The Toff and the Deep Blue Sea by John Creasey Page B

Morency less than any of them. He is so weak, so frail, so smooth, so gentle, so— evil.” She spat the word out. “I change my mind. Dr. Morency first, Raoul after him, then—” She shrugged. “Why do you want the doctor’s equipment?”
    â€œI’d like to send Raoul to sleep for a little while,” Rollison told her solemnly.
    She looked at him, but didn’t ask why.
    She was quite a remarkable woman.
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    Rollison looked about, to make sure no other craft was near, before going below to search for the medical kit. It was in one of the sleeping-cabins, built into the wall. Most of the dozens of phials of drugs meant nothing to him, but they told him that the cruiser often travelled to far places; drugs for most emergencies were here. There was also a small surgical kit, the kind carried on cargo-ships which had no doctor on board.
    He found a hypodermic syringe, and morphia. He was knowledgeable about morphia, its doses and its possible effects. He filled a fine needle, loaded the hypo, and, followed by Violette, went into the sleeping-cabin where the two prisoners lay. Both were awake, staring towards the door; Raoul seemed to be in greater fear than Gérard.
    â€œWhat—what are you going to do?” croaked Raoul. “You cannot leave us here. We—”
    â€œPrefer to feed the fishes?” asked Rollison, with mock ferocity. “You keep quiet. Violette,” he added to the girl, “we’ll do Gérard first. Roll up his sleeve.”
    Gérard winched.
    â€œWhat are you going to do?” cried Raoul.
    â€œI haven’t quite decided,” said the Toff. “We’re going ashore, and I can’t risk you shouting for help, even if you dare. So I’m going to put the pair of you to sleep. Whether you wake up again depends on what I feel like later.”
    Raoul bit on a scream.
    Gérard, tight-lipped, stared at Violette. She undid the button at his left sleeve and pulled it up. Rollison stood close to the bunk. He looked into Gérard’s face, and winked; and put a finger to his lips. Gérard gaped. He made a play of stabbing the needle into the strong, tanned arm, and then drawing it out; and he gasped and grunted, as Gérard might do.
    â€œThat’s one finished,” he said, and bent down to Raoul. “Now you.”
    Raoul’s arm was already bare, and Rollison plunged the needle in. Raoul winced, but there was a difference in his expression. It was as if he had resigned himself to what was happening and knew that pleading would not help. Now, he hated. Rollison saw that in his eyes; saw the way he looked at Violette, and understood what she meant when she said that he was bad.
    If Raoul had his way with Violette—
    Rollison said: “All right, we’ll leave them.” He went to the door. Violette stepped out; he followed and stood close to it. The door was closed, but he could hear the creaking as one of them tried to turn on his bunk.
    Raoul began to swear …
    Gérard didn’t speak.
    Raoul fell quiet in ten minutes, perhaps a little less. If Rollison had judged the dose aright, he would be out for at least two hours, almost as dead as a dead man. So Rollison opened the door again, and Violette followed him in. She had not asked a question about what he intended to do.
    She had been trained in a hard school.
    Gérard’s eyes, blue and bright, were turned towards the door. He was sweating, for it was hot in the airless cabin. He licked his lips, and Rollison turned to Violette.
    â€œWill you get him a drink?”
    â€œAt once,” she said, and went off.
    â€œAll right, Gérard,” Rollison said to the lad; “I’m not going to hurt you, yet. Violette’s wised me up to the general situation. I know about Madeleine.” He didn’t say that he wondered how Madeleine had allowed herself to marry Raoul, or what irresistible pressures had been exerted