Naughty In Nice (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

said.
    “What has my uncle got to do with this?” Coco asked, looking bewildered.
    He laughed. “Sorry. Another bit of Cockney slipped out. It means that it’s all right with me.” Granddad blushed as Madame Chanel slipped her arm through his. “I never thought the day would come when I’d be escorting a charming French lady around the Riviera. Me, of all people.”
    “I am delighted to have such a debonair Englishman to protect me,” Coco said gallantly. “Let us go and ask Claire if we may borrow the car and the delightful Franz.”
    Mummy had just surfaced as we entered the house and she looked decidedly the worse for wear.
    “Remind me not to drink gin,” she said. “It doesn’t agree with me. I should stick with champagne.” She frowned to focus on the men in our party. “Good heavens, Daddy. You came.”
    “Wasn’t going to let my little girl get into trouble now, was I?” he said. “And now that I’m here, I can’t say that France looks as bad as I thought it would. Quite nice, in fact, especially after gray old England.”
    Mummy gave me a knowing smile. “So what’s the plan then?”
    We told her.
    “If you don’t mind, I’ll bow out of this morning’s activities. I’m really not at my best. Maybe after a few cups of coffee I’ll feel human again. So run along and play, children.”
    Franz brought around the motor and we all piled in. This time there were no police guarding our villa and the gendarme at Sir Toby’s gate saluted as we drove past. At least it seemed I’d been removed from the role of number one suspect. When we reached the center of Nice I asked Franz to drop me where I could ride the bus up the hill to Cimiez.
    “I don’t know if I like you going alone,” Granddad said. “You’re looking for someone who might have committed two murders. You’re putting yourself in harm’s way. Come with us to the newspapers first and then we’ll all go with you up to this place.”
    “No, that wouldn’t work at all,” I said. “I want to see if anyone mistakes me for this girl. I’m going to try to borrow a bicycle and wheel it around the neighborhood. At least I might be able to find out where she lives.”
    “Well, be careful, then,” Granddad said. “And let’s arrange to meet back here at a certain time. That way, if you’re not there, we’ll come looking.”
    We arranged to meet at noon, which gave me an hour and a half to begin my search. I joined the other passengers on the bus and we bumped our way up the windy road, the little bus belching out smoke and groaning as the hill became steeper. We saw glimpses of the bay as the town spread out below us. Then we were in an area of impressive villas. A great white curved building loomed over us. So that was the Hotel Regina, where my esteemed great-grandmother had stayed with her retinue of one hundred. I didn’t think somehow that they would rent bicycles.
    I got off with the other English tourists, who made straight for a ruined Roman amphitheater, their cameras at the ready. I asked for directions to the street where Neville’s aunt’s villa was situated. It was actually not far below that great hotel. Since I could find no businesses here that might be willing to rent me a bicycle, I set off on foot, surveying the area. To one side was an olive grove and a monastery and beyond them the terrain fell away sharply, down to a river below. There was no way down that I could see. So I had to think. If this girl had been riding, not wheeling her bicycle, she could not have come from down below. The climb was simply too steep and she would have been wheeling it and out of breath. And above us seemed to be vineyards and small farms. Which must mean that I had to find a road that wound around the hill.
    I started from Neville’s villa and continued westward as the road hugged the hillside. At times I glimpsed a spectacular view of the city and the Baie des Anges sparkling in the sunshine. There was no traffic and the only person I saw was an occasional gardener, working outside one of the villas. I sang out gaily, “Bonjour,” in the hope of seeing recognition on their faces, but a polite “Bonjour” was all I received in return. So the girl was not known in this quarter. Which made me wonder why she had ridden her bike here. It certainly wasn’t a shortcut to anywhere. Which must mean that she had wanted members of the English community to see her and to notice her—to think that she was I. It was all