The Case of the Black Pearl

by Lin Anderson

  Patrick got his chance to ask about Leon Aubert fifteen minutes later when Fritz announced he was closing. The surprised clientele, used to late-night Cannes, looked somewhat bemused as Fritz stacked chairs around them. Finally persuaded that he was indeed closing, they headed off to find an alternative drinking establishment.

  Patrick rinsed glasses while Fritz secured the metal shutter. As it descended, so too did the noise of Cannes.

  Fritz waved a bottle of cognac in Patrick’s direction. ‘You have time for a drink?’

  Patrick nodded. ‘I have something I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘I suspected as much.’

  Fritz put two tumblers on the table and poured a generous measure in each glass. He sniffed his and gave a small satisfied smile before sampling.

  ‘A Camus,’ he informed Patrick. ‘Good.’

  Patrick gave Fritz time to savour his cognac, before offering him the name Leon Aubert. Anger instantly suffused his face and he muttered a curse which Patrick translated as ‘a walking piece of shit’.

  ‘He came here looking for a job. Said he could cook. Lasted a week. When he went, we were missing at least a dozen bottles of good wine. I wanted to contact the police but He would have none of it. (He being the boss and owner of Los Faroles.) I went to his room on Rue du Pre. His landlady said he had a job cooking on a yacht in the harbour. God help them.’ Fritz rolled his eyes.

  ‘Monique Girard says Leon didn’t turn up for work the other night,’ Patrick said. ‘That’s why she’s helping out on the black yacht.’

  Fritz considered this. ‘Did the owner find something missing?’

  When Patrick didn’t answer, Fritz said, ‘What did he take?’

  Patrick contemplated what, if anything, he should divulge. He didn’t know for certain that the black pearl was missing. And he had no proof that Leon Aubert had anything to do with its possible disappearance.

  Fritz accepted his reticence. ‘The old woman he rents from said he had a girlfriend. Sylvie or Sophie, something like that. She works at the Crystal Bar. You could ask her where Leon is.’

  Patrick nodded his thanks and finished up his cognac.

  They exited the café together. When Fritz headed up the steps towards La Castre, Patrick took a left, but not before he checked out if Marie Elise and her companion were still at dinner.

  The blond and dark heads had disappeared, replaced by two men with festival badges hanging round their necks. Patrick chose not to surmise where Marie had gone, and what she might now be doing. He cursed himself for not getting in touch with her sooner, and vowed to do so as soon as he met up with Chevalier again.

  Rue du Pre was deserted. Few visitors ventured over the hill, not realizing they could access the western beachfront by walking down the backstreets of Le Suquet. Here, the late-night grocery shops and fast-food restaurants catered mainly for local inhabitants, many of them Algerians or itinerant workers from other African countries.

  Leon’s room was in a block at the foot of the street where it met the busier carriageway of Rue Georges Clémenceau. Patrick rang the buzzer and an elderly female voice answered. When Patrick said he was there to see Leon Aubert, she let him in.

  She was waiting for him at an open door on the first floor. Behind the short rotund figure swathed in black, he could see the flash of a television set with an accompanying rattle of words in Arabic.

  The woman peered at him through wrinkled folds. ‘He’s not here. Hasn’t been for two weeks and he owes rent.’

  Patrick pointedly reached for his wallet. ‘I’d like to take a look at his room,’ he said.

  She didn’t ask why but swiftly accepted the fifty euro note, slipped it somewhere among the black folds, checking over her shoulder as she did so. Shuffling out, she inserted a key in a nearby door, pushed it open and flicked on a light, before heading back to her own place.

  Patrick stepped inside and shut the door.

  The room was tiny, with scarcely space for the metal bed, single wardrobe and desk and chair that occupied it. On the wall was a calendar displaying super yachts available for hire. The address was a company with an office next to the Irish pub.

