The Case of the Black Pearl (11 page)

Yet Patrick had not had a call from his friend.

Chevalier’s usual table was empty with no reserved sign on it. It seemed he wasn’t expected. Veronique came rushing out at the sight of Patrick and proceeded in rapid French to question him about Marie’s murder. When he insisted he knew nothing, she dispensed with him with a wave of her hand. He thought he also caught a reference to ‘a stupid goat’ in her final retort.

His next port of call was Chevalier’s agency. A young man sat at the front desk on the lower level. Fresh-faced and dark-haired, he stood up in anticipation on Patrick’s entry. Obviously a new employee, he greeted Patrick with the open smile of someone keen to sell a property. Patrick quickly got to the point, telling him he sought Monsieur Chevalier and that it was urgent. The keen expression transformed into a poorly masked scowl.

‘I’m sure I will be able to help. Monsieur Chevalier left me in charge.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Showing a client an expensive property,’ he replied loftily.

‘I’d like the address, please.’

Pierre, his name according to the sign on his desk, shook his head. ‘I am not permitted …’

Patrick took a menacing step towards him and Pierre retreated, colliding with the chair, and sat down in a somewhat ungainly fashion.

‘My name is Patrick de Courvoisier and Le Chevalier will likely sack you if you don’t tell me where he is.’

Pierre attempted to retrieve his composure but an outbreak of sweat had marked his pristine shirt. ‘If only you had mentioned your name when you came in, monsieur.’ He looked unsure and offended at the same time. ‘Monsieur Chevalier is at this property.’ He handed Patrick a glossy brochure of a ‘magnificent residence of character’ located in the area known as Californie. The price was naturally on request, Californie being a Cannes neighbourhood popular with those who had no worry regarding the cost.

Outside the agency, Patrick turned swiftly towards Le Suquet.

Making his way past the market, now dismantled, the stall owners enjoying lunch at the adjacent cafés, Patrick headed back towards the Chanteclair. Opposite the door to the courtyard was a set of steps, leading on to the street of restaurants. Just prior to the steps was a store for the above restaurant, beside it a garage door.

Patrick used the remote to unlock the door and raise the shutter. Resting inside the cave was his much-loved Ferrari 330 GTS.

He stood for a moment, admiring the sleek blue lines and somewhat tight fit. Reversing out of the cave on to the narrow steep incline was a challenge – one he relished as much as driving the car, not in the inevitable crush of Cannes, but on the steep winding roads that radiated in all directions from the city.

Climbing in, he enjoyed the warm smell of upholstery and the lingering scent of the last female to occupy the passenger seat. Their liaison had been a brief but memorable day spent in a secluded hillside hotel, home to one of the best chefs in Provence.

He had met Estelle on a flight from Paris. The attraction had been instant and consuming. His suggestion as they left the airport that they lunch together was greeted with an enthusiasm matching his own. He had driven to Hôtel d’Or where he was well known, and his request for lunch and a room was easily accommodated.

The food had been exceptional, as were the hours that followed. Estelle had laughingly declined his offer of extending their stay to dinner and breakfast and had asked to be dropped back to Nice airport. She had accepted his Courvoisier number, but had not offered one of her own. Needless to say she hadn’t called, which had disappointed him a little.

The following week Patrick had spotted her photograph in the Monaco section of the
Riviera
Times.
Estelle Dupont was the wife of a prominent Monte Carlo businessman, twenty years her senior. In the photograph, she looked poised and happy. For her Patrick had been a pleasant way to spend an afternoon, but only one, it seemed.

He fired up the engine and sat for a moment listening to the purr, before hooting the horn, reversing without fear or favour and heading swiftly uphill.

Le Suquet, together with the Croisette and the nearby shopping quarter of Rue d’Antibes, occupied an area of Cannes known as La Banane – the banana – separated from the sprawl of Le Cannet to the north by the dual carriageway and the railway line that ran the length of the south coast.

Patrick used the slip road to join the line of traffic on the
voie rapide
, rapidly filling with marketeers, and headed east.

Twenty minutes later he found the place. It hadn’t been easy. The interweaving lattice of access roads of Californie was designed to dissuade the curious. The surrounding walls of each property were high enough to maintain their privacy.

