The Toff and the Deep Blue Sea Read Free

Simon.
    That anxiety was dispersed in a flash. He heard Simon’s deep voice – it was very deep for a Frenchman – delivering a prodigious variety of epithets at the Citroen’s youthful driver. Through his lashes, Rollison saw the red hair and the bald patch; there was nothing at all to worry about – except perhaps the girl with the beautiful black hair. She was on the fringe of the crowd, and something of her terror still showed in her eyes.
    Those eyes reminded Rollison of the beggar’s.
    â€œVoid M. le médecin!” an excitable little man cried out, and Rollison submitted himself to the ministrations of a doctor …
    Simon gave unstinted unprofessional advice.
    Rollison was poked, prodded, and moved gently; then he let it be known that he was coming round. Whenever anyone touched his left leg, he winced or groaned. He was given a sip of water, then some brandy, next a whiff of smelling-salts – which did in fact do much to clear his head; the only bruise he had was just above his left temple.
    He grunted, opened his eyes as if bewilderedly, listened to this gabble of comment, saw that Simon was positively pinning the youthful driver with the sleek black hair against the trunk of a phoenix pine, holding him there with one long forefinger and gesticulating generously with his free right hand. A gendarme was aiding and abetting. The girl sat in her seat, her eyes closed. The beggar found a way through the crowd, looking very hard at Rollison, and for the first time Rollison tried to convey a message.
    The difficulty was to know what message, for he was as eager to know more of the Citroen driver as about the black-haired girl. But the police would surely take the driver’s name and address, whereas the girl might vanish.
    So Rollison looked from the beggar to the girl with the black hair and brown eyes.
    The beggar followed the direction of his gaze, and with a nod that was almost imperceptible, he turned away. By then, willing hands were helping Rollison to his feet. He stood on one leg, leaning against a burly porter from the San Roman.
    The beggar now stood near the raven-haired girl.
    â€œM’sieu must have rest,” pleaded the porter, who knew this Englishman as a most generous client. “If you please, M. le médecin, M. Rollison must have rest.”
    It was most confusing for the next five minutes. Finally, a kind of canvas sling chair, used for helping the helpless in and out of cars, was brought into service. Rollison was loaded on to it, and the gendarmes hurried, with their batons raised, to form a kind of guard of honour across the road. By then the crowd had swollen from dozens to many hundreds. The orchestra outside the San Roman was playing to almost deserted terraces, and would have no love for the cause of such desertion.
    Simon stayed away from the hotel.
    The doctor accompanied Rollison and the porters carrying him. The raven-haired girl stayed on the promenade, the beggar nearby.
    In the hotel it was cool.
    Upstairs in Rollison’s bedroom it was pleasant, too. The room had a balcony overlooking the bay, and the tree-clad hills which fell into the sea, all dotted with white villas. The coloured awning was down, to shut out the sun. A chambermaid was already on duty, turning down the bed, most eager to help. Rollison was stripped of his coat and of his trousers. The doctor prodded at his knee, and Rollison winced. He also gave a long-suffering look, although it did not hurt at all. The doctor prescribed bathing with a lead lotion, and then a tight bandage, gave precise instructions, and went out with the porter and the under-manager, who had tagged along from downstairs. So Rollison was alone, except for the maid.
    She was a pretty little thing, also possessed of brown eyes and dark hair. She was a little timid, too, for she came from one of the vine-valleys of Bordeaux, and did not know or greatly like the ways of some of the wealthy patrons of the