by John Creasey
The girl looked at de Vignolles with a strange expression, then turned and hurried out of the shadowy room. Fifi was in the wash-house, next door. Rollison and this man were alone together, and Rollison knew that there was little time left. Minutes? He couldn’t be sure. There was not much bleeding, but if that blade were withdrawn, blood might flow swiftly. Now it was internal. If he pulled the blade out, then the bleeding might kill de Vignolles on the instant.
The Frenchman lowered his hands, very slowly.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“She will hurry,” Rollison said. “Do you know who Chicot is?”
“I—I do not know. I am—am given orders by Morency. Twice—twice I have seen Chicot, always in disguise—as Mephisto, you understand, as—Mephisto.”
“Are there girl prisoners at the Villa Seblec?”
“Yes.” The tone of de Vignolles’s voice was so weak that Rollison could hardly hear. His lips moved slowly, painfully. “Yes, there are—prisoners. Young—women. In the cliff, behind—the Villa. But—”
He gave a funny little cough.
Fifi came in, carrying a bowl of water which slopped over the side, and a towel draped on her arm. She missed a step. Rollison did not look round at her, but felt sure that she had realised that no ministrations could help to save the dying man.
De Vignolles’s eyes closed, his lips moved as if he were trying to drink. Fifi seized a glass, filled it with water, and put it to his lips. Her hands were shaky.
“A spoon,” said Rollison quietly.
She hurried off to get one.
De Vignolles opened his eyes, waveringly. The light seemed to hurt them. He moved his right hand, and Rollison put out his own, to take the Frenchman’s; already the flesh felt cold.
“Do not take—police,” de Vignolles said. “If the police go, they will—be—” He gulped, opened his mouth again, made that strange, haunting little noise. Fifi, close at hand, put a spoon of water to his lips. He felt that it was there, the tip of his tongue showed for a moment, seeking the moisture. “Be—blown up,” he went on. “Buried alive, in—in the cliff. Do not raid—do not attempt to—to rescue them by—”
He stopped again.
This time he did not notice when the spoonful of water was close to his lips. It was a long time before he tried to speak; then the words came as a whisper.
“Do not use force,” he said; “do not use force.”
He fell silent, and then moved spasmodically, gripped Rollison’s hands with startling strength, and cried: “Father! Father!”
Outside, there were no sounds.
Inside, there was only Fifi’s heavy breathing.
“Is he—is he dead?” she asked, in a hushed voice.
“Not quite dead,” Rollison said. He shifted his position, and in doing so made the rocking-chair move. It looked ludicrous; a big, handsome man sitting there with the blade of the knife protruding from his chest, rocking to and fro, to and fro, with his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open.
But he was breathing.
He was still breathing, although each breath was very shallow, when Violette returned with the priest from a nearby village.
Papa Mulle’s men had caught the Arab, a lithe, brown, frightened man with jet-black eyes, nervous movements, and hands which wouldn’t keep still. He did not speak English, but his French was as fluent as a native of France, and he was eager to talk.
He had been told to kill de Vignolles, he said, and had seen him in the car. So he followed the tyre-tracks here, and carried out his orders.
Why?
He was employed to carry out such orders, by men whose names he did not know. He stayed at a small house near the Villa Seblec. He sometimes served on board a ship; the ship sometimes carried white girls to Algiers—
He swore that he knew nothing of the Villa Seblec, or the hiding-place under the cliff.
“Did anyone else at the Villa Seblec know of this farm?”
“No. I was alone,” he said.
“What shall we do with him?” Mulle’s men asked.
“For the time being, leave him here,” said Rollison. He turned to Fifi. “I’m going into Nice. Will you stay here or come with me? I think you’d be safer here, and certainly I’d be happier.”
“Is there something I can do to help in Nice?”
“No,” Rollison assured her, “nothing at all, Fifi.”
She shrugged, and agreed to stay. She seemed very lonely, and more than a little frightened. The death of de Vignolles had shocked her; in fact, death itself had shocked her. She was without her Simon, and did not know what to do. Rollison, studying her, wondered what she would feel like if Simon were to die; if he were to be blown up.
Would that happen?
Would a dying man lie?
Rollison didn’t know the answer, but he doubted it. Faced with death, de Vignolles had almost certainly told the truth. Somewhere inside the cliff, behind or near the Villa Seblec, there was the hiding-place where the girls were held.
If the police raided the Villa, or if anyone raided it in force, there was grave risk of that explosion, of them being buried alive.
Face it.
“What is there that I can do?” Violette asked.
Rollison looked at her, broodingly.
“You can come with me to Nice,” he said, and added very quietly: “And I may ask you to give yourself up at the Villa Seblec. That’s one way that we might be able to save the others.”
Violette simply shrugged.
Rollison drove back to Nice.
He did not know the way, but all signposts, even those at tiny crossroads, pointed to the town.
Violette sat silent.