  Patrick went through the scarce contents of the wardrobe, checking trouser and shirt pockets, before pulling the wardrobe away from what proved to be a blank wall. There was nothing under the bed or in the desk drawer either. It didn’t take him long to realize he had paid dearly to view an empty room. Patrick wondered just how many visitors the landlady had scammed in their search for Leon.

  As he made to leave, the calendar caught his eye again. Patrick took it down and flipped through, and was finally rewarded. On the back of the May page he found a faintly scribbled phone number. He tore out the page and slipped it in his pocket.

  Finally, he checked the small window above the bed, through which he could see the illuminated Musée de la Castre. It opened easily and a cool breeze carrying the scent of the sea swept into the stuffy room.

  Standing on the chair, he had a good view of the neighbouring rooftops. He stuck his head out to find a flat surface with a drying line where a number of items of clothing fluttered in the breeze. Patrick pulled himself up and out on to the roof space. A metal seat to the left of the window, with two empty beer bottles below it, suggested Leon had used this area as his balcony.

  Beside the chair was what Patrick was looking for. Under a fringed blue throw was a metal box with a padlock. Leon’s private safe.

  The padlock was a cheap combination model, made in China. Patrick pulled on the shackle and, keeping the tension, started on the outer tumbler, easing it round until it locked in place at 5. Seconds later, he had the full combination. He unhooked the padlock and pulled open the door.

  Inside he found a cloth bag containing a loaded SIG SP 2022, a custom-tailored semi-automatic pistol, standard issue of the Police Nationale. Inside the bag was a thick wad of euros and a French passport. The photograph inside was of a man in his twenties, name of Leon Aubert.

  Patrick pocketed the money and passport, and slipped the pistol into his belt, then re-locked the safe and pulled the cover back in place. Pushing the window closed, he decided to use the rooftop terraces as his exit point.

  Ten minutes later, he was dropping on to the road directly behind the castle.

  There was no one on the western side of the ramparts, the eastern panoramic viewpoint with its fabulous vista of Cannes being more popular. Patrick headed in that direction, passing the big double doors of the Church of Notre-Dame de l’Espérance, which were firmly shut at this hour, to head down the steep hill towards the bus station.

  The Crystal Bar stood opposite the Gare Routiere, which itself lay between the municipal police office and the town hall. As he approached the old port, the sounds of Cannes at play grew more prominent. Honking horns and the irritating farting of scooters met him as he passed the gaudily painted wall by the bus stance, decorated with images of famous movie moments.

  This part of Le Suquet was buzzing, the street tables of the Crystal Bar and its neighbouring cafés packed with festival-goers and film tourists. Patrick spotted a couple vacating an outside table at the Crystal, and swiftly took up the empty spot.

  There were two women serving the busy tables, while a male behind the counter mixed the cocktails for which the Crystal was renowned. Patrick waited until the younger of the two women was in view and waved her over.

  He ordered a beer and tried a name. ‘Sophie?’

  ‘Sylvie,’ she corrected him, then recognition dawned on her face. ‘Heh, you’re the guy with the cute dog who lives on the old boat at the harbour.’

  Patrick silently thanked Oscar for his invaluable ability to attract female attention.

  ‘His name is Oscar and he’s incorrigible.’ Patrick smiled, before adding, ‘And you’re Leon Aubert’s girl. How’s his new job going? I haven’t seen him since he went aboard the Heavenly Princess.’

  Her smile disappeared. ‘Who told you I was Leon’s girl?’
she said sharply.

  Patrick pretended embarrassment. ‘Sorry. He said you and he were dating. I told him he was a lucky bastard.’ He threw her an admiring glance, which wasn’t undeserved.

  ‘Well, I’m no one’s girl.’ She met his interested look with one of her own. ‘So where’s Oscar tonight?’

  ‘Guard duty aboard Les Trois Soeurs.’

  She smiled, then waited as though expecting something more.

  ‘When do you finish here?’ Patrick tried.

  ‘We close at one.’

  About an hour from now.

  Patrick made his pitch. ‘Oscar and I should be on deck having a nightcap if you’re walking that way. I’m sure he’d be delighted to see you.’

