Naughty In Nice (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

murmured, and she reached out a hand to me. Then the light went out of her eyes.
    I was on my feet. The shot had to have come from the slightly open window. “Help!” I shouted. “Help. She’s been—” In my state of panic I couldn’t remember the French word for “shot.” Or for “gun.”
    Nobody came. I ran outside. I knew the shooter might still be waiting for me in the alleyway, but there were people in the street now—coming home from work, going for an evening stroll. Some had gathered, looking around nervously after the gunshot.
    “Help!” I shouted again. “She’s hurt. Get a doctor, quickly.”
    Some people hurried past or backed away from me, but then I heard a shout from inside the building and Robert appeared at the doorway behind me. “She’s dead,” he shouted. His gaze focused on me. “You killed her.” He pointed at me. “This woman killed Jeanine.”
    A crowd was gathering. “No,” I shouted back. “I didn’t kill her. She was—” Why couldn’t I remember the word for “shot”? I tried desperately to think of hunting and shooting expeditions—had I ever had to speak French at one? I didn’t think so. “Somebody through the window . . .” I said. “Bang. One time and—”
    I looked up and there was Jean-Paul de Ronchard at the edge of the crowd, making his way toward me.

 
    Chapter 33
     
    In Nice and beyond
January 28, 1933
     
    I didn’t hesitate another second. I turned and ran. I heard shouts behind me. Someone grabbed at my sleeve but I felt the fabric rip and I wrenched myself free. Feet were running behind me, the footsteps echoing from high buildings in the narrow lane into which I had turned. I said a silent prayer of thanks that I had chosen to wear the linen trousers and not a long, fashionable skirt that would definitely have slowed my progress, but even so, I couldn’t outrun the whole of Nice. Soon there would be police on my tail. Maybe they’d believe that I had nothing to do with Jeanine’s death, that I had never owned a gun and that she was not shot from close range. Maybe not, if they didn’t want to. I wished fervently that the Duke of Westminster’s yacht was still in port, with my cousin on board. They would have transported me to safety.
    My breath was now coming in ragged gasps and my side was hurting. I heard the sound of a car engine approaching—and a car slowed beside me.
    “Hello. You’re in a hurry. Are you going somewhere?” an English voice called. I looked at the racy little Fearless Flyer and at Johnson behind the wheel. “Do you need a ride, my lady?”
    I leaped in. “Drive as fast as you can,” I said. “People are chasing me.”
    “Good heavens,” he said, already revving up the motor. “What on earth for?”
    “They think I shot somebody.”
    “Well, then, let’s get out of here.”
    He changed gears and the little car sped forward, screeched around a corner, then took another one. We started to climb the hairpin bends of the Corniche. I looked back but nobody seemed to be following. I breathed a sigh of relief. “You saved my life,” I said.
    “All part of a day’s work,” he shouted back, and he swung us around the next bend.
    We went on climbing until I could see rooftops below us. “Aren’t you taking me back to the villa?” I asked as I clung onto the armrests, bracing myself for the next turn.
    “I thought the upper road would be better,” he said. “They won’t suspect we’d take this route. We can drop down before Monte Carlo.”
    “You’re a really good driver,” I commented, raising my voice over the rush of the wind and the roar of the engine.
    “One of the few things I inherited from my father,” he shouted back. “The love of motorcars. He’d have approved of the way this handles. I’d have been a racing driver if I’d been born in different circumstances. But that’s a sport for the rich, isn’t it?”
    We had left the town behind and the road became a narrow strip of asphalt cut into the side of the cliff. Above us was scrub and rocks. Below us the land fell sheer away to the sea far below, dotted with white yachts. The whole scene was glowing gold in the winter sunset. It was breathtakingly beautiful. Any other time I’d have loved to stop and enjoy it.
    “So why do they think you shot someone?” Johnson asked.
    “I was alone in the room with her. I think someone shot her through the open window.”
    “Alone with whom?”
    “A young Frenchwoman.” I