The Case of the Missing Madonna Page 4

Benedict indicated Patrick should negotiate the metal chain that barred his entrance and join him. Swarthy, his skin burnt dark by salt and sun, at close quarters Benedict was an imposing figure. Patrick had already come to the conclusion that, like many Cannes inhabitants, he had North African ancestry. Although in Benedict’s case, the rather large ornate crucifix round his neck indicated he wasn’t Muslim.

  When he spoke, the voice was guttural, the language well sprinkled with local dialect. Patrick suspected his own ability with the local language was being tested, so answered appropriately, adding a sprinkling of swear words. At this, Benedict emitted a hearty laugh and nodded.

  ‘Brother Robert is right. Le Limier is one of us.’

  Patrick found himself rather pleased by the comment, even if it had been said to flatter him and probably to encourage him to take up the job on offer.

  ‘Brother Robert says you’re to stay with us for a few days.’

  Benedict sounded so certain that Patrick wondered if word had come down from on high while he was eating lunch and supposedly making up his mind. Either that, or divine intervention had assured he would say yes.

  Patrick had his cover story ready.

  ‘The island has a fascinating history. I’d like to study it at closer quarters.’

  ‘A worthy project,’ Benedict suppressed a smile. ‘But plenty of time too, I hope, to take an interest in the present-day activities of its inhabitants?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘On your return, Monsieur, I suggest we share a glass of wine.’

  An offer Patrick was pleased to accept.

  Deposited back on the quai, he headed for the Irish bar. Stephen’s boat was back in its mooring, the wetsuits hung out to dry. So the most likely place to find him would be inside, having a pint of Guinness.

  Stephen was indeed sitting in his usual corner in the dark shadows of the interior, whereas the barrel-style tables, with high chairs, outside were occupied by smokers and by visitors who didn’t come to Cannes to desert the sun.

  ‘Welcome back. How was the Queen?’

  It seemed telling Pascal where he was going had meant telling the world, or at least the world of Le Suquet.

  ‘I didn’t really see her.’

  ‘It’s a poor party where you don’t get to meet your host.’

  ‘I agree. Fancy another pint?’ Patrick diverted the conversation.

  ‘Sure thing.’

  Minutes later, settled at the table with a half-pint of Guinness for himself, Patrick queried Stephen as to what had happened in his absence.

  ‘Daniel wants to speak to you about your car.’ Stephen paused. ‘So why were you on Honorat?’ When Patrick raised an eyebrow, Stephen said, ‘Benedict is a distant cousin of François, who supplies fish for the monastery.’

  François Girard, a local fisherman known as Posidonie, had been of help to Patrick in his last case, secretly transporting him to a Russian yacht anchored in the bay. Posidonie had also performed another vital job during that investigation which would forever remain a secret between them.

  ‘Word gets round fast,’ Patrick said.

  ‘This is Cannes,’ Stephen reminded him. ‘So, anything I can do to help?’

  Patrick considered the offer. ‘Report back any gossip about what goes on on St Honorat.’

  Stephen’s eyes lit up. ‘With pleasure. I have an acquaintance working there.’

  ‘May I ask who?’

  ‘Monique Girard is now second chef at La Tonnelle,’ Stephen said with a broad smile.

  Monique was François’ daughter. Patrick had first met her on the Russian yacht when she’d been called in to replace an absent chef for a big dinner party. Now this was good news. Patrick regarded Stephen’s smug look.

  ‘You two are an item?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since after the black pearl.’

  So the outcome of that job had proved satisfactory to more people than just Patrick.

  ‘Good luck with that.’ Patrick refrained from adding ‘You might need it!’, although that was true. François was a man of few words, but his daughter was the opposite. Small, dark-haired and very attractive, she was every inch a Suquetan. Had she been alive during the war, Patrick imagined she would have been heading a resistance cell and blowing up railway lines.

  Having given Stephen a job, Patrick took leave of him. It was nearing four o’clock and he was keen to see Oscar again. He entered Le Suquet via the archway of flowers, the scent of lavender as strong here as it had been in the buzzing midday heat on St Honorat. All around him were sounds of chatter and clinking glasses. Lunchtime over, late afternoon presented residents and visitors with an opportunity to sit and watch the world go by while enjoying a glass of wine or a coffee.

