The Case of the Black Pearl

by Lin Anderson

  Three carved stone steps led into the water. Patrick stripped down to his shorts and lowered himself in. The water felt icily cold against his skin. This, he decided, was what heaven would be like.

  The strength that had helped him fight Korskof, and got him down the stairs, drained from him now. He floated, and with the slightest of efforts, helped the water take him. Outside, the brightness of the sun was blinding. He glanced about, recognizing the distant craggy outline of the golden island where the Swede had lost his life.

  Patrick flipped on to his back and lay weightless, staring up at the blue sky, trying to reinhabit his body and his mind, while knowing he had reawakened a part of him that he’d hoped to vanquish.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Containing Courvoisier would always be a problem, should he be alive and remain in Cannes, Moreaux mused as the police car wound its way up to the scene of the ‘accident’. He did not like usurpers on his patch, but Moreaux had to admit that Le Limier had proved useful on occasion, plus the inhabitants of Le Suquet had grown to accept him.

  He had therefore no wish to see Courvoisier dead.

  As regards Chapayev, he was definitely the outsider, and one who thought his money could buy just about everything. The Russian needed to be shown his place, and soon.

  The Heavenly Princess had been located anchored off Monaco. Moreaux’s sources told him that Chapayev had gone there in search of Angele Valette, and no doubt the pearl. It appeared obvious to Moreaux that the Russian didn’t know when to cut his losses.

  Camille Ager’s recent statement had given him enough ground to detain the Russian for blackmail and suspected diamond smuggling. That would involve bringing the Heavenly Princess into port; a tricky and expensive business, which would alert his superiors to what had been going on under his watch. The murder of a beautiful woman during the film festival had been unfortunate, bringing the press down on Cannes, giving the world the impression that Moreaux’s city was not a safe place to visit, even during the biggest movie festival in the world. The Swede’s death had been declared accidental, and since he’d been implicated in Marie Clermand’s murder, that case was now closed, but it still left a bad taste.

  Moreaux extracted a cheroot, lit it and took a long draw, exhaling his anger and distaste at the latest episode in the story – Courvoisier’s car found in the hills west of Cannes, bullet riddled, its owner missing. Chapayev, he decided, had gone too far this time, and must pay the price. The next thing he knew the papers would be talking about Russian gangsters taking over Cannes.

  It was time to reassert his authority, but in a manner that deflected both the attention of his superiors and of the media, and which removed Chapayev from under his feet.

  By the time the police car had reached the spot where the Ferrari had been found, Moreaux had formulated the beginnings of a plan.

  He made his way carefully down through the rocks towards the red shape that had been Courvoisier’s pride and joy. Moreaux had admired the car on a number of occasions and felt anger at its destruction, but he was more enraged at the thought that whoever had done this should imagine they could get away with it.

  Speaking with the forensic team currently examining the vehicle, Moreaux learned that there were no bloodstains present inside the car, and therefore it was unlikely that anyone had been in the Ferrari when it had been fired on, or when it had gone over the edge. Moreaux allowed himself a small smile at that news, because it suggested to him that Courvoisier was alive, at least two to three hours ago.

  Whether that was now the case was another matter.

  Moreaux made his way back to the road. From that vantage point he could see the swathe of searching officers strung out along the slope below. If Courvoisier had escaped, where would he have headed? The hills were filled with places to hide. Caves, deep and numerous, peppered the red rock.

  Le Limier knew these mountains well. If he’d escaped his attackers he would be currently making his way back to civilization and a mobile signal. Alternatively, he’d been caught, or disposed of somewhere close by. Moreaux didn’t see them carting Courvoisier’s remains too far, so they’d be located soon, if they were here.

  The area where the car had gone over the edge had been cordoned off. A couple of forensics were studying the area in detail, lifting tyre impressions, photographing and taking samples. A discussion with one of them, a woman, revealed that the evidence suggested the Ferrari had been shoved off the road by something bigger.