Patrick pulled up on the gravel some metres from the electronic gates and took a closer look at the brochure. Described as being set in a landscaped park of 14,000 square metres, it boasted not one residence but three: the main house, a guesthouse and a caretaker’s lodge. According to the details, the main house had been built at the time of Napoleon III by an English lord.

Patrick quickly ran his eyes over the blurb. If he had to pass himself off as a prospective buyer, he’d better at least know what he was planning to buy. Satisfied he knew enough, Patrick restarted the engine and approached the gate indicating he wished to enter.

The camera on the nearest gate post rotated towards him.

Patrick looked directly at the lens.

‘I have an appointment with Monsieur Chevalier and I’m late,’ he said in a tone that brooked no argument.

There was a moment’s hesitation before the gate, electronically released, swung open. Patrick made a point of roaring through, scattering stones on the white gravel drive.

The avenue of pines wound upwards, with brief glimpses of what lay beyond. Emerging from the trees he found the house at the top of a rise, facing the not-too-distant sea. A wide set of steps swept down from the forecourt to the obligatory aquamarine swimming pool with its manicured surrounding lawn.

As he swung into a spot beside Chevalier’s motorbike and a smoked-windowed Mercedes, he spotted what looked like a roof terrace, complete with brightly coloured umbrellas and trellises of flowers, which undoubtedly commanded a remarkable view of the Côte d’Azur.

Parked now, he took a proper look at the other car. Who was Chevalier’s prospective buyer? Patrick attempted to peer inside, but was prevented by the smoked-glass windows. One thing was certain, whoever owned this quality of car was unlikely to be put off purchasing this property because of its price.

Patrick approached the house. Finding the double front door open, he entered and stood for a moment in the grand entrance hall, admiring the superb frescos that adorned the walls, deciding the English lord who’d built this place had had an excellent taste in decoration.

The interior reminded Patrick of a Venetian palace without the crumbling mortar occasioned by the damp. In the hushed silence of the large vestibule, he finally discerned the murmur of distant voices. Tuning in, he made out Chevalier’s distinctive tones and perhaps two others, one of them definitely that of a woman.

He wondered whether he should seek out the visiting party, or simply wait here and surprise them. He’d decided on the former and was heading for the stairs when a peel of somewhat forced feminine laughter drew his eye upwards.

Emerging from an upper room were three figures. Chevalier, as distinctive as ever in his trademark apparel and moustache, was followed by a woman with beautiful legs, her face hidden by her male companion, who’d turned for a final look at the room all three had just exited.

Patrick was halfway up the staircase before his approach was noted and all three faces turned suddenly towards him. Chevalier’s reaction was muted. The woman’s less so. Camille Ager’s expression could only be described as one of horror and confusion, although it was Chapayev who definitely won the prize.

He stared at Patrick as though wishing to skin him alive.

‘I understood this was to be a private showing,’ he said sharply to Chevalier.

Patrick gave an inward sigh of relief. It seemed he wasn’t immediately recognized without his waiter uniform, but being regarded as a possible rival for the purchase of the Villa Astrid.

‘Ah, Courvoisier. I’m glad you could make it,’ Chevalier said immediately. ‘Let me introduce you to Monsieur Chapayev, a potential buyer for Villa Astrid, and of course you met Camille with me at Le P’tit Zinc.’

Patrick’s acknowledging smile did nothing to ease Camille’s worried expression.

Chapayev, confused by Le Chevalier’s warm welcome, was re-evaluating the situation. Anger still burned in his eyes, but his expression became more cunning than aggressive as Chevalier continued with his smooth delivery.

‘Monsieur de Courvoisier’s family once owned this delightful villa. In fact, Lord Loudon who built it was, I believe, a distant relative?’

He passed the baton to Patrick, who picked it up and ran with it, impressed by Chevalier’s ability to rise to such an occasion.

‘And a fervent Francophile, which led to the establishment through marriage of my own branch of the family,’ Patrick lied pleasantly.

Chapayev was studying him closely, recognition flickering in those mean little eyes, no doubt wondering how the man before him had mysteriously moved from status as a Cannois waiter on board his yacht, to being a direct descendant of an English lord.

Camille’s hand fluttered to her face and Patrick saw that it was trembling. He wondered why she was here with a man she’d professed to fear.

