The Case of the Black Pearl

by Lin Anderson

  He slid into the car’s leather driving seat, still wearing his wet shorts. His plan to avoid the snarl-up on the shore road paid off. As he departed Le Suquet by the back route, the yacht horns honking their pleasure were replaced by departing cars voicing their annoyance at the inevitable traffic jam.

  He eventually met the shore road beyond the body of traffic and accelerated, overtaking wherever he could. Since all the cars were headed out of town, it was relatively easy. As he drew nearer to Le Dramont, he speeded up even more, adrenaline still flooding his veins.

  Parking in the upper car park, Patrick dried himself and got dressed, before composing himself to walk down through the trees to the restaurant. As he neared the building, he called out to Jean Paul, not wishing a re-enactment of his previous nocturnal visit.

  Jean Paul, Joanne and Angele were sitting out on the deck. In the soft lantern light, Angele looked extraordinarily beautiful. Patrick remembered the first time he had seen her. How he had been reminded of an angel caught in the exploding bulb of a camera.

  She rose and came running towards him. He could smell her excitement and her need. Desire for power and wealth had the same scent as lust. She kissed him. A long, lingering kiss that would have swept him off his feet, if it had been someone other than Angele bestowing it. Yet his loins reacted of their own free will. Angele detected this and pressed herself closer.

  Patrick considered whether he would tell her about the diamonds before or after they had sex.

  Jean Paul waved him over to the table. ‘Sit. I’ll fetch more wine. Have you eaten?’

  It seemed a lifetime ago that Pascal had brought food into the courtyard for him. Patrick couldn’t even remember if he’d eaten any of it. Jean Paul took his silence as a ‘no’ and disappeared inside to fetch him a plate, which brought a scowl to Angele’s face.

  Patrick ignored her silent protest and took a seat. The night was still and filled with fragrance, pine and the sea, and something tasty warming in the kitchen.

  Jean Paul appeared with a bottle of red. ‘Suitable for a celebration,’ he said.

  Patrick nodded and accepted a glass. The wine was dry and full of flavour. He settled down to eat the plate of food Jean Paul had set before him. This time the casserole was rabbit, flavoured with wine and herbs. It seemed pertinent, somehow.

  Hunger overtook him and it wasn’t until he wiped the plate with the last of the bread that he fully acknowledged that the atmosphere round the table was less cordial than it had been on previous occasions.

  Angele’s enthusiastic greeting had been replaced by a sullen look. Joanne kept exchanging glances with Jean Paul, who, it seemed, was waiting until Patrick finished his meal before saying something.

  ‘We had some excitement here after you left,’ he finally said.

  Patrick looked to Jean Paul in concern. ‘Really, what?’

  ‘Angele had a visitor.’

  ‘Who?’ Patrick directed his sharp question at Angele.

  She pouted, then answered defensively, ‘Leon, if you must know.’

  After Korskof, it was the last name Patrick wanted to hear.

  ‘How did he know where to find you?’ Patrick said worriedly.

  Angele moved from little-girl pout to attack mode. ‘I told him.’

  Jean Paul’s muttered expletive voiced exactly what Patrick was thinking.

  ‘What happened?’ Patrick said, trying to stay calm.

  ‘He wanted to see me in person, to know that I was safe, and to ask about his passport so he can leave Cannes.’ Angele directed him an innocent, big-eyed look.

  Lying, like acting, Patrick realized, was second nature to Angele.

  He rose and, taking her firmly by the arm, led her towards the cabin. Once out of sight of Jean Paul, she gave a little sob, as though she was upset, rather than annoyed at being found out. When this didn’t work, she resumed her petulant air.

  ‘You shouldn’t have told Jean Paul to spy on me.’

  Patrick didn’t answer as he unlocked the door and threw it open. The air that escaped was stuffy and smelled of sex, which meant Leon had got more than just information on his visit. Patrick was surprised he’d been up to the job, considering the damage done to his genitals by Chapayev.

  He pulled Angele inside and slammed the door shut.

  ‘What exactly did you tell Leon?’ he said.

  She hesitated, deciding how she should deliver her next line. ‘That I was sorry Chapayev had hurt him.’

