The Case of the Missing Madonna

by Lin Anderson

  Drying himself, he checked the lockers for something to wear and found a set of crew’s shirt and shorts that fitted well enough, along with a pair of deck shoes. The uniform might just delay his being outed as a stranger, for a short time at least. Perhaps long enough to find out who was on board.

  The journey from the storeroom to the first level proved uneventful.

  He noted sounds from the galley that indicated the presence of at least two catering staff. But for the size of the yacht he hadn’t spotted many crew, which suggested there weren’t many passengers either.

  By now Patrick had reached the main staterooms. Both the dining room and the lounge were deserted. Which meant if Grazia was on board, she had to be in one of the cabins, which on most yachts of this size lay to the stern on the first level.

  He made his way back down and found four cabins, numbered but with no indication who, if anyone, might be inside.

  There was nothing for it but to try the doors and find out.

  The first door was locked and Patrick could only hear silence within.

  The second was the same, as were the third and fourth.

  By now Patrick had come to the conclusion that there was no one aboard the Hirondelle save for a skeleton crew, which meant Fratelli and Grazia had gone ashore in the middle of the night or had left the Hirondelle before she anchored here.

  Irritated by this turn of events, Patrick made his way swiftly down to the storeroom, stripped off, and headed for the rear platform. Just as a male voice screamed at him in French, ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  Patrick didn’t supply an answer but instead dived straight in and, staying underwater, headed eastwards towards the island, where he could hide among the rocks until he was sure they weren’t on the tail of the intruder, via a jet ski or even the motor boat.

  Reaching the jagged shoreline, he sought a suitable spot, aware that a swell had built up while he was aboard the Hirondelle and he would be lucky not to find himself colliding with some of the sharper rocks.

  Surfacing, he took a look back and, although he spotted a couple of crew members on the lookout for him, there was no sign of any craft being launched. Continuing round to the north side of the island, where he was completely out of sight of the big yacht, he struck out for shore.

  The last time he’d emerged on the beach in front of Jean-Paul’s place, having escaped from the clutches of the Russian Chapayev, he’d been bruised, battered and half-dead. This time Patrick rose from the breaking surf little more than annoyed. He’d wasted time seeking out the Hirondelle and wasted more time boarding her. Wherever Grazia had contacted him from, he suspected it had not been the yacht. In fact he was now questioning whether she and Fratelli had ever gone to the Hirondelle after he’d deserted them on the jetty at the Eden Roc.

  Bypassing the deck and its customers, Patrick entered the kitchen by the back door only to find Jean-Paul seated at the table with a man. If Patrick had been surprised at discovering the Hirondelle as deserted as the Marie Celeste, discovering the identity of the visitor sitting there imbibing red wine at Jean-Paul’s kitchen table surprised him even more.

  Giles Huntington looked much like Patrick had when he’d been washed up here during the case of the black pearl. Someone had obviously given him a beating. Patrick wasn’t ashamed to admit he wished he’d been the one who’d inflicted the injuries on that particular face.

  ‘Courvoisier.’ Huntington acknowledged Patrick’s arrival, while Jean-Paul brought Patrick a towel.

  ‘Your clothes are in the back kitchen,’ Jean-Paul told him.

  Patrick took himself through the door indicated, glad of a moment to arrange his thoughts. He quickly dried and dressed, while wondering how Huntington fitted into the ever more complicated equation surrounding the missing Madonna.

  Emerging, he found Jean-Paul had vacated the kitchen, but had set out a clean glass for Patrick on the table next to the pichet of wine.

  ‘Want some?’ Huntington offered.

  Patrick nodded, noting with some pleasure the pain it caused Huntington to raise his right arm high enough to pour. Patrick drank the wine down, then poured himself another and waited, having no wish to be the one to start the conversation.

  ‘I assume you discovered that Grazia and Fratelli are not on the yacht?’ When Patrick didn’t respond, Huntington continued. ‘They flew by private jet from Nice to Venice last night, after you saw them at Eden Roc.’

  Patrick broke his silence. ‘So, you’re in touch with Grazia?’