There was a moment’s silence when it seemed to Patrick that all took stock of the situation.

Chapayev was the first to respond. ‘Since you know the house so well, monsieur, would you walk round with me? I would like to hear more of the man who built it.’

In the world of chess, it was a good move. Isolate your opponent before the attack.

Patrick smiled. ‘Of course, I’d be delighted to.’

Camille, silent until now, interrupted them with a breathless, ‘Can you please excuse me, gentlemen. I must get back to the shop,’ while avoiding Patrick’s eye.

‘Of course.’ Chevalier, ever the gentleman, offered to take her if she didn’t mind a motorbike ride. He then turned to Chapayev. ‘I will leave you in Courvoisier’s capable hands. Obviously I hope you’ll be in touch. Properties like Villa Astrid don’t often come on the market.’

Camille glanced at Chapayev as though asking his permission to depart, and was met by a blank expression. The relationship between herself and the Russian was taking on a whole new hue in Patrick’s eyes.

Chevalier took her arm. ‘Shall we go?’

The Russian waited until the motorbike blasted down the avenue, scattering even more stones than Patrick’s arrival, then turned to face him, jowls heavy with threat, eyes like two bullets poised to fire.

‘Monsieur de Courvoisier. It seems wherever I am, you are there also.’

‘Strangely, I’ve gained the same impression about you.’

Patrick met him eye to eye, at the same time wondering where the minder was. There had been no one near the Mercedes when he’d arrived, but he couldn’t imagine Chapayev would drive himself here alone.

The Russian gave a sigh. ‘You were hired to find the whereabouts of Angele Valette. Her sister has now made contact with Angele and therefore you are no longer required. Your time would be better spent talking to the police about the body found on your boat.’

Patrick pretended to concentrate on the frescos, when he was actually trying to work out where the minder was. He played for a little more time.

‘You were the one who asked me to stay and discuss my ancestor and his artistic tastes.’

Chapayev emitted a choking sound, colour rising to his cheeks in a red sweep of diffused fury. Patrick was no less angry, though he strove to keep his voice steady. The mention of
Les Trois Soeurs
had flashed the image of Marie Elise once more in his brain.

‘I intend finding out who killed Marie Elise,’ he said coldly. ‘And the whereabouts of both Angele and the black pearl.’

Chapayev glanced upwards and Patrick tensed, every muscle in his body preparing to spring. The minder was close by, perhaps with a gun, waiting for the signal to dispense with this irritant. Patrick decided to move first.

Launching himself forward, he propelled into the Russian, knocking the feet from under him and both went slamming to the ground. It wasn’t an elegant manoeuvre but it achieved its purpose. In the resulting jumble of arms, legs and grunts of expelled air, Patrick smelled Chapayev’s fear and heard his barked ‘
Nyet
’.

Patrick extracted himself and rose, taking care to maintain a position between the Russian’s bulky body and the open door. Two backward strides and he was through and slamming it behind him.

His reverse turn on Rue Forville was nothing to the one he executed now. The shower of stones he threw up ricocheted off the windscreen and rained down on him in the open-topped car.

The gate would be the next problem, but as he descended the hill at speed, it anticipated his arrival and began to swing back. He took his chance and screeched through the half-opening.

As he wound his way past the walled enclaves of the rich, he contemplated what had just happened. He’d had no reason to believe that Chevalier would have placed him in danger by leaving him alone with Chapayev. Chevalier had been unaware of his visit to the
Heavenly Princess
and therefore didn’t know that he had met Chapayev there. Chevalier also knew nothing of the gutted rabbit.

Would his friend have abandoned him so easily if he had? And what of Camille Ager? The fear on her face when Patrick had turned up had been hard to miss. And that look to Chapayev when she’d left. Maybe his interpretation of her actions was correct and Camille was just a pawn in whatever game Chapayev was playing.

To cap it all, he’d had no opportunity to gauge Chevalier’s response to Marie’s murder.

He took a ninety-degree turn, realizing he had missed the slip road for the
voie rapide.
Repeated glances in his mirror had convinced him that he hadn’t been followed. If Chapayev had been intent on preventing his departure, he could have ordered the gate to stay shut.