  As Patrick passed Le P’tit Zinc, Veronique, its proprietress, deigned to give him a nod – although not a smile, as smiles were not in her nature. It was too early to find his friend Chevalier at his usual table, but he noted that Veronique had placed a reserved sign there in anticipation of Chevalier’s arrival.

  He turned into the narrow Rue de la Miséricorde and within minutes was at the door on Rue Forville that gave entry to a set of flats and the courtyard of Le Chanteclair. Being a part-time resident of the hotel, Patrick had his own key and duly used it. He was barely through the intervening short passage before he heard a joyful grunt, which served Oscar as a bark, and skittering paws quickly deposited Oscar’s sturdy muscular body at his feet.

  Patrick greeted the little dog with pleasure. In response, the snuffling noise Oscar emitted through his flat nose became even louder. Having welcomed him in style, the dog led him like royalty into the courtyard.

  Pale-pink roses in full bloom climbed the right-hand side of the handsome frontage of the old building, their fragrance captured and held within the walls of the courtyard. To either side of the entrance stood Pascal’s prize lemon trees, on which a few lemons still hung, ready to be plucked and sliced to add to a gin and tonic if required.

  Patrick stood for a moment, drinking in the scene. Cannes might be noisy and busy outside these walls, but here in the courtyard all was calm. Just like the cloisters of the abbey on St Honorat.

  Pascal, having heard his arrival, appeared from reception. He gave Patrick the once over, as if meeting the Queen of England might have changed his appearance in some way, then seemed satisfied that it had not.

  ‘I’ve just brewed some coffee. Would you like a cup?’

  ‘I would.’

  Pascal waved him to a seat at one of the four tables where he served breakfast, and guests might eat their evening meal. Patrick settled himself below the shuttered window of his room, which was on the second floor.

  The cafetière arrived, emitting the strong, aromatic scent of fresh coffee. Pascal poured them each a cup and sat down.

  ‘I’m waiting on two more guests then we’re full,’ he said.

  ‘You know you can use my room if you need it,’ Patrick told him.

  ‘I prefer to keep it empty in case you turn up unexpectedly,’ Pascal said, his look reminding Patrick that such a thing had happened before now, and recently. ‘So how did it go with Brother Robert?’

  ‘Fine,’ Patrick replied, without being more explicit.

  Pascal wasn’t going to be put off that easily. ‘And what is the job he has lined up for Le Limier?’

  Patrick decided the best thing to do was to give enough information to keep Pascal happy.

  ‘There’s been a theft. He wants me to find what’s missing, but not involve the police.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Pascal considered this. ‘He thinks it was one of the brothers?’

  ‘He doesn’t know.’

  ‘And how do you aim to find this missing item?’

  ‘He’s asked me to stay at the monastery for a few days and see what I can discover.’

  ‘And Oscar?’

  ‘He’s also invited.’

  ‘Is that wise?’ Pascal
said. ‘You can hardly creep about the island listening in to monks’ conversations with Oscar in tow.’

  It was a valid point, yet the dog’s presence might also allay suspicion about his reason for being there.

  ‘I think Oscar might be an asset,’ Patrick said. ‘And Brother Robert made a point of inviting him.’

  Pascal looked a little crestfallen.

  ‘Thank you for looking after him,’ Patrick said to ease the pain. ‘I appreciate it.’

  Pascal nodded, apparently resigned to the loss of ‘his’ dog again. ‘And what is to be your cover story for the visit?’

  ‘I’m researching the history of the monastery.’

  Pascal rose. ‘I can help you with that. I read a great deal about Cannes and the Lérins islands when I came here from Nice.’

  He disappeared into the hotel to emerge minutes later with a couple of books.

  ‘You may borrow these if you wish. They’ll provide you with enough to sound knowledgeable.’

  Patrick thanked him again, finished his coffee, and made to go. Oscar, sensing their departure, hastened towards the exit without a backward glance at his foster parent. Patrick made a swift farewell, hoping Pascal wasn’t too hurt by such a quick transfer of affections.

