The Case of the Black Pearl

by Lin Anderson

  Patrick used the slip road to join the line of traffic on the voie rapide, rapidly filling with marketeers, and headed east.

  Twenty minutes later he found the place. It hadn’t been easy. The interweaving lattice of access roads of Californie was designed to dissuade the curious. The surrounding walls of each property were high enough to maintain their privacy.

  Patrick pulled up on the gravel some metres from the electronic gates and took a closer look at the brochure. Described as being set in a landscaped park of 14,000 square metres, it boasted not one residence but three: the main house, a guesthouse and a caretaker’s lodge. According to the details, the main house had been built at the time of Napoleon III by an English lord.

  Patrick quickly ran his eyes over the blurb. If he had to pass himself off as a prospective buyer, he’d better at least know what he was planning to buy. Satisfied he knew enough, Patrick restarted the engine and approached the gate indicating he wished to enter.

  The camera on the nearest gate post rotated towards him.

  Patrick looked directly at the lens.

  ‘I have an appointment with Monsieur Chevalier and I’m late,’ he said in a tone that brooked no argument.

  There was a moment’s hesitation before the gate, electronically released, swung open. Patrick made a point of roaring through, scattering stones on the white gravel drive.

  The avenue of pines wound upwards, with brief glimpses of what lay beyond. Emerging from the trees he found the house at the top of a rise, facing the not-too-distant sea. A wide set of steps swept down from the forecourt to the obligatory aquamarine swimming pool with its manicured surrounding lawn.

  As he swung into a spot beside Chevalier’s motorbike and a smoked-windowed Mercedes, he spotted what looked like a roof terrace, complete with brightly coloured umbrellas and trellises of flowers, which undoubtedly commanded a remarkable view of the Côte d’Azur.

  Parked now, he took a proper look at the other car. Who was Chevalier’s prospective buyer? Patrick attempted to peer inside, but was prevented by the smoked-glass windows. One thing was certain, whoever owned this quality of car was unlikely to be put off purchasing this property because of its price.

  Patrick approached the house. Finding the double front door open, he entered and stood for a moment in the grand entrance hall, admiring the superb frescos that adorned the walls, deciding the English lord who’d built this place had had an excellent taste in decoration.

  The interior reminded Patrick of a Venetian palace without the crumbling mortar occasioned by the damp. In the hushed silence of the large vestibule, he finally discerned the murmur of distant voices. Tuning in, he made out Chevalier’s distinctive tones and perhaps two others, one of them definitely that of a woman.

  He wondered whether he should seek out the visiting party, or simply wait here and surprise them. He’d decided on the former and was heading for the stairs when a peel of somewhat forced feminine laughter drew his eye upwards.

  Emerging from an upper room were three figures. Chevalier, as distinctive as ever in his trademark apparel and moustache, was followed by a woman with beautiful legs, her face hidden by her male companion, who’d turned for a final look at the room all three had just exited.

  Patrick was halfway up the staircase before his approach was noted and all three faces turned suddenly towards him. Chevalier’s reaction was muted. The woman’s less so. Camille Ager’s expression could only be described as one of horror and confusion, although it was Chapayev who definitely won the prize.

  He stared at Patrick as though wishing to skin him alive.

  ‘I understood this was to be a private showing,’ he said sharply to Chevalier.

  Patrick gave an inward sigh of relief. It seemed he wasn’t immediately recognized without his waiter uniform, but being regarded as a possible rival for the purchase of the Villa Astrid.

  ‘Ah, Courvoisier. I’m glad you could make it,’ Chevalier said immediately. ‘Let me introduce you to Monsieur Chapayev, a potential buyer for Villa Astrid, and of course you met Camille with me at Le P’tit Zinc.’

  Patrick’s acknowledging smile did nothing to ease Camille’s worried expression.

  Chapayev, confused by Le Chevalier’s warm welcome, was re-evaluating the situation. Anger still burned in his eyes, but his expression became more cunning than aggressive as Chevalier continued with his smooth delivery.

