The Case of the Missing Madonna

by Lin Anderson

  Patrick found himself acknowledging that he didn’t want it to be over with Grazia. But, maybe she did.

  ‘She works for Moreaux.’

  Jean-Paul’s eyes flew open in astonishment. ‘For the Police Nationale?’

  ‘Undercover.’

  ‘I thought she was with the English,’ Jean-Paul said, puzzled.

  ‘So did I.’

  Jean-Paul stirred his pot. He tasted the contents, added something, then put the lid on and left the soup to simmer. After which he brought a carafe of wine to the table, and two glasses.

  ‘My advice is to find another woman immediately and make love to her.’

  Patrick laughed. ‘Does Joanne know you give such advice?’

  ‘Joanne is more than enough woman for me,’ Jean-Paul admitted. ‘So what will happen to the gold Madonna?’

  ‘The Brits will reclaim it.’

  ‘It was their fault it existed,’ Jean-Paul said. ‘But Vichy France has a responsibility, too.’

  ‘It was a mess,’ Patrick said. ‘All wars are.’

  ‘Do you believe the Windsors, as you call them, thought they would be placed on the throne of a conquered England?’

  ‘Who knows what they thought?’ Patrick said. ‘And who cares?’

  He stayed on into the evening, when they all sat outside eating bouillabaisse. Daniel and Fidella joined them, and Patrick learned that the garage, despite its state, would be back in operation in a matter of days.

  ‘I’ll work outside in the street if I have to,’ Daniel told Patrick. ‘The flat will take longer to fix, but Jean-Paul has offered us a place to stay until it’s ready.’

  Patrick glanced over at his friend and said a silent thank you.

  They talked of holding a party in the garden courtyard of the Chanteclair to celebrate the reopening of the garage and the return of the Madonna.

  ‘Pascal would be up for that,’ Patrick said.

  When the meal was over, Patrick went down to the beach. Instructing Oscar to wait for him, he stripped off and took to the water, swimming straight out past Île d’Or before treading water to look back at the shore, where the little dog sat patiently awaiting his return.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  She called at midnight. Patrick was sitting under the awning with a whisky, Oscar spread out at his feet.

  ‘Where are you?’ she said.

  ‘Sitting on deck, enjoying a dram. Are you coming to join me?’

  ‘Alas, no. Not tonight, anyway.’ She hesitated. ‘I wonder if you would like to invite me to dinner tomorrow evening? I’ve heard you’re a good cook.’

  ‘Did Moreaux tell you that?’

  She laughed. ‘No. He’s not complimentary about you at all. It was Madame Lacroix who told me.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to cook dinner for you,’ Patrick said. ‘What time suits?’

  ‘Seven,’ she said.

  ‘Seven it is, then.’

  Patrick lifted his whisky and toasted whatever deity had permitted such a thing to happen, then calling Oscar, went below to bed.

  Next morning, his dinner menu in mind, Patrick headed for Marché Forville, Oscar trotting alongside. Patrick’s dreams had been punctuated by images of Grazia, dressed in red, then in green, then stripping off on the platform to climb over the barrier and drop into space.

  He’d known only one other woman with Grazia’s beauty and courage.

  And look how that turned out.

  Patrick had woken with that warning in his head. A warning he chose to ignore. Wandering the market, he set his mind on the meal for tonight instead, aware that he was hoping to impress.

  Having purchased clams for spaghetti alle vongole, he headed for the fresh pasta stall. A visit to the cheese counter and then the fruit stall, to purchase fresh figs and strawberries, saw his meal complete. An Italian speciality dish plus a malt whisky to follow would pay homage to Grazia’s Barga connections, Patrick thought.

  Happy with his purchases, he whistled to Oscar and made for the Cave Forville for a light lunch of oysters and tapas. He was lucky to get a table, the Cave being thronged with a mix of early tourists and locals who, like him, had already shopped in the market and now sought a glass of wine, a coffee or lunch, before heading home.