  ‘Did you mention the pearl?’

  She shook her head. ‘And he doesn’t know anything about the diamonds.’

  He wondered what line she had fed Leon about the worthless necklace; what she had said about the pearl, and about his role in all of this.

  ‘Get your things,’ he said. ‘We’re leaving.’

  Her beautiful eyes widened. ‘Now? I thought you would …’

  ‘Would what?’

  She glared at him. ‘I thought you would show me the diamonds.’

  He paused before answering. ‘I gave them back to Chapayev.’

  Her look was incredulous. ‘What?’

  Realizing by his expression that he was telling the truth, Angele flew at him, nails outstretched. He caught her wrists before they reached his face, and she let loose a string of expletives that were new, even to him. Patrick waited until she paused for breath.

  ‘It was the only way to get Chapayev, and Moreaux, off your back,’ he said firmly.

  She studied him. He knew she was imagining he still had the diamonds. That he planned to double-cross her and keep them for himself.

  His mobile rang. Patrick released her and looked at the screen. It was Moreaux.

  ‘Lieutenant Moreaux.’

  Patrick listened in silence to Moreaux’s message, rewriting his plan for the rest of the night as he did so. When Moreaux finished, Patrick said, ‘I’ll be there in forty-five minutes,’ and rang off.

  Angele’s eyes narrowed. ‘What did the policeman want?’

  ‘Change of plan. You’ll leave in the morning,’ Patrick said.

  ‘What about you?’ she shouted at Patrick’s retreating back.

  Patrick didn’t answer.

  His old comrade in arms was back in the kitchen, taking his anger out on his pots. When Patrick entered, Jean Paul told him exactly what he thought of Madamoiselle Angele Valette. Patrick agreed with him. By bringing Leon here, she had endangered Jean Paul and Joanne. But the fault lay with him. He shouldn’t have involved Jean Paul in the first place.

  His apology was met with silence, then a shrug.

  ‘I have enemies of my own,’ Jean Paul reminded him.

  Patrick reached in his pocket. ‘Are you still planning that extension to the kitchen?’

  ‘When I have the money.’

  Patrick passed him a small fold of cloth. Jean Paul opened it and gave a long low whistle at the diamond nestling inside.

  ‘I need one last favour,’ Patrick said. ‘Can you put Angele on the first train to Monte Carlo in the morning?’

  ‘With pleasure.’ Jean Paul smiled at the thought. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I spent last evening here with you and Joanne.’

  Jean Paul nodded. ‘What time did you arrive?’

  Patrick did a quick calculation. Chevalier would vouch for his presence in the church at nine thirty. ‘Just after ten,’ he said.

  ‘When we ate rabbit with a good red out on the deck.’

  ‘With Joanne and Angele,’ Patrick added.

  Jean Paul raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I want Moreaux to know she’s been staying here.’

  Jean Paul shrugged. Whatever Patrick decided, he would go along with.

  ‘I take it I’m on guard duty again tonight?’

  Patrick nodded. Moreaux had indicated on the phone that Korskof had been let go. Apparently, Camille Ager had come forward and testified that she’d let him into Madame Lacroix’s apartment and had gone with him willingly. There were therefore no
charges. Moreaux’s tone had been deadpan, but Patrick recognized it as a warning of a kind, for which he was grateful to the detective.

  Angele was sitting outside the cabin, smoking when he returned. She darted him a poisonous look on approach, which Patrick ignored.

  ‘Jean Paul will put you on the seven-thirty train to Monte Carlo tomorrow morning.’ He wrote down a phone number and handed it to her. ‘Ask for Jacques and tell him I sent you. He will buy the pearl. After that, go and see Lieutenant Moreaux. Tell him you were exhausted by the festival and went to ground here with Jean Paul to get away from the pressure.’

  She considered this for a moment.

  ‘What if Moreaux asks about the pearl?’

  ‘Tell him you have no idea where it is. That you changed in your room, where you left the dress and the pearl. Then you left the yacht with Leon. You’re a good actress. I’m sure you’ll be able to convince him that you’re telling the truth.’

  Angele’s expression suggested that she had no doubt of her ability on that score.

