The Case of the Black Pearl Page 8

  Patrick drank down the whisky and poured another, allowing himself to be consumed by the anger which had replaced his shock at discovering Marie Elise’s body. He relived the moment when, pushing open the door, he had seen her lovely face floating below the water, the eyes frozen open in horror.

  She had come to the gunboat, perhaps seeking his help, perhaps just to see him, and because of that she had died. Had he never contacted her, invited her on to the gunboat, questioned her, she would still be alive. Her connection with him had led to her death. Of that he was certain.

  Patrick drank the whisky down and poured another. He couldn’t bring Marie back, but he sure as hell could avenge her, by finding and executing the bastard who had taken her life. And to do that he needed to be calm, ice cold and calculating. A version of himself he knew only too well.

  Patrick began to contemplate how best to achieve this.

  Marie Elise had been discovered on his boat, which would render him a suspect. If he could prove that he had been elsewhere tonight, would that allow him to stay out of custody and carry out his own search for her killer?

  The alternative was to mount his search with Moreaux on his tail.

  The third whisky brought thoughts thick and fast.

  Pascal could be relied on to vouch for his stay here. But why would he be staying at the Chanteclair instead of on the boat? And what of the missing Oscar?

  An image of the determined little bulldog flashed up. Moreaux would want to know Oscar’s whereabouts, and Patrick had no idea what had happened to his canine companion. Oscar would never have deserted Marie Elise willingly, particularly if he thought she was in danger, which left him with the terrible thought that Oscar too was dead.

  He considered calling Chevalier, then decided against it. He would have to make up his own mind how he planned to play this, before getting Chevalier involved. He eventually dozed off and was awakened after a short and fitful sleep by an early morning sun streaming in through the half-open shutters. That and the smell of coffee.

  Weather permitting, Pascal always served breakfast out in the courtyard. All the tables were occupied by delegates, badges round their necks, downing coffee and croissants, already answering phone calls. Patrick headed downstairs, and into the kitchen, where he found Pascal preparing the next breakfast tray.

  Without looking up, Pascal said, ‘What time did you get in?’

  Patrick did a quick calculation. Marie Elise had left the restaurant by the time he’d emerged from Los Faroles at eleven. He’d spoken to Sylvie around midnight and hinted that she might like to come by the boat when she finished work at one. She would no doubt tell Moreaux that if he asked. And why would he invite her to the boat if he intended to sleep at the Chanteclair?

  ‘Just after twelve,’ Patrick said. ‘We had a drink together, and I decided to crash out here.’

  Pascal eyed him. ‘The marketeers say the police found a dead body on your boat.’

  News travelled fast, especially since the nearby Marché Forville would have been setting up from five o’clock, spreading the word.

  Patrick feigned shock. ‘What?’

  ‘Word is it’s a woman.’

  ‘My God. So that’s why the police were there.’

  Pascal studied him intently. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Call Inspector Moreaux, of course.’

  Pascal seemed satisfied with his response. ‘I’d do that right away.’ He lifted the tray he’d prepared and headed outside with it.

  Patrick took a deep breath, poured himself a coffee and carried it into the courtyard.

  Pascal had enclosed the tables with a ring of shrubs, leaving one outside for those who wished a little privacy. Patrick left the hum of other guests and took up residence there.

  Moreaux answered almost immediately. ‘Courvoisier. I’ve been trying to reach you.’

  ‘My apologies. I’ve just woken up.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘The Chanteclair. I slept here last night.’

  ‘You have heard?’

  ‘Pascal just told me.’ Patrick feigned deep shock. ‘Shall I come down?’

  ‘Please do,’ the lieutenant said crisply.

  Patrick rang off and finished his coffee, finalizing his story as he did so, reminding himself that a good lie should be as near the truth as possible.

  The Marché Forville was buzzing. The locals took their food buying seriously; the tourists saw it as a unique French pastime that should be savoured. Film festival delegates passed it by, too intent on their mobile phone conversations and their first meeting of the day.

  Patrick had a sudden and vivid memory of seeing Marie there laughing and chatting with a stall holder. He’d wondered back then who the stunning woman was and whether he might ever get to meet her.

  He dispensed with that troubling image and tried to focus on the present.

  The first hole in his alibi could well be Sylvie’s version of last night’s events.

