The Case of the Missing Madonna

by Lin Anderson

  ‘What time did this happen?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘About an hour ago.’

  Patrick thanked the woman and rang off.

  So Grazia had been at the motorway services west of Nice an hour ago, and according to her text they’d taken the Èze road.

  The village they appeared to be heading for was about ten kilometres west of Monaco. Perched precariously on a pinnacle of rock, it had two gates for entry. The jumble of red-roofed houses that clung to the rock were reached only by crooked steps and tiny twisting alleyways, cars had to be parked outside the village walls.

  Patrick couldn’t imagine why Bach would go there. It would be like entering a castle, but without the possibility of pulling up the drawbridge. They could certainly hide in the maze of little houses, or in the numerous caverns and cellars cut out of the rock which had served as storage places for Èze’s medieval smuggling trade. Of course, Bach might be making instead for one of the secluded villas at the foot of the sheer precipice and just above Èze-Bord-de-Mer.

  The more he considered the move, the more Patrick was convinced the purpose of going to Èze was not in order to hide. If Bach wanted to do that, losing themselves in Italy would have been a much better plan. Which meant that the choice of Èze was significant.

  But in what way?

  When Monique Lacroix had accused Patrick of knowing only the tourist stories of Cannes and its environs during the Second World War, she’d only been partly correct. On arriving on the Côte d’Azur, Patrick had spent months exploring the coastline and hinterland of his new home.

  Èze had been one of the many places he’d visited, and he’d been fascinated by its past. It was a village that had risen from the dead many times, its inhabitants having been put to the sword on numerous occasions by invading forces, their village razed to the ground. By the 1920s, Èze had been abandoned and was almost completely depopulated. Later, it had been part of the Italian zone and was occupied by Mussolini’s troops until the Italians surrendered to the Allied forces in 1943 and the Germans reclaimed it.

  Ironically, many thousands of French Jews, fleeing persecution from the Vichy régime in so-called Free France, had sought safety in the Italian-held area. But in truth anywhere along this stretch of coast was significant in the story of European Fascism.

  Patrick’s conclusion as he left the autoroute was that he had no idea why Bach should come here with the statue, and locating his presence in Èze or its surroundings would be difficult and time-consuming if Grazia didn’t make contact again.

  Grazia hadn’t had an opportunity to question Marco about what was going on until now. Their arrival at the village car park, followed by the walk up the hill to the hotel, had been done in silence.

  She was surprised that Bach had chosen a hotel, rather than a private residence. If he didn’t want his presence in Èze known, it seemed an odd decision, as was abandoning the plan to drive into Italy. Grazia suspected that Marco knew the answer, but was unwilling to divulge it, until maybe now.

  On entry to their suite, he’d gone to take a shower, leaving her alone. She’d contemplated using the phone in the suite, but hadn’t had enough time to make the call before he emerged naked from the shower, his intention quite clear.

  ‘I think I should shower first.’ Grazia smiled apologetically. ‘After that business at the Relais.’

  Marco nodded in an understanding fashion. ‘I’ll open the champagne,’ he said, indicating the chilling bottle and two glasses waiting for them.

  So this is a celebration, Grazia thought as she entered the bathroom. But a celebration of what exactly? Finding the statue, or something more?

  As she showered and washed her hair, taking as much time as possible to delay Marco’s plans for sex, she heard him answer his mobile.

  When he rang off, he knocked on the door. ‘I have to go to Bach’s suite. I won’t be long.’

  ‘OK,’ Grazia shouted back, immediately vacating the shower.

  Once she heard the door close behind him, she emerged from the bathroom and headed for the phone.

  Her voice was faint, but there was no doubt it was her.

  ‘Where are you?’ Patrick asked her, as he steered the car on the mountain road with one hand, the other cradling the mobile.

  ‘Château Èze. Bach has taken suites here. Marco’s with him now.’

  ‘And the statue?’

  ‘They brought both the statue and the paintings from the car.’

  ‘They plan a handover?’

