by Lin Anderson
‘Will he be investing in the next movie?’ Patrick tried to sound territorial.
‘Nothing’s settled yet,’ Polinsky said swiftly.
‘This money. I don’t want it to sit around for too long.’ Patrick inclined his head. ‘French bureaucracy might force me to put it elsewhere. You understand?’
Polinsky understood all right.
‘How does Angele contact you, when she gets back from Paris?’
Patrick handed him the card for Dubois International Investments Ltd’s head office in the Cayman Islands. ‘My number. Once I take Angele out to dinner, we’ll talk.’ He gave Polinsky a smile that indicated a male understanding of what the dinner invitation really meant and held out his hand. ‘I’ll look forward to hearing from Angele.’
As he turned to go Polinsky caught his arm. ‘A little something while you wait.’ He handed Patrick a DVD. ‘Some promotional footage of Angele I think you’ll enjoy.’
Patrick smiled his appreciation. ‘I’ll look forward to watching it.’ He slipped the DVD in his pocket.
Once beyond the screen of flowering camellias that bordered the terrace, Patrick checked back to find Polinsky talking rapidly on his mobile – a call, he suspected, instigated by his visit. But was it a call to Angele? Somehow he didn’t think so.
He made his way back to the security gate where he gave Bruno the thumbs-up. When he tried to return the journalist’s pass, Bruno waved it away.
‘Keep it. It’ll get you into all the best parties.’
As he left the Majestic’s grounds, he was passed by a big black limo, its occupants hidden behind smoked glass. Cheers of approbation met the car as it turned on to the Croisette. The screams grew louder as it approached the red carpet, rising to a crescendo as its occupants, a male and a female, climbed out and posed for photographers.
According to Camille this was the adulation her sister craved. Perhaps The Black Pearl would have propelled her towards Hollywood and that dream.
So why throw it all away by stealing from her benefactor?
Unless staying with Chapayev had proved a more frightening prospect than going. Patrick had yet to meet the Russian, but even from what little he knew of the man, he didn’t believe ditching him would have been easy.
He glanced out to the sleek black shape of the yacht in the bay. As he watched, a motorboat took off from its side and headed towards the shore.
A visit to the Heavenly Princess was a necessity and soon. He fingered the journalist’s pass clipped to his breast pocket. He could try out his new-found status as a movie journalist. If that didn’t get him on board, he had other ways at his disposal.
FIVE
Once away from the Croisette, the crowds began to thin. Celebrities could be spotted further west in Le Suquet, but most fans simply hung around the red-carpet entrance to the Palais, unaware that the restaurants of the Rue Saint Antoine and the pizza restaurant by the old harbour were popular places for the famous to dine.
Patrick made his way along the harbour walkway, hoping the local dive boat wouldn’t be currently out on a trip, but its berth was empty. He would have to catch up with its proprietor Stephen later in the Irish bar.
Oscar lay asleep under the awning on the upper deck of the gunboat, his sleek tan body stretched out in the shape of a frog. Patrick gave a low whistle and Oscar dragged himself up, somewhat reluctantly, from his heat-induced snooze and awaited orders. When Patrick told him to ‘stay’, Oscar lay back down and went back to his slumbers.
Continuing along by the harbour, Patrick made for the curved bay of the Plages du Midi. At this time of day in May, it was normally populated by the members of Cannes’s elderly swim club, who took a dip whatever the time of year, whatever the weather. A few film festival delegates had swelled their numbers, looking worn and hot, and wishing they had brought the means to swim in their festival bags.
Patrick took off his shirt and sandals and left them in a pile near the water, then walked in far enough to perform a shallow dive before heading straight out of the bay. The end of June would see rafts anchored all along the coast, including here in the west bay, but for now only a few grey heads bobbed the water apart from his own.
A strong steady crawl took him to the first of a line of buoys in fifteen minutes. He trod water there, checking out his line of sight, estimating the Heavenly Princess to be up to an hour’s swim away, depending on the current.
