The Prisoner of the Riviera (The Francis Bacon Mysteries) Read Online Free PDF

behind their shutters, reported that the villa had had a number of visitors, some in cars, and at all hours. Although those late-night visitors should have been the concern, the police seemed more anxious to trace the whereabouts of a fair-haired foreigner who had asked directions to the villa on what the paper referred to as “the fateful day.” I’ll just bet they were. With that thought, I realized what I’d considered a diversion for Nan presented serious trouble for me.

Chapter Three
    “Make a run for it,” was Nan’s advice, while Arnold, reverting to his solid-citizen mode, advised a quick cross-border visit to the nearest French police station. “You saw two men leave the villa. They may be the very ones involved.”
    Nan shook her head. Her fascination with newspaper crime accounts has given her considerable expertise. “That’s risky without knowing the time of death,” she said. “And you are guilty until proven innocent here.”
    “There’s no question of that!” Arnold exclaimed, but I thought it very likely that a mysterious fair-haired foreigner, aka me, would look like a nice solution to a sensational murder. And so timely, too, right at the start of the tourist season.
    “Then,” said Arnold, the voice of conscience and reason, “there’s your Madame Renard.”
    Nan sniffed. “Likely no better than she should be, that one.”
    “She may also be in danger. You said she looked young and”—he hesitated a second—“down on her luck.”
    “Off the street in Marseille, I’d venture.”
    “Expendable,” Arnold said.
    “So is our dear boy to the flics .” That’s my nan. Her love of capital punishment is balanced by her dislike of authority. What she might have become had she been born male or wealthy staggers my imagination.
    “The difficulty is the French border,” I said. “The police will have my name soon. If Pierre reads the paper—that’s it right there. Or the hotel personnel, even. I did ask about the Villa Mimosa, about the location of the hamlet and the proper train stop.”
    “Raising another question,” said Nan. “Why weren’t you given more explicit directions if that package was so important? That Joubert is a jackass.”
    I was sure that was true, and I feared that one or both of the Madame Renards had trusted him unwisely.
    “You were set up,” said Nan. “Once you asked for directions.”
    With this sobering thought, we sat pondering our alternatives. To go to the police, to respond to that call for assistance would be a point in my favor. On the other hand, my description of the two “workmen” and of my “Madame Renard” might well lack corroboration, though the men had been at the café near the station and the neighbors must have seen them as well. It was possible my statement would be taken, my public spirit commended, my vacation resumed.
    Possible, yes, but even stronger was the chance of being detained indefinitely in la belle France , possibly in a French prison. I wasn’t going to risk that. Dieppe and the boat train were out of the question, but I could hop on the local and make for Italy. Arnold and Nan would return via the boat train, and I would get myself north to Holland or Belgium and cross the Channel there.
    Arnold thought this plan possible; Nan was enthusiastic. I went upstairs to pack, and I had my paintings stowed and my suitcase ready when there was a knock on the door. Funny how bad events send out their own vibrations. I knew before I spoke that it was not the chambermaid. I looked out at the balcony, but we were on the third floor, and even a successful run would be a confession of guilt. I closed my suitcases and called, “Entrez.”
    Two men stepped into the room. One was a local policeman in the principality’s handsome uniform. He was short and broad shouldered with a physique like a boxer and an athlete’s restless grace. He was markedly younger than his companion and dark, with thick, black hair and Italianate