The Case of the Black Pearl (2 page)

By her look of acknowledgement she’d heard a few.

‘I need you to …’ She hesitated, searching for the right words. ‘To fix something for me.’

‘Something other than a Bloody Mary?’

She smiled and the effect was dazzling, even out of the sun. He was on dangerous ground. A beautiful woman was a thing to behold, but distracting to do business with.

‘My name is Camille Ager.’

She held out her hand. It was slim and fine boned and cold to his touch from the iced glass.

Patrick waved her to a seat. She settled herself, took another mouthful, then placed the glass on the table. All of this was done slowly and deliberately, as though to compose herself before she spoke.

‘I have been told I can trust you.’ She eyed him candidly.

‘May I ask by whom?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘It does.’

‘Monsieur Paul Chevalier,’ she conceded.

Paul Chevalier, or Le Chevalier as he was affectionately known among residents of Le Suquet, was a man Patrick held in high regard.

‘And how do you know Le Chevalier?’ he asked.

She wasn’t sure of her answer and he anticipated why. If her dealings with Chevalier had been about his real-estate business, and therefore above the legal radar, it would be easy. If the connection was of an altogether different nature, her explanation might prove more difficult.

‘We share …’ She hesitated. ‘A mutual acquaintance.’

Patrick waited.

‘In Brigitte Lacroix.’

Now this was a surprise. As he’d viewed her approach along the
quai
, Patrick hadn’t thought for a moment that she might be one of Brigitte’s girls. Patrick studied his visitor in a little more detail. The women who worked for Brigitte were highly intelligent, well educated and stunningly beautiful. Camille Ager was all of these.

As though in answer to his unspoken question, she said, ‘I do not work for Madame Lacroix, but I have a friend who does.’

Brigitte Lacroix was mistress of Hibiscus, the premier escort agency on the Côte d’Azur. Becoming one of Brigitte’s girls was more difficult, it was said, than gaining a place at the prestigious Sorbonne. Those who passed the entry requirements could look forward to five years’ work, after which they could comfortably retire on the proceeds, if they had not already married a rich client.

Brigitte, like Le Chevalier, had been born and raised in Le Suquet. She knew its inhabitants and their secrets as thoroughly as she knew the intimate desires of her well-heeled clientele. If Brigitte had sent Camille to Le Chevalier, then she’d assumed he would send her here to Patrick.

‘How can I help you?’ Patrick said.

She released the breath she’d been holding. She had been more nervous, Patrick realized, than she’d shown.

‘I have a younger half-sister. Her name is Angele Valette.’ She paused to clear an emotional catch in her throat. ‘She is in a great deal of trouble, Monsieur de Courvoisier.’

The story turned out to be anything but pretty, unlike the girl in the photograph Camille handed him. It was a press shot taken on the steps of the red carpet. The midnight-blue dress Angele wore accentuated her slim body and elegant white neck.

‘The dress is the exact colour of the black pearl from the movie. It was made especially for the film,’ Camille said, her voice breaking.

Angele resembled her name. Transparently beautiful, her eyes widened by the flash of cameras, she looked stunned to find herself dropped from heaven into a mad world.

‘Who is the man with her?’ Patrick said.

‘Conor Musso, her co-star. An American.’

Dark-haired, tanned and handsome, the guy looked every inch a movie star. Patrick wondered if he could act.

‘And the one standing behind?’

‘Sergio Gramesci, the Italian director of
The Black Pearl.
’

‘Should I have heard of him?’ Patrick asked.

She shook her head.
‘The Black Pearl
is his first movie. Until now he has worked in Italian TV soaps.’

Slightly out of shot stood a shorter, broader figure.

‘That is Vasily Chapayev, a Russian entrepreneur – according to Angele, the money behind the movie,’ Camille told him. ‘Angele thought it was Italian backed when she took the part. She never found out about Chapayev until he turned up on set.’

‘And that worried her?’

‘Not at first. It is the producer who must worry about the money side of things.’ Camille took in his blank expression. ‘You know nothing about how films are made, monsieur?’

He shook his head.

‘It takes a great deal of money to fund even a bad movie.’

‘And
The Black Pearl
is a bad movie?’

Camille gave a Gallic shrug. ‘It contains a lot of sex and some violence. It will make money; if not in cinemas, then on DVD.’

