The Case of the Black Pearl

by Lin Anderson

  Brigitte crossed her arms, the cheroot now pointing at him like a poison-tipped dart. The mention of the Swede had unnerved her, perhaps switching the reason for Marie Elise’s death away from himself and towards Hibiscus.

  ‘What did Lieutenant Moreaux say when you told him this?’ she said sharply.

  ‘He made no comment.’

  ‘But you assumed he would contact me?’

  Patrick nodded.

  ‘Yet he did not.’

  She chose a chair and sat down heavily. Her steel-like frame seemed to slump for a moment, then she re-erected herself.

  ‘I thought meeting you had put her in danger.’ She looked accusingly at him.

  ‘I think that may yet be the case.’ Patrick paused. ‘What do you know of the Swede?’

  She shook her head, puzzled. ‘Nothing. She did not meet him through me.’

  Patrick believed her. ‘Could he have been a boyfriend?’

  Brigitte contemplated such a possibility. ‘If so, he must have been very recent. When a boyfriend is present, it is more difficult for the girls to be on call. Therefore I insist on knowing if they are in a relationship.’ She met him squarely in the eye.

  ‘Would Marie Elise confide in any of the other escorts?’

  She considered this. ‘Perhaps, although I would be displeased if such personal information was not related to me,’ she said.

  ‘Who might she confide in?’

  Madame Lacroix took a long draw on her cheroot before answering. ‘Anya Perova.’ The name escaped in a cloud of smoke. ‘And no, I will not give you her number. But I will ask her to call you, although I don’t think she will.’ She looked up at him. ‘As far as my girls are concerned, you have become a jinx, monsieur.’

  Patrick couldn’t blame them, considering what had happened to Marie.

  ‘What about Lieutenant Moreaux?’ he said. ‘Will you give him this girl’s number?’

  She eyed him. ‘I may not even give him her name.’

  The sharp nature of the retort surprised Patrick. Had Chevalier been wrong about Brigitte’s relationship with the police lieutenant? Although, Patrick reminded himself, you didn’t have to trust someone to become their lover.

  Brigitte was back on her feet, stubbing the remains of the cheroot in a crystal ashtray.

  ‘I expect you to find out who did this to Marie. Naturally I will make it worth your while.’ She crossed to an ornate desk and, opening a drawer, extracted a fat envelope which she attempted to hand to him.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Patrick said.

  ‘I prefer it this way,’ she insisted.

  The stand-off lasted several moments before he finally accepted the bundle and slipped it in his pocket, then followed her to the door.

  He exited on to a busy Rue d’Antibes. Late afternoon was a popular shopping time, and it was obvious by the number of festival bags that film delegates were making up a large proportion of those thronging the famous stores.

  Patrick headed inland to the train station, then up the ramp to Place du 18 Juin, occupied by the imposing headquarters of the Police Nationale. On entry, he was informed that Lieutenant Moreaux was otherwise engaged and that someone else would record his statement.

  He was shown to a room that smelled of stale cigarette smoke, despite the prominent ‘no smoking’ sign, where he was left for twenty minutes to stew before a woman appeared and introduced herself as Officer Dubois. She was young, fresh-faced and apparently uncomfortable with the task she’d been given. Patrick had the impression that he might have met her before, but couldn’t think where, and under what circumstances.

  He duly dictated his statement, sticking to the story he’d told Moreaux, aware that if someone from the building opposite the quai had seen him board Les Trois Soeurs the previous night, then he was in trouble. He signed the lie nevertheless.

  The officer thanked him, then asked in a seemingly genuine manner as to Oscar’s well-being.

  Patrick didn’t mention the gash to the dog’s head, or his half-drowned state. Doubtless that information would eventually reach Moreaux, which would likely cause him to question the version of events in Patrick’s statement.

  However, any delay was useful.

  It wasn’t until he was outside the building that Patrick realized where he’d seen the female officer before. As well as numerous restaurants, the Rue Saint Antoine had a couple of cocktail bars where the young and trendy inhabitants of Le Suquet met of an evening. His recollection placed her there during a visit with Stephen, who for once had spurned his usual after-work Guinness. She’d come over to talk to the Irishman about a possible dive trip to the original sunken village near Agay and they’d been introduced. Her first name, as he recalled, was Colette. Stephen had seemed quite taken with her. Patrick wondered whether the two had got together since. Someone close to Moreaux would be a useful contact.

