Free The Riviera Connection by John Creasey Page A

him.
    â€œI am—Mannering,” he made himself say.
    â€œThat is good.” She smiled again; her teeth were very white, her lipstick was as thick as if she were going out to the shops or the promenade. “I am Lucille Riviere.”
    Mannering couldn’t keep still any longer. He went forward, clutched at her shoulders, felt his fingers bury themselves deep in her warm flesh.
    â€œWhere is my wife?”
    â€œYour wife is quite safe, m’sieu,” said the girl who called herself Lucille, “she will remain so”—laughter and malice gleamed in her eyes—”if you do what you are told. Do you understand, m’sieu?”
    Â 

8
Threat
    Â 
    Mannering’s fingers were still imbedded deeply in the girl’s shoulders. He leaned over her; their faces were very close together. She must be hurting, but she gave that lazy smile – insolence and mockery and malice were all combined.
    â€œAnd the first thing I tell you to do is to release me,” she said.
    Mannering moved away, and stood at the side of the bed, looking down at her. The marks of his fingers showed. Two things warred in his mind; the desire to hurt, to make her tell the truth, to lead him to Lorna; and fear, that if he did the wrong thing he might not be able to help Lorna.
    â€œDo not be so worried,” the girl said lightly. “All will be ‘appy for you. I think your wife is most charming.”
    â€œHave you—seen her?”
    â€œOh, yes,” said Lucille. She sat upright and began to rub her shoulders gingerly, arms folded across her breasts in order to do so. “I was there when she was taken away.”
    Mannering moistened his lips.
    â€œShe was a little frightened but she was not hurt,” said Lucille reassuringly. “I had to wait here to give you the message, and I was very tired. You do not mind me sleeping on your bed?” There was as much mischief as malice in her eyes. “Sit down, m’sieu. Perhaps you would like a drink.”
    â€œWho is working with you?” he asked abruptly.
    â€œOh, a friend. You saw him, I believe – on his motorcycle.” She beamed. “He was to take the jewels, but a gun did not frighten you, so—we try this way.”
    Mannering didn’t sit down, but moved across to the wardrobe, opened it, took out a bottle of whisky and a glass, and poured a finger.
    â€œThat will make you feel better,” Lucille approved. “I do not like it when there is such a wild look in your eyes. You are a most handsome man! Such courage, also. You impressed my friend.”
    Her eyes glistened.
    â€œLucille,” said Mannering, and was glad, almost grateful, that he could keep his voice steady. “Get up.”
    â€œBut it is so late, and the chair is quite comfortable for you.”
    He contemplated her for a few moments, then said: “I’ll be back.” He moved across to the door.
    â€œStop! Where are you going?” Lucille asked quickly.
    He didn’t speak or look round at her, but made his way out of the room, locking the door behind him. He thought that she was alarmed; she hadn’t expected him to leave. He went into the passage; he wanted to collect his thoughts, to fight back the temptation to shake the truth out of her.
    The fact that she had mentioned the motor-cyclist almost certainly proved that she was the man’s accomplice. She might be there to search the room, or simply as a messenger.
    Just above the bed she lay on, were the jewels.
    Steadier, he went back to the room.
    The girl was standing by the window, a fur cape over her shoulders. All trace of tiredness had vanished. She smiled, but he thought that she was less confident than she had been when he had first arrived, and he was sure she was relieved to see him back.
    â€œDon’t do any more foolish things, m’sieu.”
    â€œNot now, not any time,” Mannering said. “What do you want?