  ‘No. The news didn’t come from her.’ Huntington looked uneasy. ‘Grazia is no longer in direct contact with us.’

  Patrick didn’t like the sound of that.

  ‘And Fratelli?’ he asked.

  ‘As you suspected, he’s not one of ours.’

  ‘Yours,’ Patrick corrected him. ‘I’m only interested in the Madonna from the Abbey of St Honorat. Does Fratelli have it?’

  ‘We believe so.’

  ‘And where is the painting now?’

  ‘In Venice.’ Huntington drank the wine in his glass and replenished it. Patrick wondered if it was being used as a painkiller. Judging by the swelling on Huntington’s face, he looked as if he needed it.

  ‘Forsyth has given clearance for you to be told—’

  Patrick interrupted him. ‘I repeat, I’m only interested in the missing Madonna, nothing else.’

  ‘We too are interested in the Madonna.’ Huntington held up his hand to stop Patrick’s immediate question. ‘As are Fratelli’s contacts.’

  ‘Who are?’ Patrick demanded.

  ‘He is aligned with a Fascist group who believe the painting belongs to them.’

  Patrick sat back in the chair. So Madame Lacroix had been right. There were three interested parties.

  ‘The Madonna belongs to the monks of St Honorat. My job is to deliver it back to them.’

  ‘There’s something else,’ Huntington said, ‘if you’re willing to listen.’ He grimaced as he shifted in the chair. ‘The reason why they are now in Venice.’

  ‘OK,’ Patrick conceded. ‘Tell me.’

  He heard the entire story en route to Aéroport de Cannes Mandelieu, via Les Trois Soeurs for him to pack a bag for their trip to Venice. It seemed Huntington’s injuries had been obtained on his attempted visit to Château de la Croë. Huntington hadn’t been willing to say more than that he’d been intercepted by two men he believed to be in Fratelli’s pay.

  ‘I’m not sure I was supposed to survive, but I did,’ Huntington said wryly. ‘A bit like yourself.’

  Patrick wasn’t yet willing to share anything with Huntington, even a joke.

  ‘What about Grazia?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t believe she’s in danger. At least not until she’s verified the paintings.’

  ‘Paintings?’ Patrick took his eyes off the road and swerved a little too near the edge, causing Huntington to grip his seat in expectation of imminent death on the rocks below.

  Once they were reunited with their side of the road, Huntington answered.

  ‘The Madonna, as you know, is a depiction of Fragonard’s mistress, Mademoiselle de Sainval. Like Munch, Fragonard may have painted more than one likeness of his lover. A second painting has turned up in Venice.’ He paused. ‘Grazia’s job is to verify which one is the original.’

  Now Patrick understood Grazia’s surprise at his revelation about the Fragonard missing from the island.

  ‘She didn’t know—’ he began.

  ‘Miss Lucca only knew what we were willing to tell her,’ Huntington said.

  ‘If you’d been straight with her, maybe she wouldn’t be in danger now,’ Patrick said coldly.

  ‘She understood there were risks, and we were paying her well,’ Huntington said.

  At that moment Patrick felt like stopping the car and ordering Huntington out. Perhaps Huntington realized he’d crossed a line, because he said, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll bring Miss Lucca out unharmed.’

  P
atrick wanted that to happen, but didn’t like the man beside him using the term ‘we’. Had he gleaned any idea where in Venice they were headed, Patrick would have chosen to go alone. As it was, he had little choice but to play Huntington’s game for the moment.

  So Patrick gritted his teeth and contemplated how soon he could dispense with Huntington, and how quickly he might restore the Madonna to those he believed to be its rightful owners.

  When he’d gone on board to pack a bag and pick up his passport, leaving Huntington waiting in the Ferrari, Patrick had taken the opportunity to make a couple of calls. There had still been no answer to his further attempts to contact Grazia. The second call had proved more fruitful, Pascal had immediately agreed to go to St Honorat and pick up Oscar.

  ‘Of course I will bring him home,’ Pascal said, sounding delighted at the prospect.

  ‘Tell Brother Robert I’m on the trail of the Madonna and will be in touch when I have further news.’

