The Case of the Missing Madonna Read online

  ‘I think not,’ Patrick said.

  ‘And we cannot have foreigners breaking the laws of France. Do you not agree Courvoisier?’ Moreaux didn’t wait to check if Patrick had got the message, but strode off towards his car. In moments, it was roaring off along the quay.

  Moreaux will let this go because he wants the men who fired Daniel’s garage.

  An attack on Le Suquet was an attack on Moreaux himself. About that they agreed, absolutely.

  Suddenly weary, Patrick longed for Les Trois Soeurs and his bed. He went inside, told Hercule he had done well, and gave him a portion of the money from the bag.

  ‘Remember to wear the blue suit when you spend this at the casino.’

  ‘And tomorrow at the police station?’ Hercule said.

  ‘Tell them exactly what you told them tonight. No changes,’ Patrick warned him.

  ‘And you, mon ami?’

  ‘I will give my statement first thing, then head back to Honorat.’

  They embraced.

  ‘We did a good thing, non?’ Hercule said

  ‘We did a good thing,’ Patrick agreed.

  Quai Saint-Pierre was deserted, its line of palm trees rustling in a light wind. Patrick could make out the sound of the waves beating the Plage du Midi like a heartbeat. He contemplated walking on past the gunboat and making for the beach.

  A steady swim would wash away tonight and ease his body, now stiffening a little from the brief fight. The draw of the sea was great, but that of a shower and bed even stronger. Patrick pulled down the gangplank and climbed aboard.

  In moments he was under a hot shower, relishing the prospect of a snack and a drink before bed. Having mixed himself a whisky and water, he set about beating four eggs for an omelette. Once it was ready, he tipped it on to a plate, cut a wedge of baguette and, carrying the food and whisky, climbed to the top deck to enjoy his supper en plein air.

  The few hours that Cannes slept was one of his favourite times to enjoy her. Soon the fishing boats would depart the Vieux Port and the small vans and trucks arrive from the hinterland with their fresh produce for the Marché Forville. Somewhere in between, the teams of street cleaners would arrive with their high-powered hoses. To those rising later, Cannes would appear freshly showered to start her day.

  Glancing towards the castle, Patrick found the night sky clear, the smoke gone. He would go up there in the morning, he decided, and see the full extent of the damage. Daniel, he knew, would be devastated by the destruction of both his home and his place of work. He suddenly thought he should have taken longer with the two men responsible for Daniel’s loss of livelihood before handing them over to the police. There were a number of ways he could have indicated just how angry he was at their treatment of his friend. Ways that would not have left any mark, but would have undoubtedly left a memory.

  But I don’t do that anymore.

  Patrick toasted that thought with the remainder of his whisky, before turning his mind to Grazia and their meeting in the Champagne Lounge at Eden Roc. He recalled her cool appraisal of the situation and the fact that she’d covered for him. Grazia would have been a good ally had he taken on the job London had offered him. But, Patrick reminded himself, he was only interested in what part, if any, the Hirondelle might have played in the disappearance of the Madonna. He had no wish to become embroiled in anything else.

  Locking up, he gave the whistle that normally brought Oscar in for the night, forgetting the dog wasn’t there to trot behind him. His final task was to check the London mobile again, in case Grazia had been in touch.

  It was barely half an hour since he’d last checked, but this time he found a voicemail. Cursing himself for not taking the mobile on deck with him, he listened to the message. Grazia, her voice wary, asked him to contact her as soon as possible. He duly rang back, only to be switched to her voicemail. He told her he would be in Cannes all morning, after which he was going back to St Honorat.

  As he lay in the dark, sleep evading him, his thoughts were with Grazia Lucca and why she’d wanted to speak to him so urgently.

  NINE

  Patrick stood beside Daniel in Rue Hibert and viewed what remained of his friend’s workshop. It appeared that the fire service had managed to save the flats above and alongside, although much work would be necessary before the occupants could reclaim their homes. The garage and its contents were a burnt-out shell.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Patrick said. ‘If I’d acted sooner …’

  Daniel cut him off. ‘If I had told you of the problem earlier, it wouldn’t have come to this. Fidella was so afraid of them, and of the police—’

  He halted. ‘The police don’t know about her?’

