The Case of the Black Pearl (6 page)

They were fast approaching the
Heavenly Princess.
The decks were empty, the partygoers sleeping off their excesses of the night before. Through binoculars, Patrick could make out a few crew members moving about, no doubt clearing up the mess. No one seemed interested in the battered dive boat making its way sedately past.

Patrick joined Stephen at the wheel.

‘How far do you want to go?’ Stephen asked.

‘She was anchored closer to the island for the launch party. A scene from the film was shot at the fort. They wanted that as a backdrop.’ Patrick recalled Chapayev’s studied gaze in that direction, when he’d been aboard the black yacht the day before. Both the Russian and his henchman had been concerned about something, but what?

Stephen dropped anchor as close to the rock face at Fort Royal as the depth allowed, then all three men got kitted up. Patrick had no idea what they were looking for, but if the
Heavenly Princess
had anchored here the night Angele had disappeared, then the area was worth checking out.

In his past life, Patrick had rarely dived for pleasure. Like a champion swimmer who entered the water only to train or perform, diving for Patrick had been part of the job. He occasionally came out with Stephen, but more often absented himself from Cannes to travel to more challenging diving locations around the world, to hone his skills, in case he might have to rely on them again in the future.

Today wouldn’t prove to be a difficult dive; merely a reconnaissance mission in fairly shallow water. Nothing to get excited about.

Despite telling himself this, his entry into the water still brought a rush of adrenaline. Much like he experienced at the gaming tables of the casino, or when he’d spied Camille Ager walking towards him along the
quai.

As he looked round the calm, quiet and weightless universe, a
castagnola
emerged from the rocks below. A vivid blue, the tiny fish approached Patrick’s mask inquisitively, seeing its reflection there. Soon it was joined by others, darting around him.

Patrick noted the location of the anchor rope to orientate himself, before kicking off through the shimmering blue cloud. Below him, white sand drifted between great swathes of sea grass, punctured by the occasional stony limestone outcrop.

Had Angele chosen to leave the ship here, she could have gone ashore in a dinghy. Or perhaps swum as far as the tiny harbour west of Fort Royal, used predominantly by the ferries that ploughed daily between the old port and island of Sainte Marguerite. At night the ferries were docked at the Vieux Port, just west of the gunboat, and the only craft left here were small family boats tied up to the left of the pier, or anchored offshore in shallow water. Perhaps one of them had picked up Angele, and taken her somewhere along the coast? Alternatively, she could have come ashore at La Guerite, a small and exclusive restaurant to the east of the fort, reached only by motor taxi in the evening.

According to Stephen, Chapayev had a diver – or divers – in his entourage. If the Russian had suspected that his leading lady had fallen overboard, surely he would have sent a diver to search for her? If so, Patrick doubted whether such a search would have escaped the eagle eyes of the local fishermen. Yet there had been no talk of it, leading him to conclude that Chapayev believed his star hadn’t departed the yacht by accident.

The water was glassily clear as he approached Fort Royal. This time Patrick shared the underwater kingdom with a shoal of larger, yellow-striped girelle. Occasionally, he saw flotsam from an anchorage, but when he checked it was nothing of significance. He criss-crossed the area, looking for a larger object secured to the bottom, or caught among the limestone outcrops on the sea bed.

Eventually he headed for the surface, noting the distant bubbles that indicated where Colm and Stephen currently were. Between the two of them, they had covered a fair area of seabed and, Patrick suspected, had likewise found nothing of significance.

Patrick was the last to pull himself aboard. Stephen and Colm had already taken off their gear and were sitting down to a breakfast of coffee, French bread and cheese. They indicated by their demeanour that they’d found nothing.

‘So the fat little Russian didn’t throw her overboard. Not here, at least,’ Stephen said. ‘If it were me, I would have kept her until I was well out to sea. Weighted down, the chances are she would never be found. That size of yacht will have a big freezer compartment, and an adequate hold. Lots of places to keep a body.’

Which is what Patrick had been thinking. ‘I need to take a proper look round the
Princess
,’ he said.

Stephen nodded his agreement.

