The Case of the Missing Madonna

by Lin Anderson

  ‘He knows exactly where we’re going,’ Stephen informed him.

  Being a Cannes fisherman, François Girard would know every bay, rock and inlet in these waters. What lay above the surface and what lay below.

  Patrick nodded, accepting this addition, aware they would need all the help they could get. The firm set of Huntington’s mouth suggested the opposite. He didn’t voice an opinion, but Patrick knew he would as soon as he got Patrick on his own.

  Once on board, Patrick did the necessary introductions. He could tell by Jean-Paul’s expression that he didn’t rate Huntington any more highly than when he’d met him at the restaurant. François replied in guttural Cannois, putting Huntington at an immediate disadvantage, and Stephen wore an open face as usual.

  ‘Let’s go below,’ Patrick said. ‘I’d rather any onlookers remain unaware who’s here.’

  As they took their places round the table, Stephen plonked a carafe of wine and five glasses on the table, plus a couple of baguettes and a large plate of fruits de mer, no doubt supplied by François.

  ‘We’ve eaten already,’ Stephen said.

  Patrick, registering how hungry he was, immediately tore off some bread and helped himself to wine. Huntington thought about it for a moment, then did the same. His colour was better, Patrick decided, and he was definitely in less pain, but the morphine would need to be topped up before long.

  Patrick ate while he talked. Huntington tried to catch his eye on occasion, indicating he had something to say, but Patrick ignored him. By the time the shellfish was finished and the wine replenished, the plan was laid out, or at least as much as Patrick was willing to divulge.

  When the others had gone back on deck, Huntington got his chance, and took it.

  ‘You can’t be serious!’ he said.

  ‘Deadly serious,’ Patrick told him.

  There was a roar as the engine started up and the Belle began to wind her way to the chosen spot.

  ‘We don’t know there is an underwater entrance,’ Huntington came back at him.

  ‘François maintains there is.’

  ‘It would be better by land,’ Huntington insisted.

  ‘Then we’d have to enter the grounds. The château has state of the art security systems. Besides, the co-ordinates suggest the hiding place is on the shoreline.’

  ‘We always knew it was a cave. Just not where the cave was,’ Huntington said.

  ‘So you assumed that, like other Nazi stores, it would be in the Esterel mountains.’ Patrick paused. ‘A cave on the Cap won’t be dry, so I take it the item’s not easily spoiled?’

  When Huntington didn’t answer, Patrick said, ‘Are we looking for gold?’

  Eventually, Huntington nodded.

  ‘In what form?’

  ‘That I don’t know, but it’ll be heavy and would therefore be better transported by land,’ Huntington insisted.

  ‘Just how friendly is London with the current owner of the château?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘Not enough to tell him he has treasure on his property and expect him to hand it over,’ Huntington admitted.

  ‘And what about Bach or Fratelli?’

  ‘Fratelli has supplied some of the art in the château. It’s possible he may have access when the owner isn’t in residence,’ Huntington conceded.

  ‘And they would approach by helicopter?’

  ‘I would assume the Hirondelle will also be lying off the coast.’

  Patrick rose. ‘Let’s find out.’

  Château de la Croë lay on the southern tip of Cap d’Antibes, facing the sea and surrounded by a high wall. There was no access from the seaward side, either by path or by boat, and its grounds were thick with Aleppo pines. A perfect hideaway for the Windsors and the various illustrious owners who’d followed them.

  On deck now, Patrick watched as the scattered lights of the peninsular diminished in number the further south the boat chugged. There had been no sign of the Hirondelle, but chances were she would be lying in what was commonly known as Billionaires’ Bay, shielded by the narrow promontory at the far western corner.

  Night diving was popular along the Côte d’Azur. A dive boat anchored off Château de la Croë would therefore go unremarked, even by the Hirondelle. As would a group of divers entering the water near the château.

