next?” asked Simon Leclair, and so committed himself to the task. “You may be a badly injured man, but I am hale and hearty.” To prove it, he thumped his chest with great vigour. “What can I do for you, my good friend? Today is Thursday. On Monday I begin at the Baccarat; until then I am free, Fifi is free, and we will do everything we can to help.”
    Rollison did not answer.
    â€œMy friend, there must be something we can do,” insisted Simon, and looked as if he were about to burst into tears. His double-jointed body slumped into a position of utter dejection, his mobile face assumed an expression of deep gloom. As he had clowned his way to the top of his world, so he clowned his way through life, as if it were an act which never really finished. He looked at Rollison from beneath his lashes, then began to rock gently to and fro.
    Rollison watched him thoughtfully.
    â€œSomething,” pleaded Leclair. “Find this Raoul, find the Villa Seblac—”
    â€œWe can do that any time,” said Rollison. “The question is, what’s less obvious? The simple thing, I think. Find out who knows me here—who knows who I am and what I do. If it’s generally known that I’m a private eye, it won’t help at all, but if very few know it, we might be able to trace a line back. Will you do that?”
    â€œOf course,” promised Simon, and began the lengthy process of standing up, first looking askance at the chandeliers to make sure that he didn’t bang his head. He was crouching when the telephone bell rang, and continued his upwards movement while watching Rollison lift the receiver and say ‘’Allo’, a Frenchman to the life.
    As he listened, his expression changed. He looked into Simon Leclair’s eyes, and his own were cold and hard. It was only a few seconds, but it seemed an age before he said: “Yes, someone will come, Gaston. Where did you say?”
    He paused again, said: “Yes, I understand,” twice, and then rang off. Simon was now