Rollison kept turning over the possibilities in his mind, and glanced at her occasionally, wondered what she was thinking. She had that strange, aloof courage, a kind of fatalism. She was prepared to die, and had been sure for some time that she would die soon.
So, she would take any risk.
He did not have to take risks with her, but – there were the others. Little Daphne Myall, and others like her; and Simon. He tried to make himself feel sure that Simon was in the same desperate plight, but at heart he wasn’t sure.
Did Fifi suspect that Simon had betrayed him?
He said roughly: “Violette.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know if I made it clear. The girls are in that chamber somewhere in the hillside. If the Villa is raided, it’ll be blown up and the girls will be buried alive. So the Villa mustn’t be raided by force. You and I have to manage this between us.”
“Why not?” she said.
“It’s a big risk for us both. But if you let them catch you and take you back, you can keep them busy while I come along. Will you take a chance?”
“I have told you that I will,” she said. “But how can I allow them to catch me, without showing that it is a trick?”
“We’ll find a way,” said Rollison. “Go to the Cafe Lippe, which Chicot’s men will be watching. I’ll come for you there or send a message.” His foot stabbed down on the accelerator. “And I’ll get you out of the jam,” he promised.
Just words?
“Well, if that is the case, then I believe you,” Panneraude said. He was in his office, unshaven, tired. “The Count was dying?” He shrugged. “Then he did not lie. So, what do I arrange? First, to send two men to the Cafe Lippe, to inquire for Violette Monet. That is easy. Then, to have her followed, but not caught. Good. And then—” He looked down at some notes he had made on a pad. “Some men at sea, in dinghies, close to the jetty at the Villa Seblec. When you give the signal, we shall raid. Is that right?”
Rollison said: “It’s exactly right.”
“I still think that I shall be sending a sad
message to your friends at Scotland Yard,” said Panneraude, “but this we shall have to try. What signal will you give?”
“A whistle,” Rollison said. He put his fingers to his lips, and drew a deep breath, but before he could utter a sound, Panneraude was on his feet. “Enough! One, two, three?”
“One ought to be quite enough,” said Rollison very grimly.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Man Whom Rollison Knew
The water was warm.
Rollison swam steadily towards the jetty of the Villa Seblec. He had a waterproof bag fastened round his waist, with the oddments of clothing and the gun and the knife he knew he would need. He made hardly a sound. He knew that the police dinghies were as close inshore as they dared come; it was a moonlight night, and if they came too close, they might be seen.
He reached the jetty.
Had the police raided the Villa from here they would have talked among themselves, and the sounds would have been heard over the loud-speaker system inside. That would have given Morency and the others all the warning they needed.
He would make no sound; he must make none.
He climbed up the steps.
He crouched low, moved along the jetty, and found the first path of shade, behind a clump of bougainvillea. He rubbed himself down quickly, then slid into shorts and a pair of rubber-soled shoes. The small automatic was in the pocket of the shorts, and a sheathed knife was fastened inside the waist-band.
He moved cautiously until he could see the back of the Villa and the narrow road which led from it. Two or three cars passed along the main road; their headlights appeared and as quickly disappeared.
Another car approached from Nice.
He heard it change gear, and a few seconds later knew that it was coming along the private road. He kept in the shadows of the walls. The front of the house was floodlit, but not the back or sides.
The car pulled up.
He heard the mutter of voices, then the sounds of men getting out of the car; then a rough curse, and: “Make her come.”
There was a pause: men grunted: then in the dim light, Rollison saw Violette dragged out of the car. He watched as they pushed her towards the back door. One of them opened it with a key, the other pushed her inside.
“I shall put the car away,” the second man said.
“Yes. Hurry.”
The man who had opened the door turned round. Violette was out of sight, with the second man. Rollison moved swiftly, to the side of the car. The man got in, reversed, and then swung into the garage, which took four cars. He did not give a thought to danger.
Rollison was waiting at the end of the garage. The man came, whistling. Rollison let him pass, then shot out a hand and clutched his neck.
The cry was strangled on the night air. The man kicked, struggled, and fell silent.
Rollison dragged him into the garage, tied him up with a length of cord from his pocket, stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth. Then he went to the house.
The door wasn’t locked.
There would be microphones here and elsewhere; he dared not make a sound. The lights were on. He heard no noise at all, but knew that the women servants were almost certainly in the kitchen. The tour he had made the previous night helped greatly now. He slipped past the kitchen door. A radio was tuned in to dance-music, which came softly. There was no sign or sound of the man, or of Violette.
Rollison went towards the room of satyrs. He saw that a door was open, and white light came through. He drew nearer, making no sound.
Raoul was saying: “I’ll make her talk.”
That was all.
Rollison went nearer still, but couldn’t see inside. He was near enough to hear the sss-sss-sss of Morency’s hands. He didn’t think about that; he didn’t really think about Violette at that moment. There were the other girls, not far from here; and at the touch of a switch they could be buried alive, buried without trace.
And Simon?
