The Case of the Black Pearl (13 page)

He and Colm were seated in the same booth as before, Colm registering his arrival with the slightest of nods. A man of few words indeed. Stephen, on the other hand, was his normal effusive self.

‘I thought you were banged up for murder.’ He whistled. ‘Come, tell all.’ He indicated Colm should shove along as a pint of Guinness arrived and was placed in front of the newly seated Patrick.

Patrick spun the same yarn as he’d told everyone else up to now, only adding that Oscar had been found, injured but alive on the harbour rocks.

‘I bet he had a right go at whoever killed that girl,’ Stephen said, in approval.

‘And got hit over the head for his pains,’ Patrick said.

‘But he’ll be all right?’ Colm’s deep voice, so seldom heard, was full of concern.

‘He’s fine. Pascal has him at the Chanteclair.’

‘So,’ Stephen asked, ‘do you require an alibi?’

‘I didn’t kill Marie Elise.’

‘Sure, we know that, but it doesn’t mean you don’t need an alibi. Let’s face it, Lieutenant Moreaux isn’t exactly a fan of yours, and you did spot him keeping company with the Russian.’

Patrick reassured him: ‘Pascal will vouch for my stay at the Chanteclair.’ Then he steered the conversation to what he wanted to ask. He explained about spotting Marie the previous evening with a Swedish man on Rue Saint Antoine. ‘They’d gone by the time Fritz closed up. Marie must have come to the gunboat – with or without the Swede – later on, maybe around midnight?’

He could tell by Stephen’s face that he would love to say he’d seen them, but was unable to offer anything.

‘I saw them,’ Colm said suddenly.

Stephen’s expression was a mixture of curiosity and envy. ‘Where?’

‘They were coming down the steps by the fountain.’

The fountain Colm referred to stood in the Place Massuque behind the Irish bar. From it, a wide set of steps led up to the Suquet.

‘When was this?’ Patrick demanded.

‘I was out for a smoke.’ Colm took a guess. ‘Maybe around midnight.’

‘Did they board the boat?’ Stephen broke in.

Colm shrugged. ‘I went back inside.’

‘I should never have given up smoking.’ Stephen shook his head. ‘I can ask around. See if anyone else saw them?’

‘Moreaux should have been doing that already,’ Patrick said.

‘We’ve been out on the
Diving Belle
all day.’ Stephen looked disappointed at missing out on so much of the action.

Patrick downed the rest of his pint. ‘Find out what you can. About the black yacht, the Russian, and last night.’ He stood up.

Stephen’s eyes glistened with delight. ‘We’re on it.’ He waved at the barman for a refill.

The outside air was cool and damp, indicating it had been raining somewhere in the hills behind Cannes. The previous two days had been warm and dry, but at this time of year, downpours weren’t uncommon, even at sea level.

Patrick took a deep breath, glad to be out of the stuffy bar, then made for Place Massuque. He realized it had been here he’d spotted the couple arguing on a balcony, the day this had all kicked off.

He’d sat on the upper deck of
Les Trois Soeurs
and wished for trouble to come walking his way. He’d been excited by the prospect – welcomed it, because he was bored. What he hadn’t known then was how much collateral damage it would cause. Marie Elise had come to him, concerned for Angele Valette’s safety, and offered her help. She’d put her trust in him and he’d betrayed that trust, because he had seriously underestimated his opponent.

In the field, that would have meant his own death. It should never have resulted in the death of an innocent party.

Camille’s demeanour when she’d spoken of Chapayev should have alerted him. He should have been more careful. He should never have involved an innocent bystander in his games. It was something he’d told himself before. It was the reason he’d said goodbye to the past, and come here.

It seemed he may have left the job behind, but not the arrogance that went with it.

Now at the top of the hill, Patrick entered the castle courtyard, where he stood looking down on the twinkling lights of Cannes, spread out like a fairytale town below him. This was what visitors recognized as Cannes. Festival city of the Côte d’Azur. Sunshine and blue seas, beautiful views, great food and good wine. All of this was true, but Cannes, like any city, had an underworld. A world the tourists rarely saw. A world of organized crime, made easy by the flow of money from all over Europe, east and west. Cannes offered an opportunity to launder that money, via expensive real estate and luxury yachts and movie making. Patrick suspected that Vasily Chapayev regarded Cannes as more than just a place to launch a movie, and men like Chapayev didn’t countenance those who crossed him.

