Free The Riviera Connection by John Creasey

was empty.
    â€œM’sieu,” murmured the porter, and put the valise down.
    Â 
    There was no message; nothing.
    Mannering made himself open the valise. He saw Lorna’s face on the jewel cases – everywhere – but it wouldn’t help Lorna if he ran into more trouble, and the jewels could damn him.
    Where should he put them?
    He looked about the room, tensely. There were a dozen obvious hiding places, but he wanted one that was almost foolproof. There might be little time.
    He stood on the bed and examined the centre light-fitting, of gilded metal, big, and hollow. He unfastened it from the ceiling, and lifted it down carefully. He took the metal parts to pieces, without trouble, and put jewels in wherever there was room. Most were in the large main stem which hung down from the ceiling.
    He heard people stirring, outside.
    One or two people walked in the hotel.
    He worked feverishly, until the fitting was back in position, only a few small pieces of plaster and a light powdering of the plaster showed that anything had been disturbed.
    The jewel-cases remained with the silver oddments.
    He put all of these into a valise, then took it out. He had to get rid of them, quickly; the best place, for now, would be in the old Citroen car.
    He slipped out of the bedroom without being seen, found an alcove and watched for five minutes.
    No one appeared or approached his door. He wasn’t followed.
    It was warm outside, the first glow of daylight was in the sky and touching the sea. With Lorna, this would have been perfect.
    He reached the Citroen, put the contents of the valise into the tiny boot, then drove the little car to a different parking place. He went back to the hotel, quite sure that he had not been followed.
    But the room might have been searched.
    He unlocked the door and stepped into the little hall. Darkness greeted him. He opened the bedroom door. The curtains were drawn, so the room was also in darkness.
    Before the door closed, he called impulsively: “Lorna!”
    There was a sound, as of someone stirring in bed.
    No, no, this was impossible, she hadn’t come back! If she had come back, she would have left a message somehow.
    He took out the motor-cyclist’s gun, then thrust the inner door open and switched on the light – stopped quite still.
    A girl, not Lorna, lay on his bed.
    She was young, and easy to look at. Her auburn hair, glinting under the light, was wavy and unruly. Her cheeks were flushed, and she had honey-coloured eyes and a dimple; she was impossibly country-maidish, had Mannering been in the mood to realise it. She wore a strapless dress, which revealed her lovely shoulders.
    She blinked at him.
    â€œNo,” said Mannering, in a taut voice. “I can’t have come to the wrong room.” He felt as if he were losing his wits, as he turned towards the door. He pulled open the other door, reached the passage, and stopped abruptly.
    His key had opened the door.
    He swung back into the bedroom. The girl was sitting up, and punching a big, square pillow behind her back. In spite of her youth, she had a figure that was little short of voluptuous, and her smile was lazily seductive. There was no doubt that she had been asleep. She yawned and stretched her arms, as if drawing his attention to her figure with feline cunning and grace.
    â€œHallo,” she said. The word told him that she was French, the ‘H’ hardly sounded at all, the ‘o’ was uttered on a high, musical note.
    â€œWhat—” Mannering gulped. Shock, anxiety, urgency, suspense and now this baggage, combined to bemuse him. He became earnest. “What the devil are you doing here?”
    She smiled, delightfully.
    â€œYouare M. Mannering? If you are M. Mannering, I ‘ave a message for you.”
    He wanted to grab her creamy shoulders and shake her until the truth was forced out, and she seemed to know that. Her tawny eyes, flecked with green, mocked