by Lin Anderson
Jean-Paul swore his delight. ‘Miss Lucca is well?’
‘She is. I’ll come round soon and tell you all about it.’
Patrick rang off and put down the phone.
So Huntington is dead. Wounded and drugged, he should never have made the dive in the first place.
I should have insisted Jean-Paul be the one to come with me, Patrick thought, knowing it would have made no difference, because Huntington would never have agreed.
Patrick’s face brightened when the London mobile rang, hoping it might be Grazia. It wasn’t.
‘Where are you?’ Charles’s voice was full of concern.
‘Home.’
‘And the Madonna?’
‘Which one?’ Patrick replied.
There was a short silence before Charles said, ‘Huntington hasn’t been in touch.’
‘He won’t be. Giles is dead.’
Patrick heard Charles’s intake of breath.
‘How did it happen?’
‘He died trying to bring the gold to the surface.’
Patrick sensed how many questions Carruthers wanted to ask, so he waited, knowing which one would come first, before all the others.
‘Where is the statue now?’
‘With the Police Nationale,’ Patrick told him. ‘I suggest you contact Lieutenant Moreaux. I believe you have his number.’
‘Courvoisier,’ Carruthers said, as Patrick tried to ring off, ‘you’ll need to come to London to be debriefed.’
‘I don’t work for you anymore,’ Patrick reminded him.
‘Nevertheless, in this case, it’s necessary.’
‘I’m a private citizen living in France.’
‘Who wants to go on living there.’
Charles’s tone was mild, but Patrick didn’t miss the quiet threat that it contained.
‘By the way,’ Patrick said before he hung up, ‘Miss Lucca is unharmed, in case you’re interested.’
Anger drove him below deck, where an empty champagne bottle stood next to the bed he’d shared with Grazia. All London had really been interested in was whether he’d retrieved the gold. Huntington’s death was ‘unfortunate’. Had it been Patrick who’d fallen in the line of duty, that would have seen a rather awkward situation conveniently resolved.
Patrick contemplated the veiled threat behind his summons to London.
If I don’t go, what will happen?
A number of possible outcomes occurred to him simultaneously, ranging from the mild to the extreme. Although Charles might support him, Forsyth could find a way of blaming him for Huntington’s death. If Moreaux chose to side with London over that, Patrick would either be on his way out of France or perhaps looking at a criminal charge in a French court.
It was a mess, and not of his making.
Not this time.
Patrick resolved to ignore the London summons for the moment and await the one that would surely come from Moreaux. If Grazia was right, the lieutenant had his own plan as to how to deal with London.
He turned to the Madonna.
‘This is all your fault, Mademoiselle de Sainval,’ he told her. ‘You should have remained hidden in the abbey storeroom for the young monks to gaze on.’
TWENTY-SIX
Patrick caught the early boat to St Honorat, the Madonna secure in his suitcase. He wanted her back on the island, in Brother Robert’s keeping, before Moreaux thought to pay him a visit. Once she was in the care of the abbey, Patrick’s job would be done. What was likely to happen after that, Patrick couldn’t say, but he would have fulfilled his side of the bargain.
The early boat was captained by Benedict, resplendent with his gold crucifix. Once they were out of the harbour, he summoned Patrick into the cabin.
‘We never did meet for that glass of wine,’ he said.
‘I was called away on urgent business,’ Patrick told him.
‘And that business is now complete?’ Benedict raised an eyebrow.
‘It is.’
‘I heard you found out about that yacht, the Hirondelle?’
‘I did,’ Patrick said.
‘Good. I had planned to tell you about it myself.’
‘There are no secrets on this island,’ Patrick said with a smile.
‘Only the secrets we wish to keep.’ Benedict eyed Patrick. ‘We all have those, Monsieur.’
‘We do indeed,’ Patrick agreed.
‘Will you be staying at the abbey?’ Benedict indicated the suitcase.
‘No. I’m just returning something.’
Benedict looked up at the heavens. ‘Then thank you, Monsieur de Courvoisier, from the bottom of my heart.’