Patrick turned from the view and set off down the steeply cobbled street towards the square of Le Suquet, intending to call in on Fritz for any updates on the missing Leon. Within seconds, he had the distinct feeling that he was being followed. In the hush between the neighbouring buildings, he sensed rather than heard someone. Choosing not to alert his tail, he waited until he reached the Place du Suquet before he looked back.

It was a man of medium height, muscular, dark-haired, and recognizable as the owner of the passport he’d removed from Leon’s flat. The man met Patrick’s gaze with a look of hatred, then turned and, climbing three stone steps, entered a door on the left-hand side of Rue Panisse, slamming the door shut behind him.

It was most definitely a challenge.

Patrick stood for a moment to consider his response, then retraced his steps. The door was solid wood, three inches thick, a Le Suquet original, probably boasting an internal bolt as well as a lock. He imagined the guy standing behind the door, listening.

‘I have your money and passport, Leon. You can’t leave Cannes without them.’

There was a moment’s silence while Patrick contemplated that he might have got it wrong, then he heard the thud as the bolt was pulled back. He checked on the gun in the back of his waistband as the door swung ajar to reveal a shadowy interior passageway with a narrow staircase.

Leon Aubert stepped into view. He was a good-looking guy. In another time or place he could have been the one starring in the movies. He had the sultry look of a brooding Brando, full of murderous thoughts, all directed at Patrick.

Without a word, Leon shut and re-bolted the door, then motioned Patrick to follow. The narrow spiral staircase led to a landing with only one door. Leon opened it and went inside. Even as Patrick crossed the threshold he sensed it was a mistake. The unseen blow met the back of his head with a ferocity that stunned him. As his body folded, the hard red tiles came up to meet him. He heard a crack as his head hit the floor, then it was lights out.

Sometimes consciousness can be elusive, advancing and retreating like the pain that accompanies it. Patrick strove to open his eyes, recoiling from the brightness of the light. Eventually the room swam into view and with it the memory of how he’d come to be here, trussed up on a chair. It seemed he had found Angele Valette. Or, more precisely, Angele Valette had found him.

She was standing by the shuttered window, smoking. At her feet lay the bloodied iron bar she’d struck him with. Her face as she took a draw had lost its angelic look. The eyes that bore down on him wished him nothing but bad things. At that moment, he felt the same about her.

She spoke in rapid French, full of expletives. She called him a variety of imaginative names for ruining her plans, for pursuing her. Patrick understood now why she was such a good actress. Any character could inhabit that face, any voice or emotion emerge from those lips.

‘Where’s the money and passport?’ she said.

‘Hidden on
Les Trois Soeurs
, along with his gun.’

‘Bastard.’

Something hard and metallic swiped his temple, whipping his head to the right. Blood trickled into his eye, turning the room a swimming scarlet. Angele’s voice rang out, ordering Leon to stop. After a moment’s silence she addressed Patrick again, her voice venomous.

‘When do the police leave the boat?’

‘They haven’t said.’ He eyed the gun in Leon’s hand, recognizing it as his own, rifled from his person, no doubt along with Brigitte’s money.

Leon glanced at Angele, who motioned him to step back.

‘As soon as the police free the boat, you can have everything back,’ Patrick said.

She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Who hired you? Chapayev?’

He shook his head, then wished he hadn’t as a shaft of pain sliced through it. ‘A woman called Camille Ager, who claimed you were her half-sister. She thought you’d stolen the pearl and were in danger.’

Angele gave a brittle little laugh. ‘You have been conned, monsieur. This woman you speak of works for Chapayev.’

‘Did you steal the pearl?’ Patrick asked.

She observed him, her expression inscrutable.

‘If you did, then you are in great danger.’

‘Perhaps Chapayev is the one in danger,’ Leon spat at him.

Patrick eyed the man. Was Leon stupid enough to think he could square up to the Russian and win? The likelihood of this brought a smile to Patrick’s lips, provoking another blow from Leon. This time the room swam more energetically, inducing a nausea that brought bile to his throat. He coughed as though about to vomit and Leon jumped back like a frightened rabbit. Which made Patrick think of another rabbit.

‘It was you,’ Patrick addressed Leon, ‘who gutted the rabbit and left it on
Les Trois Soeurs
as a warning.’

Angele looked puzzled. ‘What are you talking about?’ She glanced at Leon, who shifted uncomfortably.