  Patrick reassured him. ‘As far as Moreaux is concerned, they fired your garage because you wouldn’t pay them protection money. Stick to that story.’

  Daniel nodded.

  ‘Where is Fidella?’ Patrick said.

  ‘Still in Le Dramont. Joanne has offered her work in the restaurant and us a place to stay until we can come back home.’

  Patrick nodded, pleased to hear that.

  He left Daniel to start the clear-up and went for some breakfast, hoping to meet Chevalier doing the same.

  The restaurants of Rue Antoine were shuttered, their street tables stored inside, making the steep cobbled street twice the width it normally was. Veering left near the foot of the street, he found Le P’tit Zinc open and serving, with Chevalier in his usual place a stone’s throw from his estate agency. He indicated that Patrick should join him.

  While they ate a petit déjeuner of croissants, coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice, Patrick brought Chevalier up to date on the previous night’s events.

  ‘I hear the two Moroccans involved have been threatening other businesses in Le Suquet,’ Chevalier said.

  ‘Really?’ Patrick said, perturbed.

  Chevalier smiled. ‘No, but I have a few people prepared to say they have.’

  ‘The problem may be if they’re allowed out on bail,’ Patrick said.

  Chevalier stroked his moustache as he pondered such a possibility. ‘I will have a word with my old friend, Lieutenant Moreaux. Tell him we were being terrorized by these men.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Now,’ Chevalier said, ‘what of other matters?’

  Patrick gave him a brief outline of what had happened on St Honorat.

  ‘The man you wished to avoid was at the abbey?’

  ‘Posing as a Mr Coburn, wine buyer to the royal household. Apparently the Queen of England is partial to their Syrah.’

  Chevalier nodded his approval. ‘Then she has good taste.’

  ‘Coburn was planning a trip to Château de la Croë.’ Patrick watched Chevalier’s surprise as he assimilated this piece of news.

  ‘How intriguing!’ Chevalier said.

  ‘Why do you think London would be interested in the château?’ Patrick said.

  ‘As you know, a former member of your royal family once made a home there. I hear it is up for sale again. Perhaps a member of the younger generation would like to return to the Côte d’Azur?’ Chevalier gave a wicked smile. ‘Then again, perhaps something was left behind during the war and they now wish to reclaim it.’ He paused and Patrick could almost hear the wheels turning in Chevalier’s wily brain.

  ‘This man who calls himself Coburn, you’re sure he wasn’t on St Honorat because of the missing Madonna?’

  By now Patrick shouldn’t have been surprised that it wasn’t only the monks who knew of the painting’s disappearance. Yet he was.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, Courvoisier. I don’t plan to tell anyone.’ Chevalier looked affronted. ‘Unless of course that person may help find it and return it to its rightful place.’

  ‘But how—’ Patrick began.

  Chevalier waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. ‘Madame Lacroix, as you know by the paintings on the walls of her apartment, is a fan of Fragonard’s work. She knows a great deal about
what he painted and when. She is also an authority on his mistress and her time on the island.’

  ‘Madame Lacroix knows too?’ Patrick said in disbelief.

  ‘Brother Thomas and she share a love of Fragonard’s work.’

  ‘They should have hired Madame Lacroix to find the missing Madonna,’ Patrick joked.

  Chevalier shrugged. ‘No, you are the better choice.’

  Patrick wasn’t sure that was a compliment.

  Since Chevalier was so up to date, Patrick told him about the Hirondelle, which then led to the story of meeting Grazia and Marco Fratelli at the Eden Roc.

  ‘Ah,’ Chevalier said, as though something had just become clear. ‘Find the Madonna and I think you may find what your London friends are looking for.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Talk to Madame Lacroix. Ask her the true story of the Madonna.’ He used a serviette to pat the coffee from his moustache. ‘I must go to work now.’

