by Lin Anderson
‘So, do we get to visit the Hirondelle?’
‘Of course,’ Marco said. ‘I was going to suggest we eat on board. The restaurant here is excellent, but the yacht is more conducive to private conversation.’ Marco directed his smile at Grazia.
Now was the moment Grazia might tell him the truth. Patrick prepared himself for that to happen, and was relieved when it didn’t. Whatever Grazia had decided, it wasn’t to out Patrick at this moment in time. That didn’t mean she didn’t plan to do so once they were aboard the Hirondelle.
As they drank the champagne, they talked a little about the hotel, its history and its art collection. Marco, Patrick decided, was extremely knowledgable and might be a useful ally in their search for lost works of art. He also seemed to have accepted Patrick at face value. Either that or he was fully aware Patrick was a fraud.
If so, then Giles was almost certainly aboard the Hirondelle.
Patrick decided it was time he found out. Draining his glass, he said, ‘That was delicious. Shall we head for the yacht now?’
EIGHT
His mobile rang as they made their way to the jetty. When Patrick checked the screen and saw Jean-Paul’s name, he answered.
The stream of rapid Cannois caught him unawares, tuned in as he had been to the English conversation in the Champagne Lounge.
‘Slow down, Jean-Paul. What’s wrong?’
‘Where are you?’ Jean-Paul demanded.
‘On Cap d’Antibes.’
‘Then look across at Cannes.’
Patrick did as requested. Even without the binoculars he could see the billowing cloud of smoke rising from the top of Le Suquet. With the binoculars, even the sparks that rose from the leaping flames were visible.
Patrick’s cursing outstripped even Jean-Paul’s.
‘Daniel’s place?’
‘The bastards set the garage ablaze. It’s spread now to the flats above and alongside.’
‘Where are you?’ Patrick demanded.
‘Place Suquet.’
‘And Daniel?’
‘With Fidella at Le Dramont.’
‘Stay there. I’m on my way.’
Grazia and Marco had reached the jetty and were waiting for him. Patrick beckoned Grazia over and speaking in low tones, explained he had to go back to Cannes immediately. Her face clouded over and he caught a flicker of fear in her eyes.
‘What will I tell Marco?’
‘The truth. That London wanted me on the job, but I wasn’t keen and they shipped in Giles. Then you can lie and say I’m considering taking on the job after all.’
She didn’t agree, but also didn’t disagree. Instead she said, ‘Can I ask what’s wrong?’
‘A friend’s in trouble,’ Patrick told her.
‘Not too serious I hope?’
‘More serious than a missing painting by Fragonard.’
Grazia started at his words. ‘The painting from the monastery is a Fragonard?’
‘It is.’ Patrick caught her eye. ‘If you can find out why the Hirondelle sent someone ashore in the middle of the night I’d appreciate it.’
‘How can I contact you?’ Grazia said swiftly.
‘Use the number Charles gave you.’
At this, Patrick turned on his heel and headed up the steps without looking back to view Marco’s reaction at his sudden departure. Frankly he didn’t care what Giles was up to with Marco Fratelli. Even the missing Madonna would have to take second place. A stolen painting was unfortunate, an attack on a friend went way beyond that.
Anger and adrenalin resulted in his return journey taking half the time of the outward one. Approaching Cannes by the coast road, he was struck by the amount of smoke now visible. The street that housed Daniel’s garage was a tightly packed narrow thoroughfare, like the majority of streets of the medieval Le Suquet. Directly above the garage were three floors of small flats, including Daniel’s own home. On either side of the garage was the same. Access for large fire-fighting vehicles would be difficult.
Patrick cursed himself for his delay in dealing with Daniel’s tormentors. Had he enacted his plan immediately and confronted the enemy, it would never have come to this.
Screeching to a halt next to the gunboat, he jumped aboard for what was required. The old engine room that sat midships was exactly how it had been when the gunboat was in operation, although no longer used for its primary purpose. Secreted within it was Patrick’s stash of various currencies and a variety of passports and mobile phones, including the one Grazia might contact him on.