  ‘Maybe. But I think there’s something else happening. Marco knows, but I haven’t got him to tell me yet.’

  ‘I’m on my way. And I’ll tell Moreaux where you are,’ Patrick promised.

  There was a short silence as Grazia absorbed the news that Patrick now knew who she was really working for.

  ‘When this is over, maybe we can both be honest with each other,’ she finally said.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Patrick conceded.

  Then he rang off and made his promised call to Moreaux.

  Grazia replaced the receiver as the door opened and Marco re-entered. Still dripping from the shower, she secured the towel round her naked body.

  ‘That was quick,’ she said.

  Marco closed the door, locked it, and stood against it.

  ‘Who were you talking to?’

  A hundred thoughts raced through Grazia’s mind, none of them good. She had, she believed, managed to fool Marco, at least up until the villa on Torcello. Since then, she’d been extra affectionate, extra convincing.

  ‘Room service,’ she ventured. ‘I thought we might need a second bottle, if we’re celebrating.’

  She managed to pour a glass of champagne from the bottle Marco had opened, willing her hand not to tremble.

  ‘Here,’ she said, releasing the towel before handing him the glass.

  For a moment, she thought it had worked. Marco accepted the champagne and tasted it, his eyes moving over her nakedness. She filled her own glass and stood up, toasting him with it.

  ‘Are you going to tell me why we’ve come here and not headed to Italy as planned?’

  Marco came to stand close to her.

  ‘Because there’s going to be a show.’

  ‘A show?’

  ‘We have collectors coming to view the paintings and, of course, the statue.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it have been safer to do that outside France?’

  Marco raised his free hand and fingered her nipple.

  ‘We can do what we like here. After all, Courvoisier thinks we’ve headed in the opposite direction, doesn’t he?’ Marco gripped the nipple and twisted it, hard.

  Grazia cried out from the suddenness of the attack, but Marco smothered the sound by pressing his mouth hard on hers. He let go his glass and it hit the deep pile of the carpet, spraying the champagne against her bare leg.

  His free hand now found her throat.

  ‘Who were you talking to, Grazia?’ he whispered menacingly in her ear. When she didn’t answer, he said, ‘If I tell Bach, he’ll have Jonas tip you over the wall into the valley below. All Courvoisier will find when he arrives is a broken doll at the foot of the precipice.’

  ‘I told you, I was calling room service,’ she said, desperately trying to think of a way, any way to get out of his grip.

  ‘I think you’re lying.’

  Grazia attempted to twist out of his grasp but Marco had no intention of letting her go, so she did the only thing left open to her. She stabbed the champagne glass she still held into his groin. The glass snapped as it met his body and she felt the fractured lip pierce the material of his trousers.

  Marco let go of her throat and jumped back.

  ‘So you did call Courvoisier,’ he said with a small smile. ‘Good. Bach will be delighted to hear it. Now, get dressed. We have a party to go to.’

  They left the hotel in single file, Bach leading the way, Marco and Jonas corralling Grazia. She was aware there was a gun pointed at her back, al
though it would be easy to dispose of her in the way Marco had suggested. At every turn in the twisting narrow street there was a view down the sheer cliff face. Once over the edge, she would descend thousands of metres in seconds, hopefully to die before she reached the foot.

  Marco had, she realized, tricked her. They must have suspected her from the Relais stop, if not before. Or maybe they had been playing with her, just the way she had played with them.

  Bach obviously wanted Courvoisier here at the finale, maybe more so since he’d killed Heinrich. They now knew she was on Courvoisier’s side, but did they know about Moreaux?

  If Marco had been listening outside the door, then he knew she’d led Courvoisier here. But she definitely hadn’t mentioned Moreaux’s name during the telephone conversation, so perhaps her true cover had not yet been blown.

  Dusk had fallen on the little hill town, and with night coming the main bulk of the visitors had departed. The number of people actually residing here was small, and once the art and craft shops were closed for the night the winding maze of streets lay empty.

