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

shoulders move. “It was owned by Paul Desmarais, who was a trucker. During the war, he made a killing in the black market and bought the villa. He’d been a poor man but a very good mechanic, very ingenious. We had little or no gasoline, you understand, Francis. Trucks, cars, buses, whatever, had to be converted to run on charcoal or some other fuel. Desmarais could drive trucks and keep them running. He was shrewd and ruthless and he saw an opportunity.”
    “To get rich.”
    “To get very rich.” Pierre paused again. “Soon he had money and connections. He cultivated everyone who might be useful, made loans to businesses, helped with dodgy papers.”
    I thought about the Chavanels. And also about Pierre’s little bicycle repair shop and store. He was young to own even a small business, and I thought I must tread carefully. “Many must have done the same,” I suggested. “The black market was extensive, yes?”
    “And essential to our survival. No one liked it, but no one held that too much against him.”
    “We made some compromises on our side of the water, too,” I said.
    “Desmarais had opportunities you English lacked. When the Germans came in ’43, he got himself into the Milice.”
    “The Milice?”
    “A right-wing Fascist paramilitary. Pro-Vichy, as opposed to the Cagoule, which was right-wing and Fascist and all the rest but anti-Vichy and anti-German.”
    “French politics are bizarrely complex.”
    “Politics are a load of shit,” said Pierre, and he was silent for a while.
    “His work during the war frightened the Villa Mimosa neighbors.”
    “It certainly did. The men you saw worked for him. They protected his trucks, first. Then they were muscle for the Milice, protecting collaborators, torturing and killing resisters, hunting down Jews and refugees. A month or so ago, they showed up again at the villa. Are they still working for him? Nobody knows. But people are still afraid.”
    “Desmarais has disappeared,” I guessed.
    “Yes.”
    “Recently?” I was thinking of Victor Renard, who might or might not be dead in London.
    “No, no. When the Allies landed—our town had the honor as you may know, Francis—the Milice fled with the Germans into the hills. They went up, the Maquis came down; men with guns everywhere. Scores were settled. But Desmarais ditched his Milice uniform and put his trucks at the service of the Americans. You see how smart he is?”
    “They knew nothing about him, whereas the Free French—”
    “Exactly. Next thing you know, he’s advising the Yanks and running supplies and his shit smells sweeter than ever.”
    “A piece of work. Eventually, they must have gotten wise to him.”
    “At that point, Desmarais took his money and scrammed. Some said he went to South America, some said he went to Spain. Or Germany.”
    “Or London?”
    The tip of the cigarette glowed red. “London, possibly. He could have gotten papers. Perhaps he even got some from the Americans. He made himself very useful,” Pierre said and fell silent.
    A few minutes later I asked him if he knew the murdered woman’s real identity.
    “No. She was not local. The villa was empty until just recently. I train up that way. You’ve got to do the hills to get your legs in shape.”
    He elaborated on the masochistic rituals of the serious cyclist: hills and more hills, brutal climbs and suicidal descents. I was afraid that remembering so much exertion and misery might put the Villa Mimosa out of his mind, but, no. He’d seen a car and then a truck parked out front.
    “Did you see the girl, the thin blonde who was pretending to be Madame Renard?”
    “No. I saw an older woman who I assumed had rented—or bought—the place. I saw her once or twice. A car would be parked there, a fine Peugeot sedan. Never for very long. I’d see it maybe on my way out but not on my way back. I stopped to admire it one day, and she came out like she was expecting someone.”
    She had been expecting me, I