  When Chevalier departed, Patrick checked the London mobile again, to find no response to his message. Numerous calls to Grazia since he’d risen at dawn had sent him to voicemail. He’d therefore called the Eden Roc and asked to be put through to Miss Grazia Lucca, only to be told that no one of that name was resident. The name Coburn also drew a blank. By the time he’d switched to Giles Huntington, the receptionist was convinced he was a newspaper reporter chasing guests who didn’t wish to be found, and politely but firmly told him she couldn’t help him and not to call back.

  His attempts to find the whereabouts of the Hirondelle had also been unsuccessful. The yacht was no longer anchored off Cap d’Antibes. Neither was she in the harbour at Antibes or Cannes. By now she could of course be anywhere along the coast in either direction – although if Marco Fratelli planned to check out a location in the Esterel mountains, she might have gone west to anchor, perhaps even off Le Dramont.

  The next call was answered. Jean-Paul sounded upbeat, and delighted to keep a look out for the Hirondelle on his stretch of coast.

  ‘What of the bastards who fired the garage?’

  ‘I’m just off to give a statement.’ Patrick told Jean-Paul of Chevalier’s intention to further their cause.

  ‘And Fidella?’

  ‘She’s serving tables as we speak.’

  ‘Thank you for that.’

  ‘The busy season is about to begin. We would have been looking to hire staff anyway.’

  Patrick rang off. Having walked the length of the pedestrian Rue Meynadier, he turned right, climbing the short, steep incline to Place du 18 Juin. The gaunt building that housed the Police Nationale’s Commisariat Central stood on the opposite side of the dual carriageway, on the corner of Boulevard Sadi Carnott.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d been in the police headquarters, and it was unlikely to be the last. Moreaux never forgot a foe, even if at times that foe was a friend. Patrick gave his name at the desk and explained that he was there to give a statement. The young male officer gave him a scrutinizng look and curtly asked him to take a seat.

  He was then subjected to the waiting game. Twenty minutes and three more attempts to contact Grazia later, he was finally shown into an interview room. Another twenty minutes went by before the door was reopened and a policeman came in. Patrick immediately asked if Lieutenant Moreaux was in the building and was told that he was, but unavailable.

  Patrick gave his statement, which he hoped would match Hercule’s.

  ‘The accused said they were attacked by three men,’ the policeman said.

  ‘Then they were mistaken,’ Patrick countered. ‘And we were the ones who were attacked.’

  The policeman nodded as if not really interested, prompted Patrick to sign the statement, and said he would then be free to leave.

  ‘The two men are still in custody?’ Patrick asked as he rose from the table.

  The policeman gave a curt nod, which Patrick hoped, when translated, meant yes. He had no real fears for Fidella’s safety now she was part of Jean-Paul’s household, but if her abductors were set free they would not necessarily simply leave Cannes. Patrick had striven to hide Jean-Paul’s part in last night’s proceedings, but the men who’d tracked Fidella to Cannes might also be able to track her to Dramont.

  Exiting the police station, Patrick tried calling Grazia again, but got only her voice asking him to leave a message. Had he been on the London job, the fact that she’d been off the radar for so long would have troubled him.

  But I’m not on that particular job. If Grazia doesn’t wish to answer my calls, there’s nothing I can do about it.

  That inner response lasted as far as the entrance to Madame Lacroix’s apartment, situated between a bank and a couturier on Cannes’ most exclusive shopping street, the Rue d’Antibes. At that point Patrick made a promise to himself that if he received no response from Grazia by the time he finished talking to Madame Lacroix, then he would relay a message to Charles Carruthers. He owed his old friend and colleague that at least.

  Shortly after Patrick rang the bell, the manager and owner of Hibiscus, Côte d’Azur’s premier escort agency, answered. Patrick introduced himself and waited while she decided whether she would deign to invite him up.

  The buzzer sounded and the catch on the door sprang open, signalling that Patrick was to be allowed entry to the hallowed halls. The last time he’d climbed the wide staircase illustrated by erotic paintings in the mode of Boucher and Fragonard had been during the case of the black pearl. Marie Élise had been one of Madame Lacroix’s employees. Intelligent and beautiful, she would have been expected to work with Madame for up to five years, after which she might have married a rich client or retired with enough proceeds to marry a poor lover. Neither opportunity was afforded to Marie Élise, who now lay in a grave in the Cimetière du Grand Jas, her death a source of guilt for both Patrick and Brigitte Lacroix.

