by John Creasey
She made little sound.
“She is happy here,” declared Dr. Morency. “Everyone is happy here. Why do you persecute us, Mr. Rollison?” Sss-sss-sss.
“Why did you kill the beggar, and why did you try to kill Violette?”
“I have said all that I can say,” declared Dr. Morency, “and shown you everything there is to show. I am sorry, there is nothing else that I can do.”
He turned and walked away. He didn’t hurry. His hands swung loosely by his sides, and his narrow shoulders were hunched. His footsteps hardly sounded. The ripple of water as the girl whom Rollison had come to find swam back to the steps was the loudest sound. Not far off, the moon shimmered on the gently moving sea.
The girl climbed up again.
Morency had left him here to talk to her alone, as if he wanted to make it clear, without another word, that she was free to talk, to do exactly what she liked.
Rollison waited at the top of the steps. She climbed up, moving superbly. That inbred courtesy prevented her from pushing past him, as she obviously wanted to.
“Miss Myall,” Rollison said, “I would like to take a message back to your parents. What shall it be?”
She said slowly: “You can tell them that I am happier here than I have ever been. Much, much happier.”
Then she pointed downwards to the post at the top of the steps. He didn’t guess why, but realised that there was a difference about her; a great tension. She moved to pass him, went close to the edge, and slipped.
“Steady!” he cried.
She grabbed his arm, to save herself, and he leaned back to take the strain. Out of the pulsing silence she whispered two words. He felt the warmth of the breath in his ear, and doubted whether he had heard aright.
“Fall in” she whispered. “Fall in.”
She toppled backwards, let go of his arm, and dropped. Water splashed up, drenching him.
He had to go in after her, or stand and watch. The second in which the decision had to be made dragged out for an age.
The gun would get wet, and the lighter. He—
He was swaying towards the water, as if off his balance, pretended to slip and went down feet first. As the water closed about him, he felt the clutch of fear.
If he drowned, Panneraude would never believe, but might have to accept the verdict: “Accident.”
Chapter Eighteen
Whisper On The Water
He felt no hand against him, no hand dragging at him, no pressure, no sense of danger beyond the one that was in his own mind. He surfaced and trod water. His clothes were sodden, and he couldn’t swim for long. He could just see Daphne Myall striking out towards him; there was no one else. The water was warm, and yet he shivered; for in this translucent light he would not be able to see a swimming Arab even if one was near.
The girl drew close.
“Sorry I—tripped you,” she said, and her voice was unexpectedly loud. “Stubbed my—toe.” She sounded breathless, but she wasn’t, for next moment she was holding on to him and her lips were close to his ear. “Ten others are here. Get us away,” she breathed. Then without a pause and much more loudly: “The steps are over here. Hurry.”
The steps were in sight.
“I’m all right,” Rollison said; “don’t worry about me.” Then in a whisper: “Where?”
“What a crazy thing to do!” she exclaimed, as if really angry with herself. “Inside the cliff. Don’t bump your head. If the police come, we’ll all be killed.”
That was – crazy. Wasn’t it?
Rollison bumped his shoulder against the rail of the steps, turned, clutched it, and pulled himself up. Close to the foot of the post, he saw a cable – as for electricity. Near that, let into the post, a small, gauze-covered hole.
That told him one secret; it was a microphone. The jetty and the garden, probably the rooms as well, were wired; and anything said out here would be carried to the Villa.
No wonder she had whispered!
Rollison heard footsteps clattering on the boards, then the heavy breathing of a man. It was the policeman, rushing up.
“M’sieu Rollison, are you there?”
Rollison’s head appeared above the level of the jetty. The big man came hurrying, and knelt down to help him up. Rollison talked, fast. He was a fool, he’d slipped in trying to save Miss Myall from falling; as if it would have mattered! Brrh; it was colder than he thought. He needed fresh clothes. Brrh! But he turned and looked at Daphne Myall as she came to the jetty, and his voice hardened.
“As for you, you deserve all you get,” he said. “I’ll be at the San Roman until tomorrow, if you decide to change your mind.” He shivered again. “I must get warm.”
At the Villa, Morency was sauve and helpful; there was a spare suit of a man who sometimes stayed here; Mr. Rollison was welcome to borrow it. And a word in Mr. Rollison’s ear: beware of Raoul. He did not find it possible to blame the youth, who obviously felt viciously angry because of the way he had been treated.
Beware of Raoul …
Rollison sat in the police car, the borrowed clothes too large for him. He smoked and welcomed the cool air off the sea. The two policemen were behind him, one of them in a new kind of seventh heaven because he was allowed to drive the Jaguar.
Had Daphne told the truth? Could she have any purpose in lying?
If microphones were about the garden, in the house, and even on the jetty, picking up all that was said and carrying it back into the Villa, she would need to whisper. She had looked well, and seemed to be telling the truth when they had first met, but – that tune had changed.
“Ten others are here;get us away.”
If he brought the police, and Daphne talked to them as she had to him, the Villa wouldn’t be searched. If it were, could the police find anything that he had missed?
“Where are they?”
“Inside the cliff.”
“If the police come, they’ll all be killed.”
