The Case of the Missing Madonna

by Lin Anderson

  It was an extraordinary tale, like many of the stories that arose during and after the Second World War. Particularly in what had been Vichy France – a no man’s land, neither free nor conquered.

  Yet, despite Patrick’s natural scepticism, it did seem there might be a connection between Madame Lacroix’s story and London’s interest in a missing painting. Of course, the ideal way to find out would be to make contact with London and simply ask.

  While Madame Lacroix finished her wine and cheroot, in tandem, Patrick pondered what such a move might mean for his own precarious position.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘what do you plan to do?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Patrick said honestly.

  Madame Lacroix nodded, then rose, apparently ready to dismiss him.

  ‘I think we would both like to see the Madonna back where she belongs. If the abbey is no longer a place of refuge, then she could find a home here.’

  She smiled and her face lit up, the shrewd dark eyes glistening with glee at such a thought.

  ‘I wish you good luck, Courvoisier.’

  As she showed him to the door, the ornate telephone on her desk rang. Madame Lacroix indicated that she had to answer it and requested that Patrick pull the door closed behind him as he left.

  Back on board Les Trois Soeurs, Patrick made the call he’d been putting off. He’d prepared himself for Carruthers, or perhaps Forsyth, to answer and was surprised to hear a woman’s voice instead. Patrick gave his name and asked to be put through to Sir Charles.

  ‘I’m sorry, that isn’t possible,’ the woman said in what seemed to Patrick an imperious voice.

  ‘May I ask why?’ Patrick strove to make his tone reasonable.

  ‘Sir Charles is away on business.’

  ‘And when will he be back?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’

  ‘Charles will want to hear what I have to say,’ Patrick insisted.

  ‘Then I suggest you use his personal number.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I assume you would know that, were you really acquainted with Sir Charles.’

  Patrick swore in French.

  ‘I speak French, you know,’ she interrupted him.

  ‘Then you’ll know what I said,’ Patrick retorted before ending the call.

  Patrick reasoned that he’d done his best to inform Carruthers what was happening, and had been denied the opportunity to do so.

  If Charles had thought for a moment I might get in touch, he would have made arrangements to allow that to happen.

  The fact that Charles hadn’t done so meant it was no longer Patrick’s problem. Despite this, Patrick rechecked his London mobile, just in case Grazia had got in touch. But there was no response to his many assorted messages. It appeared that whatever Grazia had wanted to discuss with him was no longer urgent or relevant.

  Patrick decided he would ponder all that had happened since last night over some lunch, before returning to St Honorat and discussing the latest developments with Brother Robert. He was particularly looking forward to running Madame Lacroix’s story regarding the missing Madonna past the monk to see what his reaction might be. He didn’t think lying would come easily to the Cistercian, although prevarication might be considered acceptable if acknowledging the provenance of the missing painting was problematic.

  Five minutes later Patrick was seated outside the Cave Forville, just across the road from the market, enjoying oysters and a plate of cured meats with Christophe’s recommended wine of the day while he considered his next move.

  By the time he’d finished his meal, drunk the small pichet of wine, and had an espresso before him, he had come to his decision.

  Regardless of his feelings towards his former employers and his desire not to get involved, Patrick had to admit that he could go no further with his own quest unless he checked out whether the Hirondelle had had anything to do with the disappearance of the Madonna.

  In order to do this, he would have to locate the Hirondelle again. To that end, he put a call through to Jacques at the harbour office.

  ‘I thought you’d found her at Cap d’Antibes?’ Jacques said puzzled.

  ‘She moved on, before I got on board.’

  ‘OK, I’ll check and ring you back.’

  Patrick paid his bill, then made one more call to the number he’d hoped never to use again, yet still retained in his memory. This time a voice he expected answered.

  ‘Forsyth here.’

  ‘Courvoisier here.’ Patrick echoed Forsyth’s response.

  ‘Ah …’

  There followed a small sigh, which to Patrick’s ear sounded like ‘I knew you would eventually accept the inevitable’.

