The Case of the Missing Madonna

by Lin Anderson

  Having gulped down a mouthful, he asked if there had been any sign of Huntington.

  Stephen shook his head. ‘After you signalled with the rope, we headed here as agreed. We assumed you were together.’

  ‘He surfaced before me,’ Patrick said, believing now that Huntington must have perished. He had been near to death himself when washed ashore, and Huntington had been in worse shape than him.

  ‘You contacted Moreaux?’

  ‘He’s on his way.’

  ‘What of the Hirondelle?’

  ‘No longer in these waters.’

  After swallowing the remainder of the coffee, he went to get dressed and, more importantly, to make a call.

  This time Patrick informed the receptionist at the Eden Roc hotel that he was Lieutenant Martin Moreaux of the Police Nationale and intimated that he urgently needed to speak to a Mademoiselle Grazia Lucca, who he believed was in the Champagne Lounge.

  This time he wasn’t given the brush off.

  ‘I’ll put you through, lieutenant.’

  There was a brief silence, then the barman answered. Patrick gave Moreaux’s name once more, described Grazia, and asked to speak to her.

  A few moments later, the barman came back on.

  ‘The lady you describe isn’t here, Monsieur.’

  ‘Was she in the Champagne Lounge earlier?’

  ‘I don’t recall seeing her, and I have been on duty since we opened.’

  Patrick described the bonehead and asked about him.

  ‘No, Sir, I haven’t seen the gentleman either.’

  The helicopter had definitely appeared to be heading in the direction of Eden Roc, but once across the Cap it could have headed anywhere. Antibes, or more likely Monaco, or even Italy. Patrick tried to recall Grazia’s voice. It had sounded strained, but with the beat of the blades and the bonehead beside her that was understandable.

  Then another thought occurred to him. A much more troubling one.

  How easy it would be for the bonehead to rid himself of his cargo above the waters east of Cap d’Antibes.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The high-powered police launch was fast, yet not fast enough. During the journey Moreaux had smoked three cheroots and contemplated how he planned to deal with the situation awaiting him on the Cap.

  Courvoisier’s call had particularly disturbed him. If Le Limier was right and they now had the golden Madonna, then their prime aim would be to get out of French waters with the spoils.

  Monaco would provide the swiftest refuge, but Moreaux suspected Italy to be their goal and had therefore sent another police launch in search of the Hirondelle.

  Now that Le Limier had made him aware of the exact nature of the statue, Moreaux understood why the British were so keen that her existence be kept secret. Personally, he didn’t care about the embarrassment her exposure would cause to the British Crown and the British Government. His only concern was that France was not dragged into it.

  To that end, he was beginning to think they should let the British have the statue, provided France retained the two paintings of the Madonna, as Le Limier had suggested.

  On the other hand, should he play the British game even further, he might also rid himself of Courvoisier on a more permanent basis, which was something to consider.

  As the launch entered the bay in front of the château, he saw the Diving Belle coming round the sea wall to join them.

  On shore, Patrick watched as Moreaux surveyed the area south of the sea wall.

  ‘And you’re certain they retrieved the statue?’

  ‘Look,’ Patrick indicated the deep marks on the dirt road surface where the car had sought traction.

  ‘It must have been heavy?’ Moreaux said, surprised.

  ‘Around twenty kilos.’ Patrick didn’t mention the body that he hoped had been dragged up with it.

  ‘And how far away is the place you were held?’

  There were few roads on the southern tip of the Cap. One main road and a few secondary ones used to approach the few expensive concealed villas. Patrick had memorized his route and reran it now for Moreaux’s benefit.

  ‘You won’t find anything there,’ he added. ‘Except evidence in the basement that what I told you is true.’

  ‘And where do you think they’re headed?’

  ‘The yacht will make for Monaco, but it won’t be carrying anything. I don’t think they’ll use the airport at Nice to fly out. They’ll expect you to have alerted security there. The helicopter’s a possibility, but not for a long flight and it’s easily spotted, especially if you’ve got a call out on it. If it were me, I’d go by road into Italy and head north.’

