by Lin Anderson
Chevalier followed ten minutes later. Patrick acknowledged him with a small nod, gathered his winnings and excused himself from the table. They both adjourned to the bar, where Patrick ordered more champagne.
Chevalier looked tired, but content. He accepted the glass of champagne gratefully. Examining Patrick’s expression, he appeared to find there what he sought.
They touched glasses.
‘For Marie Elise,’ Chevalier said. ‘May she now rest in peace.’
FOURTEEN
It had been a long night, but Patrick had no intention of sleeping. Not yet. Parting from Chevalier, he walked towards Rue d’Antibes and Madame Lacroix.
Shuttered shops lined the empty street. His footsteps echoed from the metal shutters like jackboots. The Nazis had loved Cannes. The sun, the food, the sea. They’d used it for recreation, for wine, for sex. Just as the rich like Chapayev did now.
The inhabitants of Cannes had survived invaders before and would do so again. It would give those with money what they wanted, and use the payment to prosper. Patrick had a great admiration for the town’s survival instinct. It matched his own.
The window overlooking the street was in darkness, but he suspected, tonight of all nights, Brigitte would answer the door. He pressed the bell and waited, hearing it echo in the cavernous marble entrance hall and stairwell.
Brigitte’s voice in response sounded thick with smoking, and not a little anxious.
‘Courvoisier,’ he said.
There was a moment’s hesitation, then she buzzed him in.
Patrick ignored the lift and took to the stairs. Something made him pause on the halfway landing. A scent? An instinct? He didn’t know. He slipped the gun out of his waistband.
Brigitte was waiting for him at the open door, looking tired and worried.
‘Everything OK?’ he said quietly.
‘She’s gone.’ Brigitte opened the door wide for him to enter.
Following her through, Patrick glanced round the empty room.
‘What happened?’
‘He got in. I’m not sure how. Maybe she let him. Anyway, she went with him.’
‘Went with who?’ Patrick said.
‘He was Russian, big, very big.’ Brigitte gave a description that matched Korskof.
Patrick was dumb-founded. How the hell had Chapayev found out where Camille was?
‘Did Camille make any phone calls while she was here?’ he asked.
Brigitte shook her head. ‘I have no idea. I showed her to her room, then went back to mine. Later, I heard a noise and came through to find him here.’ She shuddered at the memory. ‘I asked her not to go, but she ignored me.’
Patrick stood for a moment, assimilating this news. Camille had taken his advice and come here. He remembered her terror when she’d viewed what Chapayev had done to Leon. Why would she willingly go with Korskof?
‘You’re sure he wasn’t holding a gun on her?’
Brigitte raised her shoulders. ‘If so, it wasn’t visible.’
The woman was trembling. Patrick took her arm and urged her to sit.
‘They must have followed her from the gunboat,’ he said.
Brigitte looked distraught.
‘Can I get you a brandy?’
She shook her head and found a cigarette pack on a nearby table. Fumbling it open, she extracted one and lit it.
‘I’ve been trying to call you since it happened.’ Her hand shook as she raised the cheroot to her lips.
‘I’m sorry.’ Patrick sat down beside her, waiting while she took her first draw. As she exhaled, he told her why he was here. ‘Marie Elise has been avenged.’
Brigitte met his steady gaze, and for a moment he saw pleasure in her eyes.
‘And what of this girl, monsieur? What is to happen to her?’
Patrick had no idea, but he said what he hoped was true. ‘She works for Chapayev. I think they want to speak to her, not kill her.’
‘I hope so.’ Brigitte blew out a cloud of smoke.
‘When I leave, call Moreaux,’ Patrick told her. ‘Tell him you had a visitor in the shape of a Russian. Tell him about Camille and that you are worried for her safety.’
Brigitte was surprised by his suggestion. ‘Is that wise?’
Patrick nodded. ‘Just don’t mention me. Say Camille called you and asked to stay over, because she was afraid of someone. Naturally you agreed, after what had happened to Marie. Explain that a Russian man arrived and persuaded Camille to go with him. You’re not totally sure it was of her own free will. Lieutenant Moreaux will be forced to investigate.’