  Patrick resisted the desire to ring off. Instead he said, ‘I tried Charles earlier but couldn’t get through.’

  ‘You are persona non grata, Courvoisier. No direct lines through anymore.’

  ‘Yet here you are,’ Patrick said.

  There was a small pause.

  ‘Why the call?’ Forsyth said in a clipped voice.

  ‘I can’t reach Grazia Lucca.’

  ‘And why should you want to?’ Forsyth said, sounding guarded.

  ‘I have information for her.’

  ‘Really?’

  Patrick tried to ignore the sanctimonious tone. ‘I believe she’s aboard the Hirondelle with Marco Fratelli.’

  ‘What?’

  Forsyth’s shocked reaction caught Patrick off guard.

  ‘That’s not where she should be?’ Patrick said cautiously.

  He could almost hear the wheels turning as Forsyth tried to decide what Patrick knew and what he should be told.

  ‘I take it Huntington is with her?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  An answer Forsyth obviously didn’t want to hear, judging by the resulting silence.

  ‘Grazia couldn’t reach Huntington the last time I spoke to her,’ Patrick continued.

  ‘Which was?’ Forsyth demanded.

  ‘Yesterday evening, at the Eden Roc hotel.’

  Forsyth didn’t respond.

  Something wasn’t right here.

  ‘Who is Marco Fratelli?’ Patrick asked.

  Again no response.

  ‘Grazia seemed surprised to see him. She knew him from the past, that was obvious, but she didn’t expect him to be meeting her there.’ Patrick waited, knowing his growing suspicion was right. Finally he said, ‘Fratelli isn’t one of ours?’ Anger surged in Patrick as he realized he’d said ‘ours’, instead of ‘yours’.

  ‘No,’ Forsyth admitted.

  ‘He’s the opposition?’ Patrick said angrily.

  ‘Maybe,’ Forsyth admitted.

  Christ! He hated the innuendo, the prevarication, and most of all he hated the game.

  ‘Is Grazia in danger?’ Patrick demanded.

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ Forsyth conceded reluctantly.

  ‘So where the fuck is Huntington?’

  ‘I’ll get back to you, Courvoisier,’ Forsyth said and abruptly ended the call.

  Bastard! Patrick uttered the word in a variety of languages, with embellishments. It didn’t make him feel any better. The idea that Grazia Lucca was in danger had been planted in his mind, and the last time he’d seen her she was on her way to boarding the Hirondelle. He’d picked up no sense of threat from Fratelli. His reading of the man had been that he lusted after Grazia, not that he meant to harm her.

  But what did I read from Grazia’s demeanour?

  Patrick tried to recall the scene. He remembered Grazia’s surprise, and maybe concern, when she realized the man approaching them was Fratelli. When Fratelli embraced her, what had been her reaction?

  Patrick suddenly remembered.

  She’d recoiled, although she covered it well. And she’d definitely wanted me to go with her to the yacht.

  He recalled the flicker of fear in her eyes when he’d declared his intention to return to Cannes immediately.

  Patr
ick’s anger at his misreading of the situation was cut short by a call. But it wasn’t the London mobile that was ringing. Already on the move, having settled his bill at Café Forville, he was minutes from the quai and the gunboat. The response to his enquiry regarding the whereabouts of the Hirondelle didn’t come from Jacques, but from Jean-Paul.

  ‘The yacht you seek is here, off Île d’Or.’

  Patrick hadn’t yet had time to garage the Ferrari in its cave on Rue Forville. The car still sat alongside Les Trois Soeurs on the quai. Patrick abandoned his plan to catch the next ferry to Honorat, but he didn’t immediately jump into the car and head for Le Dramont. Instead, he took time to pack his diving gear and anything else that might prove necessary were he required to reach and board the Hirondelle.

  Twenty minutes later he was on the coast road, heading west.

  During Patrick’s meeting with Moreaux after his return from London, the lieutenant had asked him if he planned a trip to the Esterel mountains. Patrick had wondered then, as he did now, exactly what the detective had meant by that. Moreaux said nothing without a reason, he wasn’t known for simply passing the time of day.