  Divers called a coastline like this a ‘drop-off’. Plunging downwards via a cliff face, it offered a deep dive close to shore. François had indicated that the tunnel entrance lay at around thirty metres, although it wasn’t easy to find, being hidden behind an outcrop. Using a standard fifteen-metre tank, they would have around twenty minutes of air at that depth. When Patrick questioned whether that would be enough for the return journey to the cave, François confirmed what he already knew. ‘It all depends on the weight of your cargo.’

  Huntington came to stand beside Patrick on deck. He had already decreed that François would take himself, Huntington and Jean-Paul to the dive spot. Two of them would enter the cave, leaving one diver outside.

  ‘I’m coming in with you,’ Huntington said.

  ‘You’re injured and you’ve had a second shot of morphine.’ There was no need to spell out what they both knew that might mean – the bends or narcosis.

  Huntington’s expression was set. ‘I’m coming,’ he repeated.

  Patrick didn’t argue, knowing there was little point. And, he reminded himself, this was London’s game and Huntington was London’s man. For his own part, he planned to participate only as long as it took to get the Madonna back.

  The three men dropped, one after another, into the water. Patrick had dived with Jean-Paul before and trusted him. Huntington was an unknown quantity. François had taken them in the dinghy to what he said was the exact spot. Patrick only hoped the fisherman was right.

  Stephen hadn’t been happy to be left on the Diving Belle, but he’d been given an important task. One on which the whole plan hinged.

  Patrick took the lead, his torch beam reflecting off the limestone rocks below the surface. On a night dive there was normally plenty to see – night creatures emerging to prey on those asleep in their burrows, and phosphorescent displays by the tiny creatures of the rocks as they detected movement, lighting up the sea like fireworks, only to disappear an instant later.

  But this wasn’t a normal night dive.

  Patrick checked his watch and noted they were already at fifteen metres. At this point, the cliff face was traversed by a ledge, causing the waves to foam and break, hiding the air bubbles that identified the presence of divers below.

  Patrick checked back on the others, giving them the OK signal. Jean-Paul responded immediately, Huntington a little later. The morphine, Patrick knew, would be dulling not only the pain but his reactions too.

  Dropping lower, he checked for the outcrop of rock. François had described it as ‘le doigt qui n’a pas d’ongle’, the finger without a nail. And he was right, the outcrop resembled a large stone penis.

  Indicating that the others should follow, Patrick moved behind the outcrop, flashing his torch at the rock, the beams from the other torches dancing alongside his own. This had to be the place indicated by François, yet Patrick could see nothing that suggested an opening in what appeared to be a solid rock wall.

  Then he spotted something, above rather than on the same level as his current position. Rising a little, he felt a pull as a surge of water entered what had to be a tunnel in the rock.

  Patrick had a sudden memory of the Bay of Skaill, in Orkney, and the waterspout on its southern rocky headland – how water surged through the tunnel at high tide to emerge in a spout from the grey rock, as though it were a huge whale.

  He had no wish to be sucked in and spouted out of this tunnel.

  Patrick let the swell carry him forward, then caught hold of the rock just left of the entrance. Turning, he indicated to the other two men his success.

  Unhooking the nylon rope, he attached it to his diving belt and passed the end to Jea
n-Paul. Indicating Huntington should take hold of it, Patrick dipped his head and entered.

  François had told them the tunnel emerged in a limestone cave, which lay below the outer grounds of Château de la Croë. Because of the danger of accidents, the interconnecting hole that gave access from ground level had been overlaid by a grille which, before the current owner renovated the derelict property, had been hidden by undergrowth.

  According to Huntington, the co-ordinates of the supposed treasure had been split between the two Madonnas, the original and its imitation. When the two paintings were identified and brought together, this was where it pointed.

  The floor of the narrow tunnel was covered in white sand, the walls in little soft corals that beamed bright yellow at Patrick in the torchlight. Once or twice he spotted a patch of precious red coral, Corallium rubrum, its durable and intensely coloured red or pink skeleton much sought after for making jewellery.