  The small, slim and extremely elegant dark-haired woman who opened the door to him looked just as Patrick remembered her. Back then she’d been Moreaux’s mistress. Patrick wondered if she still was.

  ‘Courvoisier!’ She indicated that he might enter with a sweep of her hand, which held a burning cheroot, a habit she and Moreaux shared. Once he was inside, she allowed him to greet her properly with a kiss on either cheek, then offered him a coffee or a glass of wine.

  Patrick settled for wine, knowing it would be good. When she served him a Syrah from St Honorat, he suspected she’d been forewarned of his visit.

  ‘Le Chevalier?’ he said.

  She nodded. ‘He says you wish to talk of the Madonna.’

  An hour later, Patrick had learned a great deal about Fragonard’s work and about his mistress, the actress Mademoiselle de Sainval, a miniature of whom Madame Lacroix had brought from her boudoir to show him.

  The image was of a woman in a tall, elaborate white wig, standing on a stage, her hand held high as though to someone watching from a box above. Her painted face bore little resemblance to the photograph given to him by Brother Robert.

  ‘Of course, the Madonna is more likely to be a true representation of Fragonard’s lover than this.’ Madame Lacroix confirmed Patrick’s opinion.

  ‘And your thoughts on her disappearance?’ Patrick said.

  ‘For that, I need to tell you a story.’ She offered to refill his glass and Patrick accepted. The wine was a dark ruby red, full of flavour and exceptionally good.

  ‘What do you know of this area during the war?’ she said.

  ‘The usual stories …’

  ‘Poof! The ones that feature in the guide books … Were you aware that Winston Churchill was paying the Germans a great deal of money to leave Château de la Croë and its royal inhabitants alone?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t,’ Patrick admitted.

  ‘Then you know very little.’ Madame Lacroix laughed, a deep throaty sound. She stubbed out her cheroot and immediately lit another. ‘The Duke and Duchess of Windsor were ordered to take a lease on the château by the British e
mbassy, in May 1938, so they wouldn’t be in Paris for the State visit of George VI and his Queen. My grandmother was employed by the Duchess at the château. Unlike myself, she was a blonde. Everyone who worked there had to be blonde.’

  ‘Why was that?’ Patrick asked, surprised.

  ‘Grand-mère maintained it was because the Duke had a liking for dark hair and the Duchess didn’t want to be upstaged by Mediterranean beauties. The more common explanation was that to be employed you had to look Aryan to please some of their more Germanic guests.’

  Patrick decided he was inclined to go for the latter explanation.

  ‘Anyway, the Duchess transformed the château. Her taste in décor was exceptional and there was plenty of money for royalty to indulge their every desire, despite the war.’ She paused. ‘Mistresses generally have better taste than wives, and my grandmother said the American always played the mistress, even after marriage.’

  She continued. ‘The Duchess bought a number of paintings for the château. Grand-mère, who loved art, used to describe them to my mother.’ Madame Lacroix took a sip of wine and savoured it. ‘In July 1948, with the war over and France free, Mr Churchill and his wife came to the château to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary. It was an extravagant affair, according to Grand-mère. The Duke attended the dinner dressed as a Highland Chief, wearing a kilt and with a knife tucked into his stocking.’

  ‘He sported a dirk?’ Patrick said in amazement.

  ‘The bagpipes were played to entertain the guests,’ she laughed. ‘My grandmother liked that, although she said many of the guests did not.’

  The tale of the Windsors’ extravagance was entertaining, but Patrick wondered when it would link with the missing Madonna.

  Then it did.

  ‘From the descriptions given by my grandmother to my mother, then to me, I believe one of the paintings in the château at that time may have been Fragonard’s Madonna.’

  TEN

  Madame Lacroix continued as though she had said nothing surprising. ‘There is also evidence to suggest that the painting was gifted to the Windsors by Hitler, when they stayed with him at the Berghof, in Berchtesgaden, in 1937.’ She paused. ‘If so, then there may be some who think neither the Windsors nor the Abbey of St Honorat have first claim on her.’