Naughty In Nice (37 page)

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Authors: Rhys Bowen

BOOK: Naughty In Nice
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We told her.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll bow out of this morning’s activities. I’m really not at my best. Maybe after a few cups of coffee I’ll feel human again. So run along and play, children.”
Franz brought around the motor and we all piled in. This time there were no police guarding our villa and the gendarme at Sir Toby’s gate saluted as we drove past. At least it seemed I’d been removed from the role of number one suspect. When we reached the center of Nice I asked Franz to drop me where I could ride the bus up the hill to Cimiez.
“I don’t know if I like you going alone,” Granddad said. “You’re looking for someone who might have committed two murders. You’re putting yourself in harm’s way. Come with us to the newspapers first and then we’ll all go with you up to this place.”
“No, that wouldn’t work at all,” I said. “I want to see if anyone mistakes me for this girl. I’m going to try to borrow a bicycle and wheel it around the neighborhood. At least I might be able to find out where she lives.”
“Well, be careful, then,” Granddad said. “And let’s arrange to meet back here at a certain time. That way, if you’re not there, we’ll come looking.”
We arranged to meet at noon, which gave me an hour and a half to begin my search. I joined the other passengers on the bus and we bumped our way up the windy road, the little bus belching out smoke and groaning as the hill became steeper. We saw glimpses of the bay as the town spread out below us. Then we were in an area of impressive villas. A great white curved building loomed over us. So that was the Hotel Regina, where my esteemed great-grandmother had stayed with her retinue of one hundred. I didn’t think somehow that they would rent bicycles.
I got off with the other English tourists, who made straight for a ruined Roman amphitheater, their cameras at the ready. I asked for directions to the street where Neville’s aunt’s villa was situated. It was actually not far below that great hotel. Since I could find no businesses here that might be willing to rent me a bicycle, I set off on foot, surveying the area. To one side was an olive grove and a monastery and beyond them the terrain fell away sharply, down to a river below. There was no way down that I could see. So I had to think. If this girl had been riding, not wheeling her bicycle, she could not have come from down below. The climb was simply too steep and she would have been wheeling it and out of breath. And above us seemed to be vineyards and small farms. Which must mean that I had to find a road that wound around the hill.
I started from Neville’s villa and continued westward as the road hugged the hillside. At times I glimpsed a spectacular view of the city and the Baie des Anges sparkling in the sunshine. There was no traffic and the only person I saw was an occasional gardener, working outside one of the villas. I sang out gaily,
“Bonjour,”
in the hope of seeing recognition on their faces, but a polite
“Bonjour”
was all I received in return. So the girl was not known in this quarter. Which made me wonder why she had ridden her bike here. It certainly wasn’t a shortcut to anywhere. Which must mean that she had wanted members of the English community to see her and to notice her—to think that she was I. It was all so horribly and thoroughly well planned, and the worrying thought came to me that she had known exactly what I was wearing that day, when I had only bought the outfit hours before. Someone had been spying on all my movements.
There was something else that was worrying me, and I tried to think what it was as I stared at the spring flowers growing in those gardens. Something to do with flowers. Something I had heard that morning—at Sir Toby’s villa. Suddenly I stood stock-still in the middle of the road. The two paintings, one of which had been forged. The sunflowers and the chair. And I remembered where I had heard those words spoken together before, in French. It was in the bar on the Channel steamer and the speaker had been Jean-Paul. Not the
tournesols
, he had said. Much simpler. The chair.
I found it hard to breathe. With this realization more things became obvious. Jean-Paul knew what I was wearing and had kept me nicely occupied all afternoon while someone dressed like me entered Sir Toby’s house, put in a forged painting, presumably taking the real one, and killed him. I shook my head, trying to shake out the thoughts that whirled around it. Stupid. Impossible. He was a fabulously rich French aristocrat. Why would he want to steal a painting when he could buy what he wanted? I started to walk, faster and faster. I examined his reactions to me. At first anger, surprise at seeing me. Then appraising, curious, pleasant; then flirtatious. He thought he recognized me, but he must have seen the resemblance to someone he knew—and realized what an opportunity he had.