The small tractor awaited him at the jetty. This time Patrick chose to use it, carefully stowing his precious cargo behind in the trailer. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he had walked this path with Oscar, yet it was no time at all. The day was as fine as it had been then, the scents as pungent, the quiet and industrious tending of the vines by the robed monks an antidote to what had occurred in the last few days.
I should stay here for a while. Eat well, drink good wine. Lay low.
It was an attractive proposition, and Patrick allowed himself a few moments to contemplate it, even though he knew it wouldn’t happen.
When the tractor drew up at the entrance to the cloisters, Patrick jumped down and removed his case.
‘Brother Robert is expecting you,’ he was told by the driver.
Patrick thanked him and entered the building, then made his way up the stairs to Brother Robert’s office and knocked on the door.
‘Come in,’ said the quiet voice.
Sunlight filled the room from the open window. Patrick could smell the lavender and hear the steady hum of the bees feasting on it, below.
Brother Robert rose from his desk, his bright-blue eyes smiling a welcome.
‘You have returned safely to us, Courvoisier.’
‘With the Madonna,’ Patrick said.
He opened the suitcase and extracted the painting, still wrapped in the Nazi flag.
‘She comes strangely dressed,’ Brother Robert remarked.
‘She’s been keeping poor company,’ Patrick told him.
He removed the flag, exposing the painting to the morning light. As he did so, Brother Robert gave a small gasp.
‘I had no idea she was so beautiful,’ he said quietly.
‘You’ve never looked at her before?’
‘Only once, in the darkness of the storeroom.’ Brother Robert gave a wry smile. ‘I now see why our young monks sought her company.’
They stood in silence until Patrick said, ‘May I ask what you plan to do with her?’
‘I wasn’t sure, until perhaps now.’ Brother Robert came closer, as though drawn to the beauty of the painting and its subject. ‘A man who depicts his mistress so exquisitely must have truly loved her, I think.’
‘They were together for twenty years,’ Patrick said.
‘And for twenty years St Honorat was her home.’ Brother Robert retreated, seeking his favourite place by the window. Glancing out at the beauty below, he said, ‘I have been praying for her return, of course, but also asking God what we might do with her, should He see fit to return her to us.’
‘You’re considering putting the painting on display here on the island?’
Brother Robert shook his head, though with a wry smile. ‘Alas no, I fear there would be no work done by the brothers if we did that.’ He paused. ‘Although we might display her somewhere close by.’
‘Where?’ Patrick said.
‘I was wondering about the Galerie du Carlton?’ Brother Robert looked to Patrick for his reaction to the suggestion.
The famous Carlton hotel had one of the longest-established galleries in the south of France, having exhibited French master painters for over thirty years. But perhaps that wasn’t the only reason for choosing it? After all, the Carlton’s distinctive domes, on both seaward corners, were reputedly designed to resemble the breas
ts of the most famous courtesan of the French Riviera during the years surrounding the First World War.
Patrick met Brother Robert’s mischievous smile with one of his own.
‘An excellent suggestion, and they would be able to protect her there.’
Brother Robert was warming even further to his theme. ‘We could have mementos made of her to sell here in the abbey shop. Postcards, posters. Perhaps even a book featuring the story of the painting in the island’s history.’
‘So you’re not averse to making a profit from her?’ Patrick asked.
‘The Madonna is like one of our fine wines. To be enjoyed, but mostly by others. Besides,’ Brother Robert added, ‘all profits from our commercial activities support the work of our brothers, both here on St Honorat and throughout France.’
Then they talked of the painting’s provenance and what Patrick had learned of it.
‘Can this be proved?’ Brother Robert said, a little worried. ‘Would the English royal family be prepared to take her back?’
Brother Robert had served Patrick a glass of their best vintage, the Syrah, in celebration of the Madonna’s return. Patrick sipped it before answering.
‘I don’t believe Lieutenant Moreaux of the Police Nationale will allow that.’
‘Ah … And what of Mr Coburn?’ Brother Robert said.
‘I don’t think he’ll be back,’ Patrick said.