‘There’s a dinner for some bigwigs tonight. François is supplying fresh fish for it,’ he informed Patrick. ‘If you like we can deliver it for him.’

Patrick approached the gunboat with some trepidation, which evaporated when Oscar rushed from the top deck to greet him. The dog’s manner suggested there had been no visitors, welcome or otherwise, in his absence. Once aboard, a quick look round proved this to be the case.

Patrick rinsed out his dive suit and hung it out to dry, then took a long hot shower.

Dressed, he sat under the awning to contemplate his next move.

His dive trip had eased his concerns that Angele may have gone overboard, either accidentally or by design. He couldn’t be sure, of course, but from Stephen’s knowledge of the area and its currents, the Irishman seemed convinced that there was no body under the water, or likely to come ashore soon.

So, in Patrick’s reckoning, Angele had left the yacht by some other means. Her sister seemed to think so too. Camille hadn’t mentioned the possibility that Angele might have drowned. Her immediate reading of the situation was that Angele had left of her own free will and taken the pearl with her. Patrick had to assume Camille knew her sister well enough to make that judgement. Her main fear seemed to be that Chapayev would find her sister before she did.

Which brought him back to last night’s warning.

Patrick went over the names of those who were aware that he was looking for Angele.

Camille Ager came top of the list. Since she’d employed him, he couldn’t see why she would try to put him off the scent via a dead rabbit. Chevalier he also dismissed. He would trust Chevalier with his life. In fact, he had done so on more than one occasion.

Marie Elise? There was, as far as he was aware, no connection between Marie Elise and Chapayev. She’d revealed that she’d spoken to Angele that night and had sympathized with her opinion of her Russian benefactor. During their evening together, he’d had no sense that Marie was trying to get information from him, rather than the other way round.

Brigitte Lacroix? She’d supplied an escort for the party that night, but not directly to Chapayev.

He moved on to the production team from
The Black Pearl.
He hadn’t revealed his true identity to either Polinsky or Gramesci, which didn’t mean they wouldn’t make a point of checking it. The card he had given them was bona fide, as was the company name, although if they dug too deep they would discover the company didn’t do much business. If, on the other hand, they made local enquiries in Cannes, the likelihood was their visitor would emerge as Le Limier.

It seemed clear after his visit to the Hôtel Majestic Barriere that her director and producer were aware she was missing, probably with the pearl. He was also certain that neither Gramesci nor the producer had any idea where their leading lady was. Gramesci had appeared a lot more worried about Angele’s disappearance than the American had. Though whether the Italian’s concern was for Angele, or his own position with the Russian, Patrick didn’t know.

However, neither Polinsky nor Gramesci struck him as the sort to gut a rabbit, even if they had worked out who Patrick was, where he lived, and wanted to stop him investigating further.

Which reduced it to two possibilities.

A local enemy, carrying out a grudge for some previous job he’d undertaken, which meant it had nothing to do with Angele Valette.

Or back full circle to Vasily Chapayev, who’d issued a warning to Patrick to stay out of his business.

Thinking about Polinsky reminded Patrick of the DVD the producer had thrust into his hand as a parting gift. He went below deck to check it out. The sleeve was blank, as was the DVD itself, with no title or description of what it contained.

Patrick slipped it into his laptop and launched it.

It opened with an underwater scene. Patrick recognized the location almost immediately. There were two ‘drowned’ miniature villages off the Côte d’Azur. The first was near Agay, west of Cannes, and the second to the east, just south of the rock at Fourmigue, in the bay of Golfe Juan. Both were semi-derelict due to diving souvenir hunters.

Patrick studied the screen intently, trying to decide which of the villages he was looking at. Then he spotted the grotto. Known as the Grotte de Miro, it had originally contained a sculpture of the Goddess of the Sea by the artist Miro, which had now been replaced by a bust of Commandant le Prieur, inventor of what French historians said was the first self-contained underwater breathing apparatus.

Shoals of tiny fish darted among the concrete houses and swam down the main street of shops, fashioned on Cannes establishments, one of them Chevalier’s estate agency. Patrick watched, intrigued. When Polinsky had handed him the DVD, he’d assumed it to be shots of Angele and, by Polinsky’s expression, probably bordering on the pornographic. Here he was, a minute in, and Angele had not yet appeared.