‘And what did Angele think of it?’

‘She was excited by the chance to star in a movie. And when she learned Chapayev was launching the film at Cannes, she was ecstatic. It was all she ever dreamed of.’ Camille reached for her glass, took a swift drink and composed herself before continuing. ‘Two nights ago, Angele called to tell me that Chapayev was holding the launch party on the
Heavenly Princess.
He’d invited a number of film people, including some from Hollywood. Angele was so excited. She texted me from the yacht about midnight to say she was having a wonderful time. That’s the last I heard from her.’

‘Have you spoken to anyone else about this?’

‘I tried asking Sergio where Angele was. He fobbed me off, but he sounded angry.’ She halted as if afraid to say what she was thinking.

‘Why do you think he was angry?’ Patrick asked.

‘Without Angele they cannot promote the film.’

‘Is that all?’

As she composed herself, Patrick decided he’d at last reached the real reason for her underlying fear.

‘Angele was wearing the black pearl when she disappeared,’ Camille said quietly.

Her violet-tinged eyes met his own.

‘And you think your sister may have stolen the pearl?’

‘I do not know, monsieur.’ Camille’s hand, when she touched his, was ice cold. ‘But I fear if she has, then Chapayev may kill her to get it back.’

T
he café-bar named Le P’tit Zinc stood guard at the entrance to Le Suquet, the medieval heart of Cannes. Unlike the gourmet establishments that lined the steep street of the Rue Antoine, which catered for festival attendees with money to burn, the more traditional Le Zinc was the watering place of Le Suquet’s full-time inhabitants. There they sat with a modestly priced glass of local wine and watched disdainfully as the wealthier visitors passed by.

Patrick departed the gunboat and, walking the length of the
quai
, entered Le Suquet via the Rue Antoine. Already six o’clock, the various restaurants that stretched from quayside to the square atop the hill were busy constructing their outside platforms, and perching tables to line the narrow cobbled thoroughfare.

Le Zinc was also taking advantage of the increased traffic by claiming a corner of the Rue de la Misericorde, although its tables weren’t draped in snow-white linen and set with sparkling glassware, but rather were Formica topped and supplied with an ashtray, most of which were in use.

At one such table sat Chevalier, a small glass of red wine, almost finished, before him. Catching his eye, Patrick gestured that he would fetch his friend a refill, and went inside.

Veronique, the proprietress, stood behind the long zinc-topped counter that gave the café its name, muttering as she poured a glass of beer. Her words were unintelligible, but definitely annoyed. When she spotted Patrick she told him exactly what it was that had incensed her.

Two tourists had bought fast food and, taking a seat at one of
her
tables, had proceeded to eat it. If they want a snack, she told him,
she
would provide it. Veronique gestured angrily to the small blackboard that advertised today’s offerings, among which featured the inimitable croque-monsieur.

Patrick waited until she reached the end of her tirade, nodding in between at the righteousness of her wrath, then ordered a half carafe of house red and another glass. Veronique raised her shoulders indicating she would deal with him after the miscreants. Exiting behind her, Patrick saw Chevalier observing the ungracious delivery of the beer with an amused smile.

‘They will be lucky to leave with their lives,’ he pronounced, as Patrick took his seat.

The tourists had got the message. They hastily drank their beers and vacated the table, finding refuge in the continuing stream of sightseers climbing the Rue Antoine. Veronique called something after them, which Patrick roughly translated as ‘good riddance’.

When the wine arrived, via the now placated Veronique, Patrick topped up Le Chevalier’s glass, then filled his own. The two men took a moment to savour the wine. There was no hurry. Le Chevalier was well aware why Patrick had sought him out.

The day had been warm for May, a notoriously fickle month in Cannes, when the sky could produce a sudden downpour as easily as rays of sunshine. Today the sun shone down from a clear blue sky. Le Chevalier wore his spring outfit of colourful shirt, dotted bow tie, smart jacket and trousers. With his smooth black hair and neat moustache he reminded Patrick of a modern version of Hercule Poirot, although Patrick doubted if the Belgian detective would ever have climbed aboard the magnificent Yamaha TMAX currently parked on the Rue de la Misericorde.

Setting the glass on the table, Chevalier drew out a checked handkerchief from his top pocket and dabbed his moustache dry.

‘I take it Camille followed my advice and came to see you?’