‘The Queen no longer desires our Syrah?’
Patrick met Brother Robert’s frank gaze. ‘They’ll send someone else to buy it.’
Moreaux made the expected call as Patrick was on his way back to the mainland with his empty suitcase.
‘Where are you, Courvoisier?’
‘On the ferry from St Honorat.’
‘Then I’ll wait for you at the café by the gunboat.’
When Patrick arrived, Moreaux observed his suitcase with a questioning eye.
‘You’re planning a vacation?’
‘I was bringing my things back from St Honorat.’
‘So retrieving, not delivering?’ Moreaux quizzed him.
‘Let’s call it an exchange.’
Patrick waited until his espresso arrived, before saying, ‘The monks are thinking of displaying the Madonna in Galerie du Carlton.’
To his surprise, Moreaux nodded his approval. ‘An excellent idea. She will be very popular, and the hotel will provide excellent security.’
‘What of the forgery?’ Patrick said.
‘Alas, it was damaged in the fracas that followed your departure,’ Moreaux said with mock sadness. ‘But then it was merely a fake by some unknown German artist.’
‘And the statue?’ Patrick asked.
‘She awaits her fate.’
‘Who will decide that?’
‘Sadly not I. She is perhaps a little too important for that.’
‘So they will have her back?’ Patrick said.
‘It would seem so. They are very insistent.’
‘And what will they offer in return?’
‘Probably reminders of how they saved our asses during the war.’ Moreaux gave a typical Gallic shrug. ‘Then they’ll point out the rise of anti-Semitism in Europe and how we must all play our role in its defeat.’ He lit a cheroot and inhaled with obvious pleasure. ‘But there is one bargaining chip I have yet to play,’ he said.
‘And what’s that?’ Patrick asked, thinking he might know already.
Moreaux shot him a keen look. ‘They are keen for you to leave France and return to England.’
‘I see.’
‘I find myself in complete agreement with them. At times.’
Moreaux regarded Patrick with a mixture of irritation and amusement. ‘Do you know, when they call they never make the slightest attempt to speak French? Yet we are required to have perfect English.’
‘I also find that irritating,’ Patrick said. ‘If you remember, my father was French.’
‘Perhaps that’s why I told them I would not aid them in your departure. Not this time, anyway.’
‘And they accepted that?’ Patrick said, surprised.
‘No. Not until I revealed that we had in our possession a video of the golden Madonna that was destined to be put up online. A video that made very plain what her origins were and who the Führer had gifted it to. And told them that, for the purposes of our investigation into the rise of Fascism in France, the video has to remain with the French police.’
‘Bravo,’ Patrick said.
Moreaux’s glance grew stern. ‘I’m not your friend Courvoisier, but I am not your enemy either. At least, not for the moment.’ Moreaux finished his coffee and rose. ‘Grazia tells me you were instrumental in saving her life.’
‘She managed that on her own,’ Patrick said, honestly.
‘Unfortunately the man guarding you wasn’t apprehended.’
‘How is that possible?’
‘We believe he may have copied your trick and hidden below the platform when the passage was searched. When forensic moved into the building, we think he used a suit to escape.’
‘Jonas. His name’s Jonas,’ Patrick said.
‘Jonas Engel,’ Moreaux said. ‘There was a brother, too, Heinrich. Grazia says he was at the villa, but she didn’t see him after that.’
Patrick didn’t respond to what might have been an enquiry. It seemed Grazia hadn’t mentioned how Heinrich featured in the dive for the statue, and he silently thanked her for that.
‘I’m sorry about your colleague,’ Moreaux said as a parting shot. ‘His body was requested by London. In the circumstances, we agreed.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
The market was in full swing, its noise and vitality a welcome reminder of normal life in Le Suquet. Patrick headed up Rue Forville, keen to be reunited with Oscar. He’d missed the little dog more than he thought possible. As he opened the door of number twelve, he heard the welcome sound of Oscar’s snuffled bark, but no dog came running to greet him. As he entered the garden courtyard, he spotted Oscar, on a lead attached to the handle of the open front door of the Chanteclair.