  He wandered back towards the harbour and was pleased to note that Chevalier was now settled at his favourite table outside Le P’tit Zinc. Chevalier – or Le Chevalier as he was affectionately known in Le Suquet – was smartly dressed as always, in a lightweight jacket, brightly coloured shirt, cravat and matching top-pocket handkerchief. Owner of the premier estate agents nearby and the magnificent glossy black Yamaha TMAX parked in Rue de la Miséricorde, Chevalier provided more than just local colour.

  ‘Ah, de Courvoisier, you’re back from your royal appointment, I see. How was Her Majesty?’

  Patrick wondered how many more times he would be asked this question and wished he hadn’t been honest when asked why he was visiting London.

  ‘She sends her regards to the King of Le Suquet,’ he replied, which brought a wide smile to the lips below the sleek black moustache. Then Chevalier dropped his voice to a more serious tone.

  ‘And the real reason you were there … I trust that matter has been dealt with satisfactorily?’

  Chevalier knew enough about him to guess that Patrick’s summons to London had been more than just an invitation to a garden party, however important the host might be. Chevalier had played a prominent role during the case of the black pearl and would guard his back whenever necessary.

  Patrick hadn’t wanted the job London had tried to foist on him, but he couldn’t prevent Huntington from turning up in Cannes asking questions. And the less time Huntington spent doing that, the quicker he could return.

  ‘What do you know of the Windsors’ connection with Cannes?’ Patrick said.

  ‘I know that the Duke of Windsor once sat here eating sea urchins in aioli while his security people scoured the hotels on La Croisette looking for him. According to local legend, when discovered he informed them that Cannes was like a beautiful woman – charming but full of secrets.’

  Veronique’s appearance prevented Patrick from responding to this tale. Without enquiring what he would like to order, she delivered a half-carafe of red, a glass and a bowl of crisps. Unruffled by this, Chevalier thanked her, poured a glass for Patrick and topped up his own, and then dropped a few crisps to a waiting and eager Oscar.

  ‘I take it you’re expecting visitors,’ Chevalier said, after sampling his wine and dabbing his moustache dry with his handkerchief.

  ‘I plan to be on St Honorat when they arrive.’

  ‘And what do they seek in Cannes?’

  ‘There’s likely to be a woman and a man. The woman is an Italian art expert, Grazia Lucca by name. The man is known as Giles Huntington.’ Patrick heard his tone change on the second name and couldn’t prevent it.

  ‘And they’re interested in art?’

  ‘Stolen art.’

  ‘The Nazi collection?’

  Patrick nodded.

  ‘Then they’re on a fool’s errand.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘So you want them to leave swiftly?’

  ‘That would be good.’

  Chevalier’s piercing black eyes stared into his. ‘And you will be permitted to remain here?’

  Patrick couldn’t answer that question, but there was one thing he was certain of. Had he taken the job, he wouldn’t have been permitted to resume his life here afterwards, despite what Charles had said. His only hope of staying was to appear useless in their eyes. An operative who could no longer operate.

  Then they might leave him alone.

  The alternative was to give up his home and life in Cannes and go to ground. It was an option he’d considered before coming here. Then he’d seen the gunboat, and realized he might settle here and live on her.

  And so he’d stayed, promising himself to keep his head down. Provide a service for the locals. Hence he’d become Le Limier, the fixer, until the case of the black pearl had brought him back into the limelight, both with the Police Nationale and his previous masters.

  ‘If I’d stayed off the radar, this wouldn’t have happened,’ Patrick said bitterly.

  ‘You had no choice.’ Chevalier’s voice brought Patrick back from his dark thoughts. ‘Because of Marie Élise.’

  As Chevalier said her name, Marie’s image presented itself to Patrick. At first alive, her bright laughing eyes fastened on him across the table as they ate together on Les Trois Soeurs, then naked and dead in his bath.

  ‘Her death wasn’t your fault,’ Chevalier said.

  ‘No. But perhaps I could have prevented it.’

  ‘As could I.’

  They acknowledged their shared guilt for a moment.

