The Toff and the Deep Blue Sea (3 page)

“I'll tell you,” promised Rollison; “but before we go any further, do you know who the car driver is?”

“The first name, Raoul—the second I did not secure. He resides at the Villa Seblec—”

“Near here?”

“I do not know. I can find out if—”

“Wait a minute,” interrupted the Toff urgently, and the clown stopped; and outside there sounded the clear sound of a big bell. “Isn't that twelve o'clock striking?” He listened, and the notes of a nearby clock became unmistakable. “Go and hide in the bathroom, will you? I'm expecting a visitor. Don't let her know you're there.”

Very slowly, Simon uncoiled himself. Standing at his full height, he looked down upon the Toff from great, wide open eyes. Slowly, he closed one of them, and the resultant wink was the best-known wink in the whole of France. From the stage of the
Folies Bergère
to the most exclusive night-clubs of the Champs Elysées, it had made thousands upon thousands roar with laughter, for it was a wink which conveyed the meaning of all the winks in the world, and passed all language barriers.

“I begin to understand,” he said hollowly. “I go. I shall return.”

He stalked off, disappeared into the bathroom, and left the door ajar. There was no sound from him, no sound in the hotel. But the strains of a lilting tune travelled up from the orchestra, more vigorous now because it was after midday, and the slothful could be disturbed.

Someone was to come at twelve o'clock.

It was now three minutes past.

 

 

It was fifteen minutes past twelve. The orchestra below on the terrace was playing an air from
Guys and Dolls,
and it did not sound incongruous. Occasionally other sounds floated upwards: the scrape of chairs on the mosaic of the terrace, the chink of glasses, the hoot of horns, the clip-clop-clip-clop of the horses drawing the
fiacres.
The room was still deep in shadow, but through one chink in the awning Rollison could see the vivid light of the sky; outside it was really hot.

It was plenty warm enough in the room.

A woman approached the room, hurrying. Rollison sat up against his big, square pillow, the bedspread over his legs, a half-smoked cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. But the woman passed, and only the sounds from the orchestra floated into the room.

The bathroom door opened, and Simon's red nose and red hair and bald patch appeared, rather as if he were peering into the room from the ceiling.

“Stood up,” he declared.

“Let down,” said the Toff mournfully.

“May I come out of here now?”

“I think you'd better,” said the Toff. As Leclair came into the room, he took the letter from the bedside table and held it out. “Man or woman, boy or girl?” he mused. “Whoever it was might have telephoned, unless prevented by forces beyond his or her control. Sit down, Simon, and be patient.”

“Friend,” said Simon, lowering himself into the chair, “you must have been very badly hurt. You are upset. The detective does not detect, no?”

“No.”

“What,” asked Simon earnestly, “does the detective look for?”

Rollison regarded him, long and lingeringly, and then said with great precision: “A beautiful blonde.”

“For beautiful blondes, you have only to crook your finger,” Simon remarked. “If you do not believe me, there is Fifi as evidence. She may not be beautiful, but she is certainly a blonde, and whenever she sees you—”

“This one is English.”

“You know her?”

“I've never seen her. It is not an affair of the heart,” asserted the Toff. He was still cocking an ear in the hope that a sound would come from the passage, heralding the caller. “This is important but secret business,” he went on. “I'm looking for a poor little rich girl who disappeared from her home three months ago. Her parents are frantic, not knowing where she is. She was known to have come to Nice, and to be with a man whose description is very vague. A wealthy man was swindled of a big sum of money, and there was plenty of evidence that this beautiful English blonde helped to make a fool of him. Her parents don't want to believe it, but it's true. That's the last that was heard of her. The police were asked to find her, and traced her to the
Baccarat,
where she sang for a few nights. Then—vanish.”

“My friend,” said Simon Leclair, with great earnestness, “you and I, we are grown men. We look the facts in the face. There are many pretty girls, blonde girls, dumb girls, who come to the Riviera for the gay life.” Without a moment's warning, he flung up his hands, shrugged his shoulders to a swift, contagious rhythm, and emitted a saxophone solo from his rounded lips.

He stopped.

“They get into the hands of the rascals, and they ruin themselves,” he went on. “What then? They are ashamed to go home to poppa and mama, so they stick around. Sad, but true. My Fifi could tell you a thing or two about girls who thought they would win fame or fortune here, and lost everything. When pretty bodies are taken out of the sea on the Cote d'Azur, my friend, the police do not embalm them and place them on the promenade for all to see. It is hush, hush, hush, and a very quiet funeral. Hush, hush, hush,” repeated Simon sombrely, and moved the fingers of his right hand in a slow rhythm; as men in a cortège would move. “It is sad, it is life, it is death. And the father of this girl asks you to look where the police succeeded not?”

“Yes.”

“I can understand that,” remarked Simon. “In the desperation they want the amateur, and in these parlous days it is necessary for you to earn the odd penny, eh? Three-figure fee and all expenses paid, that's it?”

“Simon,” murmured the Toff.

“Toff,” murmured Simon.