  ‘Would he now?’

  Sylvie lifted the two empty glasses from the previous occupants. ‘I’ll get your beer.’

  His order arrived via the older waitress, who gave him the once over, suggesting Sylvie had divulged their conversation. Patrick wasn’t sure by her expression whether he came up to scratch. Oscar was obviously more enticing than his owner.

  Patrick finished up his drink and headed back to the gunboat. It was time for Oscar’s evening stroll and Patrick wanted to be back and waiting on the top deck just in case Sylvie should decide to visit. She’d denied being Leon’s girl, but he’d gained the impression that she knew Leon, perhaps better than she’d been prepared to admit.

  Patrick gave a soft whistle as he approached Les Trois Soeurs, normally answered by a bark of delight. This time there was silence. His first thought was that Marie Elise might have returned and taken Oscar below deck, but that idea didn’t seem likely after seeing her deep in conversation with the Swede on Rue Saint Antoine.

  When a second whistle brought no response, Patrick eased Leon’s gun from his belt, before pulling down the walkway.

  Opening the cabin door, he dipped his head and peered down the steps. No metallic scent of blood this time and still no evidence of Oscar. He tried the low whistle again. If Oscar was sleeping in the engine room, which he sometimes did, he may not have heard his arrival.

  Patrick descended the steps and stood listening for a moment in the shadowy cabin, gun at the ready. There was sufficient light filtering in from the quayside to convince him that the room was empty. Patrick sniffed the air, catching a scent he recognized as that worn by Marie Elise. So she had been here, and not long ago.

  Maybe she’d taken Oscar for an evening stroll?

  Patrick stuck the gun in his belt and switched on the light, before heading back up the steps to scan the various walkways that criss-crossed the harbour. Apart from the usual smokers outside the Irish bar there was no one in sight. Puzzled, Patrick went back inside for a better look. Oscar had been known to get himself trapped in remote corners of the gunboat, but his incarceration was usually accompanied by enough yelps and whines to wake the dead.

  His senses back on high alert, Patrick headed for the engine room, checking all the nooks and crannies the dog might have squeezed into. That’s when he heard it. Living on a boat had inured him to the sound of water forever lapping the hull, but this wasn’t water lapping, this was water running and it was coming from under the door that led to the sunken bath. He drew the gun again and eased his way along the narrow walkway to the aft of the engine.

  Reaching the door, he stood outside listening. Apart from the continuing trickle of water, there was nothing. He ran possible scenarios over in his head as to why the bath should have filled to overflowing. He’d used the shower when he’d come back from the dive, but he was sure he’d turned it off.

  He pushed the door, forcing it against what was definitely lying water. A ripple washed through the narrow opening, surrounding his feet. The bathroom was in darkness, the only light a blink of red-orange via the rear porthole, which seemed at that moment like an evil eye.

  What that eye revealed horrified him.

  Patrick put his full weight behind the door and it lurched open, sending water to gush past him. Tossing the gun to one side, he sprang for the bath, sloshing his way through the overspill, grabbing one arm then the other to drag her head above the surface of the water.

  The beautiful mouth hung open, the liquid brown eyes stared emptily up at him. Desperate now, he fastened his lips on hers, blowing air into her sodden lungs, knowing his attempts were useless. Marie Elise was cold and dead, and no breath from him would change that.

  Seconds later, he heard the shriek of a police siren, as though on cue, and too much of a coincidence. Patrick gently released Marie Elise and she sank back below the surface. He could do nothing for her now and being discovered here with her naked body wouldn’t help.

  Retrieving the gun, he quickly re-traced his steps to the engine room and located his hoard of money and passports sealed in a waterproof bag, then waded back through the water. There was a hatch above the bath, from the time when the stern had been a store. He reached up, unfastened it and eased it open.

  The police car screeched to a halt next to the gunboat just as Patrick thrust himself up through the open hatch. Keeping low and hidden by the cabin, he climbed over the handrail and dropped silently into the water.