  ‘A truck?’ Moreaux suggested.

  ‘More likely a big black car by the paint scrapings we’ve recovered. The tyre tracks are fairly distinctive, so we should be able to match for model.’

  So, whoever had come for Courvoisier had been a little careless with the traces they’d left behind. Still, if Brigitte hadn’t spotted Korskof leaving the graveyard, they would never have been looking for Courvoisier in the first place. As Chevalier had said, Le Limier liked to work alone and wasn’t in the habit of revealing where he was going, or for what purpose.

  ‘We have also located drops of blood, on the gravel close to the tyre tracks,’ she added.

  ‘Which means?’ he asked curtly.

  ‘Someone was hurt, but not while they were in the Ferrari.’

  Moreaux silently wished that it was Courvoisier who had been the one to inflict the damage.

  Back in his car, he ordered the driver to take him to Cannes, specifically to the Vieux Port. It was time to take another look at Les Trois Soeurs.

  Once on the main road, a mobile signal appeared and his phone started ringing. The first call was from Brigitte. It wasn’t a habit of hers to contact him, under any circumstances, and certainly not on this number. Because of this Moreaux answered immediately.

  Brigitte’s voice was strained when she spoke.

  ‘Have you found Courvoisier?’

  Moreaux wasn’t keen to divulge information and certainly not news that would upset Brigitte further.

  ‘We’re looking for him, but he isn’t a man who chooses to be found, when that suits him.’

  There was a short pause. ‘What of Korskof?’ Brigitte’s voice cracked on the name.

  ‘He hasn’t been seen,’ Moreaux said, which was true.

  ‘I remembered something. I think Chapayev has a villa west of the Île d’Or. He rang once from there, demanding an escort one night to have dinner with him.’ Brigitte hesitated. ‘I didn’t like his tone, so I told him all the girls were engaged.’

  Moreaux asked if she remembered the name of the villa.

  There was a short silence, while she tried. ‘Les Sylphides, I think.’

  As soon as she rang off, Moreaux used his mobile to do a search on the name. Three possibilities came up, two of which were termed ‘luxury’ and one ‘exclusive’. The exclusive one was on a rocky promontory, with a jetty. It sat just east of the Île d’Or.

  Had Moreaux been a man prone to exhibit joy, he would have cheered. Instead he gave curt instructions to the driver to turn the car and head west.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Patrick was swimming, or at least attempting to. Fortunately the current was flowing in the direction he wanted to go. Had it been otherwise, he would never have made it this far.

  He had stopped periodically to float, when the willpower and energy to continue had deserted him. On at least two such occasions, he’d suddenly come to, as his mouth filled with water, having sunk below the surface in a stupor.

  But he was almost there, he told himself. The tower on the Île d’Or was getting closer; the rocks on which it stood were reddened by the setting sun. He was aware that by making for Jean Paul’s place he was placing his friend in danger again, but promised himself that he would spend so little time there that it wouldn’t pose a problem.

  Rounding the final rocky headland, he spotted the pebble beach of the camp site and the patch of sand that lay beyond it. Not trusting his left leg enough to try walking across the stones, he made for the sand instead. Floating as f
ar inshore as possible, Patrick then attempted to stand.

  As he hauled his body from the cushioning water, the feeling of weightlessness evaporated and was replaced by pain, so shocking that he groaned out loud. Forcing his feet to move, he staggered up the beach.

  Patrick was relieved to find the restaurant terrace deserted. In the failing light it might not be obvious what state he was in, but he had no wish to scare any visitors Jean Paul might have. Having negotiated the beach, he tackled the two flights of wooden steps that led to the restaurant. Fortunately Jean Paul had provided a rail.

  Now out of the water, his body had taken to excessive shivering in the cool night air, which made his ascent even trickier. Had he not felt so bad, Patrick might have laughed at the image he presented. Relief at being alive and being here compensated for everything.