Patrick freed him, and a delighted Oscar began racing round the courtyard, tossing a small toy Pascal had given him into the air in celebration, then came to sit on Patrick’s feet to prevent another departure.
Patrick laughed and rubbed Oscar’s ears, delighting in the dog’s happiness at his reappearance.
Pascal emerged from the hotel a few minutes later.
‘I had to anchor him, I’m afraid. Since first thing this morning, he’s been trying to escape and run off to the gunboat. I know dogs have a strong sense of smell, but how did he know you’d returned from wherever it is you’ve been?’ Pascal said quizzically.
‘I have no idea,’ Patrick admitted. ‘But suffice to say, the job given me by Brother Robert has been done. And now Oscar and I are headed out to lunch.’
Patrick thanked Pascal profusely for looking after his dog.
‘Oscar’s always welcome here. You know that.’
As Oscar bounced towards the door with him, Patrick didn’t look back at what would undoubtedly be Pascal’s sad face.
‘Pascal makes a better owner than me,’ he told Oscar as they headed along Rue de la Misércorde to check if Chevalier was having his prelunch drink at Le P’tit Zinc.
He wasn’t, and there was no reserved sign on his usual table either.
‘He’s gone to see Madame Lacroix,’ Veronique told Patrick, with what resembled a suggestive smile. Considering Chevalier was gay and Madame Lacroix didn’t supply gay escorts from her Hibiscus agency, Patrick didn’t comprehend the reason for the look.
‘To view something important,’ Veronique added.
‘Ah,’ Patrick said, although he was none the wiser. ‘I’ll catch him later.’
Rue Antoine was all set up for lunch, but Patrick didn’t view the menus, intent as he was on eating at Los Faroles, provided there was a table free. Oscar bounded ahead up the steep cobbles, turning on occasion to check th
at Patrick was following.
When Patrick eventually turned into the square, Oscar had already been served a dish of water and something tasty.
‘I hope there’s some left for me,’ Patrick said.
‘Chicken or fish?’ Fritz asked him.
‘Chicken, please.’
‘And the wine?’
‘Surprise me.’ Patrick smiled and took a seat with his back to the outside wall, so he could watch the passers-by. Once Oscar had finished whatever titbit had been given him, he took up residence below the table to await anything that might drop from his master’s plate. Patrick thought it unlikely, judging by the extent of his own hunger.
A couple of hours later, he headed for Le Dramont. Seated in the Ferrari, with the warm sun on his head and Oscar in the passenger seat, Patrick was able to pretend the past few days were an aberration. He had delivered the Madonna to St Honorat. The job had been successful. It was over.
Oscar’s face was a picture of contentment. His ears pricked up, his pug face turned to the breeze, his ears twitching. The little bulldog could live in the here and now.
Why can’t I?
Patrick drove down the dirt track and parked the car next to the restaurant. Lunch was obviously over for the day. Those customers still on the deck were having coffee, beer or a glass of wine. Entering the kitchen, he found Jean-Paul preparing tonight’s speciality, which was bouillabaisse. The scent of herbs and garlic made Patrick’s mouth water in anticipation.
‘You’re here, mon ami. Have you eaten?’
‘I have.’
Jean-Paul bent to greet Oscar, ruffling his ears and immediately finding something tasty for him as a treat.
‘I don’t know why he isn’t fat,’ Patrick said.
‘Because that breed of dog is all muscle. Like me.’ Jean-Paul grinned. ‘Life is returning to normal?’
‘I hope so,’ Patrick said honestly.
‘And the lady?’ Jean-Paul asked, with a twinkle in his eye.
Patrick didn’t answer. The truth was he feared that the previous evening had been a one-off. A way to celebrate survival. Courting death required a celebration of life in its aftermath. Patrick had been surprised at the strength of his feelings about what had happened between them. Grazia was a beautiful woman. Sexy, intelligent, brave. What man wouldn’t relish making love to her? And they’d faced death together and survived. He’d met that type of love many times before, but once complete it was over, like the danger that had been faced.
