“Nice flight, isn’t it?”
Dana turned to the man seated next to her. He was tall and attractive and had a French accent.
“Yes, it is.”
“Have you been to France before?”
“No,” Dana said. “This is my first time.”
He smiled. “Ah, you are in for a treat. It is a magical country.” He smiled soulfully and leaned close to her. “Do you have friends to show you around?”
“I’m meeting my husband and three children,” Dana said.
“Dommage.” He nodded, turned away, and picked up his copy of France-Soir.
Dana went back to her computer. An article caught her eye. Paul Winthrop, who had died in an automobile accident, had had a hobby.
Racing cars.
When the Air France plane landed at the Nice airport, Dana went into the busy terminal to the car-rental office. “My name is Dana Evans. I have a—”
The clerk looked up. “Ah! Miss Evans. Your car is ready.” He handed her a form. “Just sign this.”
Now that’s real service, Dana thought. “I’ll need a map of the south of France. Would you happen to—?”
“Of course, mademoiselle.” He reached behind the counter and selected a map. “Voilà.” He stood there watching Dana leave.
In the executive tower of WTN, Elliot Cromwell was saying, “Where is Dana now, Matt?”
“She’s in France.”
“Is she making any progress?”
“It’s too early.”
“I worry about her. I think maybe she’s traveling too much. Today travel can be dangerous.” He hesitated. “Very dangerous.”
The air in Nice was cold and crisp, and Dana wondered what the weather had been like on the day Paul Winthrop was killed. She got into the Citroën waiting for her and started driving up the Grande Corniche, passing picturesque little villages along the way.
The accident had happened just north of Beau-soleil, on the highway at Roquebrune-Cap-Martin, a resort that overlooked the Mediterranean Sea.
As Dana approached the village, she slowed down, observing the sharp, precipitous curves, wondering which one Paul Winthrop had gone over. What had Paul Winthrop been doing here? Was he meeting someone? Was he taking part in a race? Was he on vacation? Business?
Roquebrune-Cap-Martin is a medieval village with an ancient castle, church, historic caves, and luxurious villas that dot the landscape. Dana drove to the center, parked the car, and went to look for the police station. She stopped a man coming out of a shop.
“Excuse me, can you tell me where the police station is?”
“Je ne parle pas anglais, j’ai peur de ne pouvoir vous aider, mais—”
“Police. Police.”
“Ah, oui.” He pointed. “La deuxième rue à gauche.”
“Merci.”
“De rien.”
The police station was in an old, crumbling, white-walled building. Inside a middle-aged, uniformed policeman sat behind a desk. He looked up as Dana walked in.
“Bonjour, madame.”
“Bonjour.”
“Comment puis-je vous aider?”
“Do you speak English?”
He thought about it. “Yes,” he said reluctantly.
“I would like to speak to whoever is in charge here.”
He looked at her a moment, a puzzled expression on his face. Then he suddenly smiled. “Ah, Commandant Frasier. Oui. One moment.” He picked up a telephone and spoke into it. He nodded and turned to Dana. He pointed down the corridor. “La première porte.”
“Thank you.” Dana walked down the corridor until she reached the first door. Commandant Frasier’s office was small and neat. The commandant was a dapper man with a little mustache and inquisitive brown eyes. He stood up as Dana entered.
“Good afternoon, Commandant.”
“Bonjour, mademoiselle. In what manner can I be of assistance?”
“I’m Dana Evans. I’m doing a story for station WTN in Washington, D.C., about the Winthrop family. I understand that Paul Winthrop was killed in an accident around here?”
“Oui. Terrible! Terrible. One must be so careful driving the Grande Corniche. It can be très dangereux.”
“I heard that Paul Winthrop was killed during a race and—”
“Non. There was no race that day.”
“There wasn’t?”
“Non, mademoiselle. I myself was personally on duty when the accident occurred.”
“I see. Was Mr. Winthrop in his car alone?”
“Oui.”
“Commandant Frasier, did they do an autopsy?”
“Oui. Of course.”
“Was there any alcohol in Paul Winthrop’s blood?”
Commandant Frasier shook his head. “Non.”