“You're quite right. But I've met the mother and father of this pretty little blonde, and don't like to think of them unhappy as they are.” Rollison could be impressively sincere. “She's their only child, and came late in their life. One of the tragedies. They spoiled, petted and fussed her, were more like grandparents than real parents. Then they woke up one day to find, to their horror, that she had gone. They believed she would come back. They prayed she would. They were ready to forgive anything. She didn't return. They tried every means to find her, and as a last resort, asked me to help. I'd like to.”

He sounded as if he meant it; and he did.

“I also would like to,” said Simon politely. “How are you trying, and what happened when you were nearly run down by the imbecile in that car?” Simon winced as he finished, and snapped his fingers with a noise like the pulling of a champagne cork.
“Sapristi!
Not an
imbécile,
a murderer!”

“The girl was known to be fascinated by the stage,” said Rollison. “She once did a song-and-dance piece in a small dive in London. They guessed that she would be looking for a job like that here; that's how it was they traced her to the
Baccarat.
Have you ever heard of the great Rambeau, King of the Night Clubs?”

“Have I ever heard—” began Simon, and drew his legs up so that his knees almost met his chin; he looked as if he were praying. “The famous impressario, whose
boîtes de nuit
is all the rage of London and New York. Who comes soon to the Riviera? Who is going to stage the biggest cabaret show in the whole of France? My friend, who has
not
heard of the great Rambeau? Why do you think that Leon, of the
Baccarat,
sends for the one and only Simon Leclair and his Fifi,
hein?
I tell you. Only the best is good enough to compete with the great Rambeau, so, we come. Why do you ask me if I have heard of Rambeau?”

“For the time being,” said Rollison, “I am posing as Rambeau's agent. I am engaging the girls for his show, the artistes, everything. Rambeau,” added Rollison, “is a good friend of mine. He agreed to let me represent him. So I've spread the word that I'm looking for girls for the greatest cabaret in France, and—”

“Hope this girl you seek will apply?” boomed Simon.

“Yes.”

“And no?”

“She hasn't. A lot of girls have, though. There have been times when it's hardly been safe to go out alone,” continued Rollison, smiling faintly. “I think I've seen every would-be leg-show all-show girl in Nice, Cannes, Menton, Monte Carlo, and a surprising lot of other places. I've seen them from the age of fifteen to four-score and fifteen. I swear one was nearer a hundred than ninety, yet still able to dance. I've seen hundreds upon hundreds, Simon, and the girl wasn't among them.”

Simon considered all this, and then declared: “It is sad, but you will never find her.”

“I'm not so sure about that,” said Rollison very softly. “I'm not at all sure, Simon Leclair. I've asked for her by name, just casually—I asked some of the girls if they'd ever met her, saying that if they had it would be worth their while to tell me. No one told me, but” – he tapped the letter – “I had this message—and someone tried to run me down. And I came across a beggar who says that he saw her near here, only last week.”

“Last
week?”

“That's right,” said Rollison. “I don't say that I'd vouch for the beggar in a court of law, but he looks honest, and his eyes are always open for the main chance. He says that the girl whose photograph I showed him was at the far end of the promenade, alone, last week. He was there, he has a niche where he sleeps, and was going to it. The girl was frightened—”

“Frightened?” interjected Simon.

“Yes. He says that he asked her if he could be of any help, and she just stared at him, then burst into tears. Then a car drew up, a man jumped out, flung him a thousand francs, and told him the girl was having boy-friend trouble. This man drove the girl away.” Rollison paused; then picked up another cigarette and lit it. “The beggar and I together have seen the three bodies which have been washed up this week within the boundaries of Nice, Cannes, and Monte Carlo. The girl wasn't among them.”

“You pay this beggar?” asked Simon abruptly.

“A little.”

“To a beggar, your little may be a fortune,” said Simon wisely. “He might tell you all this so that you would keep on paying him. Let
me
deal with this beggar. I shall be able to tell you whether he is telling the truth.”

“Later, perhaps,” promised Rollison. “Simon, there were two girls this morning. I'd seen them both when they came for an audition.
Very
nice,” he added, almost as an aside; and there was a reminiscent smile at his lips. “Very nice indeed; quite ready to show off their charms to Rambeau's agent, when their beauty of figure could speak for itself. They were on the promenade. They wanted to speak to me. They didn't because they dared not. I wish I knew why.”

“Why do you think?” demanded Simon.

“You mean, what do I guess?” Rollison hesitated, and said firmly: “I think they're being watched. I think that one of them sent me the note saying she'd be here at twelve and stayed away because she was afraid to keep the appointment. Or else she was prevented. I don't like anything that's going on.”

“But—” began the clown, and stopped.

“Yes?”

“The attempt to run you down suggests that you are beginning to learn,” declared Simon, rubbing his great hands together and making a noise that was peculiarly his own; it could sound through a packed auditorium like distant thunder. “Is that what you think? That imbecile driver—”

“He'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?”

“There'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.

“What 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.

“My 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.

“Something,” pleaded Leclair. “Find this Raoul, find the Villa Seblac—”

“We 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?”

“Of 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 standing upright, his head only a few inches from the ceiling. He did not speak but waited hopefully and expectantly.