  He watched as Moreaux considered this.

  ‘Once they’re in Italy you have little chance of picking them up, certainly not quickly enough to retrieve the goods before they dispose of them,’ Patrick went on. ‘But I’m more concerned about Grazia Lucca’s safety than retrieving a gold statue and two paintings,’ he added.

  ‘As am I, Courvoisier.’

  Moreaux had set his men to work, sending two of them to search the villa and two divers down to check on the wall and the seabed. After which, he motioned to Patrick to board the police launch, where he gave the order to head for Monaco.

  Patrick had called Jean-Paul from the fast-moving launch and told him about the police divers.

  ‘I want you to take a look further east. If Huntington didn’t reach the surface, the swell may have taken him back in the direction we came from the cave. The ledge at fifteen metres could trap a body.

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘I’m heading for Monaco with Moreaux,’ Patrick told him. ‘Is François still with you? I need to ask him a favour.’

  Moreaux was in the forward cabin setting his various plans in motion by radio. Trying to catch the lieutenant’s rapidly fired French above the noise of the engine and the flying spray hitting the windows, Patrick managed to pick up the various alerts being put out. Also, the possibility that the Hirondelle had been located by the other police launch just off Monte Carlo and was about to be boarded. Then he caught Grazia’s name.

  The hope that Grazia had been deposited on the Hirondelle by helicopter was a forlorn one, but Patrick held on to it anyway. When Moreaux reappeared, Patrick immediately asked if there was any word about her. Moreaux didn’t answer, but instead brought out a photograph from his inside pocket and handed it to Patrick.

  Whatever Patrick had expected or even dreaded as a response to his enquiry, it hadn’t been this. For a moment he didn’t recognize her, or maybe he just didn’t want to. But he did know the man beside her. Marco Fratelli had his arm around Grazia’s shoulders and she was looking up at him in an adoring fashion. That was difficult enough to stomach, but what surrounded them was even worse.

  Marco and Grazia stood on a platform, behind them posters proclaiming this as a rally organized by an Italian Neo-Nazi group. The crowd Marco had apparently been addressing consisted mainly of young men who looked a lot like Bach’s boneheads, their hands raised in the infamous Nazi salute.

  Moreaux lit a cheroot and inhaled deeply as he waited for Patrick’s reaction to the revelation. Patrick wanted to say he didn’t believe Grazia was working for the other side, but found he couldn’t.

  So many things would fall into place if it were true. One in particular. The voice that had said the words ‘He won’t be able to tell us anything if he dies’ had been Grazia’s. It seemed that Bach had given her the job of saving him, for the sole purpose of extracting the whereabouts of the statue.

  And I obliged.

  ‘That’s why they took her with them?’ Patrick said, dreading the answer.

  Moreaux nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So we don’t need to rescue her?’

  ‘No,’ Moreaux said. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘What do you mean, not yet?’ Patrick demanded.

  Moreaux savoured a deep draw on his cheroot, before answering.

  ‘You�
��re not the only one, Courvoisier, capable of working for two masters.’

  Patrick tried to absorb what Moreaux’s words meant. True, playing two sides had sometimes been necessary in his past life. Arguably, as Moreaux inferred, he was doing it now. The question was, who exactly were Grazia’s two masters?

  Then a thought struck him.

  Patrick flourished the photograph at Moreaux. ‘London knew about this?’

  ‘Mademoiselle Lucca isn’t London’s to command. Unlike you,’ Moreaux said, testily.

  Patrick ignored the jibe, as he tried to work out what Moreaux might mean. Finally it dawned on him. ‘Grazia’s working for you?’

  Moreaux didn’t answer the question, because he didn’t have to.

  My God, she’s working for the French!

  ‘In what capacity?’ Patrick said.

  ‘As an art expert. Mademoiselle Lucca has been infiltrating groups trading in stolen art from the Second World War. The Neo-Nazis have been very busy in that sphere recently.’

