The Case of the Black Pearl

by Lin Anderson

  A shadow crossed Angele’s face, and for a brief moment Patrick saw fear in her eyes.

  ‘You know this man?’

  ‘Maybe. There is someone on Chapayev’s payroll who looks like that.’ She lit another cigarette and Patrick noticed that her hand was shaking. She took a deep draw before continuing. ‘He is a diver. They used him in the underwater scenes.’ She exhaled then had another shot of nicotine before she asked, ‘How did Marie die?’

  ‘Drowned in the bath.’

  She gave an ugly little laugh. ‘That sounds like him.’ She blew smoke, then turned and stubbed the cigarette out on the window ledge. ‘During the filming, Gustafson took offence at a remark I made about his boss. He was in charge of my air supply and chose to remind me of that.’

  ‘He’s capable of murder?’

  ‘He’s capable of worse than that.’ She seemed lost in some terrible thought, which Patrick chose not to intrude upon.

  She was behind him now, releasing the binding on his wrists. When he eventually rose to his feet, she handed him his gun. He took it then checked his pockets.

  ‘Leon has the money,’ she said.

  ‘How much was in the envelope?’

  The question surprised her. ‘Ten thousand euros.’

  A considerable sum. Madame Lacroix hadn’t skimped on her desire to see Marie Elise’s killer brought to justice. Rough or otherwise.

  ‘And Lieutenant Moreaux. What part does he play in all this?’ he asked.

  ‘I have never heard this man’s name before.’

  Patrick described the short, dapper and immediately identifiable detective. ‘He was being entertained on the Heavenly Princess just before Marie was found. He and Chapayev looked like old friends.’

  She shook her head. ‘I do not think so. Perhaps he was engaged to look for the pearl.’ She didn’t add ‘and me’.

  Patrick switched tack. ‘What about Polinsky and Gramesci? How much do they know?’

  Angele gave a dismissive little ‘poof’ sound. ‘Richard is terrified of Chapayev. He had no idea what he was getting into when he took the Russian’s money. He thought, as I did, that the funds were Italian, because of Gramesci’s involvement. If the movie doesn’t make money, Richard is likely to pay very dearly for it.’

  She shrugged. ‘Sergio has Mafia connections. Small time, but they may save him. Chapayev understands the power of the Mafia, however far down the chain the connection is.’ She lifted the cigarette packet, thought about lighting another. ‘Watch out for Conor. He’s a real bastard. He’d sell his own child for fame.’

  Patrick recalled the character of the kind fisherman who’d found Angele washed up on the beach in The Black Pearl.

  ‘I take it Conor wasn’t playing himself in the movie?’

  ‘Apart from his desire to have sex with me all the time, no.’

  ‘And the pearl?’ he asked.

  Angele regarded him with calculating eyes. ‘Somewhere safe.’

  ‘Unless Chapayev finds you.’

  Patrick expected his remark to frighten her, but there was more anger than fear in her response.

  ‘The meeting I had with Marie Elise in the toilet was more than just coincidence. We knew each other in Paris, before she went to work for Hibiscus.’

  Patrick recalled Marie’s intensity when she’d spoken of Angele’s safety and her concern about Chapayev. Now he understood why.

  ‘You told Marie that night what you were planning?’

  She nodded. ‘I never thought I was putting her in danger.’

  Patrick had no doubt the Heavenly Princess was riddled with security equipment, even the washrooms. When Angele disappeared, the recording of her with Marie would have come to light. That was the reason the Swede had wined and dined Marie that night. And probably the reason she was dead.

  ‘Leon will be back soon,’ he said. ‘We need to agree a plan.’

  She nodded and waited for him to go on.

  ‘First, I take you somewhere Chapayev won’t find you.’

  ‘What about Leon?’

  He could always leave Leon to the Russian’s henchman. Then again, the sous chef would talk very easily and knew too much. At that moment they heard the sound of the front door opening. The subject of their conversation was back.

  Patrick turned to the door, gun in hand. ‘I’ll deal with Leon,’ he said.

