The Case of the Missing Madonna

by Lin Anderson

  No mention of Huntington. Maybe they aren’t aware there were two divers?

  ‘What happened to Giles?’ Grazia said, her face clouding over.

  In that moment Patrick made a decision.

  ‘I found his body in the boathouse. He’d been beaten to death.’

  Patrick watched as the blood drained from her face.

  ‘Oh, God.’ She met his eye, her distress seemingly genuine. ‘They’ll do the same to you if you don’t tell them where it is.’

  ‘I can’t tell them something I don’t know.’

  They sat in silence for a few moments, then Patrick threw off the blanket and stood up.

  ‘Where are we exactly?’

  ‘Somewhere on Cap d’Antibes, I think.’

  ‘How were you brought here?’

  ‘By helicopter, but it was dark.’

  ‘Where are the paintings?’

  ‘Probably here or on the Hirondelle.’

  Patrick began to pace the basement room, conscious that movement would help pump blood round his body.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘They took my mobile. I have no idea.’

  ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘At a guess, about three hours.’

  Without a window on the outside world, there was no way to judge how long it had been since their escape from the cave. The plan might still be in motion, if both Jean-Paul and Stephen had carried out his instructions.

  Patrick longed to know what had happened to the Diving Belle, but didn’t want to mention it. Remembering the care Grazia had taken of him, he felt guilty denying her anything that might give her hope. And yet it was perfectly possible that, rather than his friend, she was in fact the enemy, placed here to extract information from him. Alternatively, if she was genuine and they suspected he’d revealed things, they would simply torture her instead of him.

  She was watching him, trying to work out what he was thinking.

  ‘How often do they come down here?’

  ‘They’ll come again soon,’ she said. And a flicker of fear crossed her face.

  It was Fratelli who came, and he was alone. Patrick was back in bed, the blanket in place, attempting to give the impression that he was in the next stage of hypothermia, namely asleep. His eyes closed, he listened to the conversation.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’ll die if we don’t get him to a hospital.’

  Her lie sounds genuine.

  Patrick heard Fratelli approach the bed.

  ‘His colour looks better,’ Fratelli insisted.

  ‘You realize what his death will mean?’ Grazia was saying.

  Fratelli was pacing now. ‘I didn’t want this to happen.’

  ‘Then you’d better prevent it,’ Grazia said. ‘The British Government will hunt you down. Believe me.’

  ‘He’s not one of theirs,’ Fratelli retorted. ‘He betrayed them.’

  ‘You know nothing.’

  ‘I know they want to be rid of him.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Grazia said.

  ‘You don’t get it, do you? Courvoisier was set up to take the blame if this went wrong.’

  ‘And Huntington?’ Grazia tried.

  ‘We left him at the villa.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘No, not dead,’ Patrick heard Fratelli say. ‘Who told you that?’

  As Fratelli, suspicious now, approached the bed, Patrick prepared himself. Fratelli was tall and fit, but he was an art dealer not an operative in the field, nor one of Bach’s boneheads. As Fratelli bent to check on him, Patrick made his move.

  ‘Let him go, Courvoisier.’

  Bach stood in the doorway, one bonehead by his side, his gun pointed at Grazia. Patrick had no doubt the bonehead would relish the opportunity to shoot her, it was clear from the look in his eyes.

  Patrick pushed Fratelli away from him.

  ‘You’ve recovered, I see,’ Bach said. ‘So now we can retrieve the Madonna you removed from the cave.’

  Patrick could feel Grazia’s eyes on him as he answered.

  ‘I wasn’t the one who took it,’ Patrick said. Seeing Bach’s expression, Patrick hurried on. ‘Huntington was with me in the cave. He carried the statue out.’

  He watched as doubt crept in.

  ‘I lost him when we exited the tunnel,’ he went on. ‘As you know, I ran out of air and had to surface.’

  For a moment Patrick thought Bach might have bought his story.

  ‘You’re lying,’ Bach said. ‘It was your wetsuit in the cave. You needed to lessen your weight. You carried the gold out and hid it.’ He paused. ‘And now you’re going to show us where.’