He retrieved the bag of money he’d prepared earlier, the mobile and a handgun. Normally Patrick didn’t carry a weapon, but if the gang he had to deal with were willing to burn people out of their homes it didn’t look as if they would be open to honest persuasion.
Using the London mobile, he sat in the cabin and made the necessary calls, noting as he did so Oscar’s water and food dishes. In the circumstances it looked increasingly unlikely that he would be back on St Honorat before morning, but he trusted Oscar was in good hands.
Back on shore, he was acutely aware of the pall of smoke that smothered the harbour, bringing a bitter taste to the tongue and stinging the eyes. The quayside restaurants were still serving, although many of their clients had chosen to move inside to avoid the discomfort and the smell. Those more interested in what was happening on the hilltop were on the move, climbing the various steep inclines that led there. Patrick ignored the obvious and busy routes, choosing instead the quieter Rue Forville, reaching the Place du Suquet from the east.
Entering the square, he found Jean-Paul seated at a table outside the café-bar Los Faroles. Of average height, but with his upper body predominantly muscle and his skin burnt dark by the Mediterranean sun, Jean-Paul appeared a force to be reckoned with. Particularly now, when anger blazed in those dark eyes.
‘Mon ami,’ he said, rising on Patrick’s appearance. They exchanged a Cannois greeting, then Jean-Paul indicated he would fetch a drink for Patrick and renew his own. Patrick agreed, choosing a beer, keen to replace the acrid taste of smoke with something more pleasant.
On Jean-Paul’s return, Patrick took a long cold drink, while Jean-Paul muttered a number of expletives about what he planned to do to those who had set fire to the garage.
‘You’re sure the fire was deliberate?’ Patrick said.
‘Daniel had a threatening call. I persuaded him to stay with Joanne while I came back. I saw the smoke from the coast road.’
‘No one knows he and Fidella are at Dramont?’
‘No,’ Jean-Paul said.
‘Right.’ Patrick drained his glass. ‘Let’s go.’
The two men involved Patrick knew to be North African in origin and probably in Cannes with no passports or at least false ID. The Police Nationale would be less than keen to round them up for that alone. Immigrants from all parts of Europe and further afield came and went in the busy ports of the Côte d’Azur, largely ignored until brought to the attention of the police through criminal activities. Even then they might be disregarded, if they kept their activities under the radar or paid off the right officials.
Payback for Patrick would be personal, but would perhaps require the added element of police involvement – and that would entail the assistance of Lieutenant Martin Moreaux.
As they moved through the darkness of the harbour, Jean-Paul didn’t quiz Patrick, preferring it seemed to await instructions. On the outer wall, Patrick approached the yacht he’d already selected for the showdown. Smaller than the Hirondelle, it was nevertheless a handsome craft. Manning it was a solitary individual, placed there to maintain and guard it until its owners should find time to visit.
Hercule Allard, like Patrick, was a keen diver who liked to spend any leisure time he had out with Stephen on the Diving Belle. He also had a penchant for the gaming tables of the casinos both in Cannes and Monte Carlo. With his bed and board supplied by the owners of Le Ciel Bleu, his salary could be used in other ways. And use
it he did, not unwisely. Hercule, like Patrick, was known to profit by gambling, winning more often than he lost. Sitting guard on some rich man’s yacht offered little excitement, so Hercule wasn’t averse to being offered an interesting pastime other than playing poker or diving beyond his depth.
For this reason Patrick had chosen Hercule and Le Ciel Bleu for his meeting with Daniel’s tormentors.
Le Ciel Bleu was in darkness. When Patrick gave a low whistle, a light came on and the gangplank was lowered.
Once inside the cabin, Patrick introduced the two men. Both were immediately wary of each other, Jean-Paul probably the most. Then again his part in the proceedings probably held more danger, or so he would think. Jean-Paul was, after all, the one harbouring the fugitives.
Patrick watched as the two men evaluated one another. Hercule was at least ten years younger than Jean-Paul, but in Patrick’s opinion if it ever came to a fight between the two then, despite his youth, Hercule would lose. Hercule was fit and could handle himself well but Jean-Paul, an army veteran, would be more than a match for him.