  ‘How long do you plan to be away?’ Pascal enquired, sounding hopeful that it might be a while.

  ‘Not sure. Can you look after Oscar for me until I get back?’

  ‘But of course.’ Pascal all too readily agreed to having the dog back, even if it was only for an extended holiday.

  Huntington had informed Patrick that a private plane awaited them at the local airport. It would have taken Patrick six hours to drive the 600 kilometres between Cannes and Venice, depending on road conditions. A standard flight would have involved driving to Nice and accepting whatever ticket they could get on whatever flight was available. Neither method would have got them there sooner than a private flight from the local airport.

  Patrick suspected he was being taken along because Huntington wasn’t in a fit condition to deal with whatever was awaiting them in Venice. But he had no proof that any of what Huntington had told him in Jean-Paul’s kitchen had been the truth. He had only his gut instinct to go on, and it told him that the game involving the Madonna had moved to Venice.

  Patrick fastened his seatbelt. In a couple of hours he would be in Venice. What happened after that was in the lap of the gods, or in the hands of the elusive Madonna.

  TWELVE

  They took a water taxi from Marco Polo airport. Watching Huntington trying to board the bobbing motor boat from the jetty convinced Patrick he was suffering from more than just bruises. Huntington was loathe to use his right arm, and whereas no blood had been in evidence at Dramont it was now visible on his shirt near the right shoulder.

  Patrick said nothing during the swift and bumpy crossing of the lagoon. It seemed to him that Huntington was gritting his teeth to prevent himself from crying out. He might not like the man, but he knew exactly how he felt in that moment and had sympathy for him. The water taxi was the swiftest way to get to the centre of Venice but it wasn’t the smoothest, as evidenced by the spray that lashed the side windows of the cabin. Patrick had used his arm to wedge himself against the long seat. Across from him, Huntington seemed unwilling or unable to do the same.

  Thirty minutes later they were motoring up the Canale di San Marco. Turning right into the narrower Rio della Pietà, their driver lowered the engine to a quiet purr as he negotiated the space between the tall buildings on either side.

  Now Patrick knew where they were heading. The small hotel just east of this canal was favoured by London for the use of its agents when in Venice. He’d stayed there himself. Not obviously a hotel, looking more like a private home, La Residenza offered quiet, comfortable accommodation in a fifteenth-century Gritti-Badoer palazzo on the Campo Bandiera e Moro, to the east of the main hub of the tourist destinations round San Marco.

  As they walked the short distance from the canal, Huntington stumbled and Patrick had to come to his assistance. He thought Huntington would reject his offer of help, but he didn’t.

  ‘We’re expected,’ Huntington told him.

  Patrick was glad to hear it. From Huntington’s pallor, he thought they would have been better heading for a hospital.

  As they approached the square, Patrick noted that the plaster Madonna still stood snug in her niche high in the wall. Venice was full of such statues, painted and often crumbling, with their offerings of plastic flowers, though tonight the Madonna’s presence seemed more pertinent. The large square, flanked by the church of San Giovanni in Bragora, was deserted apart from two local women sitting on a bench beneath the trees feeding the pigeons.

  The hotel was exactly as Patrick recalled it – the handsome frontage, the double oak doors, the only suggestion that it was other than a private residence consisting of a discreet brass plaque declaring it to be La Residenza and instructing visitors to ring the bell for entry.

  Still supporting Huntington, Patrick rang the bell. He gave Huntington’s name and the big door buzzed open. Inside was the cool stone-floored room he remembered, with the red-carpeted staircase leading upwards.

  The palatial first-floor room with its wall paintings of voluptuous Venetian beauties served as reception, sitting room, and home for the grand piano. It was also the place where you ate a simple breakfast of coffee and croissants. Nothing had changed since Patrick had last been here, except for some repairs to the plasterwork. Like Venice itself, La Residenza was a beautiful yet crumbling relic of past glories.

  Huntington had mustered his reserves of strength and now stood before the ornate reception desk speaking fluent Italian. He accepted the proffered keys of their rooms, both of which were on the same level as the main area. Patrick followed him through a doorway just to the right of the grand piano, carrying both bags, impressed by Huntington’s ability to remain upright.

