The Toff and the Deep Blue Sea by John Creasey

now.”
    â€œWhat do you think will happen?” Rollison asked sharply.
    â€œI think she will be killed, or she will be sent to Algiers,” Violette answered. “I am not sure, but I have noticed much and heard a little. I believe that some of these girls drown themselves because of some shame; and others are sent—”
    She stood up quickly. “Come with me, please.” She led the way to the deck.
    They were just within sight of Nice and of the headlands. Violette did not look towards the land. She turned towards the south, put a hand upon his arm, and went on as if she were continuing a sentence started only a moment ago: “Perhaps you will find this Daphne Myall, poor Madeleine, and my sister Marie far across there, m’sieu. In Algiers there are many white girls, all trying to forget. I— I would rather die. I think I shall have to die,” she added.
    Something in the way she looked stifled the protest on Rollison’s lips.
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Chapter Nine
Gérard
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    Rollison looked at her, without smiling, until his lips curved and a gleam appeared in his eyes. He could take this solemnly, as she was doing, or could try to kill the thought of death stone dead.
    â€œIf I were you,” he said, “I’d live.”
    â€œI don’t think they will let me,” Violette said.
    â€œChicot?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhy should he want you dead?”
    â€œFor one reason,” Violette said. “I know him very well, and now I am untrustworthy. Didn’t I try to save your life?” She moved her hands slightly, and their slimness and colour caught his eye. “But don’t blame yourself; I was already desperate.”
    â€œSackcloth and ashes,” murmured the Toff.
    â€œI don’t understand you.”
    â€œGood girl becomes bad girl, bad girl repents, life looks hopeless, death the way out.” His eyes were laughing at her. “Is that it?”
    She didn’t answer.
    â€œYou know, Violette,” said Rollison, taking her arm and squeezing her gently, “you’ve really got much, much more than most sweet young things. Let’s deal with Chicot and our problem first, shall we? Your search for Marie, mine for Daphne—and let’s deal with dying afterwards, shall we?”
    She pulled herself free.
    â€œI don’t think you understand,” she said. “I come of a very high-born family, and to return would be to the dying shame and great hurt of my parents. For myself—” she shrugged. “For them it is different.”
    â€œFrance is still France,” marvelled Rollison, but he wouldn’t let her gloom. “Finish this search, and then we’ll start on your problem. I’m going to need a lot of help, and most of it will be from you.”
    She regarded him steadily. The sun beat down upon them, and he felt the effect of its burning on the back of his head, but Violette looked and sounded as cool as she could be in the air-conditioned saloon below deck.
    â€œWhy are you an enemy of Chicot?” she asked.
    â€œI don’t know him.”
    â€œBut he knows you,” said Violette. “I think one of the reasons why they intend to kill you is that you might find out who he is,” she added, with that thoughtful gravity. “There is something you know or you have done which worries him. So—” She shrugged.
    â€œCurtains,” murmured the Toff. “They’ve been ordered before, and somehow didn’t fit. Have you a photograph of Chicot?”
    â€œNo,” she said.
    â€œWhere did you stay when you were with him?”
    â€œSometimes at the Villa, sometimes on board the Nuit Verte. This other girl, this Madeleine,” went on Violette with a disparaging shrug of her shoulders, “is one of his new-friends. She will be missing from home, and the police will look for her. They will not find her. Several times Chicot’s yacht has been