The Case of the Black Pearl Read online

  ‘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.’

  THREE

  The 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.

  Patrick was neither.

  However, he did know one of the guards on duty, who had once hired him to sort out a personal problem. Bruno had a long memory and a generous heart. Not only did he wave Patrick through, he handed him a journalist’s badge to avoid any problems once inside.

  The large reception area of the Majestic was thronging with movie people and journalists, on mobiles or standing talking in noisy groups. As he threaded his way through, a door opened on a large press conference and Patrick caught a glimpse of a platform of movie stars and their director taking questions amid the popping flashbulbs.

  He located a lift and, stepping into the sudden and welcome silence, pressed the third-floor button.

  When Camille had supplied him with Sergio Gramesci’s contact details, she’d indicated that as far as she was aware, Angele hadn’t revealed to her film colleagues that she had a sister. Nor would Angele like the idea of her interfering.

  ‘I just want to make sure she’s all right,’ Camille had said quietly.

  With that instruction in mind, Patrick had put a call through to Gramesci. The director had been distinctly unhelpful on the phone, until Patrick mentioned the possibility of financing his next movie, whereupon Sergio had swiftly changed his tune.

  Patrick stood outside room 301 for a moment, listening. Despite the solid door, he could hear sounds of an argument: a woman’s high-pitched voice and the more guttural sound of a man. Patrick waited until they paused for breath, then knocked. A few seconds later the door was opened.

  Sergio Gramesci was tall, sleek and handsome. Whatever anger had been present behind the closed door had disappeared from his perfectly tanned face. Patrick offered his hand and introduced himself in Italian as Gerard Dubois, a French investment banker.

  ‘I should warn you I have very little time,’ Gramesci apologized. He raised his hands in mock horror. ‘Cannes at the festival.’ He stood aside indicating that Patrick should enter.

  The woman whose voice he’d heard stood beside a table on which sat an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. She was dark-haired and dark-eyed, and she was angry, but covering it less well than Gramesci.

  Patrick met her frosty look and held out his hand, which she grudgingly took.

  ‘Madame?’ he enquired.

  ‘Celeste Colbert.’

  At his ‘enchanté’ her expression softened, but only a little. Patrick realized that worry as much as anger lurked in those eyes.

  He turned his attention to Gramesci. ‘As I indicated on the phone, I’m interested in financing your next film.’ He paused. ‘On the understanding that it would again star Angele Valette.’

  The woman concentrated on a champagne glass, her expression studiously blank.

  Gramesci, on the other hand, eyed him with interest.

  ‘You have seen The Black Pearl?’

  ‘No, but I have heard very good reports from reliable sources in the industry, which is why I’m here.’

  The smile that curved Gramesci’s lips showed he wasn’t immune to flattery. Behind him the woman had adopted a scowl, which grew deeper. Patrick got the impression she had moved from studied indifference to biting her tongue.

  ‘I’d like to discuss this opportunity with your leading lady,’ Patrick said.

  A cloud swept over Gramesci, killing his sunshine smile.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, but Angele is unavailable at the moment.’

  Patrick feigned disappointment. ‘When will she be available?’

  ‘She’s a very busy lady,’ Gramesci said.

  ‘I have to be in the Cayman Islands three days from now,’ Patrick interrupted his excuse. ‘I’m keen to place the funds before that.’

  A mixture of avarice and worry crossed Gramesci’s features. The woman attempted to catch his eye, but was ignored.

  ‘I’ll discuss it with Angele and see what we can arrange,’ he said smoothly.

  As he was obviously buying time, Patrick decided to put him on the spot. ‘What about this evening?’

  Gramesci came back quickly with his lie. ‘She’s out doing a photo shoot in the mountains. I’m not sure when she’ll return,’ he apologized.

  ‘So it isn’t true that she hasn’t been seen since the launch party?’

  Gramesci’s look of amazement was impressive. ‘Who told you that?’

  Patrick chose not to answer the question. Instead he said, ‘When I get to meet Mademoiselle Angele, we’ll talk further.’ He handed Gramesci a card. ‘You can reach me on that number. Night or day.’

  They shook hands at the door. When it shut behind him, Patrick waited, listening for the reaction to his visit. The argument had started again, the woman’s voice being the most insistent. It was being conducted in Italian, but the only words he could clearly make out were ‘stupid bitch’, which he took to refer to the missing Angele.

  FOUR

  Departing room 301, Patrick headed for the bar. Situated between the white marble foyer and the main restaurant, the room was reminiscent of the Belle Époque in its opulence and view of the outside terrace.

  He settled himself in a chair and, when the waiter arrived, ordered a vodka martini. The place was bustling, populated by those who wished to conquer the world of movies. The French and American contingent were clearly distinguishable, mainly for their style or lack of it. Young men, carrying the bags issued with the delegate pass, had their ears perpetually glued to mobiles or their gazes fixed on interactive tablet screens.

  He eventually spotted the guy he’d seen manning the small office for Black Pearl Productions close to Gramesci’s room on the third floor. The sign on the desk had said ‘Producer’. The money man, according to Camille. Tall, pudgy, wearing long shorts and a T-shirt with the words ‘The Black Pearl – A Movie to Die For’ emblazoned across the front, he entered the bar, took a swift look round, then went out on to the terrace.

  Patrick picked up his glass and followed, waiting by the open double doors until the object of his attention had settled himself at an empty table, before striding over.

  ‘Excuse me, monsieur. My name is Gerard Dubois,’ he said in French this time. ‘I wonder if we might discuss a possible investment in Black Pearl Productions?’ When he was met by a blank stare, Patrick repeated his little speech in English.

  ‘Hey, sorry man. Je suis américain
. That’s about all I can say in French.’ His proffered hand was hot and clammy. ‘Richard Polinsky, producer of The Black Pearl,’ he said proudly. The accent was Californian, which showed how movie money crossed all frontiers, even Russian–American ones.

  Polinsky waved Patrick to a seat just as the waiter arrived. He eyed the martini glass. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘You know what they say: “One martini is fine, two is too many and three is not enough”.’

  Polinsky gave a small laugh and ordered himself an American beer. When the waiter departed, Patrick got down to business.

  ‘I would very much like to meet your leading lady, Angele Valette. She really made The Black Pearl a sellable commodity.’

  The delight dropped from Polinsky’s face.

  ‘She’s still in Cannes, I hope?’ Patrick said anxiously.

  Polinsky gave a sorrowful smile. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Really? I understood she was staying on the black yacht in the west bay.’

  Polinsky hesitated a fraction too long. ‘She had an audition to attend – in Paris,’ he added imaginatively.

  ‘You mean she won’t be starring in your next movie?’ Patrick looked suitably shocked.

  Polinsky, quickly realizing his mistake, tried to back pedal. ‘Oh, we’ve already signed her up for that. Her and Conor. This is just an in-between she might do, while we’re raising the money.’ He looked expectantly at Patrick.

  ‘I very much wanted to meet with Mademoiselle Valette before I commit myself.’

  ‘I don’t blame you.’ Polinsky raised an eyebrow. ‘She’s a popular lady. Maybe she could get in touch when she gets back?’

  ‘And when will that be?’

  ‘In the next day or two.’

  Patrick considered this for a moment before asking, ‘Who was your main backer on The Black Pearl?’

  The pudgy face screwed up. ‘That’s kinda private.’

  ‘I understand the yacht where you held the after-show party belongs to Vasily Chapayev, a Russian entrepreneur.’

  Polinsky gave a secretive little smile. ‘Hey, you’ve got me there.’