  Chevalier changed the subject. ‘When do you go to St Honorat?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘We’ll keep in touch. Now I have to leave. I have a dinner date.’ Chevalier rose, placed some money on the tray, and rewarded a patiently waiting Oscar with the remainder of the crisps.

  Patrick watched as Chevalier deftly mounted his motorbike, roared off down the cobbled street, and took a swift left, heading for the Voie Rapide.

  FIVE

  On his way back to the gunboat, Patrick picked up a fruits de mer platter and a chilled bottle of dry white wine. He had no wish to eat out tonight, but wanted to sit on the upper deck under the awning, with Oscar at his feet. To relish his return, until he had to leave again.

  The platter too was symbolic, it was in memory of Marie Élise. They’d shared one below deck the night she’d answered his call for help in finding a missing starlet. He had known that, as one of Madame Lacroix’s girls, Marie Élise would be both intelligent and beautiful. What Patrick hadn’t expected was to fall in love with her a little. Nor to lose her so soon.

  Patrick lowered the gangplank and Oscar ran on board, sniffing and snuffling as he re-established his presence. Patrick climbed to the upper deck and laid his platter on the table, then fetched a glass and a bottle opener from the cabin.

  Once he was seated, Oscar sprawled across his feet as if to prevent his escape, Patrick opened the wine, tasted it, then set about the langoustines. Evening had settled on the quai, the glare and heat of the sun dissipated, a breeze lightly shaking the palm fronds. Groups of people walked past in their evening finery seeking the perfect place to dine.

  For Patrick, this was perfect enough.

  By the time he’d finished his meal, it was dark enough to require a light if he was to peruse the books Pascal had given him in preparation for tomorrow. He lit a small lamp and, having refilled his glass, settled down to read.

  St Honorat, like St Columba, had been of noble birth and each founded a centre of Christianity, the one in the far south and the other in the far north of Europe. Whereas Columba had chosen the cooler northern isle of Iona, off the west coast of Scotland, Honorat had chosen a warmer clime, although it seem
ed his selected spot had been swarming with serpents, which crawled through the Roman ruins littering the island.

  St Honorat had disposed of the snakes, just as St Patrick had done in Ireland. Since St Patrick had, apparently, been educated at the monastery on Honorat, perhaps he’d learned his ‘banishing’ skills there.

  The monastery had grown rich and very powerful, at one time owning most of the coastal land between Grasse and Barcelona and becoming home to 4,000 monks, which seemed surprising considering its land mass. Patrick imagined it as an island city back then, rather than the tranquil and verdant place it was now.

  Such riches had been a great temptation and resulted in attacks by pirates and incessant arguments with the Pope. By the end of the seventeenth century, the monastery had fallen into decline. Disestablished in 1787, during the French Revolution it had become the property of the state and had been sold to Mademoiselle de Sainval, the wealthy actress who Brother Robert had told him was the mistress of Fragonard. She’d lived there for twenty years. Certainly long enough to have her portrait painted. Eventually, the Cistercians bought the island in 1959 and rejuvenated it through hard work and prayer, perhaps bringing it back to what Honorat had envisaged in the first place.

  As Patrick laid down the book, Oscar stirred at his feet, anticipating their late-night stroll prior to bed. The quai had quietened now to the steady hum of conversation from the diners at the outdoor tables. All had now been fed, but a few still lingered enjoying the night air.

  Patrick indicated with a low whistle that Oscar was to get his wish. The little dog sped down the gangplank, and once on the quai turned towards the beach with Patrick following. Of the line of yachts moored beyond Les Trois Soeurs, some were familiar and some new. Patrick registered each of them, always keen to know who his current neighbours were. By the time he reached the avenue of palm trees that skirted the shore, the steady beat of the sea had taken over from the quayside chatter. Patrick stood for a moment at the slipway leading to the beach and listened to the sea’s comforting rhythm. Tonight there were no energetic waves pounding the pale sand, but merely a steady lapping, almost a caress.

  Eastwards, the dark landmass jutting out into a silky grey sea was like an outstretched arm. Lights twinkled along its shore, but in the high reaches of the Esterel mountains the only light came from the stars and the half-moon that hung above.