  He’d been disappointed by Moreaux’s non-appearance, having nursed the hope of sparring with the detective again. Much had happened since their last meeting. Although Patrick had no intention of revealing any of it, he would have liked to gauge Moreaux’s reaction to any subliminal message he might have chosen to impart. For instance, he wondered if the policeman had any idea that Chapayev was interested in buying the Villa Astrid, or that Camille Ager appeared to be working for the Russian.

  Before heading for the Chanteclair, he took a walk along the quai, where Les Trois Soeurs looked longingly back at him from behind police tape. According to Officer Dubois, he was to be allowed back on board his boat tomorrow. Patrick couldn’t wait.

  The Diving Belle was moored nearby, a row of dripping wetsuits dangling on its rail, which meant that Stephen was probably in the Irish bar. Patrick swung across the busy road, dodging traffic, and went inside.

  The place was buzzing. From the comments he overheard as he threaded his way through, it sounded as though Stephen’s total diving contingent had headed in here after their trip. Patrick motioned to the barman, who indicated Stephen’s presence in the back.

  He and Colm were seated in the same booth as before, Colm registering his arrival with the slightest of nods. A man of few words indeed. Stephen, on the other hand, was his normal effusive self.

  ‘I thought you were banged up for murder.’ He whistled. ‘Come, tell all.’ He indicated Colm should shove along as a pint of Guinness arrived and was placed in front of the newly seated Patrick.

  Patrick spun the same yarn as he’d told everyone else up to now, only adding that Oscar had been found, injured but alive on the harbour rocks.

  ‘I bet he had a right go at whoever killed that girl,’ Stephen said, in approval.

  ‘And got hit over the head for his pains,’ Patrick said.

  ‘But he’ll be all right?’ Colm’s deep voice, so seldom heard, was full of concern.

  ‘He’s fine. Pascal has him at the Chanteclair.’

  ‘So,’ Stephen asked, ‘do you require an alibi?’

  ‘I didn’t kill Marie Elise.’

  ‘Sure, we know that, but it doesn’t mean you don’t need an alibi. Let’s face it, Lieutenant Moreaux isn’t exactly a fan of yours, and you did spot him keeping company with the Russian.’

  Patrick reassured him: ‘Pascal will vouch for my stay at the Chanteclair.’ Then he steered the conversation to what he wanted to ask. He explained about spotting Marie the previous evening with a Swedish man on Rue Saint Antoine. ‘They’d gone by the time Fritz closed up. Marie must have come to the gunboat – with or without the Swede – later on, maybe around midnight?’

  He could tell by Stephen’s face that he would love to say he’d seen them, but was unable to offer anything.

  ‘I saw them,’ Colm said suddenly.

  Stephen’s expression was a mixture of curiosity and envy. ‘Where?’

  ‘They were coming down the steps by the fountain.’

  The fountain Colm referred to stood in the Place Massuque behind the Irish bar. From it, a wide set of steps le
d up to the Suquet.

  ‘When was this?’ Patrick demanded.

  ‘I was out for a smoke.’ Colm took a guess. ‘Maybe around midnight.’

  ‘Did they board the boat?’ Stephen broke in.

  Colm shrugged. ‘I went back inside.’

  ‘I should never have given up smoking.’ Stephen shook his head. ‘I can ask around. See if anyone else saw them?’

  ‘Moreaux should have been doing that already,’ Patrick said.

  ‘We’ve been out on the Diving Belle all day.’ Stephen looked disappointed at missing out on so much of the action.

  Patrick downed the rest of his pint. ‘Find out what you can. About the black yacht, the Russian, and last night.’ He stood up.

  Stephen’s eyes glistened with delight. ‘We’re on it.’ He waved at the barman for a refill.

  The outside air was cool and damp, indicating it had been raining somewhere in the hills behind Cannes. The previous two days had been warm and dry, but at this time of year, downpours weren’t uncommon, even at sea level.

