Death on the Riviera Read Online Free PDF

usually referred to as “educated English”. She swung round, delighted.
    â€œOh I’m so glad you agree with me! I’m always terrified of making up my mind about a picture in case it’s by somebody I ought to like. I’m dreadfully ignorant of all this sort of thing.”
    â€œSame here. Mind you, I wouldn’t have let fly like that if I’d known you were English.”
    â€œOh, that’s all right. Are you an artist?”
    The young man flushed.
    â€œGood lord, no! Do I look like one?”
    Dilys eyed the broad-shouldered, tweed-jacketed, flannel-bagged six feet of manhood.
    â€œWell, not exactly. But these days it’s so difficult to tell. I know a dress-designer who looks like a professional boxer. Are you down here on holiday?”
    â€œEr…more or less. Are you?”
    â€œNo. I live here with my aunt.”
    â€œLive here? Heavens! Some people have all the luck. Wonderful spot, this. I just can’t believe it’s real.”
    â€œA lot of it isn’t. Just paste and cardboard and tinsel, like most of my aunt’s insufferable friends. Actually I find it rather boring. It gets that way after a time.” Dilys accepted a proffered cigarette with a nod of thanks and went on with the devastating curiosity of an uninhibited and charming young woman of nineteen. “If you’re not an artist what is your job in life? I hope you’ve got one.”
    â€œOh yes. I’m a…er…I work in a sort of office.”
    â€œYou mean you’re a sort of clerk?”
    â€œWell, yes…sort of,” he said lamely.
    Conscious of the inanity of this cross-talk they looked at each other and laughed.
    â€œIn London?” persisted Dilys.
    â€œEr…yes. In London.”
    â€œ Pardon, Madame! Pardon, M’sieur! ” They swung round to face the agitated attendant. “ Je regrette, mais il est defense de fumer ici. ”
    â€œOh, sorry old boy,” said the young man cheerfully, stubbing out his cigarette against his heel. “Bad show, eh? Un mal spectacle. Comprenez-vous? ” He turned to Dilys. “He says he’s sorry but we mustn’t smoke in here. I learnt that bit off railway carriages.” Then aware of his inexcusable assumption he slapped his thigh and added apologetically: “But good heavens! I was forgetting you lived here. You must speak French like a native.”
    â€œJust about,” smiled Dilys. “An aborigine. Adequate, shall we say? but not idiomatic. Now what about taking a look at the rest of the pictures?”
    â€œYes—rather. Far more fun now I’ve met you.”
    They wandered on round the gallery, chattering like magpies, occasionally recalling where they were and pausing a moment to study one of the pictures. Within ten minutes they’d learnt quite a lot about each other. They agreed that it might be a sound idea to meet on the Casino terrace the next morning for an apéritif.
    â€œCan’t be absolutely sure about it,” said the young man regretfully. “You see, I’m not exactly a free agent. I’m sort of stooging around here with another bloke. But you bet I’ll make it if I can.”
    â€œWell, if you can’t,” pointed out Dilys after a moment’s swift reflection, “you could telephone.”
    â€œWhacko! We simply can’t afford to lose sight of each other after this morning. It’s been—” He broke off and added anxiously: “I say—what’s up? Anything wrong?”
    â€œThis painting—it’s by a friend of mine,” said Dilys, adding hastily: “Well, not exactly a friend. He’s rather unbearable really. My aunt has very decently fitted him up with a studio at the villa.”
    The young man noted the number-disc on the frame and flicked over the pages of his catalogue.
    â€œYes, here we are. Le Filou …what the devil’s a