  ‘Monsieur de Courvoisier’s family once owned this delightful villa. In fact, Lord Loudon who built it was, I believe, a distant relative?’

  He passed the baton to Patrick, who picked it up and ran with it, impressed by Chevalier’s ability to rise to such an occasion.

  ‘And a fervent Francophile, which led to the establishment through marriage of my own branch of the family,’ Patrick lied pleasantly.

  Chapayev was studying him closely, recognition flickering in those mean little eyes, no doubt wondering how the man before him had mysteriously moved from status as a Cannois waiter on board his yacht, to being a direct descendant of an English lord.

  Camille’s hand fluttered to her face and Patrick saw that it was trembling. He wondered why she was here with a man she’d professed to fear.

  There was a moment’s silence when it seemed to Patrick that all took stock of the situation.

  Chapayev was the first to respond. ‘Since you know the house so well, monsieur, would you walk round with me? I would like to hear more of the man who built it.’

  In the world of chess, it was a good move. Isolate your opponent before the attack.

  Patrick smiled. ‘Of course, I’d be delighted to.’

  Camille, silent until now, interrupted them with a breathless, ‘Can you please excuse me, gentlemen. I must get back to the shop,’ while avoiding Patrick’s eye.

  ‘Of course.’ Chevalier, ever the gentleman, offered to take her if she didn’t mind a motorbike ride. He then turned to Chapayev. ‘I will leave you in Courvoisier’s capable hands. Obviously I hope you’ll be in touch. Properties like Villa Astrid don’t often come on the market.’

  Camille glanced at Chapayev as though asking his permission to depart, and was met by a blank expression. The relationship between herself and the Russian was taking on a whole new hue in Patrick’s eyes.

  Chevalier took her arm. ‘Shall we go?’

  The Russian waited until the motorbike blasted down the avenue, scattering even more stones than Patrick’s arrival, then turned to face him, jowls heavy with threat, eyes like two bullets poised to fire.

  ‘Monsieur de Courvoisier. It seems wherever I am, you are there also.’

  ‘Strangely, I’ve gained the same impression about you.’

  Patrick met him eye to eye, at the same time wondering where the minder was. There had been no one near the Mercedes when he’d arrived, but he couldn’t imagine Chapayev would drive himself here alone.

  The Russian gave a sigh. ‘You were hired to find the whereabouts of Angele Valette. Her sister has now made contact with Angele and therefore you are no longer required. Your time would be better spent talking to the police about the body found on your boat.’

  Patrick pretended to concentrate on the frescos, when he was actually trying to work out where the minder was. He played for a little more time.

  ‘You were the one who asked me to stay and discuss my ancestor and his artistic tastes.’

  Chapayev emitted a choking sound, colour rising to his cheeks in a red sweep of diffused fury. Patrick was no less angry, though he strove to keep his voice steady. The mention of Les Trois Soeurs had flashed the image of Marie Elise once more in his brain.

  ‘I intend finding out who killed Marie Elise,’ he said coldly. ‘And the whereabouts of both Angele and the black pearl.’

  Chapayev glanced upwards and Patrick tensed, every muscle in his body preparing to spring. The minder was close by, perhaps with a gun, waiting for the signal to dispense with this irritant. Patrick decided to move first.

  Launching
himself forward, he propelled into the Russian, knocking the feet from under him and both went slamming to the ground. It wasn’t an elegant manoeuvre but it achieved its purpose. In the resulting jumble of arms, legs and grunts of expelled air, Patrick smelled Chapayev’s fear and heard his barked ‘Nyet’.

  Patrick extracted himself and rose, taking care to maintain a position between the Russian’s bulky body and the open door. Two backward strides and he was through and slamming it behind him.

  His reverse turn on Rue Forville was nothing to the one he executed now. The shower of stones he threw up ricocheted off the windscreen and rained down on him in the open-topped car.

  The gate would be the next problem, but as he descended the hill at speed, it anticipated his arrival and began to swing back. He took his chance and screeched through the half-opening.

