The Toff and the Deep Blue Sea Read Free Page A

San Roman. Some pinched, kissed or poked, none of which was nice, but this Englishman …
    â€œSuzanne,” said the Toff.
    â€œM’sieu?”
    â€œDo you think you could bring me some tea?”
    â€œAt once, m’sieu!” She beamed her desire to serve, then hurried out.
    The moment the door was closed, Rollison got up and used his left leg as if he had been practising for the long jump or the hurdles. He sped to the door, turned the key in the lock, moved round, and stepped cautiously on to the balcony.
    Here, in spite of the shade, it was much warmer.
    By keeping to one side, Rollison could make sure that he wasn’t seen, even if anyone looked up, and there seemed little likelihood of that. The crowd remained. Simon, standing in the shadow of the phoenix palm, was talking and moving his arms and legs about like pistons; one second his red hair looked like flame in the sun, the next it was dulled as he moved into shadow.
    The youthful driver, freed from the pinioning finger, was now besieged by gendarmes, one of whom was making notes. The raven-haired girl was walking away, and the beggar following her; in fact, had it not been for the beggar, Rollison could not have been sure that it was the same girl.
    The killer car’s driver did not once look at the blonde who had been sitting with him, and was still in her place. She looked nice, mused Rollison; he wished that there was a way to have her followed and so find out more about her; but if he was to keep up the legend of his injured knee and consequent incapacity, he couldn’t do a thing.
    Well, the police would have that name and address.
    Simon moved from the crowd, and crossed the road, and Suzanne arrived with the tea.
    She should not have done, for that was a waiter’s privilege, but the San Roman also had its staffing problems, and a willing girl was ever welcome.
    When she came in, the door had been unlocked and Rollison was back in bed. Before she left, there was a tap at the door.
    â€œSee who it is, will you?” asked Rollison, although he felt quite sure that it would be Simon.
    It was a bell-boy, a curly-haired imp of mischief in wine-red uniform, a tight-fitting jacket, bright silver buttons, and a silver salver. Suzanne took the letter on the salver, shooed the boy away, and brought the letter to the Toff. Scrawled on it in faint pencilled writing was his name: M. Rollison. It was sealed, and at the back was the embossed crest of the San Roman.
    â€œAll right, Suzanne,” said Rollison, and smiled. “Leave the door so that anyone can come in, will you, please?”
    â€œOf course, m’sieu.”
    Rollison wondered what was keeping Simon, and guessed that the clown was involved in yet another argument. He also wondered who had written to him, opened the letter, and smoothed out a single sheet of the expensive San Roman letter-heading, with the same expensive embossed monogram.
    He read the pencilled words: “Please, will you see me? I call at your room at twelve o’clock.” There was no signature, nothing except the sloping hand to tell him whether this was a man or a woman’s writing; and the slope did not indicate either for certain. He poured himself tea, lit a cigarette, and then heard footsteps outside. These were followed, a moment later, by a loud thump at the door of his room.
    â€œCome in, Simon!” he called.
    This time Simon appeared, bending low so that he could get into the room from the wide passage. Standing upright, he was two inches taller than the lintel. The room, though not over-large, had its own small bathroom, the door of which was open. One of Simon’s elbows vanished into the bathroom as he came in and closed the passage door. Once inside, he straightened up to his full height, and bumped his head against one of two hanging chandeliers. Porcelain and gilt rattled; he swore, ducked, rubbed his head and glared.
    â€œThere should be one only, and that in