  Far below, the lights of Beaulieu and Cap Ferrat twinkled and in the far distance lay Nice and the jutting outcrop of Cap d’Antibes.

  A beautiful sight, which is likely to be my last.

  They had arrived at their destination. Grazia felt the muzzle of the gun nudge her forward to enter through a low doorway. Dipping her head, she followed Marco into a narrow hall, then down a set of uneven stone steps into what could only be described as a cavern hewn from the rock, ablaze with light.

  She came to a halt in astonishment.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The car park was practically empty when Patrick drew in, evidence that Èze wasn’t a hotspot at night. He made his way up to the lights of Château Èze and came to their unmanned reception, where he found a notice requesting visitors to use the wall phone, then someone would come down and open the door.

  Patrick dialled and a man answered.

  ‘I’m here to meet with Herr Bach’s party,’ he said.

  ‘I’m afraid they’ve already left, Sir.’

  ‘Damn!’ Patrick said. ‘Can you direct me to where they’re headed? I’m a little lost in the maze of streets.’

  ‘May I ask your name, Sir?’

  ‘Coburn.’

  ‘Let me just check, Sir.’

  After a couple of minutes, he came back on the line. ‘Follow the wall to your right. The building you’re looking for has a plaque above a black door with the symbol of a red phoenix.’

  Patrick thanked him. That his name had been accepted suggested Bach was expecting him to turn up, or hoping he would. Either way, it seemed it was now common knowledge that Grazia had contacted him, which meant the danger he’d thought her in before had now multiplied.

  Until that moment, Grazia hadn’t been permitted to view the golden Madonna. Marco had described the statue to her, but nothing prepared Grazia for its beauty.

  A shrine had been set up near the back wall of the cavern. Illuminated by arc lights, the gold shone like a burnished sun. On either side hung the two portraits of Fragonard’s mistress. One authentic, the other a good imitation. Directly behind the gold statue was a black-and-white photograph blown up to poster size. Above it were two flags: one the swastika, the other that of the Italian Neo-Nazis.

  The large photograph featured a beautiful dark-haired women and her handsome male companion. The woman’s eyes weren’t on him, however, but on the smiling man standing before her, holding her gloved hand in his. The photograph, featuring the Duke and Duchess of Windsor being welcomed by Adolf Hitler to his mountain retreat, was a famous one that Grazia had seen before. But at this size, in this place, it struck her even more forcibly.

  As Grazia moved forward to view the statue, the group of collectors around the shrine, all male, parted to let her through. With a catch in her throat, Grazia had a close view of what all this had been about.

  The figure wasn’t, as she’d imagined, a replica of Fragonard’s Madonna, although it did resemble it in form, being the upper half of a woman’s torso, with her breasts partly exposed. The difference lay in the features of this Madonna. Taken aback by what she thought she saw in those features – the smooth centrally parted hair, the distinctive arched eyebrows, the line of the lips, the shape of the jaw – Grazia looked from the photograph to the statue, then back again in disbelief.

  That’s why the photograph’s up there. Bach wants them to note the resemblance.

  It appeared that the gold statue gifted by Hitler hadn’t been fashioned to portray Mademoiselle de Sainval of St Honorat but the Duchess of Windsor, Wallis Simpson, wife of the abdicated King Edward VIII.

  On the base were engraved the words Die einst und zukünftige Königin, below which Grazia read Von jüdischen Gold.

  The once and future queen. Fashioned from Jewish gold.

  Now Grazia understood why the British wished so fervently to retrieve and, she suspected, destroy this piece of art. It had never been about the painting that had been gifted to the Windsors by the Führer and hung on the walls of Château de la Croë. It had been about this.

  Bach took centre stage and began his speech to camera, in which he explained exactly what they had recovered and its provenance and its significance in the history of the Fascist movement, now being reborn like a red phoenix across Europe.