  The Crystal Bar was open, but there was no sign of Sylvie. Obviously those who did the late shift didn’t have to turn out to work first thing.

  The Quai Saint Pierre, always a popular strolling area, had been made even busier by the presence of a police incident van and the taped-off area round Les Trois Soeurs. Patrick gave a low whistle on approach, hoping that Oscar’s tan head would bob into view. When it didn’t, he decided to go with the story he had settled on.

  His decision to co-operate with Moreaux had been a necessity. Hiding from the intrepid lieutenant in Cannes hadn’t been an option. And he definitely wasn’t leaving before he cleared this up. Besides, how the lieutenant conducted the imminent interview might prove both informative and interesting. Patrick hadn’t forgotten Moreaux’s initial denial of any missing starlet, then his rather surprising appearance on board the Heavenly Princess as Vasily Chapayev’s guest.

  Moreaux was waiting for him in the café next to the yachting agents, drinking a double espresso. Patrick indicated to the waiter he would have the same and took a seat on the other side of the small table. In the bright light of a May morning, Moreaux looked immaculate, but tired. The few hours’ sleep Patrick had enjoyed had not, it appeared, been experienced by Moreaux.

  The lieutenant waited until Patrick tasted his coffee before saying, ‘Tell me what you know.’

  ‘Just that the body of a woman has been found on my boat.’

  Moreaux’s eyes glinted like steel. ‘That is all?’

  Patrick nodded.

  ‘The victim’s name is Marie Clermand. I believe you knew her as Marie Elise? An associate of Brigitte Lacroix?’

  Patrick’s horror was real enough as he relived the scene in the bathroom the previous night. The weight of Marie’s body when he’d lifted her free of the water. The touch of her cold lips on his.

  ‘But I saw her last night in a restaurant on the Rue Saint Antoine having dinner with a Swedish man.’

  ‘When was this?’ Moreaux said.

  ‘About eleven. I was at Los Faroles with Fritz. They were sitting at an outside table at Le Provençal.’

  Moreaux asked for a description of the man, which Patrick supplied.

  ‘Did you see her leave?’

  Patrick hadn’t, and said so.

  ‘Where did you go after that?’

  ‘The Crystal Bar, then the Chanteclair.’ Patrick mentioned times.

  ‘Was Oscar with you?’

  ‘I collected him after the Crystal. We headed along the Esplanade, then up round by Rue Forville where he deserted me. There’s a bitch in season …’ Patrick didn’t need to spell it out. ‘I called in to see Pascal, we had a drink and I crashed out there.’

  ‘You did not board the boat?’

  ‘Not after I visited the Heavenly Princess.’ That part of his evening Moreaux could vouch for.

  ‘Ah, le garçon Cannois.’

  Moreaux waited for Patrick’s explanation, which he had ready.

  ‘I was employed by Camille A
ger to locate the whereabouts of her half-sister Angele, last seen at the launch party of The Black Pearl, a movie she starred in. I decided to take a look on board.’

  ‘And did you find her?’ Moreaux’s black eyes glittered.

  ‘I have since discovered that Angele is in Paris.’

  ‘Really. You spoke to her?’

  ‘She contacted her sister.’ Patrick had no idea how much of this Moreaux already knew.

  The lieutenant relinquished that line of enquiry and took a sip of his coffee. ‘You were acquainted with Marie Elise?’

  ‘We had dinner together the night before last on Les Trois Soeurs.’ Patrick contemplated a lie, but suspected Moreaux already knew the reason. ‘She was at the launch party. I wanted to ask her about Angele.’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘That they talked in the toilets about men and make-up.’

  ‘That was all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Moreaux pushed his cup away. ‘I will require a full statement as to your movements. And a description of the man you saw Marie with.’

  ‘Surely Brigitte will have his details?’ Patrick said.

  ‘Marie told Madame Lacroix she was meeting you last night.’

  Patrick looked as perplexed as he felt. ‘We hadn’t made any such arrangement.’

  ‘Then why would she say it?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  Moreaux brought Patrick back from his troubled thoughts with a start. ‘You haven’t asked how she died.’

  ‘I assumed you weren’t at liberty to say.’