Perhaps Hercule had also come to that conclusion, for he was the one to extend a hand first. The pecking order having been established, Jean-Paul accepted the offer in good grace, supplementing it with a slap on the back and a distinctly Cannois greeting, which boded well.
‘When can we expect our visitors?’ Hercule asked.
Patrick checked his watch. ‘They should be here shortly.’
‘So, what’s the plan?’ Hercule enquired.
Hercule cleans up nicely, Patrick thought, as he circled the man now dressed in one of his employer’s smart Italian suits.
‘I’ve seen this one before,’ Patrick said, recognizing the blue-silk sheen.
‘My favourite for a trip to the casino. It always brings me luck,’ Hercule told him.
‘I’ll try not to get blood on it then.’
A knock by Jean-Paul on the cabin door alerted them to an approach. Patrick signalled that Hercule should ready himself. He indicated again the bag that lay on the table, and Hercule nodded that he understood.
So let the game begin.
Feeling for the reassuring touch of metal at his waist, Patrick went up on deck to await his visitors. As expected, Jean-Paul was nowhere to be seen. Patrick had urged him to find his own spot, and Jean-Paul had obviously done so.
Surveying the harbour, Patrick decided he’d chosen well. Earlier that day, when looking for the Hirondelle, he’d noted that the outer wall was unoccupied apart from Le Ciel Bleu, its nearest neighbour being four berths away.
Hercule was known to hold poker nights on board when he knew the yacht’s owners were sufficiently far away not to make an unexpected visit. Currently they were visiting their luxury home in Mauritius, a fact Hercule had made widely known to anyone interested. Thus a couple of men heading towards the boat wouldn’t be considered suspicious.
Patrick took up his own stance as the two figures turned the corner and began the final stretch of quay leading to Le Ciel Bleu. Hidden from view, Patrick sized up his two adversaries.
Neither man was tall or heavy-set. Not the bodyguard type, all muscle and slow moving. Were he to compare them to his own team, Patrick would have said they most closely matched Jean-Paul, which suggested they would be fast and well armed. At a guess, they would carry both a firearm and a knife – equally deadly in the right hands.
Having reached the gangplank, the two men stood waiting.
Right on cue, Hercule appeared.
In the quayside light, Hercule looked every inch the gentleman. Patrick was rather pleased. After all, Hercule was pretending to be him.
There were a few words spoken in French as Hercule asked them politely to come on board. He had, he assured them, what they sought waiting for them in the cabin. Hercule’s demeanour appeared to be bearing fruit, or else the two men were confident they could take him down if required.
Patrick felt a shiver of anticipation for what was about to happen. As in a game of poker, holding your nerve and self-belief were not only important, they were essential.
The three men disappeared through the glass doors that led to the main cabin.
Step one having been accomplished, Patrick and Jean-Paul moved into action. The French doors to the stateroom weren’t the only entrance to the yacht. Patrick knew Jean-Paul planned to re-enter below the gangplank, via the store that housed surf boards and water skis. Patrick opted for the upper level, from which he planned to descend.
From his vantage point, the meeting appeared to be going to plan. The bag of money, having been accepted, was now being upended on the table. As the bundles of euro bills tumbled out, both men took their eye off Hercule for a second, so eager were they to check their spoils.
At that moment, Patrick chose to douse the lights.
Just as planned, the result was mayhem. Patrick let Jean-Paul enter the fray first and heard the satisfying crunch as a fist met bone. As his eyes became accustomed to the filtered light from the quay, he made out one figure on the ground and the other heading for the glass doors.
Patrick intercepted the move and, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, smashed his head against the toughened glass, only to discover his victim’s skull was just as resilient. Swinging free, apparently with his head intact, he lunged at Patrick, the flash of a steel blade coming perilously close to his face.
Next instant Hercule struck, using what appeared to be a large crystal vase, causing Patrick’s assailant to halt his attack in mid air, before crumpling to the floor. Jean-Paul broke the resulting silence with a celebratory profanity and flicked the lights on.