‘She did,’ Patrick said.

‘And what did you think of Mademoiselle Ager?’

Had it been anyone other than Chevalier, Patrick might have construed this as a subtle enquiry as to his visitor’s sexual desirability. Chevalier, however, was a perfect gentleman, who was only interested in other gentlemen, despite evidence to the contrary in the macho motorbike.

‘Intriguing,’ Patrick admitted. ‘And very worried about her missing half-sister.’

Chevalier contemplated his response for a moment, before pouring himself another glass.

‘I suggest you talk to Brigitte. I believe one of her girls was also at the
Black Pearl
party.’

This was welcome news.

‘A friend of Camille’s?’ Patrick asked.

‘I don’t believe so. Her name is Marie Elise.’

‘Is that her real name?’ Patrick said.

Chevalier raised an amused eyebrow. ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

‘How can I contact her?’

Chevalier gave his signature shrug. ‘Through Brigitte – how else?’

Madame Lacroix was renowned for the protection she gave ‘her girls’. If Patrick wanted to speak to Marie Elise, he would have to set up an appointment at Brigitte’s office. The alternative was to hire her for an evening and speak to her alone. Which would not come cheap.

Patrick had already negotiated a daily rate with Camille Ager, who’d insisted on paying him for two weeks’ work up front, cash in hand. He’d deposited the substantial amount in the usual place on board the gunboat. Even if an intruder managed to bypass Oscar, Patrick was certain they would not easily find his secret stash of euros and American dollars.

The two men fell silent as they contemplated two young starlets who were attempting the steeply cobbled Rue Antoine in very high heels, while their male companions strode ahead, oblivious to their difficulties.

‘Ask her for a meal on board
Les Trois Soeurs
,’ Chevalier said. ‘She will like that. And you can talk in private.’

Brigitte’s girls were used to expensive dinners served on visiting yachts, or in the restaurants of the magnificent hotels that lined the Croisette. Patrick regarded himself as a good cook, but dining aboard
Les Trois Soeurs
didn’t come into that bracket.

Chevalier appeared to read his mind.

‘Nothing too fancy. She gets plenty of that. A
fruits de mer
platter will suit Marie very well,’ he said with certainty.

‘So you know this girl?’

‘I know them all. As a gay father figure, of course.’ He topped up Patrick’s glass as Veronique appeared with a selection of hors d’œuvre. ‘The choice of wine, I leave up to you.’

Patrick raised his glass in salute, recognizing this as a compliment.

Later, the carafe empty and the appetizers eaten, Chevalier indicated that he had an evening engagement. He wished Patrick good luck, then roared off on his motorbike, much to the amazement of some nearby tourists.

Once his friend had departed, Patrick rang the Hibiscus number.

The voice that answered was undoubtedly that of Brigitte Lacroix. Patrick revealed his identity and asked if Marie Elise was free for that evening.

‘For what?’ Brigitte demanded.

‘Dinner aboard
Les Trois Soeurs.
’

There was a short silence, followed by a chuckle.

‘You wish Marie Elise to go slumming?’

‘I have an unique mahogany sunken bath,’ Patrick countered.

‘We all know about your bath, Monsieur de Courvoisier.’

Patrick wondered how, but decided not to ask.

‘I will check with Marie Elise,’ Brigitte said. ‘If she wishes to take up your offer, she will call you back.’ The phone went down.

The return call came five minutes later. Marie Elise sounded charming and not a little amused by the proposition. When she asked for a time, Patrick suggested eight o’clock. There was no mention of a fee. Much like the designer shops on the Rue d’Antibes, if you had to ask, then you couldn’t afford to buy.

Patrick settled the bill with Veronique and went to order his seafood selection and select his wine, before seeking out the director of
The Black Pearl.

A variety of festivals used the large auditorium of the Palais des Festivals, but none so famous, nor so frantic, as the film festival. Negotiating the Croisette during these ten days, especially if you were swimming against the tide, required a great deal of time and effort.

Patrick decided to avoid the throng hanging about the red carpet area and instead wound his way eastwards through the back streets, only cutting down near the Hôtel Majestic Barriere. Set back from the Croisette and fronted by a wide drive and terraced garden bar, its grand entrance was being policed by two security guards. To gain entry you had to provide evidence of being a bona fide festival delegate via a treasured pass, or be a recognizable film star.