  As he wound his way past the walled enclaves of the rich, he contemplated what had just happened. He’d had no reason to believe that Chevalier would have placed him in danger by leaving him alone with Chapayev. Chevalier had been unaware of his visit to the Heavenly Princess and therefore didn’t know that he had met Chapayev there. Chevalier also knew nothing of the gutted rabbit.

  Would his friend have abandoned him so easily if he had? And what of Camille Ager? The fear on her face when Patrick had turned up had been hard to miss. And that look to Chapayev when she’d left. Maybe his interpretation of her actions was correct and Camille was just a pawn in whatever game Chapayev was playing.

  To cap it all, he’d had no opportunity to gauge Chevalier’s response to Marie’s murder.

  He took a ninety-degree turn, realizing he had missed the slip road for the voie rapide. Repeated glances in his mirror had convinced him that he hadn’t been followed. If Chapayev had been intent on preventing his departure, he could have ordered the gate to stay shut.

  Patrick hit the brake to avoid slamming into the queue building on the slip road. The voie rapide looked anything but quick, so he reversed in cavalier fashion, causing a blast of irritated horns, and chose an alternative route.

  TEN

  Avoiding the snarled-up dual carriageway didn’t necessarily save him time: the backstreets of Cannes were equally busy. Although the bus and train services along the Côte d’Azur were cheap and frequent, people still preferred sitting in their cars, sounding their horns.

  Patrick glanced at his watch, conscious it was already lunchtime and breakfast had consisted of only coffee. He headed for Boulevard Jean Hibert, on the western side of the old port, and was blessed with a parking space close by the beach restaurants. Tucked out of sight of the festival crowd, and serving non-stop, he was more likely to get a table here.

  Hunger was preventing his brain from functioning. Either that or the fact that the sequence of events and behaviours he’d witnessed over the past couple of days made no sense at all.

  He chose the O’key Beach where Jacky and Marcella ran a family business and knew their regulars. Offered a recently vacated table next to the beach, he ordered the day’s special and a half pichet of rosé, then he called the Chanteclair.

  It was Preben who answered.

  ‘We’ve got him,’ he said as soon as he heard Patrick’s voice. ‘He was found on the rocks near the entrance to the harbour, half-drowned, with a gash on his head, which is now stitched.’

  Patrick was surprised at the strength of his relief. He was fond of the determined little bulldog.

  ‘I’ll be there shortly.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky if Pascal lets you have him back,’ Preben said in a serious tone.

  Patrick rang off as his lunch arrived. The sardines, freshly caught that morning, tasted excellent. The wine was local, fresh and unassuming. Patrick ate with gusto, the one good piece of news regarding Oscar having sharpened his appetite.

  Since his arrival, a second wave of diners had joined him on the deck.

  On one side was a French family of parents, grandparents and two children under five, the children dividing their time between the table and the beach. On the other, two suited Americans conducted a lively conversation intermittently interrupted by mobile devices. One was definitely pitching a movie, which he proclaimed would be ‘The Bourne Identity meets Pirates of the Caribbean’ and would star Johnny Depp. Patrick was intrigued, because the pitch sounded a bit like his own life at the moment.

  When the waitress came for his empty plate, Patrick ordered a double espresso, then checked his mobile again. There was still nothing from Chevalier, and his message to Camille continued to be unanswered.

  While sipping his coffee, he pondered the last forty-eight hours.

  A frightened Camille Ager, having almost begged him to find her missing half-sister and the black pearl, before Chapayev did, now claimed her sister was well and in Paris. She had not however mentioned the pearl during that conversation. Now she appeared to be spending time in the company of the man she’d originally been frightened of, although judging by Camille’s behaviour at Villa Astrid, that fear had not abated.

  Patrick added in the threat of a gutted rabbit, the missing sous chef, the murdered escort and the half-drowned dog to the already complex equation. The possible duplicity of Moreaux, and evidence of Chevalier’s connection with the Russian over Villa Astrid, rendered the water even murkier.

  No further forward in his deliberations, despite a satisfied appetite, Patrick paid his bill and left. Returning the car to the garage, he let himself in at the Chanteclair and was immediately greeted by a tan bullet on somewhat wobbly legs. Pascal clucked along behind, trying to scoop up the small but hefty bundle.

