by Lin Anderson
He led Patrick from the room. On the other side of the metal doors, the air was much sweeter.
‘I’d like to ask you a few questions,’ Moreaux said.
‘Of course.’
They adjourned to an upper room, where Moreaux had coffee brought in. No tape was set to record them and no one else sat in on the interview. Patrick glanced about, checking to see if there was any evidence of cameras and found none. Whatever was going to be said in here, was for their ears only.
They each drank some coffee.
‘I had a call from Angele Valette, the missing starlet.’ Moreaux put his espresso cup down. ‘It seems she has been staying at Le Dramont at Jean Paul Suchet’s place.’ He paused. ‘But then you would know that, since you had dinner with them there last evening.’
At least Angele had done something he’d asked her to.
When Patrick acknowledged that this was correct, Moreaux continued. ‘Madamoiselle Valette was relieved to learn the Heavenly Princess had sailed without her. It seems Chapayev was a very demanding employer.’
When Patrick offered no comment on this, Moreaux went on. ‘So, after the incident at the church …’ He waited for Patrick.
‘I drove to Le Dramont, where I was when you called.’
‘And when the diver died?’
The question, slipped in, almost caught Patrick off guard.
‘When was that?’
Moreaux gave him the time Stephen’s boat had appeared off the Île d’Or.
Patrick met his gaze squarely. ‘I spent the night with Mademoiselle Valette. We had breakfast together outside and noticed the activity on the water.’
‘And yet you weren’t curious to find out what it was about?’
‘I had other things on my mind. Mainly Mademoiselle Valette.’ Patrick smiled. The truth was, the memory of that particular night was a very good one.
Moreaux sat back in his chair, and extracting a cheroot from his cigarette case, lit up.
A waft of blue smoke filled the air between them. The ‘no smoking’ sign was obviously not intended for Moreaux.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Am I to take it that you and Madamoiselle Valette are an item?’
Patrick shook his head. ‘Sadly no, Angele is headed for Hollywood. I remain here in Cannes.’
Moreaux assumed a disappointed air, whether for Patrick’s loss of the lovely Angele, or for the fact that he intended staying on in Cannes, he didn’t divulge.
Moreaux pushed his cup away. It seemed the interview was at an end. Patrick should have felt relieved, but didn’t.
‘Is that all?’ he said.
Moreaux inclined his head to indicate there was something else.
‘I thought you would like to know that we have released Marie Clermand’s body for burial. Brigitte is organizing the funeral. She’s being laid to rest tomorrow at Cimetière du Grand Jas. Mass is at the Chapelle de la Misericorde at ten.’
Patrick found himself unable to reply for a moment.
‘Thank you for telling me,’ he finally managed to say.
Moreaux nodded as though, at least on this, they were in agreement.
On the walk back along Rue Meynadier, Patrick called Chevalier and they agreed to meet for lunch. It seemed a long time since they had eaten together in Le Pistou. On this occasion, Chevalier suggested Los Faroles, which suited Patrick. He wanted to ask if Fritz had any news of Leon.
There was an air of relief on Rue Saint Antoine. The tables were out, but the madness that had existed during the film festival had dissipated. The French were back, the American voices depleted, a more studied enjoyment of the food replacing the frantic deal-making.
He passed the restaurant where he had last seen Marie Elise. He believed now that she had come to the gunboat the night she died, to tell him more of her conversation with Angele, perhaps even to warn him of the danger Chapayev posed.
The Russian had seen Marie as a threat, an inconvenience or simply a way to remove Patrick, by framing him for her death. Had Patrick arrived minutes later, he would have been caught red-handed with Marie’s body. The swiftness of Moreaux’s arrival had been testament to that.
Chevalier was already seated outside Los Faroles when Patrick arrived. His friend had discarded the formal jacket and was wearing a brightly checked long-sleeved shirt with a primrose silk cravat. When he glanced up, the neatly trimmed and waxed moustache glistened in the May sunshine. Chevalier rose to plant a kiss on each of Patrick’s cheeks. His own cheek was smooth as a baby’s and his cologne smelled as delicate.
‘I have already ordered the catch of the day.’
