Read Online The Prisoner of the Riviera (The Francis Bacon Mysteries) by Janice Law - Free Book Online
Authors: Janice Law
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went back to the hotel, painted until lunchtime, then made a circuitous way to the Chavanels’ villa.
“Monsieur!” Anastasie exclaimed when she opened the door. “What has happened?”
“I’ve reconsidered your offer,” I said.
“Agathe! Agathe!” she called and led me into the kitchen, where I was plied with herbal tea and bread and, more restorative than either, a shot of cognac, as I recounted my adventures of the night before and my meeting with Inspector Chardin.
Agathe shook her head at this.
“There was a chance I could retrieve my passport.”
“You are lucky to be out and about,” she said. “For a variety of reasons, they want to solve this soon.”
“So he gave me to understand. I want out and I want to purchase a passport.”
“Passports are no longer for sale,” Anastasie said. “A carte d’identité is another matter, but strictly by barter as we have discussed.”
I thought this over. The chances of my finding the girl were not good at all, but their willingness to drive a hard bargain was hardly my fault. “If I can find Cybèle,” I said, “you will make me a passport. Just good enough to get onto the Channel ferry.”
They exchanged looks before Anastasie nodded. “Though if you find Cybèle, I think you will be able to clear yourself.”
“Either way,” I said. “I need to get home; I need peace and quiet to paint.”
“Which reminds us,” Agathe said, and they set me to work on the little portrait. When I was finished, we had a fine lunch and the old ladies gave me as much information as they could about Cybèle. The girl was musical, it turned out, a fine singer and a respectable dancer. “Too inexperienced for the stage,” Agathe said, “but clubs, cafés, we think she could work those.”
I thought about that. It was possible that “Madame Renard’s” underfed look was from dancing and that the girl’s sharp manner and cynical expression had been honed in the smoky dives that are the lot of friendless beginners. I’d figured the streets, but from what the old ladies were telling me, their niece was an intelligent and talented girl and, as they put it, “nobody’s fool.”
“Except in romance,” I suggested.
“She grew up fast,” Anastasie said abruptly. “We think Nice more likely than Marseille.”
“Any reason?”
“We used to visit relatives there—before ’43, of course. Once the Italians moved in, that was out of bounds.”
I wondered about that or if their contacts in the Fascist territory had proved useful. “And who are these relatives?”
“They died during the war, the bombardment, the famine. But Cybèle knew the town, and she may have contacted people who knew her cousins. Jerome Chavanel was a waiter at the Hotel Negresco. He would have had good contacts at restaurants, nightclubs, cafés.”
“When did he die?”
“In ’44.”
“I’ll start by asking for him. Did you have any contact with her at all after she left?”
“A postcard only. She’d gone to Antibes. She had a friend there, a potter named Suzanne. I don’t know her last name.”
Anastasie shook her head, as if she only now realized how thin this information was and how unlikely success would be for even a skilled investigator familiar with the territory. “It’s not very much,” she said.
But Antibes was the magic word. I had read that Picasso was working near there, and without any real desire to meet the painter who had impressed me so much, I found a strong impulse to see the area where he worked. “Get me the identity card and a little money and I will do my best,” I said.
We shook hands formally and they promised the card for later that afternoon. I walked back to the hotel to pack my bag and my painting kit, stopping for a farewell drink at the café I’d been frequenting. I had barely settled under one of its umbrellas when a stout fellow with dark jowls and the face of a lesser emperor sat down heavily in the seat opposite me. He took
“Monsieur!” Anastasie exclaimed when she opened the door. “What has happened?”
“I’ve reconsidered your offer,” I said.
“Agathe! Agathe!” she called and led me into the kitchen, where I was plied with herbal tea and bread and, more restorative than either, a shot of cognac, as I recounted my adventures of the night before and my meeting with Inspector Chardin.
Agathe shook her head at this.
“There was a chance I could retrieve my passport.”
“You are lucky to be out and about,” she said. “For a variety of reasons, they want to solve this soon.”
“So he gave me to understand. I want out and I want to purchase a passport.”
“Passports are no longer for sale,” Anastasie said. “A carte d’identité is another matter, but strictly by barter as we have discussed.”
I thought this over. The chances of my finding the girl were not good at all, but their willingness to drive a hard bargain was hardly my fault. “If I can find Cybèle,” I said, “you will make me a passport. Just good enough to get onto the Channel ferry.”
They exchanged looks before Anastasie nodded. “Though if you find Cybèle, I think you will be able to clear yourself.”
“Either way,” I said. “I need to get home; I need peace and quiet to paint.”
“Which reminds us,” Agathe said, and they set me to work on the little portrait. When I was finished, we had a fine lunch and the old ladies gave me as much information as they could about Cybèle. The girl was musical, it turned out, a fine singer and a respectable dancer. “Too inexperienced for the stage,” Agathe said, “but clubs, cafés, we think she could work those.”
I thought about that. It was possible that “Madame Renard’s” underfed look was from dancing and that the girl’s sharp manner and cynical expression had been honed in the smoky dives that are the lot of friendless beginners. I’d figured the streets, but from what the old ladies were telling me, their niece was an intelligent and talented girl and, as they put it, “nobody’s fool.”
“Except in romance,” I suggested.
“She grew up fast,” Anastasie said abruptly. “We think Nice more likely than Marseille.”
“Any reason?”
“We used to visit relatives there—before ’43, of course. Once the Italians moved in, that was out of bounds.”
I wondered about that or if their contacts in the Fascist territory had proved useful. “And who are these relatives?”
“They died during the war, the bombardment, the famine. But Cybèle knew the town, and she may have contacted people who knew her cousins. Jerome Chavanel was a waiter at the Hotel Negresco. He would have had good contacts at restaurants, nightclubs, cafés.”
“When did he die?”
“In ’44.”
“I’ll start by asking for him. Did you have any contact with her at all after she left?”
“A postcard only. She’d gone to Antibes. She had a friend there, a potter named Suzanne. I don’t know her last name.”
Anastasie shook her head, as if she only now realized how thin this information was and how unlikely success would be for even a skilled investigator familiar with the territory. “It’s not very much,” she said.
But Antibes was the magic word. I had read that Picasso was working near there, and without any real desire to meet the painter who had impressed me so much, I found a strong impulse to see the area where he worked. “Get me the identity card and a little money and I will do my best,” I said.
We shook hands formally and they promised the card for later that afternoon. I walked back to the hotel to pack my bag and my painting kit, stopping for a farewell drink at the café I’d been frequenting. I had barely settled under one of its umbrellas when a stout fellow with dark jowls and the face of a lesser emperor sat down heavily in the seat opposite me. He took
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