  ELEVEN

  Two hours later Patrick returned the Ferrari to the safety of the garage and re-entered the courtyard. Seeing him, Oscar raised his head briefly from his sick bed, but didn’t come to greet his master. The bulldog had a sorry air about him, as though the drugs had worn off and the pain had returned.

  Patrick understood his feelings entirely: his own head was throbbing in unison. He walked over and gently ruffled the dog’s ears.

  ‘I know exactly how you feel,’ he said.

  At the sound of Patrick’s voice, Pascal came quickly out of the hotel, muttering, ‘The vet will be here soon to give him another shot.’ When he saw Patrick’s battered face, his mouth dropped open in shock. ‘Mon Dieu. What happened to you?’

  ‘An argument with a woman.’ Patrick attempted a smile. Pascal’s reaction suggested it made him look even more like a gargoyle. ‘I’m going to have a whisky. Would you like to join me?’

  Pascal nodded, momentarily lost for words.

  Patrick went upstairs to his room, unlocked the door and stood for a moment studying the interior, then decided it looked exactly as he’d left it. The chance of a visitor without Pascal’s knowledge was unlikely, but you could never be too sure.

  He lifted the whisky bottle from the bedside cabinet, locked the door and headed downstairs again.

  Pascal had two tumblers waiting on a table while Oscar had gone back to his pain-ridden slumbers, occasionally emitting a small pitiful whine to remind them how much he suffered.

  Patrick poured two good measures, drank his swiftly and replenished the glass. The kick of the spirit, followed by the afterglow, was good enough to repeat. As he tipped in the third measure, Pascal was only just sampling his first.

  ‘I have some painkillers if you need them?’ he offered.

  Patrick held up the glass. ‘This will do the trick.’ In truth he was drinking the whisky as much in celebration as for pain. He’d found Angele Valette and would soon be in possession of the pearl. And he had his revenge to look forward to.

  Patrick glanced across the table at Pascal, who was giving him a concerned look.

  ‘Have you found out anything about Marie Elise?’

  Patrick nodded, but didn’t elaborate. The less Pascal knew from now on, the safer he and Preben were.

  ‘Any visitors while I was out?’

  Pascal shook his head. ‘None.’

  Patrick’s mobile drilled as he lifted the glass to his lips again. It was Chevalier’s name on the screen.

  ‘Chevalier?’

  ‘I’m at the casino. Do you feel lucky?’ Chevalier’s tone was normal.

  Patrick answered in the same manner. ‘As a matter of fact, I do.’

  He downed his whisky and stood up.

  Pascal opened his mouth to ask where he was going, then decided against it. They both glanced over at poor Oscar.

  ‘Look after him for me,’ Patrick said.

  A short while later, showered and dressed in more suitable attire for an evening at the casino, Patrick set off.

  There were four serious casinos in Cannes, suitably spaced out along the Croisette. One at the Majestic, Les Princes at the Carlton, the Palme d’Or and, nearest to Le Suquet, the Casino Croisette, his own and Chevalier’s regular haunt.

  Passing the Crystal Bar he spotted Sylvie waiting on tables. She looked tired and drawn. He waited for her to approach the bar to place an order, then entered though the side door. When she saw him, she glanced round as though she might run away.

  ‘What do you want?’ she said sharply.

  He placed a hand on her arm. ‘Are you OK?’ he said. />
  ‘I’d be better if you stayed away from me.’

  Patrick wondered if she’d spoken to Leon, whether she knew anything about him and Angele. If she did, then she too was in danger.

  ‘Has anyone been in here asking about Leon apart from me?’ Patrick said.

  ‘I told you, I have nothing to do with Leon.’

  She attempted to free her arm, but Patrick held on. ‘Don’t speak to anyone,’ he warned. ‘About Leon, or about me. Even the police. Do you understand?’

  She nodded, her eyes wide, and Patrick released her.

  Picking up her order she cast him a fearful glance, then headed into the crowded tables.

  Composing himself, Patrick exited the bar and moved out of sight. He didn’t want to frighten Sylvie, but felt he had no choice. If she had any connection with Leon, she needed to break it now. From Sylvie’s initial reaction he deduced that the police hadn’t yet visited the Crystal, although they would eventually. It was close enough to the scene of the crime to warrant talking to its staff. With luck, Sylvie would keep her mouth shut when she met Moreaux. But she might just decide to make contact with Leon.