  Patrick ordered the current wine of choice to go with his oysters, then settled down at a pavement table. Oscar, realizing Patrick was planning to stay, surveyed the surrounding clientele for someone to perform for.

  An elderly lady at a neighbouring table proved to be Oscar’s choice of the day. The small dog took up residence between her and Patrick, so that he might keep an eye on his master while ploughing his own furrow. Patrick, admiring his determination, let him get on with it.

  Patrick had finished the tapas, and was enjoying an espresso while contemplating an afternoon swim, when a figure arrived to stand between him and the sun. Thrown suddenly into shadow, a surprised Patrick looked up to discover Charles Carruthers.

  ‘May I join you?’

  ‘Can I say no?’

  ‘You can, but I hope you won’t.’

  Of all the things Patrick thought might happen in the aftermath of the Madonna, this hadn’t been one of them. Carruthers would normally never consider visiting an operative in the field. They were always required to report to him.

  After the case of the black pearl Patrick had answered a summons to London, delivered by Forsyth in person. Perhaps this was Carruthers’ way of making things even.

  Oscar, observing the new arrival, came to check him out. Carruthers did the honours by rubbing Oscar’s ears, thus immediately endearing himself to the dog.

  When the waiter approached, Carruthers ordered a coffee in fluent French and made a joke in passing. The waiter’s response suggested he believed Charles was French.

  Patrick waited for the waiter to depart before saying, ‘Lieutenant Moreaux says that when London calls they always expect the conversation to be in English. Why, when you speak French like a native?’

  ‘Protocol. I don’t agree with it, but you know what they’re like,’ he said with a shrug.

  ‘Conversing in the language of the natives gives the impression they might be your equal?’ Patrick said.

  ‘Good diplomacy requires that you should always appear to hold the upper hand,’ Carruthers said without a hint of irony.

  Patrick cursed, in French, under his breath.

  ‘I should warn you I swear well in French, too,’ Carruthers said with a wry smile.

  Patrick laughed. He’d always found it difficult to be angry with Carruthers for long. He had to admit he liked the man and, for the most part, trusted him.

  ‘Friends?’ Charles tried.

  ‘Not enemies,’ Patrick responded.

  Charles’s expression darkened. ‘Not that, Courvoisier. Never that.’

  They sat in silence for a moment, before Charles finally said, ‘I came because I need to hear from you personally how Huntington died.’

  ‘I told you on the phone. He died trying to bring the gold to the surface.’

  ‘But I understood you were the one to carry the Madonna from the cave?’

  ‘Huntington was injured. Quite badly. He wanted to do it. I wouldn’t let him. He shouldn’t even have been diving.’ Patrick shook his head at the memory of the scene in the cave. ‘We rescued the statue, but he was running out of air. I sent him up while I hid it in the sea wall. I don’t know what happened to him after that. I came to in a cellar to find I’d been picked up by Bach.’

  He glanced at Carruthers, who was listening intently.

  ‘When Bach didn’t mention Huntington, I hoped they thought I’d been on my own. After all, they’d left Huntington for dead back on Torcello.’ Patrick paused. ‘The plan was, if I didn’t make it to the surface and Huntington did, he knew where I’d hidden the statue. It turned out I was the one to survive after all.’

  Oscar, sensing the tension between the two men, had come to sit on Patrick’s feet. He felt the soft snuffle
of the dog’s nose against his hand when he reached down.

  ‘I should have ordered him home from Venice,’ Charles said.

  ‘You did try, but he’d already left the hotel,’ Patrick reminded him. ‘And he kept the bullet wound secret, even initially from me.’

  In the quiet moments that followed, Patrick had a powerful sensation that he was under close observation. And not by either Oscar or Charles. The feeling was so strong that he felt the hairs on the back of his neck react. A flash of light, as if the sun had been reflected off a mirror, was followed by a swishing sound, as a bullet skimmed Carruthers’ ear, pinged off the metal table, and embedded itself in the shopping bag of their elderly neighbour.

  Patrick knew that sound too well. As, it was clear, did Carruthers.

  Both men shouted simultaneously, in French, at those around them to take cover.