  As Patrick stood defiantly silent, the bonehead raised his gun.

  Grazia staggered as the well-aimed shot skimmed her cheek and embedded itself in the wall behind. The speed of the attack had surprised her as much as Patrick. She reached for her cheek, finding blood. Throwing a defiant look at Bach, she said, ‘Don’t do it for me.’

  Patrick addressed Bach. ‘If you threaten her again, I’ll kill you.’

  Bach shook his head in wonder. ‘A forlorn hope, Monsieur de Courvoisier.’

  NINETEEN

  Moreaux listened to the Irishman’s rapidly told story, already aware of at least half of it from his alternative sources. Connarty spoke in French. Not very good French, but at least he tried, which was more than anyone calling from London attempted to do. Trying to interpret the garbled details of Connarty’s story, the detective switched to English, since his grasp of that language far exceeded the Irishman’s knowledge of his.

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘We’re not sure he managed to surface.’

  Perhaps I am rid of Courvoisier after all.

  ‘Although we do know he escaped from the cave.’

  ‘And Huntington?’

  There was a short silence. ‘We don’t know where he is.’

  So London’s man is missing.

  ‘And the female?’

  ‘She left Torcello with Fratelli. We think she’s still with them.’

  Moreaux allowed himself a moment’s relief at that news.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Anchored in Billionaires’ Bay, as agreed.’

  Moreaux told him to stay there and rang off. He lit a cheroot, then indicated to Veronique that she should bring him another glass of red wine.

  It seemed de Courvoisier had ventured rather too far in his search for the missing Madonna and collided with what London in fact sought. He had sympathy with Le Limier’s predicament. Playing the British was neither easy nor straightforward, yet it had to be done. He had been aware that they sought more than the Madonna of St Honorat. He was also aware that the Nazis were involved, Fratelli’s presence being proof of that.

  What he didn’t know was how much Le Limier knew about Grazia Lucca.

  Moreaux took a deep draw on his cheroot.

  He wanted Le Limier out of Cannes, yet he resented London’s involvement in what he saw as a French matter. That which they sought belonged rightly to France.

  And France will have it, and the Madonna of the island.

  Quite how to achieve such an outcome, Moreaux hadn’t yet decided.

  He accepted a second glass of wine from Veronique, then waited for her departure before he made his call.

  Bach pointed to the wetsuit they’d removed from the cave.

  ‘You will find it a perfect fit.’

  ‘I’ll need a tank,’ Patrick said.

  ‘That will be provided, along with an escort.’

  Patrick wondered how much air would be supplied and whether they expected him ever to resurface. As for the escort, he knew who that would be.

  ‘We’ll need a lift bag, to avoid the dangers of carrying it up.’

  Bach considered this then said, ‘You will attach a rope. We will pull it up with the vehicle.’

  He doesn’t want me to surface, with or without the Madonna.

  �
�I want Grazia taken to Eden Roc. She’s no more use to you now,’ Patrick said.

  Bach contemplated this. ‘The helicopter can take her there.’

  ‘Before I dive,’ Patrick insisted.

  Grazia looked as though she might argue this point, but a glance from Patrick silenced her. Her left cheek was still bleeding. Had the bonehead been aiming for the eye he wouldn’t have missed.

  Patrick went over to her. The movement caught Bach off guard, and he didn’t prevent it.

  Embracing her, Patrick whispered in her ear, ‘I’ll meet you in the Champagne Lounge.’

  ‘Stay alive,’ she said in return.

  Patrick watched as the second bonehead walked her to the helicopter. The Eden Roc was minutes from here. Landing there wouldn’t mean freedom, not with Nazi number two still with her, but it was closer to freedom than remaining here.

  She’s of no more use to them, so there’s no point in killing her.

  Patrick consoled himself with that thought as the black shape rose into the sky.

  ‘I don’t dive until I get her call,’ he told Bach.

  If he was going to his death, he wanted to be sure Grazia wasn’t.

