Free The Toff and the Deep Blue Sea by John Creasey

rug round her – but would that make sense? The sun was so hot that flimsies would look more reasonable than a woollen rug.
    He turned back to the launch.
    It was coming up from the stern, after encircling the Maria, and was much nearer. The police could come alongside and on board at any moment. At closer quarters the fat man looked tough and leathery, and the lean one wiry. Both had shiny brown belts and holsters, with the revolvers easy to get at. A man at the helm of the launch was just another sailor, wearing a faded blue blouse and a pair of jeans. His blue beret was pushed to the back of his head. He could turn that launch almost in its own length.
    Rollison heard the girl coming.
    He didn’t look round, but scanned the faces of the policemen for signs of surprise; and saw none. There was the same emotion on each; the look on their faces was the look of any man seeing Violette for the first time. The Toff turned to look at her.
    She was very, very good; and his heart warmed.
    She wore a fantastic modern beach-suit in the new fashion which looked like a harlequin’s dress. It was of jade-green colour, with splashes of gold, covering all of her lovely body. She might as well have appeared without a stitch on, she caused the same kind of sensation.
    She looked at the two gendarmes; and in her eyes was a kind of promise.
    Was she aware of that? Did she know that she seemed to promise so much?
    â€œHallo, Violette,” said Rollison with commendable calm, and turned back to smile at the gendarmes. They had recovered from the sensation, but the moment when the man in each had pushed the policeman aside would live forever. “They want to speak to you.”
    The fat policeman said: “That is not the lady we are looking for. Have you seen a boat, like yours, named the Nuit Verte?”
    â€œNuit Verte,” echoed Rollison, and found himself translating. “Green Night? No. But then, I haven’t seen a cabin cruiser at all. I’ve had the helm lashed and have been below most of the time. Who’s aboard her?”
    â€œA young lady,” said the fat policeman, all his suspicion apparently gone. “One Mademoiselle Bourcy. So—” He held a hand at shoulder height. “No so tall as madame, not so—” He made a delightful gesture with his big clumsy hands and somehow managed to make it seem quite natural. “With fair hair—hair the colour of corn when it is cut.”
    Gérard had hair that colour.
    So had the girl sitting next to Raoul in the Citroen that morning.
    â€œNo,” said Rollison, “I haven’t seen anyone like that. Have you, Violette?”
    Violette looked down at the policemen as if at the most handsome men in the world.
    â€œNo, Richard,” she murmured.
    â€œIf you pass the Nuit Verte, inform the nearest commissariat de police at once, if you please,” said the fat man. He touched his peaked helmet. “M’sieu-Madame!” The lean policeman echoed the last two words, and the man at the helm formed them vaguely with his lips. Then the launch sheered off, and Rollison turned to look into Violette’s eyes. He knew that they were quite as beautiful as he had told himself before.
    â€œWhere do you keep the other Dior models?” he asked.
    Her smile was just a flash of fine white teeth and of red lips. This was the first time that he had seen her without some kind of fear. The transformation seemed to have come with her clothes; she was gay, she was happy. Well, who could blame her? She had been through an ordeal by fear, she’d been rescued, she had fainted. When she had come round, she had heard the men talking, and somehow steeled herself to make another effort, and she had made it. Now, relief from tension, from urgent fear, showed in a gaiety that would probably fade as quickly as it had come.
    â€œThere are several,” she said; “apparently they always keep some clothes on board.”