  ‘Miss Lucca, our art expert, has verified the Fragonard and the rather excellent forgery, done by a German artist at the request of the Duchess of Windsor.’ Here Bach paused. ‘Of course, the real prize is the golden Madonna. Created to show the Führer’s admiration for the woman he wished to place on the throne of England, it is exquisite. The Windsors accepted the gift of this Madonna, just as they accepted the Fragonard. However, on this occasion they did not make the gift known to the British Government, but chose to hide it. Had the outcome of the war proved different, I believe it would have been revealed. The British have been seeking the statue, of course, but have failed in their attempts. It is now ours to do with as we see fit, and we wish that whoever purchases it will use it to further our cause.’

  Grazia observed the intent expressions of the men surrounding her, knowing they were only a small selection of the wealthy Fascist sympathizers dotted around the world who would want to bid for such a priceless symbol of their movement.

  The black door beneath the red phoenix stood partly open, which suggested that Bach was expecting a further visitor.

  Probably me, Patrick thought.

  When he’d called Moreaux and explained the state of play, he had felt the heat of the detective’s wrath over the phone.

  ‘I told you to return to Cannes, Courvoisier,’ he said sharply.

  ‘Grazia managed to get a message to me indicating where they were heading,’ Patrick replied, omitting to mention exactly when the text had arrived. ‘She wanted me to help.’

  Moreaux changed tack. ‘Why Èze?’

  ‘Grazia wasn’t sure. Maybe for a handover? I’m at the place now. It seems Bach’s expecting me.’

  ‘So they know about Grazia?’ Moreaux said, concern in his voice.

  ‘They must do if Marco overheard our conversation. But your name was never mentioned.’

  ‘So they may not know her true role in all of this?’

  ‘Let’s hope not.’

  Patrick opened the door, dipped his head to avoid the low stone lintel, and entered the dark passageway, where he paused to listen. Although the passage wasn’t lit, there was a light at the end of it, which illuminated what appeared to be a stone staircase leading downwards. He was aware the rock was riddled with caves, some of the more famous ones between fifty and seventy metres deep, but from the murmur of voices he didn’t think he’d be descending that far.

  Moving to the top of the staircase, he noted that it wound down in a spiral, thus restricting his view of what lay below, but from here he could make out individual voices, none of them female.

  The chatter below
ceased and there was a short silence of expectation, followed by an explosion of excited applause. Then Bach began to speak, extolling the virtues of the treasure that lay before them.

  Patrick checked his mobile and found there was no signal. If that were the case at the top of the staircase, then it would be the same in the room below. Fortunately he and Moreaux had anticipated they would be out of contact and had already agreed a plan.

  Patrick began to make his way down the staircase towards the bright light.

  Bach’s speech ended to a round of exuberant applause. Immediately it was over, a man approached Grazia and speaking in Italian asked what she, as an expert, believed the Fragonard to be worth. Grazia invented an exorbitant sum and watched his eyes light up.

  ‘And the golden Madonna?’ he asked.

  ‘She is worth whatever you are willing to pay for her.’

  When he nodded, satisfied, and moved away to view the prize again, Grazia stepped back into the shadows. With Marco engaged in an animated conversation with a collector and Jonas on sentry jury next to the statue, it seemed an appropriate time for her to blend into the background and perhaps even escape up the staircase.

  As she made her move, Bach appeared from nowhere to prevent it.

  ‘I suggest you remain here.’ He regarded her with displeasure. ‘After all, your guest is yet to arrive.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Grazia said.

  His fingers bit into her arm. ‘I have it on good authority that Mr Coburn, or de Courvoisier as he’s more commonly known, is in the vicinity and will appear shortly.’

  Grazia looked around, but Jonas was still at his post by the statue. So who was watching the door?

  ‘Not everyone here is a dealer or collector,’ Bach told her. ‘Those who are not, are fully armed.’

  Grazia glanced round to discover three men had dislodged themselves from the group and were now focusing on herself and Bach.

  ‘You have the statue,’ Grazia said. ‘No one else needs to die.’

  ‘You’re the one who summoned Courvoisier, remember?’