The Toff and the Deep Blue Sea Read Free Page B

the middle!”
    â€œAgreed,” said Rollison politely. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
    Simon looked blank.
    â€œYour pardon?”
    â€œI was offering you a cup of tea.”
    â€œTea,” echoed Simon, and regarded the tray. He had huge eyes, and the droop of the wrinkled lids was natural, not even slightly due to affectation. But he could open them wide, and did so now. They were a greeny-brown colour, very fine and clear, and filled with the deep repugnance that he felt.
    â€œNo,” he said roundly. “I would not.”
    â€œThere’s a bottle of whisky in—”
    â€œYou must be hurt very badly,” Simon declared. “You offer me tea. You talk to me of whisky. The one blows out my belly, and what do I have for déjeneur, hein? The second burns me like the vitriolic acid. And this in la belle France, where—”
    â€œThere is a spot of Belsac ’45 in the wardrobe,” murmured Rollison apologetically.
    â€œMy friend,” said Simon, with new, strange gentleness, “your body may be broken, but your head is still very sound. Thank you.” He went to the wardrobe and had to go down on his knees to get the bottle out; glasses were on the dressing table. He poured the wine as if it were liquid gold, and savoured and sipped as if it were the finest brandy from Cognac. That done, he pulled up an arm-chair and sat down, thrusting his long legs in-front of him. He seemed a long way off, although his feet were actually hidden beneath Rollison’s bed. “The man driver,” he announced, “will have severe punishment. He is an imbecile. I,” declared Simon, with great satisfaction, “told him some things or two.”
    Rollison grinned.
    â€œFor the girl with him, I feel sorry,” went on Simon. “For myself, I feel sorry. For you, I feel sorry. For the driver, I would like to break his neck. What a thing to do! Sixty kilometres an hour. Sixty! Criminal that he is. He blames the dog, a little dog that goes pit-pat-pit across the road.” Simon moved the fingers of his right hand when he said pit-pat-pit, and it was almost as if a little dog were running. “.Sixty kilometres. He should be put in prison for—”
    â€œThere was no dog,” announced Rollison.
    â€œIt was only a little dog. You understand,” went on Simon, earnestly, and as if it had been a mistake to speak English, “un petit chien. Pit-pat-pit it went across the road, and the imbecile was travelling so fast that—”
    â€œThere was no pit-pat-pit,” murmured Rollison, “because there was no dog.”
    â€œUn petit chien,” pleaded Simon.
    â€œNon, man ami, il n’y avail pas de petits chiens, de grands chiens, de chats, ou de souris.”
    â€œBut it was just a little dog,” begged Simon.
    â€œThat was the driver’s excuse. He tried to run us down. Have you any enemies?” inquired the Toff earnestly.
    â€œHave I?” breathed Simon. “Enemies? No, it is—”
    He stopped, licked his thick lips, and opened his huge eyes at their widest. Then he leaned forward. “You have the enemy. He tries to kill you.”
    â€œKill or injure,” compromised Rollison. “I’m afraid so.”
    â€œBut—but, my friend, why?” asked Simon, in a faltering falsetto. “You are—” He stopped again, and the light of understanding dawned slowly in his eyes; it was remarkable that it had not shown before. “You mean, you are here on the business? The detection? Sapristi, what a fool I am not to know about that, of course! The detection! What, who, where, why, how—”
    â€œI’ll tell you,” promised Rollison; “but before we go any further, do you know who the car driver is?”
    â€œThe first name, Raoul—the second I did not secure. He resides at the Villa Seblec—”
    â€œNear here?”
    â€œI do not know. I can