So he had used me. The flirtation had been an act. He hadn’t been in the least interested in me, as he had demonstrated the night before, when he had probably gone off with Belinda because I was no longer any use to him. I recalled his frank appraisal of my dismal dress. A man in love does not notice the cut of a dress, but rather the face of a beloved. I felt hot tears of anger and embarrassment welling up in my eyes. The angry blare of a motorcar Klaxon brought me to an abrupt halt. I had reached a wider road, on the other side of which was a more ordinary neighborhood with shops, apartment blocks and smaller houses. I crossed the street, now absolutely determined to find this woman and turn her over to the police. I pictured my triumph when I brought Lafite to her. You didn’t believe me. There she is. She was the one who killed Sir Toby and do you know who made her do it?
I choked back a sob as the truth sank in. Jean-Paul. Beautiful, wonderful Jean-Paul had used and betrayed me. No wonder he had been so eager to find me a lawyer. He probably hadn’t counted on murder. At least he had a speck of conscience.
“How could you?” I said out loud.
“Eh, Jeanine. Toujours la blonde?”
a voice called as a young man sped past me on a bicycle. It meant “Still a blonde?”
“
Attendez!
Wait!” I called and started to run after him but he was moving fast and was gone. But at least I knew something now. The name was Jeanine and she was known around here. I wished I hadn’t promised to meet Granddad and Coco at noon. I had no time to search properly now. But I’d come back as soon as I’d checked in with them and I could tell them exactly where I’d be. Maybe they could tail me at a distance, just in case. Or better still, maybe Commmissaire Germain could tail me. Thus reassured, I made my way back to the bus and came down the hill.
Granddad and Coco jumped up excitedly as they saw me.
“You’ve found the thief?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” Coco said. “But we’ve established one thing. Look at this.” She held out a glossy photograph. It showed my back, being led away from the stage, with the Prince of Wales and Mrs. Simpson muttering something to each other in the foreground. And around my neck . . .
“The necklace is still there,” I said.
“Precisely,” Coco replied. “Which means it was taken when you were helped to a seat. But I thought your mother and I helped you to the seat.”
“And the marquis,” I said flatly. “Remember he got me a brandy and he put his arm around my shoulder as he handed it to me. And that’s when he took my necklace.”
“The marquis? Jean-Paul?” Chanel laughed incredulously. “But that is absurd. Why would he steal a necklace?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “but the more I’ve thought about it, it all points to him. He orchestrated everything—the necklace and Sir Toby’s villa the next afternoon, sending someone who looked like me to pin everything on me.” I could feel a lump in my throat and swallowed it back hastily.
“You are trying to tell us that Jean-Paul killed Sir Toby?”
I shook my head violently. “He was with me. By the time he drove me home, Sir Toby must have been already dead. It was the young woman who must have killed him—or maybe they had a third coconspirator we don’t even know about.”
“This is absurd,” Chanel said. “Jean-Paul is fabulously rich. Everyone knows that. And he comes from an old family. Why would he want to rob people?”
“For the fun of it, maybe?” I was trying to stay calm and detached. “Look, I have no idea why. But someone must be told. Can you go and find your friend Jacques Germain? He will know what to do.”
Coco shrugged and threw her scarf around her shoulders. The wind had picked up and it was chilly so near to the sea. “We did not arrange a time or place to meet, but we will do our best. But what about you?”
“I want to keep on looking for the girl,” I said. “I think I’m in the right area now. Someone recognized me, or thought he recognized me, up on the hill to the left of Cimiez.”
“University quarter,” Coco said, nodding.
“That makes sense. There were young men sitting at a corner bar. I’m going right back there.”