  Patrick took a deep breath, glad to be out of the stuffy bar, then made for Place Massuque. He realized it had been here he’d spotted the couple arguing on a balcony, the day this had all kicked off.

  He’d sat on the upper deck of Les Trois Soeurs and wished for trouble to come walking his way. He’d been excited by the prospect – welcomed it, because he was bored. What he hadn’t known then was how much collateral damage it would cause. Marie Elise had come to him, concerned for Angele Valette’s safety, and offered her help. She’d put her trust in him and he’d betrayed that trust, because he had seriously underestimated his opponent.

  In the field, that would have meant his own death. It should never have resulted in the death of an innocent party.

  Camille’s demeanour when she’d spoken of Chapayev should have alerted him. He should have been more careful. He should never have involved an innocent bystander in his games. It was something he’d told himself before. It was the reason he’d said goodbye to the past, and come here.

  It seemed he may have left the job behind, but not the arrogance that went with it.

  Now at the top of the hill, Patrick entered the castle courtyard, where he stood looking down on the twinkling lights of Cannes, spread out like a fairytale town below him. This was what visitors recognized as Cannes. Festival city of the Côte d’Azur. Sunshine and blue seas, beautiful views, great food and good wine. All of this was true, but Cannes, like any city, had an underworld. A world the tourists rarely saw. A world of organized crime, made easy by the flow of money from all over Europe, east and west. Cannes offered an opportunity to launder that money, via expensive real estate and luxury yachts and movie making. Patrick suspected that Vasily Chapayev regarded Cannes as more than just a place to launch a movie, and men like Chapayev didn’t countenance those who crossed him.

  Patrick turned from the view and set off down the steeply cobbled street towards the square of Le Suquet, intending to call in on Fritz for any updates on the missing Leon. Within seconds, he had the distinct feeling that he was being followed. In the hush between the neighbouring buildings, he sensed rather than heard someone. Choosing not to alert his tail, he waited until he reached the Place du Suquet before he looked back.

  It was a man of medium height, muscular, dark-haired, and recognizable as the owner of the passport he’d removed from Leon’s flat. The man met Patrick’s gaze with a look of hatred, then turned and, climbing three stone steps, entered a door on the left-hand side of Rue Panisse, slamming the door shut behind him.

  It was most definitely a challenge.

  Patrick stood for a moment to consider his response, then retraced his steps. The door was solid wood, three inches thick, a Le Suquet original, probably boasting an internal bolt as well as a lock. He imagined the guy standing behind the door, listening.

  ‘I have your money and passport, Leon. You can’t leave Cannes without them.’

  There was a moment’s silence while Patrick contemplated that he might have got it wrong, then he heard the thud as the bolt was pulled back. He checked on the gun in the back of his waistband as the door swung ajar to reveal a shadowy interior passageway with a narrow staircase.

  Leon Aubert stepped into view. He was a good-looking guy. In another time or place he could have been the one starring in the movies. He had the sultry look of a brooding Brando, full of murderous thoughts, all directed at Patrick.

  Without a word, Leon shut and re-bolted the door, then motioned Patrick to follow. The narrow spiral staircase led to a landing with only one door. Leon opened it and went inside. Even as Patrick crossed the threshold he sensed it was a mistake. The unseen blow met the back of his head with a ferocity that stunned him. As his body folded, the hard red tiles came up to meet him. He heard a crack as his head hit the floor, then it was lights out.

  Sometimes consciousness can be elusive, advancing and retreating like the pain that accompanies it. Patrick strove to open his eyes, recoiling from the brightness of the light. Eventually the room swam into view and with it the memory of how he’d come to be here, trussed up on a chair. It seemed he had found Angele Valette. Or, more precisely, Angele Valette had found him.

  She was standing by the shuttered window, smoking. At her feet lay the bloodied iron bar she’d struck him with. Her face as she took a draw had lost its angelic look. The eyes that bore down on him wished him nothing but bad things. At that moment, he felt the same about her.

