The Riviera Connection by John Creasey Page B

anyone else here?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œSo,” said Flambaud. He still gave no clue as to his thoughts, but sat with his hands folded loosely, looking out towards the sea. “We will go on, Duval,” he said suddenly, and the driver started the engine, swung violently back on to the road, reversed as far as the gates leading to the Villa Chalon, and then drove up – twice as fast as the twisting road justified.
    There were a dozen people about the villa, including several policemen.
    The car jolted to a standstill.
    â€œM. Mannering,” Flambaud said, “you are not compelled to come with me. I request it. I cannot make you come.”
    He didn’t smile, just looked at Mannering from beneath those lazy-looking lashes.
    â€œI’ll help where I can,” Mannering said.
    â€œHave you been here before?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWe will get out,” Flambaud said.
    Duval opened his door and jumped out, opened the back door and waited for them to get out. Two or three men came towards Flambaud, and he waved them away, testily. They came on and tossed questions at him. To Mannering’s surprise, he answered. Two men turned to Mannering; the Press was much the same here as in England.
    â€œYou come to help M. l’inspecteur?” asked one.
    â€œEnough!” exclaimed Flambaud. He took Mannering’s arm again, thrust his way through the crowd, and approached the back of the villa.
    The sun blazed and burned; nothing looked as it had done the night before.
    They turned a corner. Two gendarmes stood by the side of the French windows which Mannering had forced. There was no attempt to hide the damage. The pieces of frame which he had cut out were piled against the wall. Sawdust had been brushed up carefully, and was in a small dustpan.
    The door was open.
    Flambaud looked at the forced window, then at Mannering. His eyes might have been open a fraction more than they had in the car. Mannering looked at him, hoping he seemed puzzled, fighting back the fears which throbbed in his mind. Could he have left anything behind? He hadn’t smoked, it couldn’t be an English cigarette. He hadn’t left prints.
    â€œIt looks as if you’ve a burglary on your hands,” he said, and hoped that he sounded casual.
    â€œYes.” Flambaud gave a quick, wintry smile. “A burglary. Come with me, please.” He led the way into the passage, then into the front, hall. He looked as if he was heading for the library, but instead he turned towards the stairs. Mannering glanced round. Duval and the other uniformed policemen were just behind; he had exchanged the two watchers sent by Philippe for the police.
    They went up the stairs.
    At the landing, Flambaud stopped. For the first time he gripped Mannering’s forearm, instead of touching it lightly. It would be easy to scream at him. The two men halted at the head of the stairs. Two others stood by a closed door.
    â€œM’sieu, you have spent holidays in Chalon before.”
    â€œI have not.”
    â€œHave you been here?”
    â€œI have driven through several times.”
    â€œWhen you have come to the South of France, m’sieu, where have you stayed?”
    â€œIn Nice or Cannes or Juin les Pins, at the Cap—” Mannering shrugged. “Never at Chalon.”
    â€œHave you been to this villa before?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou are a friend of the M. le Comte.”
    â€œNo.”
    The eyes, half hidden by those drooping lids, were very bright. This wasn’t a question of needing help. Flambaud was suspicious, he must have some reasons for that, but the questions gave Mannering no clue.
    â€œYou have a friend in England, a Mr. Bernard Dale?” The question came very flatly. Flambaud used the English ‘Mr.’ and the present tense.
    â€œI knew Bernard Dale,” Mannering said, “but he was murdered, M. l’inspecteur.”
    â€œMurdered,” echoed