Patrick nodded and joined him. There were two glasses and a half bottle of red on the table. Chevalier poured them each a glass.
‘The Russian’s yacht has departed,’ Chevalier offered, ‘and with it my sale on the villa,’ he said with a sigh.
‘I’m truly sorry about that.’
Chevalier shrugged. ‘No matter. Cannes already smells sweeter.’
On that note, Patrick said, ‘I’ve just come from the morgue.’
Chevalier raised an eyebrow. ‘Really, why?’
‘Lieutenant Moreaux asked me to identify the diver found off the Île d’Or as the man I saw Marie Elise with the night she died.’
Chevalier took a sip of his wine. ‘At least Moreaux got that right.’ He muttered a popular Le Suquet curse. ‘Brigitte is unhappy that he let the Russian’s sidekick go.’
‘Moreaux had no choice, unless you can persuade Camille to press charges.’
Chevalier shook his head. ‘Whatever arrangement she has with Chapayev frightens her too much.’ He eyed Patrick. ‘Do you know what hold he has over her?’
‘None,’ Patrick said. ‘Her debt has been repaid.’
He passed Chevalier a fold of cloth. ‘A little something for your trouble and the loss of a sale on Villa Astrid. Although the thought of Chapayev’s presence in the house of my ancestors was a little hard to take.’ Patrick smiled.
Chevalier cast him a quizzical look, placed the cloth on his knee and discreetly unfolded it.
Inside was the second of the three diamonds Patrick had removed from the bag. Chevalier had risked his money in the casino and lost a good sale to help. He deserved it.
Chevalier smiled in astonishment, then re-folded the cloth and slipped it into his top pocket.
‘Mon Dieu. So this was never about the black pearl?’
‘It was, and it wasn’t,’ Patrick said.
‘It is over, I hope?’
‘So do I,’ Patrick said with relish, although he wouldn’t have placed a bet on it.
Chevalier waited for a moment. ‘You know the details of the funeral?’
Patrick nodded. ‘Moreaux told me.’
They were prevented from discussing this further by the arrival of the food, which turned out to be sea bass, caught that morning by François, around the time that Patrick had fallen gratefully into bed.
When they’d finished their meal, Fritz removed their plates, brought them coffee and pulled up a chair.
‘Leon’s about. He’s been asking for credit in various places, insisting he’s coming into money.’ Fritz raised an enquiring eyebrow at Patrick.
Patrick contemplated the news. Contrary to his hopes that Leon had left town, it seemed that he and Angele had got together again. Patrick wondered what story she had spun him, to keep him on the leash. Did Leon know that Angele had the pearl? Did he have any idea what had happened to the diamonds, if he even knew about the diamonds in the first place?
‘Sounds like Leon,’ he said, non-committal.
Chevalier threw him a look, but Patrick’s expression indicated there was nothing more to say on the matter. Patrick finished his coffee and, without looking at the bill, put down thirty euros.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he told Chevalier, ‘at the funeral.’
EIGHTEEN
Oscar was waiting on deck when he got back. Patrick whistled to him and he jumped ashore w
ithout the aid of the walkway. They strode along Le Vieux Port in the May sunshine, passing diners lingering after lunch on the quayside restaurants. The beach next to the harbour held a smattering of bathers, most of whom were grouped next to the eastern rocks and looked as though they were members of Cannes’ elderly swim club.
Patrick turned left on to the walkway that led out to the point. Oscar was ecstatic at being free of pain and rushed along, checking out smells, marking his territory at every available opportunity and generally enjoying life. When they reached the point, Patrick stripped to his swim shorts, told Oscar to stand guard and dived in.
The route this time was free of traffic. He had aligned the Heavenly Princess’s mooring with three onshore locations. It wasn’t difficult to line them up again. Once there he took a deep breath and dived. By his reckoning Chapayev had had four to six minutes from the moment he entered the water. They’d struggled together for at least two of those. There was always a chance that Chapayev’s body had sunk down again before they got to him, and pulling him up, for anyone but an expert swimmer, would have been almost impossible. Korskof hadn’t been on board, and Patrick had no idea who would be in charge if Chapayev was dead – then he recalled the African he’d seen standing on deck. Would he now be in charge of operations?