  The moment the door of the first room had been unlocked, Huntington made straight for the bed and sank down on to it.

  Patrick followed him in and shut the door.

  ‘You’re next door, Courvoisier.’

  ‘I want to take a look at your shoulder, first.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’ Huntington shook his head.

  ‘I brought some things from the gunboat. Dressings, antiseptic, pain relief and some medicinal alcohol.’

  A flash of something resembling pleasure crossed Huntington’s face.

  ‘I’ll make use of the alcohol.’

  ‘You’ll make use of it all,’ Patrick insisted. ‘But use the alcohol first.’

  He opened his bag and produced the bottle of malt whisky, found two glasses and poured a shot in each. He handed one to Huntington. ‘Drink that, then we’ll tackle the shoulder.’

  ‘I might need more than one.’ Huntington tried a joke.

  This time Patrick chose to share it.

  ‘Sláinte!’ he said.

  ‘Sláinte!’ Huntington downed the whisky and held the glass out for another. By the time he’d swallowed the second, a little colour was creeping back into his cheeks.

  ‘The next one washes these down.’ Patrick flourished the pain killers.

  He thought at first that Huntington might refuse, but he gave him a refill anyway and laid two tablets on the bedspread beside him. A slight hesitation was followed by ‘Fuck it!’ and Huntington swallowed them then, sitting up a little straighter, took off his jacket.

  The shirt beneath was wet with blood. Patrick let him unbutton it, then set about easing the shirt off his shoulder. The attempt at a dressing had all but disintegrated, exposing the wound. The bullet had met the arm just below the shoulder. Luckily for Huntington, it appeared to have entered and exited reasonably cleanly.

  Patrick set to work cleaning and sterilizing the entry and exit points. The gaping wound really needed stitches, but he didn’t see Huntington turning up at pronto soccorso to have it seen to. Patrick apologized in advance for what was about to transpire, then pressed the front gash together and taped it. As he did so, a few choice words in Italian were muttered, but Huntington didn’t cry out.

  ‘Getting your own back?’ he said through clenched teeth.

  ‘I would have to do a lot more tha
n this,’ Patrick informed him as he applied a pad over the wound and taped it in place, then began on the second one.

  ‘Stitches would have been better.’

  ‘It’ll do, thanks,’ Huntington said when the torture was finished, and held out his glass for a refill.

  Patrick topped him up.

  ‘You should eat something. We both should. The café on the other side of the square does pizzas. Would that do?’

  Huntington nodded.

  ‘I’ll dump this on the way,’ Patrick said, holding up the bloodied shirt. ‘When I’m back, we’ll talk.’

  Huntington sank back against the pillow and closed his eyes. With his chest bare, the result of his beating was clear to see. His attackers had done a good job. Patrick suspected they’d been after more than just pleasure. Huntington hadn’t elaborated on what had happened. But Patrick’s guess was that they’d sought information about the Madonna, which Huntington had been unwilling to give. How he’d got away from them might never be revealed, but the bullet wound was testament to the fact that he had had to get away.

  Patrick deposited his own bag in the neighbouring room and headed out.

  Campo Bandiera e Moro had settled into night. The two women were no longer feeding the pigeons, but a scattering of people were seated outside the café, some eating, some drinking coffee.

  Patrick dumped the rolled-up bloodied shirt in the nearest waste bin, pushing it down out of sight, then took himself across to the café, where he ordered two pizzas to take away. While awaiting their delivery, he chose a table and had an espresso. From where he sat, he could see the windows of the two rooms he and Huntington now occupied. Set on the western corner of the first floor, they overlooked not the square but the narrow passageway that housed the plaster Madonna. Patrick had stayed in both rooms at one time or another, but had planned never to visit La Residenza or this square again.

  Yet here I am.

  He took out his mobile and contemplated making a call. He had no wish to talk to Forsyth again, but he had no doubt that their last conversation had resulted in him being here. Either that or Huntington suspected he was unable to complete the job without help.