A little colour had come back into her cheeks. ‘OK.’
He stood up. ‘I’ll say goodbye then.’
‘I take it you won’t be needing the services of Hibiscus again?’
‘You’ve done enough. Leave it to Moreaux now.’
She rose to see him out, her back steely straight once more. Korskof had unnerved but not defeated Madame Lacroix.
He retraced his steps through the empty streets. It would soon be dawn. He dispensed with his original plan to catch some sleep at the Chanteclair and headed back to the garage.
It was only a matter of hours since he’d driven this road, yet so much had happened. He wondered what Chapayev was doing, thinking and planning. He’d been beaten at the gaming tables by Chevalier, taken for a fool over the diamonds, and lost his diver. He would be well past anger. Revenge would be foremost in his mind. That and retrieving his goods.
As he took the bend at full speed in the middle of the empty road, Patrick could imagine the Russian’s hatred. Most of it now focused on him, he hoped. He had purposefully deflected it from Angele, but may have inadvertently steered it towards Camille. Her turning up at Les Trois Soeurs had been unforeseen and unfortunate, because he still wasn’t sure which side she was on. He had chosen to believe her fear and sent her to Brigitte. If she hadn’t been afraid, why go there in the first place? To fool him? Or to hide from Chapayev?
He entered Le Dramont and slowed down. Instead of driving directly to the restaurant, he headed left into the criss-crossing of villas, having no desire to alert Jean Paul or Angele to his visit. His headlamps off, he used the security lights of the villas and the faint rays of dawn to light his way, eventually reaching a small rocky cove east of the Île d’Or.
A path from here wound its way around the headland, sometimes high above the water, at other places close to the shore. The final stretch lay along the beach in front of a small camp site and from there into the grounds of the restaurant.
Pleased to find the door to Angele’s cabin locked, he headed round the back, and retrieved the extra key he’d planted beneath a stone. As he retraced his steps, a figure appeared from nowhere, propelling him to the ground with a thud that forced the air from his lungs. As he threw himself to the right, his attacker landed beside him. In a parallel motion, his gun and Jean Paul’s knife met each other’s chests, their eyes locked in combat.
‘Putain!’ Patrick spoke in relief as much as anger.
Jean Paul’s list of expletives was more extensive. He finished them off by calling Patrick a ‘Salope’ and pronouncing that he might have killed him.
Patrick slipped his gun back in his waistband. ‘That’s why I gave her to you to protect.’
They observed one another, anger and adrenaline still bristling their looks.
‘Anyone apart from me?’
‘No,’ confirmed Jean Paul.
‘Good. I’ll come see you later.’
Dismissed, Jean Paul disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived.
Patrick slid the key in the lock and went inside. The fracas had apparently gone unnoticed by Angele, who lay fast asleep, the cover thrown back, the curve of her full breasts and slender body exposed. Patrick contemplated her for a moment, then taking off his clothes, slipped in beside her. As she started into wakefulness, he pressed his lips on hers to silence her cry.
He hadn’t intended to fall asleep after
wards, but the night dive, the champagne and the extended poker game had taken their toll. When he awoke two hours later, Angele was already up and dressed.
‘Jean Paul has ordered us to come to the kitchen. He says you’ll be hungry.’
Jean Paul was right. Having satisfied a need for sex and sleep, hunger was next in line. Patrick told Angele to go on ahead, took a sixty-second shower and dressed.
On entry, Patrick smelled coffee and much more besides. A freshly baked baguette sat on the table, still warm to the touch. The French never indulged in a cooked breakfast. Le petit dejeuner meant what it said. Appetite was reserved for lunch.
In this instance Jean Paul had made an exception, depositing a plate in front of Patrick that would have happily graced a British breakfast table. Eggs, bacon, saucisse de Toulouse, mushrooms, tomatoes and an added steak for good measure. Angele appraised the offering and decided she would prefer her breakfast French style. Patrick got stuck in.
He had no idea how ravenous he’d been, until he’d cleared the plate.