  ‘He will burst his stitches,’ he said in alarm.

  Patrick intervened, ordered Oscar to sit, and crouched beside him for a closer look. In the shaved area on top of his head was a stitched wound, red and raw-looking, about four centimetres long. Either the intruder had inflicted it, then thrown the dog overboard, or else Oscar had been injured once in the water. Knowing Oscar’s propensity to defend those he loved, Patrick suspected the former was the more likely explanation.

  Murmuring words of praise, he rubbed the dog’s ears. That was sufficient for Oscar. He retreated to the rug laid out for him in the shade and went back to his drug-induced slumbers.

  ‘You had a visitor,’ Pascal said in an undertone, as though they were being observed from one of the various windows overlooking the courtyard. A dedicated fan of crime and thriller novels, it now appeared Pascal believed himself to be in one.

  Patrick waited to hear who the visitor was.

  ‘Madame Lacroix.’ Pascal gave him a knowing look. ‘She wants to see you.’

  The Hibiscus headquarters were located on Rue d’Antibes, tucked between a prestigious bank and an expensive couturier, favoured by visiting movie stars. The entrance was a traditional heavy wooden door with polished brass handle, but with no nameplate.

  If permitted to enter, visitors would discover murals imitating the erotic paintings of Bouchet and Fragonard lining the marble staircase leading to the upper level. Should they prefer to use the cage lift, they would find the metal bars fashioned in the female form.

  Patrick chose the stairs.

  Hibiscus was operated from Brigitte’s apartment, which had once been owned by a prominent French politician who had used it to house a string of mistresses. It had been appropriated during the Vichy administration and operated as an upmarket brothel for collaborators and visiting Nazis. Fortunately, according to Chevalier, the interior decor had remained intact.

  Brigitte’s order to come up had been brusque and icily furious. She obviously blamed Patrick for what had happened to Marie Elise, thus assuming her death was something to do with his investigation. In that she wasn’t far wrong.

  As he reached the first landing, the door to the apartment was flung open.

  Brigitte Lacroix was a stunningly handsome woman. Small, slim and elegantly dressed, she extruded a sensuality to rival the naked abandonment of those who lined her staircase. Her dark
eyes and strong nose, high cheekbones and arched brows owed nothing to cosmetic surgery. Hers was a face that knew age and did not scorn it. Rather like a fine wine, she grew more flavoursome with the years. Patrick understood perfectly why Moreaux should favour her over a younger model for his mistress.

  ‘Courvoisier.’ She glared at him for a moment, registering the full extent of her wrath, then indicated that he should follow her inside.

  Patrick had never been in the hallowed halls of Hibiscus before and found himself impressed, despite the circumstances. The interior decor rivaled the Villa Astrid in its sumptuousness. It too had frescos above each door in the large entrance hall, although he had no time to study them as he was quickly ushered into a sitting room. In here was cool and shadowy, the shutters closed against the noise of Rue d’Antibes.

  Madame Lacroix lit a cheroot and took time to draw on it while observing him with flashing eyes.

  ‘I did not arrange to meet Marie Elise last night,’ he began.

  ‘Then why was she on your boat?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  The eyes became dagger points below the arched brows.

  He strove to explain. ‘I saw Marie Elise having dinner with a Swedish man at Le Provençal earlier in the evening when I was at Los Faroles. She had left by the time Fritz closed up. I went to the boat, collected Oscar and ended up at the Chanteclair where I spent the night.’

  At his mention of the Swede, a look of puzzlement crossed Brigitte’s face, suggesting any conversation she’d had with Moreaux had not included that part of the story.

  ‘I told Lieutenant Moreaux all this when he interviewed me this morning,’ Patrick said for good measure.

  She paused to exhale her annoyance. ‘What did this Swede look like?’

  ‘Tall, blond, handsome, wealthy.’ It might have been a description of any number of Hibiscus clients. ‘Do you have someone fitting that description on your books? Or does your discretion go as far as protecting a killer?’ he said pointedly.