He headed eastwards, keeping to the line of marker buoys that marked the edge of the shipping lane, before cutting directly across, keeping his eye out for motor boats. No one racing along the coast in a flurry of spray would be on the lookout for a lone swimmer outside the line of buoys, unless round a moored yacht.
As he neared the Princess, he spotted a few figures larking about in the water at her stern. From the various decks came the sound of laughter, music and voices. Regardless of the stolen pearl, the Russian’s guests were still partying. Patrick pulled himself on to the metal platform and sat there for a moment, as though he too was a guest who’d decided to take a swim to cool off.
He was joined almost immediately by a young woman, who stripped off her dress to reveal a pair of enhanced breasts and a tiny thong.
‘Is it cold?’ she asked, her eyes bright with alcohol, or some other substance.
‘Refreshing,’ Patrick assured her.
She poised, then dived, her slim brown body entering the water with barely a splash. He watched her surface a few metres away and join two men.
Patrick rose and climbed the metal steps. At the top, a waiter in a fitted white jacket and tight black trousers presented him with a tray of drinks. Patrick chose a champagne glass with a strawberry attached. Now he was one of them, he could take a look around.
Patrick could not help but admire his surroundings. Ostentatious the Heavenly Princess might be, but she had been built by true craftsmen. As to her price tag, he could only guess – and even the guess, he thought, would be too low. Chapayev had money to burn, that much was obvious. How he made his money was something Patrick had yet to discover.
He made his way through the partygoers. They all appeared either inebriated on the chilled martinis and champagne cocktails that were being liberally distributed, or on a powdered substance, not so obvious, but no doubt as abundant as the alcohol. The balance of men to women was about equal. The age range was not: the men looked considerably older than their female counterparts.
The higher he climbed through the decks, the more clothes people were wearing. By the sky deck he was beginning to feel conspicuous, until he spotted the Jacuzzi. Balancing his drink he stepped into the bubbling water, which was occupied by two young women and an older man. They sat either side of him, laughing at whatever he said. One of the women, red-haired and striking, shot Patrick an interested glance. When he didn’t reciprocate, she turned her attention back to her erstwhile companion. They were conversing in Russian.
Patrick assumed an expression that suggested he didn’t understand a word, and did his best to listen in. The talk was mostly sexual flirtation – no mention was made of the movie, the missing starlet or the stolen pearl, suggesting that perhaps no one outside the immediate circle knew about Angele, or the supposed robbery.
Five minutes later, Chapayev, dressed in a smart, lightweight suit, his ample girth structured by its good cut, appeared on the sky deck and was immediately surrounded by a swarm of women. Ignoring them, he gestured to a tall, heavyset man, also suited, and they moved towards the railing. As though by prior arrangement, the other occupants of the sky deck melted away, out of earshot.
The Russian was imposing in the flesh. Big and ugly, he commanded your attention, just as the more famous movie stars drew your eyes when on screen. The man with him had the body and face of a heavyweight boxer, complete with broken nose.
There followed an animated and disgruntled conversation which Patrick could neither hear nor lip-read, which involved a number of glances towards Fort Royal on the nearby isla
nd of Sainte Marguerite. He contemplated exiting the Jacuzzi and trying to get a little closer, but knew that that would only draw attention to himself. The short exchange over, Chapayev and the man moved towards the stairs, his guests parting before him like the Red Sea before Moses.
Patrick climbed out of the Jacuzzi and followed.
The reconnaissance did not last long. Chapayev made for the helipad and boarded a black helicopter with the letters VC on the side in red. The helicopter took off, heading, Patrick decided, for the landing at the rear of the Palais des Festivals.
Patrick took his time making his way down through the yacht, memorizing the layout, becoming an inebriated French journalist if challenged. Most of the crew ignored him, although at one point the suited man from the sky deck took an unhealthy interest until Patrick feigned a bout of nausea, leaning over the railing, and making retching sounds to the consternation of those below.