Jean Paul, well satisfied, poured him a coffee. Patrick sat back, content. A glance at Angele suggested she wished to talk in private, so he motioned her to take their coffee outside.
It was one of those mornings on the Côte d’Azur that convinces you that heaven exists. The sun shone from an unblemished sky. A slight breeze intermittently ruffled the Mediterranean pines that surrounded the bay, releasing their scent. The sea glistened with joy.
And Marie Elise’s killer had met his end.
Patrick did not relish death, but in this case he made an exception.
Angele was studying him. ‘Where did you go last night?’
‘The casino, where I arranged for Chapayev to lose a large sum of money.’
‘But he is still alive?’ she snapped at him.
‘Yes, and in much better health than Leon.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked suspiciously.
Patrick drank some coffee to keep her waiting. ‘Chapayev deposited Leon at Les Trois Soeurs last night. Poor bastard won’t be having sex for a while.’
A number of emotions crossed Angele’s face, but sympathy wasn’t one of them. She swore under her breath. ‘I knew I couldn’t trust him,’ she said.
‘So you had him hide what, exactly?’
She shrugged. ‘A worthless necklace I left there during the filming.’
‘So what’s in the location you gave me?’ he said as though he didn’t know.
She was trying to read his expression and having difficulty. She decided to go back to what she did best. Patrick felt her foot nestle in his groin and begin to rub it. He let it stay there for a moment, then pushed his chair back. Her foot dropped heavily to the ground. She drew it back and, rubbing her ankle, eyed him cautiously.
‘You gave me the location of the pearl, but not the diamonds,’ he said.
Angele’s shock at his announcement was evident, before she swiftly recovered. ‘Diamonds!’ she gave a ‘poof’ sound. ‘What diamonds?’ She had resorted to French in her desire to appear truthful.
Patrick interrupted her ‘I don’t know anything about diamonds’ speech.
‘Chapayev wants the stones back and is prepared to kill to get them. Leon is lucky to be alive. As are you.’ As am I, he thought, but didn’t say.
Patrick realized by her expression that she wasn’t yet prepared to talk about any diamonds, so he extracted the black pearl from his pocket and laid it on the table in front of her. She immediately scooped it up, a covetous smile on her face.
Glancing out to sea, Patrick registered that Stephen’s boat had arrived and dropped anchor west of the Île d’Or. On deck, a group of divers were already gearing up. If Chapayev hadn’t retrieved the Swede’s body by now, someone else was about to.
He contemplated calling Stephen, but decided against it. He’d asked him to take his group there this morning, without giving him a reason, aware that the less Stephen knew the better.
Angele had followed his gaze. ‘What’s going on?’ she said, her eyes bright with interest.
‘Someone’s about to find hidden treasure.’
Half an hour later, the police launch arrived, suggesting Chapayev hadn’t removed the body during the night. Maybe he was confident the Swede couldn’t be traced back to the Heavenly Princess. Or he intended denying knowledge of the night dive. Alternatively, he believed he already had Lieutenant Moreaux in his pocket.
That particular thought disturbed Patrick. He didn’t like Moreaux, but the lieutenant had his moral code, much like himself, and being subject to the whim of the Russian didn’t fit with that. Moreaux was self-serving, but he was Cannois.
Angele watched fascinated as the body was brought up. ‘Who is it?’ she said excitedly.
Patrick shook his head. It was better she didn’t know.
‘So,’ he said. ‘If you want me to rid you of Chapayev, I need to know where the diamonds are.’
Seeing a body rise from the deep had given her confidence in him, but she wasn’t sure yet.
‘If I tell you, how do I know you won’t double-cross me?’
‘You don’t. You’ll just have to trust me.’
Trust wasn’t a concept Angele was familiar with, or else she’d tried it and it had backfired badly. She contemplated this. ‘How will you sell the diamonds?’
‘I have my contacts.’
She rose and went inside, returning with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
Patrick accepted a glass, and she clinked hers to his.
‘To freedom from Chapayev.’
Patrick could toast to that.
She drank hers down, and then she told him.
