The Toff and the Deep Blue Sea Read Online Free PDF

standing upright, his head only a few inches from the ceiling. He did not speak but waited hopefully and expectantly.
    â€œThat was my beggar,” Rollison said softly. “He’s seen the girl again, on a boat rounding the point at Cap Mirabeau. And I’m stuck here.” He clenched his hands, gritted his teeth, and almost overdid it. “Simon, you’ve seen her picture; go and see if—”
    â€œI am on my way,” said Simon Leclair, and made a swift movement towards the door. “If she is there, I shall find her!” He slid out of the door and closed it noiselessly behind him.
    As the latch clicked, Rollison pushed back the bedspread, jumped out of bed, and dressed with furious speed.
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Chapter Four
Poor Little Beggar
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    Simon believed that Rollison’s leg was so badly injured that he must rest it. The manager believed it. Porters believed it. The sleek-haired driver of the car which had nearly run him down almost certainly believed it. That made a number of pertinent reasons why it would be wise for Rollison to continue to pretend that he was hors de combat. But he might step out of the room and bang into Suzanne, who could be squared; or into a waiter, who couldn’t; and he might get away with the ruse for hours or even days. There was now an enemy, known to exist, if unknown in identity; and the more the unknown could be fooled, the better.
    Rollison rang for Suzanne, then bent down, opened the bottom drawer of the ornate dressing-table, and took out a small, grey automatic. It was a Webley .32 which had seen a lot of service. He loaded swiftly and with the casual precision of a chain-smoker lighting a cigarette. He put it into his hip pocket, which was so cut that it concealed the bulge. Seven bullets should be enough, whatever the emergency – but there wasn’t likely to be an emergency where shooting would be necessary.
    Was there?
    They had used that car, which might have killed him.
    Suzanne came, hurrying and bright as she opened the door. She saw the empty bed, and stopped on the threshold, arms raised in astonishment.
    â€œM’sieu!”
    â€œClose the door, ma petite,” urged the Toff. As she did, he smiled broadly enough to dispense her sudden anxiety. “I’m going out. My injured leg is to fool some friends of mine—a practical joke, you see.” He moved towards her, tilting her head, his forefinger placed on the point of her chin. She was such a child, with clear skin and beautiful eyes and great freshness. “Don’t say a word to anyone, not even to Alphonse.” Alphonse was the father of all porters in Nice. “Not to anyone,” he insisted.
    â€œI will not, m’sieu. But for you I am so glad!”
    â€œBless you,” he said, in English; then added in French: “Go to the head of the stairs and the lift, and if the lift is on the move, or anyone is approaching, drop your keys with a bang. Understand?”
    â€œPerfectly, m’sieu!”
    â€œWait two minutes, first.”
    â€œYes,” she said, and her eyes glowed because she liked sharing a practical joke with the English milord; all her life she would be sure that he was a milord. She went out, drab blue skirt swinging about nice legs.
    Rollison opened another drawer, and took out a navy-blue beret, the colour faded to grey at the top,’ for it had seen a lot of wear. He pulled this on. It was not a disguise, but it made a startling difference. From the wardrobe he took an old, faded blue jacket, with a zip fastener up the front and elastic round the waist; and a pair of old, patched blue jeans. He drew all of these on, and inside the two minutes’ grace that he had asked for he was at the door of his room.
    He opened it an inch, and looked out. Suzanne dropped her keys with a metallic thump. He closed the door and stayed where he was. Then he heard the distant whine of the lift. It did not seem to stop at this floor.