  Making his way through the gardens of the Hôtel de Ville, he set a course for the Palais des Festivals. The closer he got to the distinctive building, the denser the crowds became. Two large viewing screens had been erected on either side of the famous red carpet, so that those at the back could see the arrivals. From the excitement of the crowd, it seemed someone really famous had just drawn up in a sleek black limousine.

  Patrick veered to the right, out of the swiftly moving throng, and entered the casino’s grand foyer, just as screams of delight rang out from the crowd outside. Passing a line of Greek statues, and the huge aquarium in which lurked a beady-eyed shark, Patrick spotted Cleo on duty behind the reception desk.

  Newcomers were required to show their passport on entry, but not the casino regulars. Cleo, sufficiently far away not to register the facial bruising, waved Patrick through with a smile.

  The main hall with its slot machines was busy, all eyes remaining fixated on the screens as Patrick walked past. It was a type of gambling he thought tedious. Endlessly pressing buttons, lights flashing inanely. No opponent to size up. No intelligence to challenge.

  Patrick preferred poker or baccarat, and was skilled at both, although Chevalier was probably the better player. Not that Patrick would ever admit that to him.

  He exchanged a substantial sum for chips, pleased that he’d succeeded in removing his cache from Les Trois Soeurs before Moreaux had taken over the boat. He’d also persuaded Angele to return half the Lacroix payment. The rest she said he would get when he gave back Leon’s money, passport and gun. Patrick trusted Angele about as much as she trusted him, which wasn’t a great deal. He might yet tell her that he’d discovered on re-boarding the gunboat that Leon’s belongings had been found and confiscated by Moreaux.

  Everything depended on whether Angele chose to reveal the whereabouts of the pearl.

  With this thought in mind, Patrick checked the various poker rooms until he found Chevalier already seated and at play in room three. Chevalier briefly acknowledged Patrick’s arrival, then went back to concentrating on the game. It seemed whatever he wanted to discuss with Patrick would have to wait.

  Two hours later and 3000 euros richer from his own poker game, Patrick spotted Chevalier heading for the bar. Retiring from the table, he followed him there. Chevalier ordered a bottle of champagne and two glasses and took himself off to a quiet table, where Patrick joined him.

  Chevalier said nothing until the champagne was served and he’d sampled it. Pronouncing it acceptable with a brief nod at the waiter, who then departed, Chevalier turned his gaze on Patrick. A quizzical look indicated he had noted the unhappy state of Patrick’s face.

  ‘How was your game?’ Chevalier asked.

  ‘Suitably rewarding.’

  ‘I too have been lucky. I sold an expensive property today and have just won five thousand euros. Hence the champagne.’

  ‘I take it Villa Astrid is now in Russian hands?’ Patrick said.

  ‘It soon will be.’ Chevalier looked pointedly at Patrick’s face. ‘How did things go after I left?’

  ‘I got the impression your client didn’t like me.’ Patrick fingered his bruised temple as though it had been Chapayev’s work.

  ‘How unfortunate.’ Chevalier took a sip of champagne. ‘You must have been surprised to find Madamoiselle Ager in our company.’

  ‘A little,’ Patrick admitted.

  ‘I invited her. My client desires some changes to be made to the decor and Camille is an excellent interior designer.’

  Patrick accepted what he suspected might be a lie.

  ‘How is the search going for her sister?’ Chevalier asked.

  ‘I’ve made some progress.’

  Chevalier studied him. ‘And Marie Elise?’ Having finally raised the subject, his voice broke a little on her name.

  ‘Collateral damage, for which I believe your buyer was responsible.’

  There was a moment’s angry silence, then Chevalier said, ‘For which we will make him pay.’

  The Chanteclair lay in darkness. Oscar was nowhere to be seen in the downstairs public room, which suggested he’d been taken in with Pascal for the night. Patrick half-expected the dog to register his arrival with a growl or bark. Oscar’s sense of smell and acute hearing were legendary. When the dog didn’t make a sound, Patrick put it down to heavy sedation.

