Read Online The Prisoner of the Riviera (The Francis Bacon Mysteries) by Janice Law - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Janice Law
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out a handkerchief and wiped his face.
I waited. As a romantic approach, this lacked something in subtlety. He signaled for Louis, who brought us a carafe of white wine and some biscuits. All very civilized.
“To your good health,” my companion said when the drinks were poured. Despite his heavy, even brutal, appearance, his voice was soft and insinuating. “May it continue.”
First a knife in the back and now a toast to my health. I said nothing.
He took a drink of his wine, held it up to the light, took another sip. He helped himself to three of the biscuits at once and said, “Monsieur Joubert is very displeased.”
“You’re from Joubert? Where are my gambling chits? No, no,” I said when he began describing his master’s wrath. “I got a package from Joubert. I delivered the package. I have had nothing but trouble since.”
“You delivered it to the wrong woman after alerting half the town.”
“I was given no directions and no description of the lady in question. Joubert is an incompetent ass. You can remind him that I have a signed agreement for a job that I have completed.”
“You are behaving very foolishly. You are broke and without papers—that is correct? The police have your passport?”
“My problems are nothing to you.”
“You are broke in a foreign country without documents. You need me, Monsieur.”
I said several rude things about my needs of the moment, but my fat, vaguely sinister visitor was undeterred. “You have, moreover, friends in England. Friends who are known to Monsieur Joubert. It is in their interest as well as yours that you cooperate.”
I didn’t like this at all. I would have to wire Arnold, make arrangements for Nan. “If Joubert wants some caricatures from the beachfront, I’ll be happy to oblige. Otherwise, you can tell him, he’s out of luck.”
“Monsieur Joubert wants that package back. You are to get it for him.”
“Oh, right, without papers, without money, without knowing what is going on.”
He put a fat envelope on the table. “A little walking-around money,” he said.
I didn’t touch it. “Walking around here has not been entirely pleasant.”
“Hence this small gratuity. You and Monsieur Joubert have enemies in common. They have his package.”
“And they’d like me dead. Excuse me if I’d rather avoid them.”
“Monsieur Joubert wants to retrieve that package. See it happens,” he said, getting awkwardly to his feet. “Otherwise, I can’t vouch for the health of either you or your friends.”
Being en vacances was gaining new meaning all the time.
I wired a warning to Arnold and rethought my plan—a simple, touristy plan, I now realized—of storing my painting kit in left luggage and taking the train to Nice. Neither would do at all. I had to assume the police or my emissary from Joubert or even my assailant of last night would be keeping an eye on the gare . I would have to find an alternate route. I ruffled through the bills in the envelope and put them in my wallet. At this juncture, trapped like the proverbial rat, et cetera, et cetera, I thought a night on the town would be a good idea, and, under the pressure of imminent violent death, I came up with a possible companion.
Chapter Six
The sun slid down into the Mediterranean, the dark sea of Homer and of Aeschylus, whom I love. Because I was both badly and briefly educated, the great Greek poets were never ruined for me with classes and exams. Especially near nightfall, the time when blood is shed in the palaces, the time secrets are unfolded and rituals begin, I often think of the Greeks, my spiritual mentors. After a time of war and misery, they were distractingly vivid to my imagination—which, I reminded myself, must be redirected to finding my way through the town’s narrow streets, all seemingly deserted except for some lurking cats and a small dog barking behind an iron fence.
Had there been a patisserie on the corner? A laundry? I couldn’t remember
I waited. As a romantic approach, this lacked something in subtlety. He signaled for Louis, who brought us a carafe of white wine and some biscuits. All very civilized.
“To your good health,” my companion said when the drinks were poured. Despite his heavy, even brutal, appearance, his voice was soft and insinuating. “May it continue.”
First a knife in the back and now a toast to my health. I said nothing.
He took a drink of his wine, held it up to the light, took another sip. He helped himself to three of the biscuits at once and said, “Monsieur Joubert is very displeased.”
“You’re from Joubert? Where are my gambling chits? No, no,” I said when he began describing his master’s wrath. “I got a package from Joubert. I delivered the package. I have had nothing but trouble since.”
“You delivered it to the wrong woman after alerting half the town.”
“I was given no directions and no description of the lady in question. Joubert is an incompetent ass. You can remind him that I have a signed agreement for a job that I have completed.”
“You are behaving very foolishly. You are broke and without papers—that is correct? The police have your passport?”
“My problems are nothing to you.”
“You are broke in a foreign country without documents. You need me, Monsieur.”
I said several rude things about my needs of the moment, but my fat, vaguely sinister visitor was undeterred. “You have, moreover, friends in England. Friends who are known to Monsieur Joubert. It is in their interest as well as yours that you cooperate.”
I didn’t like this at all. I would have to wire Arnold, make arrangements for Nan. “If Joubert wants some caricatures from the beachfront, I’ll be happy to oblige. Otherwise, you can tell him, he’s out of luck.”
“Monsieur Joubert wants that package back. You are to get it for him.”
“Oh, right, without papers, without money, without knowing what is going on.”
He put a fat envelope on the table. “A little walking-around money,” he said.
I didn’t touch it. “Walking around here has not been entirely pleasant.”
“Hence this small gratuity. You and Monsieur Joubert have enemies in common. They have his package.”
“And they’d like me dead. Excuse me if I’d rather avoid them.”
“Monsieur Joubert wants to retrieve that package. See it happens,” he said, getting awkwardly to his feet. “Otherwise, I can’t vouch for the health of either you or your friends.”
Being en vacances was gaining new meaning all the time.
I wired a warning to Arnold and rethought my plan—a simple, touristy plan, I now realized—of storing my painting kit in left luggage and taking the train to Nice. Neither would do at all. I had to assume the police or my emissary from Joubert or even my assailant of last night would be keeping an eye on the gare . I would have to find an alternate route. I ruffled through the bills in the envelope and put them in my wallet. At this juncture, trapped like the proverbial rat, et cetera, et cetera, I thought a night on the town would be a good idea, and, under the pressure of imminent violent death, I came up with a possible companion.
Chapter Six
The sun slid down into the Mediterranean, the dark sea of Homer and of Aeschylus, whom I love. Because I was both badly and briefly educated, the great Greek poets were never ruined for me with classes and exams. Especially near nightfall, the time when blood is shed in the palaces, the time secrets are unfolded and rituals begin, I often think of the Greeks, my spiritual mentors. After a time of war and misery, they were distractingly vivid to my imagination—which, I reminded myself, must be redirected to finding my way through the town’s narrow streets, all seemingly deserted except for some lurking cats and a small dog barking behind an iron fence.
Had there been a patisserie on the corner? A laundry? I couldn’t remember
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