FIFTEEN
Moreaux’s call came as he drove back from Le Dramont. Patrick had been expecting it. They would be in this together, despite their differences. He and Moreaux. It seemed inevitable, although Patrick would have wished it differently.
Moreaux’s voice resembled Brigitte’s, thick with cigarette smoke.
‘Brigitte called.’ He laid an emphasis on the ‘g’ and made it almost guttural, like a German might. Moreaux sounded upset, if such a thing were possible.
Patrick wondered if he’d been wrong and what lay between Moreaux and Brigitte was more than just sex.
‘We need to talk,’ Patrick said.
There was a moment when Moreaux evaluated the offer. ‘Yes,’ he conceded.
‘Tonight,’ Patrick said. ‘La Castre.’
Le Suquet would be up at the castle courtyard en masse, celebrating the end of the film festival. There would be bands and local wine and several hundred inhabitants, young and old and all ages in between. The courtyard at La Castre was where every Le Suquet celebration took place and tonight was no exception.
Festival yachts and local boats of all sizes would sail into the old port, or anchor in the bay, to watch the festival finale firework display. Cannes would celebrate its place in world cinema. Hollywood would be there. The Heavenly Princess would be there too. It was a perfect time and place for the game to come to its conclusion.
Patrick continued before Moreaux could voice an opinion. ‘The fireworks begin at ten. I’ll meet you in the church at nine thirty.’
Moreaux didn’t answer immediately, but Patrick could almost hear his brain go into overdrive.
‘I’ll be there,’ Moreaux said finally, then rang off.
You and who else, Patrick thought as he drove the Ferrari like a red bullet through the intervening towns. The situation was delicate. Success would mean justice of a kind. Failure might mean death. He thought of Angele’s empty kisses and fake passion. He thought of Marie Elise’s genuine smile, smeared by chocolate and the cold lips that smile had become.
When he entered Cannes, he was met with evidence of its preparations for that evening. Entrance via the shore road was restricted. Boulevard Jean Hibert was set to close shortly and become a parking space from which to view tonight’s firework display. He cut up through Le Suquet
and was lucky to find a spot on Rue Louis Perissol. He would require the car later and was unlikely to escape Cannes via the normal route. From here he had more of a chance.
The Chanteclair appeared deserted, its clientele, apart from Oscar, still making movie deals. Pascal and Preben were eating in the courtyard, a dedicated Oscar under the table awaiting anything that might drop his way.
Pascal darted Patrick a worried look, like a mother about to lose a child. Oscar was affectionate, but in a manner that suggested he had food on his mind. Begging, Patrick realized, had become a way of life, a habit Oscar would have to be dissuaded from when he returned to Les Trois Soeurs.
‘What’s happened?’ Pascal said, a little worried.
‘Nothing important,’ Patrick said. ‘Are you going up to the fireworks tonight?’
Pascal threw Preben a look. ‘Perhaps, but not with Oscar,’ he stated categorically. They both awaited his response.
‘I’ll be busy tonight,’ Patrick said. ‘I’d be grateful if Oscar stays here.’
Pascal couldn’t contain his pleasure. ‘Of course.’
Patrick went up to his room. It smelled of whisky and sleep. He threw open the shutters and turned on the shower. Under its needle-sharp power, he contemplated what the night would bring.
Definitely fireworks, but what else?
Washed and dressed, he poured a whisky and held it up to the light. The world was in that glass. Time and patience, place and identity. There wasn’t another drink like it on the planet. There would never be another woman like Marie Elise.
He savoured the whisky’s warmth and flavour as it coursed through his chest and veins. Whatever happened tonight, he was looking forward to it.
Patrick wondered if Moreaux felt the same.
He headed downstairs and settled himself at the table outside the circle of plants. The air was still, the muffled sound of Cannes like a distant drum beat. Patrick remained there as evening fell, the whisky bottle and glass before him.
Pascal brought him food, but Patrick hardly tasted it. Death seemed to court him from the shadows. He had faced death before, many times, often by choice. He regarded death as an adversary, one who sought to out-manoeuvre and vanquish him. Just like Chapayev.