  Climbing the stairs to the second floor, he opened his own door. Closing and locking it behind him, he lay down on the bed. It had been an eventful day and he needed to assimilate all that had happened. Chevalier’s shock at Marie’s murder had been palpable, but it still hadn’t convinced Patrick to reveal that he’d found Angele.

  According to Chevalier, Camille insisted she was now in regular contact with her sister.

  ‘And you believe her?’ Patrick had asked.

  ‘No more than you do,’ Chevalier had said.

  Angele hadn’t verified that she had a sister, only that ‘the woman’ who’d hired Patrick to look for her was in fact in Chapayev’s pay.

  Patrick rose and opened the shutter. Below him the courtyard, its tables, parasols and plants still lay in shadowy darkness, although a few lights were on in the surrounding buildings.

  Cannes would awake soon. In less than two hours the nearby Place de la Misericorde would thrum with the sound of marketeers’ vans as the produce from the surrounding farms arrived and was unloaded.

  Standing in the silence, Patrick allowed himself a few moments of regret that he hadn’t anticipated his opponent well enough to prevent Marie’s death, before vowing aloud that Chapayev would pay, in every way possible.

  With this murderous thought, he lay down on the bed and was swiftly asleep.

  Cannes, unlike Venice, didn’t begin each morning with a competing chorus of church bells. That was not to say there weren’t any. The magnificent Notre-Dame de l’Espérance that crowned Le Suquet provided the main call to worship for the faithful.

  Patrick preferred the bell of the nearby Chapelle de la Misericorde, a modest and ancient building that marked the outer wall of the original Saracen hill town. It was the Chapel of Mercy’s call to early Mass that woke him, although mercy was far from his mind as he rose to face the day.

  His sleep had been deep, his dreams vivid. Sunken bodies had been the chief feature. Marie’s face floating just below the surface of the bath water. Angele in the grotto, before she kicked to the surface. He too had featured in the nightmare, struggling for air, the suffocating weight of the sea pressing down on him.

  He stood up swiftly and went to shower, ignoring the thought that the dream might be a warning. The plan he’d hatched held danger. But this time the danger would be his alone. He turned the temperature to cold and the sharp prick of the water needles blistered his skin with goosebumps as the blood rose to the surface.

  His he
ad clear now of doubt, he emerged and dried himself roughly with the towel. He would be back aboard Les Trois Soeurs today. He considered whether he should take Oscar or leave the dog in Pascal’s capable hands for the moment.

  When he stepped into the courtyard, Oscar rose from his mat and came to greet him. More spritely this morning, he gave his master an affectionate lick and had his ears rubbed.

  Pascal threw Patrick a warning glance.

  ‘The vet recommends absolute rest.’

  ‘I’d like to leave him here for the moment, if you’re happy to have him?’

  ‘Of course.’ Pascal cheered up. ‘Breakfast?’

  Patrick declined the offer, anticipating an interrogation to accompany the coffee and croissants. He bade Oscar goodbye and sent him back to bed. It was indicative that the dog hadn’t fully recovered that he immediately complied.

  Pascal shot Patrick a look that said ‘I told you so’ and went back to serving his guests.

  Twenty minutes later, Patrick was steering the Ferrari west along the coastal route, weaving his way through the intervening villages and occasional small towns. By train it took no more than half an hour. By road, it depended on the traffic. August, when the French took their holidays and flocked south, was the worst time for driving Côte d’Azur roads. May was decidedly quieter. His penchant for frequent overtaking and high speeds brought him to the small settlement of Le Dramont as swiftly as the train.

  Entering the town, Patrick turned left into the upper car park, which featured a well-cared-for American landing craft, commemorating the landing of 20,000 GIs in August 1944 on the small beach below. Le Dramont was no larger now than it had been back then, consisting mostly of a cluster of villas, built by the artists and writers of La Belle Époque, which dotted the hillside, each surrounded by a wall and high pines.

  He’d chosen not to hide Angele in one of the villas, but instead had selected the much less ostentatious surroundings of a beach restaurant with cabins. Jean Paul, who owned the place, was an old friend with a chequered career, not unlike his own. There had been no other guests registered, which suited Patrick, and Jean Paul had been adamant that they expected none until early June.