Having seen all he was able to gain access to, he checked his watch, then made his way back to the stern and negotiated the metal stairs to the dive platform. Any swimmers who had been there on his arrival had given up by now. The sun was on its way down and the warmth of the day was dissipating. Patrick sat for a moment on the dive platform, then slipped into the water, hopefully unheeded.
Making his way round the stern, he emerged on the opposite side of the yacht. Before striking out across the bay, he took a last look for any signs of surveillance from the upper decks. Seeing that none of the figures clustered there seemed remotely interested in him, he set out for shore.
This time the current was with him and he made good progress until he reached the mouth of the bay, where things became more difficult, the westerly flow seeking to carry him right past the entrance. Patrick stopped at the earlier buoy and trod water to regain his strength for the final lap to shore.
He emerged on the beach to find it deserted, apart from a gang of teenagers mucking about up by the rocks. Patrick quickly dressed and headed for the promenade. Conscious of the time, he walked swiftly along the Vieux Port to find Oscar no longer on deck. He whistled, expecting the dog’s distinctive head to pop up and be followed by a rumbling bark of welcome.
When the bulldog didn’t appear, Patrick pulled down the walkway and went on board, calling Oscar’s name. As he entered the cabin, he was immediately hit by a fragrant scent. A woman he presumed to be Marie Elise was seated on the leather couch, cradling Oscar, who regarded Patrick with a jaundiced and unwelcoming eye. At a whistle he managed finally to rouse himself and come over to greet his master, albeit reluctantly.
‘Marie Elise?’
She stood up. Tall, with ebony skin, her hair was cropped short and sleek to her beautifully shaped head. He suddenly realized he had seen her before in Le Suquet, in the market perhaps or in one of the many restaurants. She stepped forward to greet him with the customary kiss on either cheek. Patrick, his face and body crusted with salt, felt at a distinct disadvantage.
‘I’m sorry, I seem to be a little late,’ Patrick said, knowing he wasn’t.
She shook her head. ‘No, I am a little early.’ She glanced down to where Oscar was staring up at her with worshipful eyes. ‘And I have been thoroughly entertained by your manservant while waiting.’ She laughed.
Oscar’s ears pricked up at the compliment and Patrick could swear the dog looked smug.
‘He normally doesn’t allow strangers to board,’ he said, a little puzzled by the domestic tableau.
‘But I am not a stranger,’ she assured him.
Patrick looked at her quizzically.
‘When you travel, you leave Oscar with a friend of mine,’ she explained.
The local vet, Georges Baptiste, took on a whole new persona in Patrick’s mind. Did vets really make enough money to afford Hibiscus rates?
‘We went to school together,’ Marie said, as though reading his mind.
There was an awkward moment before Patrick said, ‘Can you help yourself to a drink while I shower?’
‘Of course. Can I mix you something?’
Patrick had briefly forgotten that Brigitte’s girls were the Mediterranean equivalent of geishas. Schooled in all the arts, including the perfect cocktail.
‘I’d love a vodka martini, shaken not stirred.’
She raised a delicate black eyebrow in what he translated as amusement. ‘Naturally,’ she said.
Patrick glanced at the galley area.
‘Don’t worry, I’m sure I will find everything I need,’ Marie assured him. ‘If not, I’ll shout.’
‘The bathroom’s in the stern,’ Patrick said.
‘I know.’ She smiled.
Patrick turned the shower to power and soaped off the salt. It seemed Marie had turned up early, knowing Oscar would let her board Les Trois Soeurs, even if Patrick himself wasn’t there. Had she done that on purpose? And if so, why?
Perhaps she’d turned up early in order to check out the sunken bath. Patrick smiled at the thought. The manner in which Madame Lacroix had mentioned it during their phone call had suggested it was regarded with some humour in her establishment.
It had been Patrick’s habit on occasion to vacate Cannes during the film festival, renting the gunboat out to delegates via Le Chevalier, for a high price. He suspected at least one of Brigitte’s girls had visited the boat during that time and probably discovered the pleasures of his bath.