  Patrick glanced at the photograph again. ‘That’s why she’s seen here with Marco?’ It seemed important to Patrick to establish exactly what the relationship between Grazia and Marco was.

  Moreaux gave him a shrewd look. ‘If you’re asking me if they are lovers, I suspect that may have been necessary to gain Fratelli’s trust.’

  ‘And her connection with London?’ Patrick said.

  ‘Her services were offered. They accepted.’ Moreaux gave a thin-lipped smile. ‘I did not, however, suggest you be involved. That was their idea. It seems, Courvoisier, they’re quite keen to have you back in the fold.’

  ‘Or they want someone to put the blame on when it all goes wrong,’ Patrick said, sharply.

  ‘You’re sure Bach still believes Grazia can be trusted?’

  ‘Perhaps you are in a better position to answer that than I,’ Moreaux said.

  Patrick replayed the scenes at the Eden Roc, then on Torcello and finally on Cap d’Antibes, and realized he couldn’t be sure of anything.

  ‘She played her part well,’ he conceded.

  Moreaux nodded. ‘Good. The question is, can she lead us to them now?’

  Grazia touched Marco’s arm and he turned to give her a dazzling smile. Even as he bestowed it, she wondered if he knew what her role was, or suspected her. Perhaps since that moment in the basement when she’d asked whether Huntington was dead? That had been a mistake. She should never have questioned him about that.

  Marco had denied it was true, but he must have sensed how badly she would feel if it was. Marco was vain and egotistical, but he wasn’t essentially cruel. And he wasn’t a true Fascist. He’d become involved in this more from greed for what a Nazi treasure trove might bring him than out of a desire to support the rebirth of Fascism. At least that was what she’d thought until now.

  Bach on the other hand was someone to truly fear.

  Grazia recalled how Patrick had insisted that she be taken to safety before he would show them where he’d hidden the Madonna. How angry he’d been when the bonehead, as he’d called him, had taken a shot at her.

  She’d been taken aback by that herself, expecting only that she might be threatened in order to persuade Patrick to reveal the statue’s whereabouts. In that moment she’d known Bach would kill her without hesitation if he had the slightest suspicion she’d betrayed them.

  And now he had an even better reason to kill her.

  She hadn’t been present when they’d pulled the statue roped to Heinrich’s body from the water, but Marco had described the scene to her in hideous detail.

  She had no doubt that Patrick had disposed of Heinrich. Whether or not it was in self-defence she couldn’t say, but the anger she’d seen in his eyes in that basement suggested that Patrick wouldn’t miss an opportunity to get rid of his guard if one presented itself.

  Her own immediate problem was the need to get a message to Moreaux indicating where they were headed. He would no doubt assume they’d make for Italy, since outside his jurisdiction it would be more difficult for Moreaux to control the search.

  For her own part, she’d believed that’s what their plan was, so had been surprised when in fact the opposite happened. Arriving in Monaco by helicopter, they’d picked up Bach’s car and headed west instead. Moreaux would be chasing them in the wrong direction unless she could tell him otherwise. And to contact him, she needed to be alone and out of earshot.

  Quietly she asked Marco if they could stop the car so she could go to the toilet.

  ‘It’s better if we keep going,’ he whispered back, one eye on Bach in the front passenger seat.

  ‘I’m feeling nauseous. The helicopter ride …’ Grazia put her hand over her mouth to indicate how bad it was.

  Marco looked horrified at the prospect of being vomited on. He leaned forward and quickly explained the situation to Bach. When Bach glanced in the rear view mirror, Grazia upped the ante by making a retching sound, causing Marco to move further away from her.

  Bach barked an order to the driver, to find a place to pull up.

  Her performance had to last until the next autoroute exit with a Relais.

  When the car drew to a halt, Grazia made a dash for the ladies’ toilet.

  Hearing a toilet flush, she waited for the occupant to emerge. When a young woman and a child of about four came out, Grazia groaned and leaned over the sink as though she felt ill.

  ‘Are you OK?’ the young woman enquired.

  Grazia clasped her stomach. ‘Early pregnancy. Nausea.’