Patrick sunk slowly downwards, turning as he did so, checking in all directions. The darkness of last night had been replaced by a watery light that exposed the ocean floor as rippled sand covered by clumps of sea grass. He swam around, checking for an outcrop of rocks, a difference in depth, but there was nowhere Chapayev’s body could have sunk to. There was always the chance that the movement of the departing yachts had shifted it. If so it would reappear on the surface twelve hours from now, but somehow Patrick didn’t think that would happen.
He rose and broke the surface, convinced now that Chapayev had been taken back on board, maybe even alive. If so, then he’d ordered the Heavenly Princess to depart. Did that mean he’d decided to cut his losses now that he had the diamonds back?
Oscar was sitting like a sentinel, awaiting his return. He yelped in pleasure when Patrick appeared out of the water and he felt a rush of pleasure that he and the dog were back together again. He didn’t bother with the beach shower but headed straight back to Les Trois Soeurs. The bathroom was no longer taboo. Marie Elise’s death had been repaid, although he still had to face her funeral.
As he walked back to the gunboat, he contemplated turning up only for the burial. He wasn’t religious and the Sunday ten o’clock Mass at the Chapelle de la Misericorde was traditionally said in Latin. He immediately felt bad at the thought. Brigitte had known Marie Elise better than he had ever hoped to. If Brigitte believed that’s what Marie would have wanted, he should be there.
He dropped the walkway and Oscar happily scampered aboard, dispensing with any concerns Patrick might have about unwelcome visitors. He allowed himself a moment to consider that it might all be over, as Chevalier had said, although he knew from experience that that was rarely the case.
For the first time since Camille Ager had walked his way, the evening was his own. He contemplated how he might use it. He could go to the casino, but didn’t feel in the mood. He would have to visit Pascal some time, admit to taking his (their) dog back, which would be traumatic and might be better left till tomorrow. He wondered if Pascal knew about the funeral and decided the news would travel fast in Le Suquet; he had no need to deliver it personally.
He showered off the salt and changed his clothes, then made himself a martini and took it out on deck to watch the world go by.
The majority of his jobs didn’t involve either violence or death. They were predominantly low key, and involved sorting out clients’ personal or financial problems. He usually charged his rich clients large sums of money for his help. Locals often repaid him in kind, like Jean Paul.
That’s why he had come to Cannes, he reminded himself. To leave his past behind, although this particular job had left him unsure if he still wanted to do that.
He finished the martini then called Astoux et Brun and booked a table for one for seven o’clock. He’d bought the shellfish platter from there the night he’d invited Marie to dinner on Les Trois Soeurs and it seemed appropriate.
Smartly dressed, he departed the boat at six, ordering Oscar to stay on board. The dog settled himself on the top deck under the awning, facing the quai, upright, alert and full of self-importance. Turning left, Patrick made his way up the steps on to Rue Georges Clémenceau, and from there to Leon’s building. The same woman answered the intercom and, perhaps remembering his previous generosity, let him in immediately. He found her waiting at the open door of her apartment, the TV blasting in Arabic in the background.
Patrick asked if Leon was at home. She nodded, which surprised him.
‘He’s drunk,’ she said in guttural French.
Patrick slipped her twenty euros and she unlocked Leon’s door for him.
The room stank of stale wine. There were six empty bottles next to the bed where Leon lay snoring, his face an ugly mass of yellow and blue bruising. He was curled like an infant, his hands protectively cradling his crotch.
Patrick put a hand on his shoulder and shook him, gently at first. When that didn’t work, he shouted Leon’s name in his ear. Consciousness came suddenly. Leon sprang up, reaching below his pillow. Patrick caught the hand before it could rescue the gun and removed it himself.
Leon tried to focus, fear clouding his eyes.
‘Bastard,’ he said, recognizing Patrick.
‘You’re lucky it’s only me.’
Patrick stood back to allow Leon to come fully to his senses, then handed him his passport. Leon took it, suspicion filling his face.
‘You need to get out of Cannes,’ Patrick told him.