  Three yachts further on, he broke surface just in time to see Lieutenant Moreaux’s iron-grey head cross the deck of Les Trois Soeurs and disappear down the steps to the cabin.

  NINE

  Silently treading water, Patrick considered his options. The choice was limited.

  He could head for the harbour exit, swim around the point and come ashore on the west beach. Or he could swim across the harbour, keeping out of sight between the moored yachts, and emerge near the Palais des Festivals.

  He decided almost immediately the latter was the better option. The more distance he put between himself and the gunboat, the better. The officers who’d accompanied Moreaux were already checking along the Quai Saint Pierre and he’d spotted one entering the Irish bar.

  Only coming up for air when necessary, Patrick made his way around the numerous pontoons, trying not to get entangled in the guy ropes. The larger yachts were tied up at Jetée Albert Edouard, alongside the casino. Most were still brightly lit, with people moving about on deck, which might make it difficult to emerge from the water without causing comment.

  On the outer flank of the harbour wall he spotted one large yacht in darkness. Patrick headed in that direction, keeping well out of the light. He waited at the stern, holding on to a rope, watching to see if a security guard was patrolling its upper decks.

  Eventually he was rewarded for his patience. A black-shirted guy appeared to walk the length of the yacht and back again, before stopping to look enviously at what was obviously a party in full swing two yachts down.

  Patrick chose that moment to swiftly climb a metal ladder attached to the harbour wall, before walking purposefully towards the party yacht. If the security guy shouted after him, he never heard, so quickly was he surrounded by the pounding music.

  He lingered there for a moment to look back at the gunboat. Les Trois Soeurs was now a hive of activity, three police cars lined up along the quai, all with their lights flashing.

  Patrick recalled his earlier ominous words to Chevalier, that Lieutenant Moreaux would appear only if they found a body. That declaration had returned to haunt him with a vengeance. Back then he’d been worried about Angele’s safety. Never had he considered Marie Elise to be in danger, nor that by contacting her he might make it so.

  With that distressing thought in mind, Patrick left the harbour and headed for the Croisette. A great swathe of the east beach was supplanted by a tented village for film festival delegates and movie companies. That area lay in darkness, although further along, the pontoons of the big hotels were still alive with partygoers.

  Deciding now it was safe enough to double back, he departed the main thoroughfare and, keeping to the backstreets, made for the imposing red edifice that housed the daily market. A few yards further up Rue Forville, he approached a door and, slip
ping in his key, gained access to a courtyard.

  Hôtel Chanteclair was in darkness apart from a single light above the closed front door.

  Patrick entered as quietly as possible, shutting the door carefully behind him.

  It didn’t work. Pascal, light sleeper that he was, heard him and a sleepy face appeared at the bedroom door. A rapid conversation in French followed.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘I need to use the room tonight.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Les Trois Soeurs?’

  ‘Moreaux and his men are swarming all over it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have no idea, but I’d rather wait until morning to find out.’

  Pascal noted his wet appearance, but did not comment further, as Patrick headed past him up the stairs.

  He kept a room at the Chanteclair all year round, although he stayed in it only on occasion. Mostly in winter when the gunboat got too cold for comfort, or when his cash reserves were running low, when he would rent out Les Trois Soeurs for the various festivals.

  The arrangement suited both himself and the owner, Pascal, very well.

  Patrick hadn’t been back since February, when a cold snap, brought about by bitter winds from the nearby snow-covered Alps, had rendered Les Trois Soeurs uninhabitable, which meant that the supply of clothes he’d left behind were mostly for winter.

  He took a quick shower, then rummaged around until he located a pair of jeans and a shirt, plus shoes to replace those he’d kicked off in his flight. He also found the whisky bottle – a ten-year-old Islay malt from which he poured a generous measure before settling down on the bed, where he emptied the contents of the waterproof bag beside him.

  As well as a gun, money and passports, he had three mobiles, each ‘owned’ by one of his personas. He checked the Courvoisier one to find that Moreaux had attempted to reach him three times.