She hadn’t sounded or acted as if she were mad. She had worked cunningly for the chance to whisper, and so defeat the ever-open ears. It was easier to believe than to disbelieve her.
He didn’t know enough.
It had been eerie when it had happened, but was much worse now. He had left her behind, with her fears. His own were greater, for if she had told the truth, there were ten girls or more in acute danger.
The headlights of the car, yellow and dim, did not throw very far, but they lit up the hillside of the corniche road. Now and again they disappeared as they fell upon the parapet which protected the road from a steep fall on to rocks or into the sea.
Yes, it was much more eerie now.
“And you searched the house but found nothing, only saw this Miss Myall?” said Panneraude. He was in Rollison’s room, tunic collar loosened, leather belt undone, revolver resting against the back of his chair. In his hand was a glass of that perfect wine. His helmet was off, and his hair proved to be iron grey. In his middle-aged way, he was quite handsome. “Mr. Rollison, may I tell you one or two things?”
“All you can,” said Rollison. “Please. I feel as if I’m the most ignorant man in the world.”
“You are disappointed because you found a way into the Villa Seblec, and thought that it would help you to find a way of putting an end to such an affair as this,” said Panneraude. “I know the feeling. Once” – he sat up, spread his fingers wide, and placed them against his chest – “I found a reason for visiting the Villa Seblec. I took six men. What did I find? Nothing? No, m’sieu, I found much, much worse than nothing. I found that they laughed at me. They had been warned and were prepared. What goes on there? I do not know, but I am a policeman, and a policeman has a nose to smell badness.” He shifted his hands and nipped his nose. “Ugh!”
Rollison didn’t spe
ak.
“Now you come, you try, you are disappointed.” Panneraude shrugged. “This year, next year, perhaps the people there, like M. le Comte de Vignolles and his friends, will make the important mistake. You will be in London, I, Panneraude will be here! Tell me, did you guess anything more than you have told me?”
He couldn’t tell Panneraude yet.
“No.”
“Always the same,” said Panneraude, sipping his wine again. “Beautiful young women who disappear. I tell you another thing. The daughter of an important Army general disappeared the other day. She was seen in Nice. She was later seen on board a boat, called the Nuit Verte. To you, the Green Night! We search, but do not find her. Tonight the Nuit Verte returns to Cannes. It is boarded before anyone disembarks, and is searched. No girl is found. No one admits that she was ever on board. It was all a mistake!” He shrugged. “That is how it always happens, M. Rollison.”
“And you know nothing, beyond that?”
“One big thing,” Panneraude said quietly. “Many of these very beautiful girls disappear. Some, not so beautiful. Nearly all are from high-born families, and bear great names. They meet wealthy men, and, using their names to win trust, they cheat these men. Most victims say nothing, but some report to us. No one is anxious for scandal. The girls sometimes return, as often are never heard of again.”
“How long has this been going on?” asked Rollispn, and gave no hint that he had known anything about this; but inwardly he felt like purring, for Violette had not lied.
“For two years or more,” Panneraude said. “That is the big thing I now have permission to tell you. There is also one little thing.”
“What’s that?” asked Rollison.
Panneraude seemed to expand.
“A certain Englishman comes to look for a certain English girl. When he arrives, Scotland Yard telephones to the police in Nice, to say that this man may appear to do foolhardy things, perhaps unlawful things, but that he will really try to help. They do not ask us to wink at anything he does; they just tell us that perhaps he will not be as black as he paints himself.” Panneraude appeared to be wholly serious. “This Englishman is here for a few days. Then: First, he is nearly killed by a car driven by one Raoul Cyurol, who lives at the Villa Seblec. Second, he pays a very poor man, a beggar, to look for the English girl, and the beggar’s body is found in the sea, a very ugly sight. Murder. Third, he is seen at sea aboard the Maria which belongs to the owner of the Villa Seblec, with a very beautiful young lady who is suspected, we cannot say more, of having swindled a wealthy Parisian last year. She sold him worthless shares, you understand—how do you say?”
“Bucket shop.”
“Some other words.”
“Confidence tricks.”
“That is it—the tricks confidential. The man will not prosecute because, we believe, this young lady is the daughter of a great friend, but—” Panneraude shrugged. “Fourth, the Englishman dines with M. le Comte de Vignolles, and walks out on him. Fifth” – for a moment Panneraude was almost as droll-looking as Simon Leclair – “it is in the future. We send a telegram to Scotland Yard. ‘Much regret well-meaning English private detective dead, advise us what to do with the body’.”
He stopped.
Rollison was smiling appreciatively.
“Why do you not tell us everything?” Panneraude demanded explosively. “What do you fear? Don’t you trust us?”
“My good friend Panneraude,” said Rollison earnestly, “the very moment that I learn anything on which you can take action, I’ll tell you. It isn’t yet. If you should ever pull my body out of the deep blue sea, go and see Simon Leclair, the greatest clown of them all. He may know a little that you don’t—about me,” added Rollison hastily. “Only about me.”
Panneraude went very still.
Rollison didn’t like the look in his eyes. He didn’t like the way he shrugged. He didn’t like his attitude when he finished the wine which had been brought especially for the tall clown, and set the glass down.