  Bach shrugged. ‘We head for the shore. By the time we’re there, she will be at the hotel.’

  Patrick had no idea where he’d been picked up, or whether it was close to the sea wall. If they had found him there, then diverting them elsewhere would only anger Bach and maybe put Grazia in danger.

  Patrick made a decision.

  He would take them to the Madonna.

  The bonehead sat in the back of the car with him, gun at the ready. Patrick spent the journey imagining all the ways he might inflict pain on him – much worse than had been inflicted on Huntington.

  They would be under the water together, alone. Much could happen there, unseen by those on the surface. He wondered how good a diver the bonehead was and whether any of his battles had been fought at fifteen metres with the weight of the sea pressing on him and no gun in his hand.

  Then Patrick recalled the knife that had slashed his leg. It seemed a gun wasn’t his only weapon of choice.

  Bach’s mobile rang as they offloaded the diving gear from the car. He answered, then immediately handed the mobile to Patrick.

  Grazia’s voice was just discernable above the beat of copter blades.

  ‘We’re coming in to land,’ she said.

  ‘Call Charles.’

  ‘My minder won’t allow that.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something.’

  The mobile was taken from her as she tried to respond. Patrick handed the phone back to Bach.

  ‘Miss Lucca isn’t in danger provided you do what is required.’ Bach indicated that Patrick should get kitted up.

  Patrick obliged, glad that this time he would be wearing a wetsuit. When they’d picked him up, they’d obviously taken his tank and BCD too. Patrick shuddered a little as he donned the lifejacket, remembering the last time he’d worn it.

  The bonehead dressed swiftly. It was obvious that he was no stranger to diving, but that didn’t mean he was an expert.

  Patrick noted that once their hoods were on and the masks in place there was little to distinguish them from each other. Same build, same height, the bonehead’s tattoos no longer in evidence.

  The only thing that distinguished them was the diving knife the bonehead carried, Patrick’s own knife having been removed.

  ‘It’s not wise to dive without one,’ he told Bach.

  ‘Heinrich will protect you from any fish that come along.’

  Bach, speaking rapidly in German, told Heinrich he should tie the rope to the vehicle and pull the Madonna up that way. While this was going on, Patrick was imagining a different scenario.

  They walked along the sea wall. Patrick checked his position, then indicated that he would enter here. Before Heinrich could respond, Patrick stepped forward to the edge and jumped into the water.

  Moreaux walked swiftly to the Quai Labeuf, where a police launch awaited him. It was time to bring this incident to its conclusion. As he approached the quai, he noted that François Girard wasn’t at his usual place under the awning in the fisherman’s area, although his boat was there. The thought crossed his mind that Girard might be playing a part in de Courvosier’s latest job, too. Although the idea irritated him, it didn’t surprise him. De Courvoisier had somehow managed to assemble a team from a hotchpotch of Le Suquet residents, many of whom operated just this side of the law.

  Once aboard the launch, Moreaux gave instructions to head for Cap d’Antibes.

  TWENTY

  Patrick slowly descended, Heinrich alongside. The safest way to dive was with a buddy you knew and trusted. There was only one thing more dangerous than diving alone, and that was diving with someone who would like to see you dead.

  Patrick wasn’t sure if Heinrich had been ordered to dispose of him, or whether he just wanted to. Either way it would be relatively easy, seeing that Heinrich was the one with the knife.

  The sea wall loomed large on Patrick’s left. He had deliberately walked further out on the wall before entering the water, his plan being to take as much time as possible before having to hand over the Madonna, assuming of course she was still there.

  He had no idea what had happened to Huntington after he’d surfaced, or if he had surfaced. He could of course be dead and lying somewhere on the seabed, waiting to be discovered. Or he could have reached shore and tried to go for help.

  If that were the case, where was he now?

  Fifteen metres down, Patrick stopped his descent and signalled to Heinrich that he was going to get close to the wall. Heinrich followed. An incoming swell suddenly lifted them and threatened to throw them against the wall, then just as swiftly dropped them again. Patrick trod water and made a show of checking his depth gauge, as if unsure if he was in the right place. This didn’t go down well with the bonehead, who flourished the knife at him.