  ‘And Chapayev?’ she said.

  ‘He won’t bother you any more.’

  Patrick departed before Angele could challenge him on that.

  SEVENTEEN

  Moreaux’s black car sat next to Les Trois Soeurs. As Patrick approached, smoke drifted from the open driver’s window and he caught the scent of Moreaux’s trademark cheroot. Another pleasure the detective shared with Brigitte.

  The officers who had been on duty earlier had disappeared. It was just the two of them. Something that suited Patrick, and obviously Moreaux.

  Moreaux got out of the car and they stood for a moment, yards apart, eyeing one another.

  ‘Lieutenant Moreaux.’

  ‘Courvoisier.’ Moreaux said the name with a sigh, indicating Patrick was causing him problems, as well as depriving him of sleep.

  ‘Would you like to come aboard?’

  Moreaux acquiesced and Patrick lowered the walkway, hoping there wasn’t an additional welcoming committee waiting inside.

  He offered Moreaux a drink, craving one himself. Moreaux asked for a whisky and Patrick poured two of the same malt he’d enjoyed earlier at the Chanteclair. They agreed to sit down. Moreaux looked tired, and not a little puzzled. Patrick waited for him to go first. He had no idea whether Chapayev had survived or not, or what that meant regarding the diamonds. He also didn’t know what story was circulating about the death of the Swede.

  Moreaux took his time, savouring the whisky. It brought a little colour to his pale cheeks, but only for a moment.

  ‘Chevalier tells me you were in the church tonight.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Yet you failed to reveal yourself.’

  ‘My presence seemed unnecessary.’

  Moreaux considered this.

  ‘Mademoiselle Ager dropped the charges.’

  ‘Because Chapayev is blackmailing her.’ Patrick watched Moreaux closely as he said the Russian’s name, but could discern no change in his expression.

  ‘Really? How?’

  ‘He invested money in her business. Now he wants it back with substantial interest.’

  Moreaux sampled the whisky again. ‘Her diamond business?’

  Here was the first indication that Moreaux knew something of the diamonds. Patrick waited for more.

  ‘Perhaps the situation with Mademoiselle Ager has been resolved,’ Moreaux said quietly.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘The Heavenly Princess has left port.’

  ‘What?’ Patrick couldn’t hide his surprise. He hadn’t checked for the distinctive lights of the big black yacht as he’d approached Le Vieux Port; he had been too intent on looking for Moreaux’s car.

  ‘You didn’t know?’ Moreaux was fishing, but he wasn’t going to catch anything.

  ‘I didn’t,’ Patrick said honestly, although whether the yacht had left with Chapayev dead or alive on board was something he definitely wanted to establish.

  ‘But that wasn’t the reason I asked to speak with you,’ Moreaux continued. ‘I would like you to identify a body.’

  ‘What body?’ Patrick said cautiously.

  ‘A diver. Your friend the Irishman found him caught in a fishing line off the Île d’Or. We think he may be the Swedish national who was with Marie Clermand the night she died.’

  Patrick was silent for a moment. Did this mean Moreaux was unaware of the Swede’s involvement with Chapayev? Or was he merely bluffing?

  ‘I only glimpsed him at the restaurant. It was Marie Elise who caught my eye.’

  ‘Nevertheless …’ Moreaux finished his whisky. ‘How is Oscar? I believe he was quite badly hurt that night?’

  Patrick bit his tongue, remembering his story of the bitch in heat.

  ‘Pascal found him on the point with a head injury. He’s lucky to be alive.’

  ‘As are we all,’ said Moreaux as though he meant it. He rose. ‘I will expect you at the morgue at ten o’clock.’

  Patrick watched the car drive away. Moreaux was an expert at gleaning information whether he asked questions or not. Not for the first time he thought Moreaux was wasted in the police force and should be working for the intelligence services.

  Patrick took a seat on the upper deck to mull over what had just happened. If Chapayev was dead, it seemed his death hadn’t been reported to the authorities, which would suit Moreaux very well. The lieutenant did not relish spending police time and resources on the wandering rich and often criminal fraternity who chose to visit Cannes.