‘Your
boyfriend
thought it clever to try and warn me off with a dead rabbit.’ Patrick laughed.

‘Hey,’ Leon said to Angele, ‘you told me …’

Angele held up her hand to silence him.

‘If that’s true, it didn’t appear to work,’ she said to Patrick.

‘I don’t scare easily.’ Patrick made it sound as though Leon did. ‘Chapayev knows that,’ he added for good measure.

Angele narrowed her eyes. ‘Who are you exactly, Monsieur de Courvoisier?’

Patrick threw Leon a disparaging look before answering. ‘A professional.’ The words
unlike him
didn’t need to be said.

Angele contemplated him for a moment, then ordered Leon to go outside.

He looked wounded. ‘What for?’

‘Bring wine and coffee.’

‘But …’ he began.

‘And leave the gun.’ She held out her hand for it.

Leon handed it over reluctantly, shrugging as though he didn’t care, but his poisonous look towards Patrick suggested the opposite. A few seconds later, the front door slammed hard enough to shake the building.

Angele opened the shutter a little and looked out. Satisfied that Leon had left to do her bidding, she turned her attention back to Patrick.

‘What, as a professional, do you propose?’

Patrick made his move. ‘I help you sell the pearl and I dispose of Chapayev. That’s the only way you’ll be safe.’

‘And what’s in it for you?’

‘Money. And revenge.’

‘Revenge for what?’

‘The murder of a friend.’

She studied him. ‘The woman on the boat?’

‘Yes,’ he said coldly.

‘You believe Chapayev was responsible for her death?’

‘She was trying to help me find you.’

That sparked Angele’s interest. ‘Who was she?’

‘Her name was Marie Clermand. She worked for the Hibiscus escort agency as Marie Elise.’

If Leon hadn’t managed to discover that, he wasn’t much use to her.

Angele’s hand fluttered to her mouth and the shock on her face was real enough.

‘You knew her?’ he asked.

She gave a little nod.

‘Marie was seen near my boat with a tall blond Swedish man just before she died,’ Patrick said.

A shadow crossed Angele’s face, and for a brief moment Patrick saw fear in her eyes.

‘You know this man?’

‘Maybe. There is someone on Chapayev’s payroll who looks like that.’ She lit another cigarette and Patrick noticed that her hand was shaking. She took a deep draw before continuing. ‘He is a diver. They used him in the underwater scenes.’ She exhaled then had another shot of nicotine before she asked, ‘How did Marie die?’

‘Drowned in the bath.’

She gave an ugly little laugh. ‘That sounds like him.’ She blew smoke, then turned and stubbed the cigarette out on the window ledge. ‘During the filming, Gustafson took offence at a remark I made about his boss. He was in charge of my air supply and chose to remind me of that.’

‘He’s capable of murder?’

‘He’s capable of worse than that.’ She seemed lost in some terrible thought, which Patrick chose not to intrude upon.

She was behind him now, releasing the binding on his wrists. When he eventually rose to his feet, she handed him his gun. He took it then checked his pockets.

‘Leon has the money,’ she said.

‘How much was in the envelope?’

The question surprised her. ‘Ten thousand euros.’

A considerable sum. Madame Lacroix hadn’t skimped on her desire to see Marie Elise’s killer brought to justice. Rough or otherwise.

‘And Lieutenant Moreaux. What part does he play in all this?’ he asked.

‘I have never heard this man’s name before.’

Patrick described the short, dapper and immediately identifiable detective. ‘He was being entertained on the
Heavenly Princess
just before Marie was found. He and Chapayev looked like old friends.’

She shook her head. ‘I do not think so. Perhaps he was engaged to look for the pearl.’ She didn’t add ‘and me’.

Patrick switched tack. ‘What about Polinsky and Gramesci? How much do they know?’

Angele gave a dismissive little ‘poof’ sound. ‘Richard is terrified of Chapayev. He had no idea what he was getting into when he took the Russian’s money. He thought, as I did, that the funds were Italian, because of Gramesci’s involvement. If the movie doesn’t make money, Richard is likely to pay very dearly for it.’

She shrugged. ‘Sergio has Mafia connections. Small time, but they may save him. Chapayev understands the power of the Mafia, however far down the chain the connection is.’ She lifted the cigarette packet, thought about lighting another. ‘Watch out for Conor. He’s a real bastard. He’d sell his own child for fame.’