“Do you trust Simon Leclair?” Panneraude asked.
“Of course I trust Simon Leclair.”
“Good,” said Panneraude, and stood up smartly. He fastened his tunic collar, and pulled the tunic down, then fastened his belt. “Very good. Perhaps you will ask him why he talked to Morency of the Villa Seblec this afternoon. Why he came twice into this room today, in your absence. Why he was here just before the poor child, Suzanne, fell to her death. And why he has arsenic in his room, in le Pension Guy,” breathed the Frenchman. He took up an attitude which suggested he was quite prepared for Rollison to want to knock him down.
“Is all this certain?” asked Rollison heavily.
“Positive, m’sieu.”
“The arsenic?”
“We are trying to find out where he bought it, m’sieu.”
“Is he still at his pension?”
“We have reason to suspect him of some crime, but have not all the evidence,” said Panneraude. “Also, we hope that he will lead us to the mistake which others will make. So, he is still at his pension.”
“I think I’ll go and see him,” Rollison said.
“See him as often as you like,” approved Panneraude, “but do not trust him one half-inch, M. Rollison.” He held out his hand. “I am sorry. I know you have been friends with Simon Leclair for many years. It began, I understand, when his wife Fifi was accused of a betrayal of her employer, letting in the thieves who stole many millions of francs’ worth of jewels. Thanks to you, Fifi proved her innocence.” He shrugged. “Perhaps that also was a mistake, m’sieu. Perhaps you allowed your liking for the couple to influence your judgment. That is a luxury which the police cannot afford. Au ‘voir, m’sieu.”
It was nearly midnight.
A few people were left on the hotel terrace, drinking. The orchestra had gone, the crowd had gone, the staff looked tired. Rollison walked out of the main entrance. Fewer people than usual went out of their way to salute him; an affront to M. le Comte was, clearly, an affront to many others. He took the Jaguar, and drove into the heart of Nice behind the sea-front, to a spot near the big market. He left the car there, then waited for the police car which was following him.
Two different men were now on duty.
He walked briskly down a narrow street, where a single tram-track ran, looking at the ill-lit street signs. The fifth read: Rue de Guy de Maupassant. He turned down here. A few lighted signs read: Auberge or Hotel or Pension. One of the brightest of these was le Pension Guy. The front door was open. Just inside, sitting with a newspaper open on his lap, was a plump old concierge, wearing steel-rimmed glasses, a cotton jersey, blue jeans and plimsols cut so that his bunions could have full freedom.
He started to get up.
“Stay where you are,” said Rollison, and smiled amiably. “I look for M. Simon Leclair.”
“Oh, yes, m’sieu. The first floor, if you please; the second door on the right.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure, m’sieu.”
The house smelt clean, the paint-work was fresh, everything suggested that it was as good as Simon Leclair had said. Rollison had not thought a great deal beyond what Panneraude had told him; there were some things which had to be assimilated slowly. This was one. He had not telephoned to say that he was coming, and Simon and Fifi might be in bed. He had not planned what he was going to say, either; he was going to try to form an opinion, to try to put Panneraude’s accusations into clear perspective. Things that Simon might say could help.
Rollison tapped at the door.
There was no answer.
He tapped again, more loudly, and there was still no answer. He knew that the concierge would probably be tiptoeing to the foot of the stairs, to find out what he was doing, and that one of the policemen might be downstairs by now. So h
e hadn’t long to work in. He took out a penknife, opened a blade which was in fact a skeleton key, flicked it into the lock, fiddled, and twisted. It was an old-fashioned lock, and opened within a few seconds.
He turned the handle of the door, hesitated, and then pushed it gently.
The room was in darkness.
He listened intently, and heard nothing. He felt sure that he would have detected it if anyone were breathing inside this first room. He went in, closed the door, and took out a small pencil torch. He shone the beam round. It shone upon armchairs, a carpet, a table. He found the electric light switch and pressed it down, and went in further.
Lying on a couch by the curtained window was Gérard Bourcy.
He was most obviously dead.
Chapter Ninteen
A Corpse For A Clown
Gérard had been strangled. There were the dark bruises on his neck, to show it. His eyes were slightly open and glazed, and his mouth was slack. One hand drooped, the fingers touching the floor. His fair hair was untidy, and his knees were bent. His flesh wasn’t yet cold.
Nothing moved; there was no sound.
Rollison turned round, reached the door again, paused, and then opened it. The gendarme was outside.
“Pardon, m’sieu.”
“I shall be here for some time. Don’t let M. Leclair see you when he comes back.”
“Very good, m’sieu.”
“Thank you,” said Rollison.
He closed the door. He didn’t greatly care what Panneraude thought or what the police thought; he wanted above everything else to be here when Simon returned, and to hear his comment.
If Simon had killed—
It wasn’t possible to shut the thought out.
He moved from this room into the next, a large bedroom.
There was no kitchen and no bathroom, but another door led off the bedroom, which had a large single bed and would have been up to date in the middle of Queen Victoria’s reign. Everything was Victorian, heavy, dark, typically provincial French.