The three men looked at one another. Jean-Paul was unmarked, as was Patrick. Hercule wore a satisfied grin.
‘No blood on your lucky suit?’ Patrick asked him.
Hercule gave it a cursory examination. ‘Spot-free.’
‘Good. Let’s get this place ready.’
Minutes later, they had rebagged the money and set the place to rights, or at least arranged it in a way that suited Patrick’s story.
‘OK. You head back,’ he told Jean-Paul. ‘I’ll call you in the morning.’
With a satisfied nod, Jean-Paul disappeared.
‘What now?’ Hercule said, his eyes glistening with excitement.
‘Now you get to really perform,’ Patrick said.
The flashing blue lights had brought an audience of late-night strollers, held back behind a barrier at the end of the outer quay. A fire in Le Suquet and an attempted robbery on a yacht in the harbour were more than either residents or tourists in Cannes in June were used to.
Lieutenant Martin Moreaux stood on the quay smoking his cheroot. Patrick saw no need to hurry him. Moreaux had come at his call, for which he was grateful. He could wait until the lieutenant was willing to deal with him.
The two men who’d forced their way on to Le Ciel Bleu had already been removed to the Police Nationale headquarters. The owner of the yacht had been contacted in his villa in Mauritius by Hercule and informed of the attempted robbery, during which only a crystal vase had been broken thanks to the fact that Hercule had been entertaining a friend to a game of cards when the men boarded the yacht. Luckily his friend, known as Le Limier, was equipped to deal with the problem and the police were already on hand.
Hercule, in the borrowed blue-silk suit, had played his part perfectly.
Moreaux, when he finally boarded, had listened to the fabricated story with his usual ironic countenance. Patrick had of course remained silent until the appropriate moment, which was now.
‘I believe the two men involved recently threatened Daniel Bozonnet, demanding protection money for his business in Le Suquet.’
Moreaux hadn’t expected that piece of information.
‘And you believe this, why?’ Moreaux enquired.
Patrick produced the two mobiles he’d removed from their stunned opponents and handed them to Moreaux.
‘One of these was used earlier tonigh
t to call Daniel and threaten him. I assume that when he didn’t agree to pay up they decided to persuade him.’
‘By setting fire to his garage.’
‘Yes.’
‘After which they decided to rob this yacht?’ Moreaux said dryly.
‘Maybe they thought they were on a winning streak,’ Patrick said.
Moreaux looked at Hercule, who tried unsuccessfully to wipe the smile from his face, before shuffling the cards laid out on the table in the semblance of a game.
‘If the light was on and you were playing cards, why did they think the yacht was unoccupied?’
‘They didn’t,’ Patrick said. ‘They thought we were occupied and wouldn’t notice their entry via the ski store.’
Patrick got the impression Moreaux had a strong inkling about what had happened here and the part he’d played in it. What he chose to do about his suspicions was what mattered.
Moreaux suddenly nodded, as though dismissing them.
‘I will expect you both to make a statement tomorrow.’
‘Of course.’
Patrick accompanied Moreaux on to the quay, where the policeman immediately lit another cheroot. Patrick waited as Moreaux inhaled, sensing he had something more to say.
‘Bozonnet’s garage was gutted. As were many of the homes that surrounded it.’ Moreaux’s voice was ominously quiet.
‘Clearly, they rather overplayed their hand,’ Patrick said.
‘As do you, on occasion, Courvoisier,’ Moreaux admonished him.
Patrick accepted the rebuke without argument.
‘So, are you finished on St Honorat?’
‘I head back there tomorrow.’ Patrick saw no reason to lie. ‘To collect Oscar.’
‘Ah, Oscar! Had he been here with you, the break-in might never have happened,’ Moreaux said.
‘Or would have been dealt with even better than it was,’ Patrick countered.
Moreaux seemed to think they had danced round one another long enough. He took one more deep draw at the cheroot, then dropped it on the quay and ground it out.
‘They will have no passports, I assume?’
