Free The Prisoner of the Riviera (The Francis Bacon Mysteries) by Janice Law

as my depraved uncle Lastings of affectionate memory used to say. But more than ever, I needed to get out of town, and my escort seemed hesitant. Take the bull by the horns , my nan whispered. “Would you know a good restaurant in Cannes?” I asked.
    When he nodded, I pulled out a roll of Joubert’s francs. I handed them over and said, “Treat me to dinner.”
    He ruffled through the bills and raised an eyebrow. “You mentioned mussels,” he said with the fussy precision of the gourmet, “but I rather fancy a fricassee of rabbit or a veal escalope.”
    “Either would be delightful with a fish soup to start.”
    He put the bills in his pocket. “With perhaps a small pizza with olives?”
    “The very thing.”
    “And I think a mousse au chocolat for dessert.” He went to a hook behind the bench and collected a key.
    “I might lean to crème brûlée , myself.”
    “Some of each,” Pierre said decisively. He tossed me a pair of biker’s goggles. “My cousin has a restaurant in Cannes. Not fancy but excellent, Monsieur.”
    “Call me Francis; I am in your hands entirely.” A figure of speech suggesting the delightful prospects that my charms might accomplish.
    He switched off the lights and locked up the garage. I thought he might balk when he saw my bag, a small carpet valise borrowed from the Chavanel ladies, but I squeezed into the sidecar before he could protest, and after a moment’s hesitation he went back for a rope, lashed the bag to the cycle proper, and hopped on the machine. “Hang on, Francis,” he said. With a bump and a rumble we rolled onto the street and down the hill to where the sea was a blackness broken only by the lights of distant boats.
    Once on the corniche road, Pierre gunned the engine. Coming in, without goggles, blinded by dust and grit, and tortured by loose bike parts, had been misery. With vision and comfort, this was different. We roared east, flat out on the straights, trusting physics to keep us on the curves, slowing a fraction for the lights of the little fishing hamlets, then rocketing off into the darkness. The hills rose black above us, the sea dropped away into eternity, and we raced between them, almost drunk with exhilaration. Here was what I’d glimpsed on canvas, the dissolution of the world into dark energy. I started whooping with joy, and over the sound of the engine, Pierre shouted menu suggestions and detailed a wine list of ever-increasing complexity.
    We reached the bay at Cannes almost too soon. We shot along the wide curving beach, past the lights of the waterfront cafés and hotels, and up to a small bright restaurant with candlelit tables under the umbrellas and, inside, a cheerful bar decorated with pictures of football and bicycle teams. Pierre was embraced; my hand was shaken. Pierre consulted with the head waiter and the chef, before we were led to a sidewalk table. A carafe of the local white appeared and a basket of good bread.
    “ Bonne chance with your race,” I said.
    “And to your venture, whatever it is.”
    I’d need all the luck I could get, but I believe in putting pleasure before business. We had soup, we had pizza, we had fish and veal and beans and lovely fried potatoes. We had three bottles of wine and more desserts than were good for us, and afterward we walked barefoot along the sand, an unaccustomed activity that shows just how besotted I was with Pierre.
    When I suggested that we should take a room, that it was not safe for him to ride back, he agreed, and that turned out lovely, too. I’d say a fine evening in every way, and as evening turned into the next morning, it became profitable, for thanks to Joubert’s money and that fine dinner, I learned some interesting things, even a possible identity for Victor Renard, the man who never was. This was in the wee hours of the morning, when Pierre went out onto the tiny balcony of the room to smoke.
    The moment was right, and I asked, “So who owns the Villa Mimosa?”
    I saw his