  ‘I sometimes forget how aware you are of the way we work.’ Moreaux gave a little smile as though to confirm this. ‘One thing puzzles me.’

  Patrick waited, thinking how fortunate Moreaux was, if only one thing was puzzling him. ‘You say you collected the dog from the boat just after twelve.’

  Patrick nodded.

  ‘Did Oscar give you any reason to believe something was wrong?’

  Patrick remembered the dog’s mad scramble to get on board when he’d caught the scent of the gutted rabbit. How would Oscar have reacted to a dead human being? And his favourite Marie Elise at that?’

  ‘He was no more excitable than usual,’ Patrick said. ‘May I ask how you discovered the body?’

  ‘An anonymous phone call.’ Moreaux rose. ‘We will expect you at the station.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll call in later today.’

  Patrick watched the lieutenant cross the road and approach Les Trois Soeurs, where a team of suited forensic officers were at work. He recalled Moreaux’s demeanour on board the Heavenly Princess, his friendly attitude towards the Russian. Moreaux was a master at manipulation. He may have been there as a confidant of the Russian, or as a police officer. There was no way of knowing. And throughout his conversation with Patrick, there had been no mention of the black pearl.

  Patrick took out his mobile and made a call to the number written on Leon’s calendar. It rang for a few moments before a woman’s voice answered, giving the name of a yacht catering business in the Rue Félix Faure.

  ‘I’m trying to locate the whereabouts of Leon Aubert,’ Patrick said.

  ‘Monsieur Aubert no longer works for us,’ she said sharply before putting the phone down.

  Patrick then tried Camille’s number, but it rang out unanswered, before switching to voicemail. He left a message asking her to call him, saying it was urgent.

  His next move must be to find Oscar. Oscar would have allowed Marie Elise to board Les Trois Soeurs, Patrick was certain of that. But what about her killer?

  His brain constructed a possible scenario.

  Marie Elise arriving, perhaps to tell him something she’d found out about Angele’s disappearance. Oscar happy to see her. As she waited, someone else arrived. If Marie Elise had known and welcomed her assailant, Oscar would have allowed him on board. Alternatively the assailant could have boarded undetected, perhaps the way he himself had escaped.

  And how did her dinner companion figure in all of this?

  Somehow Patrick couldn’t see Marie Elise taking a bath while awaiting his arrival. Their relationship hadn’t got anywhere near that stage. So whoever killed her must have stripped her naked and put her in the bath to implicate him in her death. But where was Oscar when all this had happened?

  Patrick paid for his coffee and headed back to the Chanteclair.

  The delegates had all departed to deal movies for the day, leaving Pascal and his partner, Preben, to breakfast in the courtyard by themselves. Patrick joined them.

  ‘Well?’ Preben asked, worried. ‘Who was it?’

  Patrick saw no reason not to tell them. ‘Marie Elise.’

  ‘Brigitte’s Marie Elise?’ Pascal’s eyes opened wide and he put his hand to his mouth in shock. ‘Poor Marie. Who would do such a thing?’ Pascal’s eyes glistened with tears as Preben put a hand on his arm to comfort him.

  ‘I have no idea, but I intend finding out.’ The steely coldness of Patrick’s reply appeared to worry Pascal even further. Sensing this, Patrick changed tack. ‘I need you to find Oscar for me.’ He watched as Pascal’s fear transferred to the dog. ‘I left him on board when I went out,’ Patrick explained. ‘I haven’t seen him since.’

  ‘Oh my God. He was there when …’ Pascal contemplated what may have happened to the dog. ‘Le pauvre petit chien.’

  Oscar’s fan club wasn’t just restricted to Moreaux and Marie Elise. If Patrick put the word out that the dog was missing, a search party would be formed. Pascal said as much.

  ‘Leave Oscar to us,’ he announced. ‘You find who did this to Marie.’

  Departing the quiet of the courtyard, Patrick headed for Le P’tit Zinc. Being almost lunchtime, he was hopeful that Chevalier would be having his aperitif. He hadn’t heard from his friend all morning, although, judging by the excitement caused by the police presence on the quai, he couldn’t conceive of Chevalier being ignorant of what had happened aboard Les Trois Soeurs. Having suggested Patrick involve Marie Elise in his search for Angele, Chevalier would have taken the news of her death personally.

  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.