  Sudden windows or portals in the limestone gave him a glimpse of the open sea beyond, which looked for all the world like the night sky. His torch beam threw up other shapes, more monster-like than pretty. Especially the elongated shadow, resembling a Sherman tank, of a clawless lobster seated on a ledge.

  Then the tunnel widened into what could be described as a shallow cave. Suddenly there was air above them, about a metre of it. The current lessened here too, its energy dissipated. Patrick trod water and waited for Huntington to follow.

  When Huntington appeared, Patrick put his head above the surface, removed his mouthpiece, and took a breath of fresh air. ‘There’s another stretch of tunnel ahead, after which we should reach the main cave.’ He didn’t ask how Huntington was, knowing it was pointless to do so.

  Before moving towards the next entrance, he gave the rope two tugs, indicating to Jean-Paul that all was well.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Patrick reinserted his mouthpiece.

  This section of the tunnel was even more claustrophobic than the previous one. It was fully filled with water and he had to lie flat and work his way along the sand with his hands, which made it difficult to use his torch.

  Eventually the passageway widened, although the height remained the same.

  Patrick shone the beam ahead, hoping for a glimpse of the main cave, but all it met was a wall of rock. He swore into his mouthpiece. If this was a dead end, how the hell could they turn round in such a confined space and make their way back?

  Having come to an abrupt halt, Huntington collided with Patrick’s fins as a sudden swell threw him forwards.

  Patrick turned his head enough to meet Huntington’s eyes in the torch beam, then made a gesture indicating there might be a problem and to tread water and wait. It certainly looked like a dead end ahead. But if it was, the water would be coming back to greet them, and it wasn’t.

  Patrick kicked forward and just as he met the wall was suddenly swept ninety degrees to the left, indicating that the supposed dead end had merely been a sharp turn in the passageway. The tunnel roof began to rise, and then suddenly he was through and into a sizeable cave.

  Moments later, Patrick came ashore on a pebble beach, where he removed his mouthpiece and mask and drew in a grateful breath of air. Seconds later, Huntington joined him. This time Patrick gave the rope three sharp tugs, hoping the signal would register across the distance between himself and Jean-Paul, indicating they’d reached their destination. Because they’d had to move so tentatively through the tunnel, Patrick wasn’t sure how far they’d travelled. With the sharp bend, he suspected they’d doubled back and were now not far from the entry point, albeit with a wall of rock between.

  ‘Look,’ Huntington said, his voice echoing in the chamber. He pointed upwards to where the thick darkness had become something else. The part moon that had accompanied their boat trip was now sending them her rays via what looked like a metal grille in the roof of the cave, almost directly above them.

  Patrick swore his appreciation softly in French. So François had been right, the cave was accessible from the land.

  He swung his torch round. ‘Assuming we’re in the right place, where do we find the treasure?’

  SIXTEEN

  If Jean-Paul had followed orders, by now he would be back in the dinghy awaiting developments. Patrick checked the computer on his wrist. They were no longer using the air in their tanks, but with the deep dive and their large lung capacity both he and Huntington had, he estimated, used up just short of half their supply, the rest of which they would need for the return journey.

  They’d completed a search of the cave. At least, as much of a search as was possible with a shaft of moonlight and two powerful torches. Huntington looked pale when the beam caught his face, but for all Patrick knew he might look the same himself.

  His biggest fear at that moment was to catch sight of someone at the grille above. But, he reasoned, were the opposition to locate the entrance, they would wait for daylight before entering. After all, who would be mad enough to come searching for buried treasure in the dark?

  ‘You’re certain there was nothing to indicate where the gold might be?’ Patrick tried again.

  ‘I told you, no,’ Huntington said, his voice etched with frustration.

  The beach they stood on was barely big enough to accommodate both men. Scraping the gravel away had revealed a layer of limestone beneath, so nothing could be buried there. The cave walls surrounding them had no niches in which to hide bounty. All in all, Patrick couldn’t see where anything might be secreted.

  ‘Of course, there’s a chance it’s already been found and removed, not necessarily recently,’ Huntington admitted.

