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

coming straight towards Rollison without knowing exactly where Rollison was. The end of that first diving movement should bring him very close – he should break water close by.
    Rollison let himself fall forward, and floated easily. He saw the brown streak, slowing down and very near him. He saw the knife under the water, the black head, the muscular shoulders. He thrust his hand down in a snatching movement, his fingers crooked, hoping desperately that he would strike the wrist close to the knife.
    He did.
    He felt the bone between his fingers, clutched and twisted. The hand was so near the surface that he could exert powerful pressure. The man broke surface wildly. Rollison heard him gasp, heard the bubbly intake of his breath. He thrust the wrist back savagely and brought a squeal of pain.
    The fingers opened, the knife dropped.
    Rollison saw it going down slowly, the point showing. The handle was carrying it down. He felt a hand at his neck; brown fingers clutched and then slid off his wet skin. He turned, and butted the Arab in the nose with his forehead.
    The man fell back, splashing noisily.
    Rollison swung himself round, gasping for breath, knowing that it would take all the strength he had left to reach a boat. Then he saw the second Arab, only a few yards away, with the knife in his mouth.
    The sense of despair swept over him again.
    He couldn’t fight, couldn’t hope for such luck twice running. Compared with him, the Arab was fresh, and he had probably seen what had happened and would be out for blood. Well, here it was. Should he go forward and try to fight it out, or turn and swim and hope?
    He wanted to swim away.
    Even then he found himself trying to work out what chance he had. He was actually on the turn, with the brown-skinned man coming towards him very fast, when he saw Violette’s head bob up a little to the left of the Arab, and out of his line of vision.
    He wanted to shout.
    He changed his mind, and trod water, facing the man and slowing him down. The Arab was waiting for a trick; he trod water too, ready to plunge right or left, whichever way Rollison plunged. Violette came up behind him with swift, near-silent strokes.
    It was strange to see her golden brown hand close about his neck, and tighten.
    The Arab choked.
    Rollison plunged towards him.
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    The Arab sank, slowly, his mouth open. The red of blood tinged the blue water. The knife was in Rollison’s hand. Some way off, the other Arab was swimming back towards the Maria. Violette and Rollison were floating on their backs and side by side, gradually recovering their breath. They hadn’t spoken from the moment when Rollison had plunged the knife between the Arab’s ribs.
    Soon they were breathing normally.
    â€œBetter start,” said Rollison. “Ready?”
    â€œWhen you wish.”
    â€œOne minute,” said Rollison.
    He felt as if all the strength had been drained out of him.
    He wished that he had not killed; it had been one of them or the Arab, but the taking of life had a finality which brought its own horror. Yet with one man dead and the other in flight, he could call it a miracle. But he didn’t try to raise a smile, and he sensed that Violette felt much the same as he.
    â€œWe’ll start now,” he said.
    The girl turned. They headed for the shore, with the cool waters about them and the sun still warm, although not striking on the backs of their heads. Rollison faced a new danger; or a danger which had been forgotten - the task of swimming so far.
    Could Violette?
    Could he?
    It could not have been ten minutes later that he heard the rumbling sounds of an engine again. This time it was not an aircraft, but a little outboard motor-boat with a young couple on board.
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    The youngsters were American, fresh, clean-limbed, eager, curious, generous.
    â€œWhy, sure, we’ll take you ashore, sir. Glad to have the opportunity. How did you come to be swimming out this