  A peel of laughter came from the kitchen. Jean Paul was relating a story which Joanne found amusing. Patrick, not wishing to walk in on that scene, sat down abruptly at one of the outside tables.

  Reacting to the sound of movement on the terrace, Patrick heard Jean Paul order Joanne to stay put while he went to investigate. Moments later, he appeared in the doorway.

  Patrick called to his friend in Cannois, hoping Jean Paul would recognize his voice.

  Jean Paul came quickly forward. In the light from the doorway, Patrick’s condition was reflected in his friend’s eyes. There then followed a litany of curses and threats of retaliation that would have started World War Three.

  Patrick interrupted him. ‘Can I come inside?’

  ‘Mon Dieu. Of course.’

  Patrick waved away Jean Paul’s helping hand, and rose to his feet again. This time his legs remembered their job.

  ‘I could use a stiff drink. Whisky, if you have it.’

  Moments later, he was seated by the stove, a blanket round his shoulders, with a large glass of malt whisky in his hand. The warmth of the room enveloped him like a woman’s body.

  Patrick gulped down the whisky and held out the glass to be refilled.

  Joanne urged him to have some food first, but Patrick wanted nothing but whisky inside him, dulling the pain. The third glass brought the inner glow he sought.

  ‘I’ll take some food now,’ he told a worried Joanne.

  She ladled out a bowl of thick soup and sat it next to him on the stove, handing him a wad of bread. Patrick ate hungrily, finishing both soup and bread in minutes. He had a second bowl, then a third, the rich mix of meat and vegetables bringing both sustenance and warmth.

  Eventually he ceased, replete for the moment.

  Jean Paul, meanwhile, had sat nearby in silence, although fury furled his brow.

  He now asked in guttural French what bastard had done this to Patrick.

  ‘Korskof,’ Patrick replied. ‘At Chapayev’s command.’

  ‘Then both will die,’ Jean Paul said.

  Patrick shook his head. ‘You and Joanne are not to be involved.’ He shifted a little in the seat. ‘Although there’s one more thing I need you to do for me.’

  ‘Anything,’ Jean Paul said with gusto.

  The operation took place on the kitchen table. Jean Paul had served in Algeria and knew the importance of a well-stocked medical kit. He also didn’t trust doctors in general, and the French health service in particular.

  Patrick took advantage of another whisky, was then arranged face down, and given a local anaesthetic. His wound, though painful, hadn’t greatly prevented walking, despite his performance on the mountain. Patrick was convinced the bullet hadn’t penetrated far, or may even have exited.

  The first scenario turned out to be the case.

  Jean Paul extracted it without too much difficulty, made some reassuring sounds featuring the words ‘flesh wound’, and applied a dressing.

  He then turned Patrick over, helped him sit up, and cleaned and patched up the rest of him, after which he handed him two capsules and another glass of whisky.

  ‘These will kill the pain.’

  ‘But not put me to sleep, I hope?’

  Jean Paul shook his head.

  ‘Good, because I need to make a phone call.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  The double gates of Les Sylphides were firmly shut. Moreaux had expected no less, although he had hoped the motor launch he’d ordered from Cannes would be approaching the jetty below, if not already, then very soon.

  He stepped out of the vehicle and lit a cheroot.

  He suspected Chapayev had already flown this nest. His main reason for coming here was to check for Courvoisier. It wasn’t a long journey from where he had disappeared. Had they removed him alive from the mountain, this would have been the place to bring him.

  The only reason he could think of for Chapayev keeping Courvoisier alive was to locate his diamonds. How the Russian would extract the information he wanted was something he had no wish to speculate on.

  He made a call, establishing that the motor launch had docked at the jetty and someone was on their way to open the gate. According to the officer, the villa looked deserted, and they’d had access to it via the basement jetty. Moreaux ordered them to await his arrival before exploring any further.

  Minutes later, the gates swung open and Moreaux and the police car entered.