  If Moreaux was in any way involved with Chapayev personally, then it seemed their business was complete. Moreaux had played his hand well. Whatever the lieutenant had learned during their interview, he had certainly given nothing away.

  The air was cool and fresh after the warm cabin. He was tired and the thought of sleeping in his own bed tonight was a welcome one. The clock in La Castre struck four. Le Marché would soon be in full swing, local fishermen including François would chug out past Les Trois Soeurs on their way to their fishing grounds. Patrick went inside, calling Oscar to bed, before remembering he wasn’t there.

  He woke again at eight, as refreshed as it was possible to be on four hours’ sleep. A shower helped, plus a fresh pot of coffee and a croissant from the nearby bakery. He took his coffee out on deck. Today he would bring Oscar home. Pascal would be devastated, of course, but maybe he could lighten his distress by offering to loan him Oscar on occasion. It would be cheaper than boarding him with the vet, although, with the various titbits Oscar was receiving at the Chanteclair, weight gain might be a problem.

  Patrick stood for a moment, surveying the west bay. The yachts which had sailed in to watch the fireworks had all departed, including, he could now see for himself, the Heavenly Princess. The harbour too seemed remarkably empty after last night’s packed rows of smaller boats. With the end of the film festival, Cannes was returning to normal, for a while at least.

  He had slept with his gun to hand. The revelation that the Russian’s yacht had sailed hadn’t succeeded in making Patrick sleep easy. Chapayev dead or alive, there was no way of knowing what the outcome of last night’s events would be. And there was also the question of Korskof. Had he departed with the yacht? Or had he been left on shore to ensure that all debts were repaid?

  Patrick finished his coffee and set off for the Chanteclair, where Pascal had a queue of festival attendees waiting to check out. This suited Patrick very well. There could be no histrionics in front of guests. He waved at Pascal and indicated he was taking Oscar for a walk, then headed back out of the courtyard, Oscar trotting at his heels.

  The dog’s scar was pink but looked nicely healed and Oscar had a spring in his step, which boded well for his recovery. Patrick walked him along the Quai Saint Pierre, and re-boarded Les Trois Soeurs. If Oscar’s last occasion there brought back bad memories, he didn’t show it, rushing round the boat, sniffing and squeaking with pleasure. The dog was glad to be home. A
nd Patrick was glad to have him there.

  Eventually he joined Patrick on deck. Patrick ruffled his ears, a gesture Oscar was particularly fond of, then put him on guard while he set out to view the body in the morgue.

  He took the route along the pedestrian Rue Meynadier, which was already busy with local shoppers reclaiming their town after the festival. As the railway station came into view, Patrick wondered if Angele had caught the train to Monte Carlo as ordered, and had made contact with Jacques. Jean Paul hadn’t been in touch, so Patrick assumed all was well for the moment, although he doubted that he’d heard the last of Angele Valette.

  Crossing the busy Place du 18 Juin, Patrick climbed the steps of the Police Nationale headquarters.

  Moreaux came down for him as soon as the officer on reception made the call. He looked a little less tired, although Patrick guessed by the hard line of his mouth that the lieutenant was annoyed about something. He acknowledged Patrick with a curt nod and indicated he should follow him.

  They took the lift down to the basement in silence. It was the first time Patrick had been in the morgue, but it brought no surprises, and he had seen much worse in West Africa. The smell of decomposition was evident, despite the disinfectant, but it didn’t bother him. You never got used to the scent of death, but you could learn to mask it over time.

  The Swede was lying on a metal gurney. The post-mortem over, he had been neatly sewn together again. The fishing line having been entangled with his tanks, there were no external marks on his body apart from the incisions made by the pathologist to allow him to investigate the internal organs.

  Studying the face of Marie’s killer, for a moment Patrick recalled the eyes behind the mask as the Swede had struggled for air. Patrick felt no qualms about Gustafson’s death. If the Swede had taken a dive buddy with him, he might well be alive. Marie Elise had had no such luxury.

  ‘Is this the man you saw with Marie Clermand?’ Moreaux said.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘We have evidence which leads us to believe he was her killer.’

  At least the police had worked that one out.

  ‘So I’m out of the frame?’

  ‘For her murder at least,’ Moreaux said, ominously.