Now dried and dressed, he headed back to the cabin. In his absence Marie had put on some music – the soulful jazz voice of Madeleine Peyroux. She had also mixed martinis and set out the fruits de mer platter he’d collected earlier and stored in the fridge.
They sat for a moment, nursing their cocktails, listening to the music, discussing the singer and her road to fame. Marie Elise reminded Patrick of the American actress Halle Berry, with her close-cropped hair, high cheekbones and stunning smile. Eventually Patrick suggested they eat and she nodded in agreement.
He produced the wine for her approval and she told him a funny story about a visit to the vineyard that had produced it. She was entertaining, beautiful, intelligent and, he reminded himself, she was with him because he was paying for her rather excellent company.
Patrick was surprised to find the thought made him a little sad.
They sat on opposite sides of the table, the large platter of shellfish between them, enough to feed at least three. Patrick motioned to Marie to begin and she delicately selected a langoustine. And so it began: food, good wine and conversation, none of which featured The Black Pearl.
Marie waited until the coffee and brandy stage before she raised the subject herself.
‘I understand from Chevalier that you asked me here to discuss the launch party for The Black Pearl?’ Marie swirled the brandy round the glass and took a sip. ‘What do you want to know?’
When Patrick tried to soften this by suggesting her company had been just as important, she interrupted him.
‘I don’t believe you’re a man who needs to pay for companionship,’ she said delicately. ‘I came here tonight because I want to help. I am not on duty.’
Patrick contemplated what that might mean, exactly.
She laughed. ‘Don’t look so surprised, Monsieur de Courvoisier. I do go on dates, you know.’
Patrick liked the sound of that. ‘And this is a date?’
‘Perhaps.’
She moved to sit on the couch, taking her brandy with her. Oscar immediately offered himself as a lap companion, but she told him sternly to stay on the floor. The dog acquiesced with an alacrity seldom experienced by Patrick. Marie Elise, he decided, was formidable as well as beautiful.
He joined her on the couch and listened while she told her story.
‘I met with Angele Valette in the ladies’ powder room. The surface by the sink was awash with cocaine.’ She contemplated Patrick for a moment. ‘However, I do not believe that Angele was high on drugs that night. Maybe high on her success. The movie was very well received. She was good. Arresting, yet somehow
vulnerable. Like a young Marilyn Monroe.’ She paused. ‘We talked of make-up and men.’
‘Any men in particular?’
‘She mentioned Chapayev, the film’s backer. I could almost feel her recoil.’ Marie said this as though it was something she had experienced herself. ‘She didn’t want to make another film with him, no matter how successful this one was. She had other plans.’
‘Did she say what they were?’
‘No. She smiled like someone with a secret, applied her lipstick and left.’
‘And you saw her again that night?’
Marie shook her head. ‘No. I was at work.’
Patrick hesitated, not sure whether he could ask the question prominent in his mind. Marie seemed to anticipate this.
‘My companion was an American, keen to get into movies. He had money but, I suspect, little talent. His main topic of conversation was vampire movies. He knew a great deal about them.’
They lapsed into silence. Marie finished her drink. ‘If that is all …’ She rose.
Patrick found himself suddenly saddened by the thought of her leaving. It was a feeling that didn’t often occur with the women he brought aboard Les Trois Soeurs, and hadn’t done so for some time. He found himself saying, ‘You don’t have to go. We could have another brandy, talk some more.’
Marie smiled. ‘Do you know what I would really like?’
‘What?’
‘To stroll along the harbour and have a crêpe next to the bandstand.’
They took Oscar with them. Delighted, he walked alongside Marie. Had the dog possessed a tail, it would have been wagging wildly.
They ordered crêpes with Nutella and a can of iced tea each. The evening was balmy, the plane trees lime green with new leaves. Behind them the men of Le Suquet played pétanque by spotlight, the click of the balls travelling on the night air.
When she’d finished eating, Marie wiped her chocolate mouth. ‘I should get home.’
‘Would you like me to walk you?’ Patrick offered.
‘Then you would know where I live. Madame Lacroix would not be pleased.’ Marie laughed.