  ‘I know. It’s terrible,’ the woman sympathized, ‘but worth it in the end.’ She patted her daughter’s head.

  ‘I think I should call my husband and tell him to come for me, but my mobile’s battery has run out,’ Grazia said worriedly.

  ‘Here, use mine,’ the young woman immediately offered.

  ‘I’ll just send him a text and let him know where I am.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  As the woman washed her daughter’s hands, Grazia sent a text giving their location and the registration number of Bach’s car.

  As she pressed the send button, the door of the rest room was thrown open.

  When the woman turned to see who it was, Grazia placed the mobile on the sink and dived for a cubicle.

  ‘Hey, this is the Ladies,’ Grazia heard the woman say. ‘The Gents is next door.’

  Grazia stuck two fingers down her throat, and this time the retching was for real.

  The bonehead waited impatiently while she washed her hands and splashed water on her face.

  ‘I’d better check if the shop has something for travel sickness,’ Grazia said, playing for time.

  ‘No. We’re going.’ He pushed her roughly towards the door. The woman and child had left, so there was no one to stand up for her now.

  When Grazia emerged, Bach and Marco were waiting by the car.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I feel better now. Let’s go.’

  Bach eyed her as she climbed in the back. As far as she could make out from the low conversation he’d had with the bonehead on their return, her saviour in the toilets hadn’t been quizzed, so the bonehead didn’t know she had sent a text on the young woman’s mobile. He did, however, confirm to Bach that he’d heard Grazia being sick when he entered the toilet.

  So she’d got away with the nausea story and sending the text. What Grazia didn’t know was whether she’d remembered Patrick’s number correctly.

  For some reason, Bach didn’t direct them back on to the motorway but instructed the bonehead to make for Èze on the Moyenne Corniche. Grazia knew the village well, mainly because it was an artist community and she’d visited most of the small galleries there. Most perché of all the perched villages, it was situated on top of a sheer rock face and there was no access for cars.

  Why go there?

  She shot a look at Marco, but he had lapsed into silent meditation. Grazia touched his arm and mouthed ‘Why?’ at him.

&nb
sp; He shook his head at her as if she was a recalcitrant child. ‘Wait and see,’ he mouthed back.

  If they were intent on Èze, there must be a reason. But what?

  Then a thought struck her.

  They planned to pass on the statue, and it was the last place Moreaux would think of looking.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Moreaux had radioed ahead, intent on making contact with his counterparts in Monaco. Patrick suspected the detective now viewed Le Limier’s part in the proceedings as being at an end. When Moreaux abandoned him on the quay, suggesting he return to Cannes by train and await developments, Patrick chose not to argue, intent as he was on seeing whether his own forward planning had come to fruition.

  He found the Ferrari exactly where he’d asked François to deposit it, the key stashed in its usual place just above the front wheel. Patrick kissed the key and started her up, noting that not only had François brought her the thirty odd kilometres from the Eden Roc, at what speed he could only imagine, but he’d also topped up the petrol. He vowed to reward the fisherman well when this was over.

  A text had arrived from an unknown number as the police launch entered Monaco harbour. Fortunately for Patrick, the sound of its arrival went unnoticed in the noise of docking. The fact that it had been sent to the London mobile convinced him it came from Grazia.

  His first plan had been to tell Moreaux. But instinct told him that if he did so the detective wouldn’t allow Patrick to accompany him, stating that this was now Police Nationale business and reminding him that he was a private citizen. This way he got a head start, and Moreaux would serve as his backup.

  Patrick viewed the cryptic message, then brought up the number and rang it. When a woman’s voice answered, he asked for Grazia.

  ‘Your wife?’ she said.

  ‘Is she alright?’ he said, his note of concern genuine.

  ‘She’s OK. She was really nauseated. She wanted to text you to come pick her up. I loaned her my mobile.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘I assume she is waiting for you at the Relais near the Èze exit. I told her not to worry, the nausea will settle down around three months into the pregnancy. And congratulations, by the way.’