“Half a mo,” Granddad said. “Do you think that wise? I mean this girl—well, she’s an all-around bad lot, ain’t she? What’s more, she’s dangerous too. I don’t want you going after her alone.”
“But I’m the only one who can find out who she is and where she lives,” I said. “One chap already recognized me. I’ll find out her name and address then I’ll come and find you and we can pass the information over to the police.”
Granddad sucked through his teeth before nodding. “All right, but you be careful. I know what you’re like—rushing into the middle of trouble.”
“I don’t rush into it,” I said. “Trouble seems to come and find me.”
He gave me a reassuring pat. “You come straight back as soon as you find out her name, got it?”
I nodded and watched them get into the motor, wishing I could go with them and that this horrible thing was over and done with. I was about to retrace my steps when I heard a woman’s voice calling me. I saw a bath chair bearing down on me and recognized the two princesses.
“How lovely. You are coming for lunch. We’re just on our way home from our walk now,” Princess Marie greeted me. “Come along. It’s not far.”
There was nothing I wanted less at that moment than lunch with two elderly princesses. I was about to make my apologies when I saw their expectant faces and I realized at the same moment that a lunch with them might not be wasted time, if I could escape at a reasonable hour. I allowed myself to be led along the Promenade des Anglais and into a hotel that was not the quality of the Negresco but more like the seaside hotels one encountered in England. It was pleasant enough, respectable, comfortable, but not glamorous. It reinforced to me that the princesses lived very simply.
Their suite on the first floor was not opulent but pleasant, with French windows leading out to a balcony and a lovely view of the seafront and the blue water beyond. The wind was whipping up the water into impressive waves and we could hear the hiss and slap of water on stones through the open windows. The furniture was old-fashioned but good quality, with the obligatory gilt-framed landscapes of the Romantic era on the walls.
“Tell Antoine we will take our meal in our suite today,” Princess Marie said to the black-clad maid who was divesting Princess Theodora of her bonnet and cape. “And tell him we have a guest, so maybe a little extra wine?”
She led me over to a table in the window. “The food is really quite good here, and so much cheaper than renting a whole villa that one doesn’t really need. Do sit down, my dear. This is such a treat for us. You don’t know how much the old yearn for the company of the young.”
Even if nothing came out of this I was glad I had come. They were so nice and normal and this was a world I was used to—manners and polite conversation and standards that would never be lowered, in spite of lack of money. Almost immediately a young man wheeled in a trolley containing a tureen of soup, chicken salad, desserts, bread and white wine. He served us the soup—an herby tomato concoction that was delicious. All that walking and worrying had given me an appetite. The princesses both tucked in well too, obviously enjoying every morsel. We talked, in French for the sake of Princess Theodora, about things we had in common, my family, the Prince of Wales—they had heard rumors of Mrs. Simpson and wanted to know if they were true.
“He has just gone back to England, summoned by his father,” I said. “And she is still here, so hopefully that’s a good sign.”
“Let us hope so,” Princess Theodora said, shaking her many chins. “It would kill his father if the son does not do the right thing.”
The maid now waited on us at table, pouring wine into our glasses and serving us cold chicken in a cream sauce. I tried to protest the wine, but my protests were dismissed.
“So good for the digestion,” Princess Marie said. “We would not be alive today without our wine, would we,
ma chère
?” Princess Theodora nodded, already munching a great hunk of bread.
We worked our way through the chicken salad. It was only when the desserts were put in front of us—delicate floating islands with strands of crystallized sugar all over them—that I dared to ask, “Highness, you said you are acquainted with all the great families of Europe—”
“Not any longer,” she replied. “We do not entertain anymore, nor are we often invited out, so I am woefully behind on my gossip.”
“But you know of the Marquis de Ronchard?” I asked.
“Of course. I knew his dear mama well,” she said. A soft, wistful look came over her face. “We were girls together. We were introduced into society about the same time.”

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