  A second bullet pinging off the sign offering today’s specials forced the issue, and the screams of the women and the frightened shouts of the men saw them scrambling for cover.

  Patrick was in no doubt who was shooting at them.

  ‘I’m the one he’s after,’ Patrick told Charles. ‘I have to get away from here or someone’s going to get killed.’

  Opposite Café Forville was a staircase that led to the flat roof of the market building. Patrick vaulted the locked gate and climbed to the top. Up here was nothing but empty space. A car park at one time, it had lain unused since the building was refurbished. He was a sitting duck up here, but at least no one else would get hurt.

  Staying low against the outer wall, Patrick ran his eyes around the neighbouring buildings. From the angle of the bullets, the shooter had been above them, which meant he was possibly at one of the windows overlooking the north side of the market.

  Below him, panic had followed his escape. The street below was rapidly emptying, the alarm now spreading into the covered market below. A siren screamed its approach, someone had had the presence of mind to call the police. Patrick scanned the neighbouring windows for the glint of a weapon, but found only the frightened faces of occupants checking out what was happening below.

  Then he saw him, and realized that the perfect place from which to take out someone sitting in the café below was here, on the roof of the market. The remaining bonehead was walking towards him across the tarred surface, a smile on his face. By now he knew that Patrick was unarmed and that, even should he have a knife, he would never get close enough to use it. He could have taken Patrick out from where he stood, but preferred to come close enough to look into his victim’s eyes before taking his shot.

  This is it, Patrick thought.

  He might vault the waist high wall and fall six metres to the street below and survive the impact. Then again, the bonehead had only to lean over and shoot him where he lay.

  It seemed he’d run out of options.

  They say the moments before death are extended, as the fevered brain becomes reconciled to its own departure. So it was with Patrick. Regret swept over him. Not regret at what he’d done, but regret at what he had not.

  Jonas, two metres away now, had come to a halt, his eyes burning with the righteous wrath of the avenger. It seemed there were to be no words exchanged between them. In that moment Patrick didn’t blame Jonas Engel for what he was about to do, because he knew he would have done the same if he’d come face to face with his brother’s killer.

  As Jonas levelled the gun, Patrick squared his shoulders but didn’t close his eyes. If he was to meet death, then he would stare it straight in the face.

  ‘Get down,’ Moreaux shouted from behind.

  As Patrick dived for the ground, a volley of shots exploded simultaneously. Skimming through the air above him, the police bullets hit home, exploding in the bonehead’s chest, piercing his brain, tearing through the swastika tattoos on his arms. They forced him first on to his knees, then face down, never to rise again.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Skin on skin. Just as it had been in the cellar, although this time they shared each other’s warmth. Her long dark hair fell on either side of his face like a silk curtain. Her breath brushed his lips, before she kissed him lightly then rolled to lie beside him.

  ‘I take it my attempt at seducing you with good food was a success, then?’ Patrick said.

  Grazia pulled a face. ‘The spaghetti wasn’t homemade.’

  ‘What?’ Patrick said, as though affronted. ‘The stall I bought it from in the market assured me it was.’

  ‘Apart from that,’ she conceded. ‘It was very good. As was dessert,’ she added, with a smile. ‘And now breakfast.’

  ‘Coffee and croissants to follow?’ Patrick said.

  ‘Perfect.’

  After the incident in the Marché, he, Moreaux and Carruthers had adjourned to Les Trois Soeurs, where Carruthers had thanked Moreaux, in perfect French, for the input of the Police Nationale in retrieving the golden Madonna, and indicated that Her Majesty’s government didn’t intend to pursue the repatriation of the Fragonard.

  At this declaration Moreaux’s lip curled, but he said nothing.

  ‘We would expect, however, that you would hand over the video made at the auction,’ Charles said.

  At that point, there had been an impasse. Patrick, his only interest in the matter being that the Fragonard should remain with the monks, left the two men to fight it out and, whistling to Oscar, departed from the gunboat.

  En route to Le P’tit Zinc in search of Chevalier, he received a phone call from Madame Lacroix, inviting him round for a glass of wine.