  Had Moreaux been aware that something was in the offing?

  The answer was, of course, ‘Yes’. And Patrick suddenly realized why.

  London had informed Moreaux, just as Moreaux had informed them about Patrick’s involvement with the black pearl. Seeing a break in the coastal traffic, Patrick accelerated, weaving in and out as he overtook.

  And what of his conversation with Forsyth? Had that too been planned? Was he being set up by London, with Grazia as the decoy?

  If so, she did not appear to be aware of it.

  He was being drawn into something he’d sworn to avoid. But was that London’s fault or the fault of the Abbey of St Honorat?

  It was mid-afternoon now. The twisting coast road was busy with traffic and opportunities to overtake were rare, but Patrick took them whenever possible. The Ferrari responded immediately to his foot on the accelerator, her steering keen and true. Patrick gave silent thanks to Daniel for resurrecting her from her grave in the Esterel Massif, which rose in a precipitous jumble of red ragged rocks to his right.

  As Patrick passed Moreaux’s villa, which he shared with his wife Michelle, he thought of the other villa not so far away where merely a month ago he’d faced torture and death.

  The physical scars of that encounter had faded, the mental ones were with him still. Patrick gripped the wheel more tightly as he recalled how the old Courvoisier had resurfaced so easily. Given the opportunity to take a life, he had done so without hesitation.

  But if I hadn’t, would I be here now?

  Even as he thought that, Patrick knew it was an excuse. The death in the Russian’s villa had been necessary for his own survival, but the underwater death earlier in the job had been premeditated and enacted for revenge.

  And he didn’t regret that death, not for one second.

  Pulling into the car park, he found a group of tourists clustered around the Second World War landing craft, listening to the story of the Allied landings on the beach below. Passing the group, Patrick took the untarred road that wound steeply down through tall pines to Jean-Paul’s place, next to where the landing craft had come ashore.

  Today the beach, a mixture of shingle and patches of golden sand, held only a few sunbathers. The French weren’t renowned for swimming before the Mediterranean sun warmed up the winter sea. Late July and the holiday month of August would see the beach busy, particularly with holidaymakers from the nearby campsite.

  Patrick parked alongside Jean-Paul’s truck and, taking his binoculars, made for the deck in front of the restaurant. There was a scattering of customers seated at the outside tables enjoying a late lunch. As Patrick approached the door, a dark-haired young woman appeared balancing two plates, the scent of which suggested a rich lamb stew. She shot him a swift glance, paused, and asked if he wished to have lunch.

  ‘I’m here to see Jean-Paul,’ he said, conscious that this must be Daniel’s Fidella.

  Her lovely mouth immediately broke into a smile.

  ‘You are Patrick de Courvoisier?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I am Fidella and I want to say thank you.’ She glanced at the steaming plates. ‘I’m sorry, I have to deliver these.’

  ‘I’ll be here a while,’ Patrick assured her.

  Jean-Paul, swathed in his apron and chef hat, turned as Patrick entered the kitchen.

  ‘Two more to serve, then we can talk. Have you eaten?’

  ‘Oysters at Cave Forville.’

  ‘So you won’t want the navarin de mouton?’

  ‘I could manage a small helping,’ Patrick conceded.

  Jean-Paul immediately dished a large plateful for him and set it on the table. ‘There’s red wine in the pichet, but I warn you it’s not from the vineyards of St Honorat.’

  Patrick poured himself a glass and set about the navarin, as though the oysters and cured meats had been merely a starter. Jean-Paul ignored him completely until he’d prepared the meal for his final two lunch customers and delivered them into Fidella’s hands. Then he helped himself to a plate of the navarin and sat down opposite Patrick.

  ‘The Hirondelle’s anchored just west of the Île d’Or, or I would have spotted her earlier. She must have arrived there in the early hours of the morning, because I took a walk along the cliff path just before midnight and didn’t see her.’ Jean-Paul registered Patrick’s concerned expression. ‘I have good night vision, Courvoisier, as you know.’

