The Case of the Black Pearl (12 page)

Patrick hit the brake to avoid slamming into the queue building on the slip road. The
voie rapide
looked anything but quick, so he reversed in cavalier fashion, causing a blast of irritated horns, and chose an alternative route.

A
voiding the snarled-up dual carriageway didn’t necessarily save him time: the backstreets of Cannes were equally busy. Although the bus and train services along the Côte d’Azur were cheap and frequent, people still preferred sitting in their cars, sounding their horns.

Patrick glanced at his watch, conscious it was already lunchtime and breakfast had consisted of only coffee. He headed for Boulevard Jean Hibert, on the western side of the old port, and was blessed with a parking space close by the beach restaurants. Tucked out of sight of the festival crowd, and serving non-stop, he was more likely to get a table here.

Hunger was preventing his brain from functioning. Either that or the fact that the sequence of events and behaviours he’d witnessed over the past couple of days made no sense at all.

He chose the O’key Beach where Jacky and Marcella ran a family business and knew their regulars. Offered a recently vacated table next to the beach, he ordered the day’s special and a half pichet of rosé, then he called the Chanteclair.

It was Preben who answered.

‘We’ve got him,’ he said as soon as he heard Patrick’s voice. ‘He was found on the rocks near the entrance to the harbour, half-drowned, with a gash on his head, which is now stitched.’

Patrick was surprised at the strength of his relief. He was fond of the determined little bulldog.

‘I’ll be there shortly.’

‘You’ll be lucky if Pascal lets you have him back,’ Preben said in a serious tone.

Patrick rang off as his lunch arrived. The sardines, freshly caught that morning, tasted excellent. The wine was local, fresh and unassuming. Patrick ate with gusto, the one good piece of news regarding Oscar having sharpened his appetite.

Since his arrival, a second wave of diners had joined him on the deck.

On one side was a French family of parents, grandparents and two children under five, the children dividing their time between the table and the beach. On the other, two suited Americans conducted a lively conversation intermittently interrupted by mobile devices. One was definitely pitching a movie, which he proclaimed would be ‘
The Bourne Identity
meets
Pirates of the Caribbean
’ and would star Johnny Depp. Patrick was intrigued, because the pitch sounded a bit like his own life at the moment.

When the waitress came for his empty plate, Patrick ordered a double espresso, then checked his mobile again. There was still nothing from Chevalier, and his message to Camille continued to be unanswered.

While sipping his coffee, he pondered the last forty-eight hours.

A frightened Camille Ager, having almost begged him to find her missing half-sister and the black pearl, before Chapayev did, now claimed her sister was well and in Paris. She had not however mentioned the pearl during that conversation. Now she appeared to be spending time in the company of the man she’d originally been frightened of, although judging by Camille’s behaviour at Villa Astrid, that fear had not abated.

Patrick added in the threat of a gutted rabbit, the missing sous chef, the murdered escort and the half-drowned dog to the already complex equation. The possible duplicity of Moreaux, and evidence of Chevalier’s connection with the Russian over Villa Astrid, rendered the water even murkier.

No further forward in his deliberations, despite a satisfied appetite, Patrick paid his bill and left. Returning the car to the garage, he let himself in at the Chanteclair and was immediately greeted by a tan bullet on somewhat wobbly legs. Pascal clucked along behind, trying to scoop up the small but hefty bundle.

‘He will burst his stitches,’ he said in alarm.

Patrick intervened, ordered Oscar to sit, and crouched beside him for a closer look. In the shaved area on top of his head was a stitched wound, red and raw-looking, about four centimetres long. Either the intruder had inflicted it, then thrown the dog overboard, or else Oscar had been injured once in the water. Knowing Oscar’s propensity to defend those he loved, Patrick suspected the former was the more likely explanation.

Murmuring words of praise, he rubbed the dog’s ears. That was sufficient for Oscar. He retreated to the rug laid out for him in the shade and went back to his drug-induced slumbers.

‘You had a visitor,’ Pascal said in an undertone, as though they were being observed from one of the various windows overlooking the courtyard. A dedicated fan of crime and thriller novels, it now appeared Pascal believed himself to be in one.

Patrick waited to hear who the visitor was.

‘Madame Lacroix.’ Pascal gave him a knowing look. ‘She wants to see you.’

The Hibiscus headquarters were located on Rue d’Antibes, tucked between a prestigious bank and an expensive couturier, favoured by visiting movie stars. The entrance was a traditional heavy wooden door with polished brass handle, but with no nameplate.

If permitted to enter, visitors would discover murals imitating the erotic paintings of Bouchet and Fragonard lining the marble staircase leading to the upper level. Should they prefer to use the cage lift, they would find the metal bars fashioned in the female form.

Patrick chose the stairs.

Hibiscus was operated from Brigitte’s apartment, which had once been owned by a prominent French politician who had used it to house a string of mistresses. It had been appropriated during the Vichy administration and operated as an upmarket brothel for collaborators and visiting Nazis. Fortunately, according to Chevalier, the interior decor had remained intact.

Brigitte’s order to come up had been brusque and icily furious. She obviously blamed Patrick for what had happened to Marie Elise, thus assuming her death was something to do with his investigation. In that she wasn’t far wrong.

As he reached the first landing, the door to the apartment was flung open.

Brigitte Lacroix was a stunningly handsome woman. Small, slim and elegantly dressed, she extruded a sensuality to rival the naked abandonment of those who lined her staircase. Her dark eyes and strong nose, high cheekbones and arched brows owed nothing to cosmetic surgery. Hers was a face that knew age and did not scorn it. Rather like a fine wine, she grew more flavoursome with the years. Patrick understood perfectly why Moreaux should favour her over a younger model for his mistress.

‘Courvoisier.’ She glared at him for a moment, registering the full extent of her wrath, then indicated that he should follow her inside.

Patrick had never been in the hallowed halls of Hibiscus before and found himself impressed, despite the circumstances. The interior decor rivaled the Villa Astrid in its sumptuousness. It too had frescos above each door in the large entrance hall, although he had no time to study them as he was quickly ushered into a sitting room. In here was cool and shadowy, the shutters closed against the noise of Rue d’Antibes.

Madame Lacroix lit a cheroot and took time to draw on it while observing him with flashing eyes.

‘I did not arrange to meet Marie Elise last night,’ he began.

‘Then why was she on your boat?’

‘I have no idea.’

The eyes became dagger points below the arched brows.

He strove to explain. ‘I saw Marie Elise having dinner with a Swedish man at Le Provençal earlier in the evening when I was at Los Faroles. She had left by the time Fritz closed up. I went to the boat, collected Oscar and ended up at the Chanteclair where I spent the night.’

At his mention of the Swede, a look of puzzlement crossed Brigitte’s face, suggesting any conversation she’d had with Moreaux had not included that part of the story.

‘I told Lieutenant Moreaux all this when he interviewed me this morning,’ Patrick said for good measure.

She paused to exhale her annoyance. ‘What did this Swede look like?’

‘Tall, blond, handsome, wealthy.’ It might have been a description of any number of Hibiscus clients. ‘Do you have someone fitting that description on your books? Or does your discretion go as far as protecting a killer?’ he said pointedly.

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.