  ‘To celebrate the fact that you’re still alive,’ she added.

  Patrick was pleased to accept the offer, although the tone of her voice suggested that wasn’t the only reason for the invitation.

  The market having finished for the day, the cavernous space had been cleared and hosed down. The restaurant was back at work, the customers’ conversations animated, with much gesturing at the roof of the nearby market. Patrick suspected they would be dining out on the story of the gunman for some time.

  Patrick chose to avoid any questions or interested enquiries by going through the empty building. Emerging on the other side, he headed for Rue d’Antibes, where Madame Lacroix had obviously been anticipating his imminent arrival as she immediately answered the buzzer and invited him up.

  Brigitte Lacroix’s dark eyes were sparkling when she opened the door to him, her kiss on both cheeks positively affectionate. As she drew him inside, Patrick registered that he wasn’t her only visitor. Chevalier rose to greet him with an equally wide smile on his face. It seemed his brush with death had reached everyone’s ears.

  Madame Lacroix indicated the open bottle of St Honorat Syrah and offered him a glass. It was obviously a celebration that demanded a fine wine.

  ‘A gift from Brother Robert,’ she explained.

  Patrick almost said ‘For what?’, then remembered it was Madame Lacroix’s knowledge of the history of the Fragonard and Château de la Croë that had led them there. When Patrick tried to make a toast to her contribution, she raised her hand to stop him. ‘Come, Courvoisier, I have something to show you.’

  Patrick glanced quizzically at Chevalier, who merely smoothed his moustache and smiled. At that point, Madame Lacroix indicated that Patrick should follow her into her bedroom.

  The room was everything Patrick had always imagined it might be, from the Louis XIV bed to the crystal chandelier. But it wasn’t the furniture, beautiful as it was, that dominated the room. It was the painting that hung there next to the miniature Madame Lacroix had shown him on his previous visit.

  Grazia had declared it a forgery, yet Patrick could hardly believe that to be true. It was in essence a twin of the Fragonard, apart from the shape of the land mass at its foot.

  ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ Madame Lacroix said.

  ‘She is.’

  ‘I wanted to say thank you for rescuing her. For rescuing them both.’ She turned to Patrick. ‘As for that other
thing,’ she growled. ‘Von jüdischen Gold!’ She uttered an expletive even Patrick hadn’t heard before. ‘My grandmother who worked at the château was Jewish.’ She laughed up at Patrick. ‘She would have been very pleased that this Madonna has found a home here with her granddaughter.’

  ‘I thought the second painting had been damaged in the fight in the cave?’ Grazia said, as he topped up her coffee and finished his story.

  Patrick explained Madame Lacroix’s role in the search for the Fragonard. ‘Added to that, Brigitte Lacroix is Lieutenant Moreaux’s mistress,’ he said.

  ‘Really?’ Grazie smiled. ‘Then I’m certain Mademoiselle de Sainval would have approved.’

  At that point, Oscar indicated that they had a visitor.

  Charles Carruthers stepped out of the black chauffeur-driven limousine on to the quai. Dressed in a smart grey suit, he looked every inch a member of Her Majesty’s diplomatic service. Patrick wondered if the golden Madonna resided in the boot, or if it was already on its way to London by special courier.

  ‘Will you come on board?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘My apologies, but I have a plane to catch.’ Charles smiled over at Grazia. ‘I wonder if I might have a few moments alone with Courvoisier?’ When she nodded, Charles indicated that they should talk in the car.

  As Patrick climbed in, he had a fleeting image of being whisked away from the gunboat, then put on a private jet and taken back to London. Something of this must have shown in his expression, for Charles said, ‘I assure you I have no intention of kidnapping you, although I believe Forsyth would have jumped at the chance.’

  In the privacy of the car, out of earshot of the driver, Charles said his piece.

  ‘We couldn’t have done this without you.’

  ‘And my reward is?’ Patrick said.

  ‘We leave you alone.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘That I can’t say. Although I would hope for some time.’