  Patrick did know that, but the cliff path that wound eastwards from here was tricky even in broad daylight. And if you slipped, there was nothing to break your fall but the sharp red rocks below.

  ‘Has anyone come ashore?’

  ‘They may have done during the night. As for today, no. Joanne has been on watch for you.’

  ‘I’ll go and relieve her,’ Patrick offered immediately.

  ‘Good idea. She’ll be very hungry by now.’

  He found Joanne seated, her back against a large pine with a view of the sea. She had a book open on her knee and a pair of binoculars in her hand.

  ‘Patrick!’ She stood up and embraced him.

  ‘I’m sorry—’ he started to apologize.

  ‘Forget it,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ve had a lovely morning here with my book. I’ve avoided the kitchen at lunchtime, and washing the dishes.’

  ‘Jean-Paul said you would be hungry.’

  Joanne raised an eyebrow. ‘As if.’ She showed Patrick the remains of her picnic. ‘Most peaceful meal I’ve had in quite a while,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘So, what’s been happening?’

  According to Joanne, nothing much. The yacht was completely enclosed and had dark windows. Even when it had drifted round so the entrance deck was in view, there had been no one visible.

  ‘Except once,’ she said. ‘A man came out on the rear deck, but I think he was crew.’ She apologized. ‘I’m not much good on a stake-out.’ She nodded at the book and the remains of a baguette and cheese. ‘I get engrossed in other things, but I’m sure I wouldn’t have failed to notice a trip to the shore.’

  Patrick thanked her ‘You go home, I’ll take over here. Jean-Paul has navarin de mouton waiting for you.’

  ‘As long as there isn’t a pile of dishes, too.’

  Patrick settled in her place and focused his high-powered binoculars on the yacht. Joanne was right. The sleek yacht was designed for privacy. Its occupants could gaze out, but sightseers were unable to see in. The main deck at the stern, with its glazed doors, was a possibility, plus an upper deck that would normally be used for sunbathing. Neither was occupied.

  However, the doors of the stern storeroom did stand open and Patrick could make out the lines of the motor launch that had brought Fratelli to the jetty at the Eden Roc.

  They could, of course, have sent a party ashore during the night. But had they done so, the motor
launch would most likely still be in the water.

  Patrick considered his next move. In reality, there was only one option. To attempt to board the Hirondelle. Whether he did so in full view, or otherwise, was the question.

  ELEVEN

  Jean-Paul eased the small boat round the jagged coast of the Île d’Or and manoeuvred her into place.

  ‘Take the wheel while I drop the anchor.’

  Patrick did as requested while Jean-Paul climbed on to the bow and, peering down into the water, chose his spot.

  ‘Reverse slowly,’ he commanded.

  Moments later Patrick felt a tug as the anchor gripped, and immediately put the engine into neutral.

  ‘Will this do?’ Jean-Paul said.

  They were shielded by the island from a clear view of the Hirondelle, but Patrick knew exactly where it was. He thanked Jean-Paul.

  ‘This is fine.’

  ‘How long should I wait?’ Jean-Paul said.

  ‘I’ll make my own way back,’ Patrick told him.

  Jean-Paul looked as though he might argue, then thought the better of it.

  Patrick nodded his appreciation and prepared himself for the swim. Heading to the stern, he dropped into the water and, taking care to avoid the anchor rope, struck out along the southern side of the island. The deeper water was cold, not the icy cold of a Scottish loch but cold enough for casual swimmers not to venture this far out.

  Settling into a steady crawl, he made good time, leaving the shelter of the island and crossing the stretch which led to the yacht. Viewing the Hirondelle from the jetty at the Eden Roc, he hadn’t registered just how impressive it was.

  Whoever owned such a yacht had a great deal of money. But from Patrick’s experience of the world, rich people could never have enough money, just as those with power always needed more.

  Reaching the stern, he trod water for a moment and established there was no one in the storeroom that housed the motor boat, then pulled himself aboard. The swim here had been the easy part, whatever happened now was likely to be less straightforward. At the rear end of the storeroom he found a couple of cubicles, some crew lockers and a supply of towels.