Morency said: “Didn’t your fine friend Rollison save you from the police, after all?”
“I was to meet him at the Cafe Lippe,” she said. “He did not come, the police came instead.” She sounded as if she were frightened beyond all words. “Don’t—don’t hurt me again, please don’t hurt me.”
“We shall hurt you again,” Raoul said, “whenever you tell us a lie. What happened at the farm this afternoon? Did de Vignolles die?”
She caught her breath.
“Yes.”
Rollison heard a movement, followed by another gasp. He couldn’t see but could guess what had happened; Raoul had snatched at her wrist. The brute in the youth would always be close to the surface.
“Did de Vignolles talk first?”
“No!”
“Tell me the truth. Did he talk?”
“Not”
“Did he name Chicot?”
“Please let me go, let me go,” she sobbed; and Rollison knew that nothing would have persuaded her to beg like that except the fact that she was trying to help him; and to help the others. So she sank her pride. “Please let me go!”
“Did de Vignolles name Chicot?”
“No!” she screamed. “He said he did not know who he was!”
“Wait one moment, Raoul,” said Morency. “Let me see whether a little hot tobacco will persuade her to tell the truth. Violette, my dear, did the late lamented Count tell Rollison—”
“He was killed, he didn’t say a word!” Violette cried.
“I wonder if we can believe her,” murmured Morency. “Perhaps we had better assume that she is telling the truth, for the time being. Chicot will soon be here, and he would like to question her himself, I’m sure. Don’t you think so, Violette? Don’t you look forward to seeing Chicot again?”
“No,” she gasped. “No, not Chicot; he—”
“The wages of treachery are pain and fear, my dear,” said Morency. “Raoul, take Violette along to the salon.” He gave a little giggle. “The small salon; she isn’t to mix with the others, yet.”
There was a moment’s pause, before Violette exclaimed, as if in a fresh access of fear. Rollison went closer to the door. He peered in, and saw the hole appearing in the floor. It was at the spot where Morency had stood for so long the previous night – a large, rectangular hole.
Raoul and the other man pushed Violette towards it. She stepped down on to steps which were invisible to Rollison. One after the other, they disappeared. Morency looked at the hole, and Rollison saw it gradually closing; a panel slid into position, and blotted it right out.
There was only one faint sound now. Sss-sss-sss.
Rollison moistened his lips as he went forward. He opened the door wider. Morency was standing and looking at one of the little statuettes – and might almost have been looking at his own image. His back was towards Rollison. Rollison stepped right into the room. Perhaps there was a button to push, a way in which Morency could warn the others if the alarm were raised too quickly.
Two yards separated them.
Morency turned slowly
Rollison moved, hands shooting out. There was time for Morency to open his mouth, but none for him to shout. Rollison’s fingers closed round his neck. He writhed for a moment, his eyes seemed to pop out of his head, but no sound came.
Then Rollison gradually slackened his hold. Morency gasped, and turned his head from side to side, tried to cringe away. Rollison held him by one arm; and all the fear that Violette had had of Raoul was nothing to the fear which this old man had of Rollison.
Any man, looking upon Rollison then, would have understood his terror.
“No,” muttered Morency. “No, don’t kill me; don’t kill me, I beg you!”
Rollison said: “I’ll break your bones one by one, Morency, if you don’t tell m
e where the girls are, and where the detonating switch is. Tell me—now.”
Morency was shivering, with the fear of death very close. Sweat smeared his forehead in glistening globules, and his mouth would not keep steady. He tried to point with his free arm, towards the spot where the hole in the floor had been.
“You go—you go down there. Walk—walk for twenty metres or more, and—and you come to a door. This—this door will open if you touch the black mark at—at one side. It is there for anyone to see, just a small black mark. Inside there will be—there will be Raoul and—and Violette. In the next rooms, all the others.”
“I am telling you the truth I” Morency suddenly screamed.
“Part of the truth. Where is the switch?”
“I—I do not know, I—”
“Morency,” said Rollison very softly, “you won’t save your life by pretending ignorance. I’ll kill you now, if you don’t tell me where that switch is.”
No one could have doubted that he meant exactly what he said.
Morency whispered. “It is—it is above the doorway below—below there. Look.” He moved towards one of the statues. His left hand went out. Rollison gritted his teeth, knowing that the man might be trying to fool him, that whatever he was going to do might be deadly. Morency trembled so violently that he looked as if he were going to collapse.
He touched the cloven hoof of a statuette.
There was a moment of silence; then a soft, sliding noise. The hole appeared in the floor. Morency went towards it, his feet tapping on the floor itself. He pointed. Rollison, crouching, could see the steps which led towards a doorway, and, above the doorway, a switch. It was so very ordinary; just an electric-light switch set in a plastic surround, and above the door.
“That is it,” breathed Morency.
“Is there another?”
“No! No, I swear—”
He didn’t finish; it wasn’t necessary for him to say another word. Rollison felt certain that he was telling the truth.