  ‘Great!’ Patrick said. If this was a wild goose chase, then it wasn’t the first one London had sent him on.

  He sat down and began to study the cave, his torch beam playing above the surface of the water.

  ‘If it’s not above the water, then maybe it’s below?’ Patrick suggested.

  Huntington looked as though he might dismiss such a possibility, but didn’t.

  ‘You check the left-hand side, I’ll take the right,’ Patrick ordered.

  They’d already removed their tanks and stood them at the rear of the small beach. Patrick fixed his mask in place, took a deep breath, and sank into the water, torch in hand.

  Assuming the gold was pure, then salt water wouldn’t have affected it, no matter how long it had been submerged, although its hiding place might be another matter. The wall below the waterline was encrusted with barnacles. In the bright light of his torch, Patrick caught sight of the other living creatures who called the cave home. Had this been a recreational dive, he would have found the cave fascinating. Under these circumstances, he was merely irritated by what he saw, because none of it gave a hint to the presence of what he sought.

  Then he did locate something, or rather his torch did. As he slammed it against the rock in his frustration, he broke through the covering of barnacles to reveal what looked like a flat, regular surface beneath.

  Immediately, he freed his diving knife from his belt and began a full frontal attack on the barnacles, to expose what looked like a pane of reinforced glass. Moments later, as the water around him billowed with tiny pieces of broken crustaceans like an underwater sand storm, he was convinced of it. Desperate for more air, but refusing to give up and surface just yet, he angled his blade behind the final clump of barnacles and forced them free.

  As they finally released their hold and fell away, he saw her through the pane of glass now exposed.

  She stood in a niche in the stone, just like the Madonna in the corner wall of the Campo Bandiera e Moro. The Venetian Madonna was made of painted plaster; crumbling with age and damp, she seemed to symbolize a Venice past its former glory. The statue before him now wasn’t crumbling or tarnished. This Madonna gleamed in the circle of torchlight as brightly as the day she had been fashioned – to reflect Fragonard’s painting of his half-naked mistress.

  The likeness was remarkable, but there was one differ
ence. The face of this Madonna was not the beautiful face of the painting. Patrick, his need for air momentarily forgotten, now understood why the statue had been hidden and why the Madonna of St Honorat and its imitation had led them here.

  Patrick surfaced, and quickly drew air into his empty lungs.

  ‘Huntington,’ he called. ‘Over here.’

  ‘You’ve found something?’

  Patrick indicated that Huntington should follow him back down, without saying why. When he pointed to the cleared circle of glass, Huntington kicked forward. Alongside, Patrick watched his eyes widen, just as his own had done. Bubbles of air escaped from Huntington’s mouth as he exclaimed his stunned delight.

  He turned to Patrick and gave a thumbs up.

  Patrick motioned that they should rise.

  Surfacing, he realized that the light, or lack of it, in the cave had changed. Dawn was coming and with it, no doubt, their adversaries. They’d been down here for approaching an hour and they still had to make the return journey, this time with a precious cargo.

  Neither men discussed the lack of time, just what needed to be done to get the Madonna out of her glass case and transport her along the tunnel to the waiting dinghy.

  Breaking reinforced glass underwater was only the first problem they faced. Being able to breathe freely while down there would help, but they had to be sure they kept sufficient air for their journey back through the tunnel and enough to rise safely to the surface from a depth of thirty metres, carrying a heavy object.

  Ten minutes later they had set themselves up on the sea floor and begun clearing the entire surface of the glass, before preparing to shatter it. Patrick estimated the Madonna to be about twenty centimetres tall, ten wide and five deep, so approximately 1,000 cubic centimetres. What that translated to in weight he would discover when she was free, but at a guess, if pure gold, it would be somewhere around twenty kilograms.

  Patrick handed the mouthpiece to Huntington and watched as he took in air. He seemed to be coping well, but the morphine would wear off soon and Patrick couldn’t imagine that Huntington would be able to swing a heavy weight with that injured shoulder. As for carrying the Madonna to the surface, Patrick suspected that would be down to him.