  She spoke in rapid French, full of expletives. She called him a variety of imaginative names for ruining her plans, for pursuing her. Patrick understood now why she was such a good actress. Any character could inhabit that face, any voice or emotion emerge from those lips.

  ‘Where’s the money and passport?’ she said.

  ‘Hidden on Les Trois Soeurs, along with his gun.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  Something hard and metallic swiped his temple, whipping his head to the right. Blood trickled into his eye, turning the room a swimming scarlet. Angele’s voice rang out, ordering Leon to stop. After a moment’s silence she addressed Patrick again, her voice venomous.

  ‘When do the police leave the boat?’

  ‘They haven’t said.’ He eyed the gun in Leon’s hand, recognizing it as his own, rifled from his person, no doubt along with Brigitte’s money.

  Leon glanced at Angele, who motioned him to step back.

  ‘As soon as the police free the boat, you can have everything back,’ Patrick said.

  She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Who hired you? Chapayev?’

  He shook his head, then wished he hadn’t as a shaft of pain sliced through it. ‘A woman called Camille Ager, who claimed you were her half-sister. She thought you’d stolen the pearl and were in danger.’

  Angele gave a brittle little laugh. ‘You have been conned, monsieur. This woman you speak of works for Chapayev.’

  ‘Did you steal the pearl?’ Patrick asked.

  She observed him, her expression inscrutable.

  ‘If you did, then you are in great danger.’

  ‘Perhaps Chapayev is the one in danger,’ Leon spat at him.

  Patrick eyed the man. Was Leon stupid enough to think he could square up to the Russian and win? The likelihood of this brought a smile to Patrick’s lips, provoking another blow from Leon. This time the room swam more energetically, inducing a nausea that brought bile to his throat. He coughed as though about to vomit and Leon jumped back like a frightened rabbit. Which made Patrick think of another rabbit.

  ‘It was you,’ Patrick addressed Leon, ‘who gutted the rabbit and left it on Les Trois Soeurs as a warning.’

  Angele looked puzzled. ‘What are you talking about?’ She glanced at Leon, who shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘Your boyfriend thought it clever to try and warn me off with a dead rabbit.’ Patrick laughed.

  ‘Hey,’ Leon said to Angele, ‘you told me …’

  Angele held up her hand to silen
ce him.

  ‘If that’s true, it didn’t appear to work,’ she said to Patrick.

  ‘I don’t scare easily.’ Patrick made it sound as though Leon did. ‘Chapayev knows that,’ he added for good measure.

  Angele narrowed her eyes. ‘Who are you exactly, Monsieur de Courvoisier?’

  Patrick threw Leon a disparaging look before answering. ‘A professional.’ The words unlike him didn’t need to be said.

  Angele contemplated him for a moment, then ordered Leon to go outside.

  He looked wounded. ‘What for?’

  ‘Bring wine and coffee.’

  ‘But …’ he began.

  ‘And leave the gun.’ She held out her hand for it.

  Leon handed it over reluctantly, shrugging as though he didn’t care, but his poisonous look towards Patrick suggested the opposite. A few seconds later, the front door slammed hard enough to shake the building.

  Angele opened the shutter a little and looked out. Satisfied that Leon had left to do her bidding, she turned her attention back to Patrick.

  ‘What, as a professional, do you propose?’

  Patrick made his move. ‘I help you sell the pearl and I dispose of Chapayev. That’s the only way you’ll be safe.’

  ‘And what’s in it for you?’

  ‘Money. And revenge.’

  ‘Revenge for what?’

  ‘The murder of a friend.’

  She studied him. ‘The woman on the boat?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said coldly.

  ‘You believe Chapayev was responsible for her death?’

  ‘She was trying to help me find you.’

  That sparked Angele’s interest. ‘Who was she?’

  ‘Her name was Marie Clermand. She worked for the Hibiscus escort agency as Marie Elise.’

  If Leon hadn’t managed to discover that, he wasn’t much use to her.

  Angele’s hand fluttered to her mouth and the shock on her face was real enough.

  ‘You knew her?’ he asked.

  She gave a little nod.

  ‘Marie was seen near my boat with a tall blond Swedish man just before she died,’ Patrick said.