  Patrick ignored the implied threat and made his way to the place where the underwater sea wall met the rocky shoreline, taking the rope with him. He was well aware that he’d shelved the statue at around ten metres.

  Pointing at the corner, Patrick indicated that what they sought was somewhere there. Heinrich responded by kicking in the direction indicated. The swell here had stirred up sand from the bottom, turning the sea opaque. It reminded Patrick of the harmattan, the wind that blew through North Africa bringing the Sahara with it, turning the air to thick soup.

  The sun’s rays penetrated the water and reflected off the floating particles, turning them to grains of gold. His friends, the vivid-blue damselfish, appeared to examine the two divers, pecking at Patrick’s mask and their own reflection. As the small shoal departed, frightened away by Heinrich’s flailing arms, Patrick spotted the Madonna sitting snugly in her niche, just where he had left her.

  Catching sight of her, Heinrich shoved Patrick out of the way, his eyes triumphant behind his mask, then motioned that Patrick should be the one to secure the rope to the Madonna.

  Patrick approached, clear in his mind how he wanted this to play out. The bonehead was a diver but not a skilled one, and he was hampered by his need or desire to have his knife at the ready. Patrick suspected that, once the Madonna was attached, the knife would be used to pierce his buoyancy jacket or cut his air supply. Something he planned to avoid.

  Reaching into the niche, Patrick made a show of attaching the Madonna, then indicated she was ready to be removed from her resting place. The bonehead waved Patrick aside, miming that he would be the one to do that. Had Patrick been able to laugh with joy underwater, he would have done so. He finned back and gave Heinrich a clear run at it.

  The bonehead reached in and checked that the Madonna was securely tied, which she definitely was. Patrick had made certain of that, having had no wish to see her free herself and drop to the sea floor to spoil his plan. His moment came as Heinrich scooped the Madonna from her niche. Behind him n
ow, Patrick chose that moment to knock the knife from his right hand and immediately looped the rope round the bonehead’s neck.

  As the weight of the Madonna tugged at it, the rope began to plummet, the bonehead with it, trying desperately to release air into his jacket to fight the weight. Ten metres above them the car was already taking the strain, fighting to pull the bonehead up, even as the Madonna was intent on pulling him down.

  Patrick finned to the descending knife, caught it, and anchored it in his belt. Without a backward glance at the drama unfolding as the Madonna and the car fought for possession of the bonehead, he curved round the sea wall and headed out to sea, staying just under the breaking foam to disguise his air bubbles.

  Once free of this place, he would ditch the tank and swim on the surface. Let them drag up the Madonna and her victim. He had no more use for her now.

  Patrick began the steady swim west to Billionaires’ Bay, where he hoped the Diving Belle would be anchored. If that part of the plan had failed, then he would have to head for Eden Roc and his car, which would involve crossing the narrow isthmus at the northwest corner, rather than swim the distance round it to approach by sea.

  The steady beat of the swimming calmed him. Above, the sun shone from a clear blue June sky. What he’d left behind didn’t concern him. The golden Madonna, it seemed to him, was cursed and would have been better left in the cave. Let London sort it out now.

  His only concern was the return of Fragonard’s Madonna to the cellars of the Abbey of St Honorat, where she might rest in peace.

  Turning into the bay, he spotted the Diving Belle at anchor, as arranged.

  Tired but relieved, Patrick looked on the ugly, heavy-hulled boat with something resembling affection. The final yards to her side seemed to him like swimming through treacle, with every stroke an effort. Drawing alongside, Patrick hoisted himself on to the metal ladder and, having clambered up it, fell exhausted on to the deck.

  ‘Mon ami,’ came the shout as Jean-Paul appeared to find out who the interloper was.

  Patrick was scooped up and led into the cabin, where he was stripped of his wetsuit and wrapped in towels, then handed something hot in a mug, which turned out to be Irish coffee, with more whiskey in it than coffee.