  The villa had extensive grounds, which included most of the promontory on which it stood. As reported, there were no vehicles in the drive, and the place looked abandoned. Moreaux approached the front door, which had been opened for him, and stepped inside.

  The air of opulence immediately offended him, not because of its richness, but because it smelled of Russian money. An ornate clock ticked in the large reception area, bringing an air of timeless serenity, which matched the antique furniture seen through the open doors.

  Moreaux ordered his men to examine the ground floor and took himself upstairs.

  Interrogations did not take place in such luxurious surroundings. As in the police station, they took place behind locked doors, where the sounds of distress could not be heard. The second storey consisted of a variety of bedrooms and accompanying bathrooms. Moreaux left these to his men and ventured further.

  A set of wooden stairs took him to the attic.

  There were three doors off the landing, all of them firmly shut.

  Moreaux opened the first to find a cupboard, the second a sparsely furnished bedroom, which left the third. He stood outside for a moment. Had he been a religious man, he would have prayed. As he wasn’t, he uttered a curse as he opened the door.

  The first thing that hit him was the smell – a mixture of vomit, sweat, urine and human excrement. The draught from the open door caused a cloud of flies to rise and buzz furiously before settling again on the open eyes of the figure on the floor. Moreaux took in the chair and the wall behind where blood splatters had painted a picture of what had taken place in this room.

  Moreaux felt bile rise in his throat, and fought it back down as he established that the body on the floor was not that of Courvoisier, but of Korskof.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Moreaux was standing on the jetty, considering his next move, when the phone call came. Studying the unknown number on the screen, he considered whether to answer. Thinking it might be Brigitte, he did so.

  He didn’t recognize Courvoisier’s voice at first, or perhaps he thought he was speaking with the dead.

  ‘Courvoisier?’ he said, to make sure.

  ‘Lieutenant Moreaux.’ The voice now took on the faintly mocking tone that was the norm for their conversations.

  A sense of something like relief washed over Moreaux.

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

  Moreaux didn’t deny disappointment, but said instead, ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Where, exactly?’

  ‘I will be waiting in the car park at Le Dramont thirty minutes from now.’

  As Moreaux rang off, the setting sun broke throu
gh a thin film of dark cloud. In the distance, he could make out the Île d’Or. All roads, it seemed, led back to the place where the Swede had died.

  If Courvoisier was in the vicinity of Le Dramont, he was less than fifteen minutes by car from the villa and the body in the attic. A closer inspection had revealed that Korskof’s neck had been broken. Not an easy thing to achieve on a man his size. Whoever had snapped that thick neck had known exactly how to do it. Which suggested it was not the first time they’d carried out such a manoeuvre.

  The jigsaw that was his image of Patrick de Courvoisier just had another piece fitted. It was not a pretty picture, but it was a more admirable one, in Moreaux’s eyes, than that fashioned from Korskof or Chapayev.

  The team from the mountain would come here next. Korskof’s body would have to be examined and then taken to the morgue. It was important that this unfortunate sequence of events came briskly to an end, and life in Cannes got back to normal.

  Perhaps it would take the combined forces of himself and Courvoisier to achieve this.

  Jean Paul insisted on driving Patrick up the hill at least. Patrick agreed, but only on the condition that he dropped him and immediately drove back down.

  ‘I do not trust Moreaux,’ Jean Paul argued.

  ‘Neither do I,’ Patrick agreed, ‘but in this case, I have little choice.’

  Jean Paul expressed his distrust even further through a selection of choice phrases. ‘I have seen his type before, in the army. They look only to their own interests.’

  ‘In this case, I believe, our interests are the same.’ Even as he said it, Patrick hoped that was true.

  As the lights of the jeep wound their way back down the hill, Patrick revisited his plan. If he could trust Moreaux, it might work. If it did, it was to the advantage of both of them, provided Moreaux valued a quiet life and a return to normality.