‘And you’re going to make me?’ Leon sneered.
‘I take it you don’t mind meeting Korskof again?’
Leon swung his feet on to the floor, the action bringing a grimace of pain.
‘The yacht’s gone,’ he said defiantly.
‘More than likely it’s just moved along the coast. And there’s no guarantee that Korskof is on it.’
‘Then it’s you who should be worried,’ Leon retorted.
‘My advice is to get out of Cannes. Try Monaco, that’s where Angele is. She’s selling the pearl. Some of that money should be yours.’ He tossed Leon the gun. ‘And keep an eye on your back.’
He exited then, shutting the door firmly behind him, silently wishing Leon good luck.
Astoux et Brun was barely three-quarters full, which showed that Cannes was recovering from festival fever. He chose a table near the thoroughfare, happier to view the passing human traffic than sit alone near the back. The tray of shellfish, when it appeared, looked similar in content to the one he’d purchased for Marie. By the response of the waiter who delivered it, the word of her impending funeral had spread.
Patrick accepted the half bottle of white wine ‘on the house’, which turned out to be very good, and set about eating. He took his time over the selection, remembering Marie’s delicate fingers as she’d prised open a langoustine, and her laughter when he’d told her that the Scots’ name for the tiny bigorneau was winkles or whelks. He completed his homage meal with a selection of cheeses from Le Marché served with coffee, then paid his bill and left.
The evening was balmy and surprisingly quiet for Cannes. He re-enacted the stroll he’d taken with Marie, pausing to sit on a bench and watch the boules players near the carousel. The click of the balls on the cool night air seemed to anchor his thoughts.
He didn’t normally get personally involved in cases. It was better to operate alone. To be alone. This case had only reinforced that belief.
Rising, he made his way to Bijou Magique. He had eaten early and the shops were still open, to catch the late-evening trade. When Patrick entered, the same young woman stood behind the counter and cast him an anxious glance.
‘Is
Camille here?’ he said.
There was a moment’s hesitation, then she disappeared into the back shop. Two minutes later, Camille Ager appeared. She looked pale, her hand fluttering against her dress like a nervous butterfly.
‘Can we talk?’ he said.
She nodded. The girl had re-emerged behind her and Camille told her to close up at nine as normal, before following Patrick out.
Walking alongside Camille, he realized how tall she was. Tall and beautiful and very apprehensive. Patrick didn’t relish making her so uncomfortable. Whatever had happened between her and Chapayev, the Russian had definitely held the upper hand.
Patrick opened the proceedings as soon as they were clear of the shop.
‘The Heavenly Princess has left Cannes,’ he told her.
She started as though she hadn’t known. ‘Chapayev has gone?’ she said.
‘The yacht departed last night at the end of the fireworks.’
She looked puzzled, as though he had just told her that Alice had gone down the rabbit hole.
Patrick decided to elaborate. ‘I gave back the diamonds Angele stole, on the understanding that Chapayev leave both you and Angele alone.’
She came to a halt and cast him a worried glance. ‘I thought Angele took the black pearl?’
‘She did, but she also stole twenty diamonds probably destined for your shop.’
Her face paled at the thought. ‘Chapayev never said.’
‘He didn’t need to. You were frightened enough by the pearl.’
They had reached Rue Félix Faure and the Hôtel Splendid. Patrick led her to a table out front. She acquiesced, sinking gratefully into a seat. The waiter was there almost immediately and Patrick ordered two glasses of champagne.
‘Tell me about Angele,’ he said, when the waiter had left.
Camille looked sad and thoughtful. ‘We didn’t meet until I was fifteen and she twelve. Even then she was beautiful and difficult to manage. My stepfather called her his fallen angel. She was the daughter of his previous lover, so we are not related, not by blood, but we did spend a little time together, because of the various relationships of our parents.’ She gave a Gallic shrug. ‘Back then, we thought we were bohemian. Now, I know we were just pawns, caught up by the sexual relationships of our parents and step-parents.’ She paused. ‘My stepfather left us soon after and created yet another family, so my contact with Angele ended. I had no idea what had happened to her until she appeared in Cannes with Chapayev.’