And then she did.

The initial shot of the grotto had been fleeting. Knowing it well he hadn’t really registered anything different about it. On close-up he now realized that, rather than Commandant le Prieur, the grotto contained the Goddess of the Sea again, or rather Angele portraying her. Even as he watched, her eyes opened and she looked straight at him. Her blonde hair rippled in the water, but no bubbles escaped her lips.

The camera drew back and he saw that she was naked except for the black pearl that hung about her neck. She smiled as though at him, then thrust herself upwards, the camera following, showing tantalizing glimpses of her body as she moved towards the surface.

Then the screen went black.

Patrick tried moving forward but there was nothing else on the DVD except that sequence of shots. He sat back, perplexed. Was this an excerpt from the movie? He realized he had no idea what
The Black Pearl
was about, although Stephen had mentioned the use of divers, one of whom had got the bends.

He used his mobile to check out what was currently showing in the various cinema venues. Foreign films, with French subtitles, tended to show at Les Arcades.
The Black Pearl
was scheduled there that afternoon at three, which meant he could watch it before accompanying Stephen to the black yacht.

He called the number Camille had given him. It went immediately to voicemail. He listened to her husky tones requesting the caller to leave a message, but didn’t. Camille Ager was an enigma to him. She had told him nothing of herself – not what she did for a living nor how she could afford the large sum of money she’d paid him on account. Patrick decided it was time he found out a little more about her.

He discovered Le Chevalier at his usual table at Le P’tit Zinc, reading the current edition of
Nice-Matin.
There were two glasses and a half carafe of red on the table. When Patrick glanced round for his companion, Le Chevalier shook his head. ‘I’m a little early.’ He didn’t elaborate on who he was waiting for, merely waved Patrick to a seat.

Two chefs in immaculate whites emerged from the back door of a nearby restaurant on to the Rue de la Misericorde. They sat down, each on his own bollard, and lit a cigarette. It would be their last chance to relax before lunch, the most important meal in the French day. Chevalier too would be heading to one of his favourite restaurants soon, with whomever he was waiting for.

Patrick decided to pose his question, before Chevalier’s lunch companion arrived.

‘I wanted to ask you about Camille Ager. Do you know what she does for a living?’ Patrick said.

Chevalier nodded.

‘May I ask what?’

‘She didn’t tell you?’ Le Chevalier inclined his head. ‘Then maybe she thought it better you didn’t know.’

‘She paid me rather a lot of money.’

‘Well, you don’t come cheap,’ Chevalier reminded him.

Veronique arrived to take his order and Patrick asked for a pastis, then tried again with Chevalier.

‘Why don’t you ask her yourself?’

Chevalier glanced pointedly over his shoulder and Patrick turned to find Camille standing directly behind him.

‘Ah, Camille. Join us. I have already ordered the wine,’ Chevalier said.

Today she wore a floral-print dress. She looked fresh and very pretty as she slipped in alongside Chevalier.

‘We were discussing how expensive Monsieur de Courvoisier’s rates are and whether you can afford them.’ Le Chevalier was nothing if not forthright.

Camille helped herself to some wine and took an appreciative sip before responding. ‘And have you earned your money, monsieur?’

‘Well, I haven’t found your sister, yet.’ How could he tell her that he had searched for Angele’s body off the island of Sainte Marguerite? ‘But I am making progress.’ Which was in essence a lie.

She sat back in her seat and composed herself.

‘I am delighted to say I have heard from Angele,’ she said. ‘A few moments ago. She sent me a text.’

Now that did surprise him. ‘May I ask what she said?’

‘That she is in Paris auditioning for a stage part and will be back shortly.’

It was the story Polinsky had spun him. The one Patrick didn’t believe.

The chefs disappeared in the back door of the kitchen as the lunchtime customers began filling the tables. The three of them sat in silence, Patrick unsure how to react to Camille’s pronouncement. She sipped her wine, her mind elsewhere, her eyes revealing her discomfort.

‘You’re certain the text came from Angele?’ Patrick said.