The Riviera Connection by John Creasey Page A

m’sieu.”
    â€œYou arrived yesterday?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œM. Mannering, would it be possible for you to extend to me and my colleagues a little assistance?”
    â€œIf I can, m’sieu.”
    â€œIt will be necessary for you to come with us,” Flambaud said. “Is it possible for you to come now?”
    â€œAs you wish.” Mannering was smiling, mechanical.
    â€œYou are very kind,” said Flambaud. “We shall go, then.” He put a hand on Mannering’s forearm. It might have been a gesture of friendliness; it might have been a warning.
    With Mannering, Flambaud led the way to the front door. One man whom Philippe had sent to watch him sat as if frozen to his chair. Another, across the road, was standing up.
    Mannering wished he could enjoy their consternation.
    His heart was hammering; fear stormed. But at least Flambaud hadn’t gone up to his room, wasn’t proposing to search – yet.
    Flambaud was cold, aloof, formal. The French police could be unpleasant. Flambaud might know a great deal, might have found something which had proved that Mannering had been to the Villa Chalon, although the villa had not been mentioned. That might simply be to play on Mannering’s nerves.
    A large Renault was parked outside.
    One of the uniformed policemen took the wheel, the other sat by his side. There was good room for Mannering and Flambaud at the back.
    Mannering glanced up as he got into the car. Lucille was on the balcony, gripping the rail with both hands, the wrap falling back from her shoulders. It was possible even then to see and to notice the beauty of her figure.
    Lucille looked dumbfounded.
    She and Philippe would be dismayed; frightened.
    And how would this affect Lorna?
    â€œYou will smoke, m’sieu?” Flambaud thrust an open packet of dark-looking cigarettes in front of Mannering’s chest. Mannering found most French cigarettes nauseating, but he took one.
    Flambaud had a lighter with a flame which looked as if it would make a beacon by itself, and the black smoke suggested that it had been filled with petrol from the car. Flambaud settled back in his corner and folded his plump hands on his large stomach. Standing, his stomach hadn’t seemed so massive; now, it proved to be huge.
    â€œWill this take long?” Mannering asked.
    â€œI cannot tell, m’sieu.”
    Could disaster have come so swiftly? Mannering tried to think back to the time he had spent at the villa. Had he left something behind which had brought the police straight to him? Some clue, some absurd little thing he hadn’t noticed.
    They turned off towards the headland, and started to climb.
    Mannering fought back fears, looked casually about him. Flambaud gazed out to sea as if nothing interested him more. His hands, the fingers interlaced, laid flat on his stomach. A diamond ring on a finger of his right hand and it sparkled in the sun.
    Once out of the town, they drove very fast.
    Mannering remembered the wild drive down here the previous evening; the taxi-driver; the quiet beauty; and Lorna’s hand on his. Now, he had Flambaud’s arm pressing against him. They swung round corners, climbing all the time, until Mannering recognised the corner just before the viewpoint. They swerved round, tyres squealed, drove off the road and on to the parking place, jolting to a stop a few inches from the wall.
    â€œYou have been here before, m’sieu?” asked Flambaud.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œLast night.”
    â€œAt what time?”
    Mannering said slowly: “I’m not sure. I suppose it was a little after eleven o’clock. Between then and half-past eleven.”
    â€œWhat did you see?”
    â€œWhat is there to see?” asked Mannering mildly.
    Unexpectedly, Flambaud smiled; he showed small, yellow teeth with wide gaps between them.
    â€œThe lights, yes, and what else, m’sieu? Did you meet