The Case of the Black Pearl
Read The Case of the Black Pearl Online
Authors: Lin Anderson
Table of Contents
Previous Titles by Lin Anderson
The Rhona MacLeod Series
DRIFTNET
TORCH
DEADLY CODE
DARK FLIGHT
EASY KILL
FINAL CUT
THE REBORN
PICTURE HER DEAD
The Patrick de Courvoisier Series
THE CASE OF THE BLACK PEARL *
*
available from Severn House
A Patrick de Courvoisier mystery
Lin Anderson
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2014 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2014 by Lin Anderson
The right of Lin Anderson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Anderson, Lin
The case of the black pearl.
1. English–France–Cannes–Fiction. 2. Private
investigators–France–Cannes–Fiction. 3. Missing
persons–Fiction. 4. Motion picture actors and actresses–
Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title
823.9’2-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8386-5 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-515-5 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-522-2 (ePub)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
For my friends in Le Suquet who inspired this series, in particular Christine Blanc and the real Pascal, not forgetting Oscar.
T
he
Heavenly Princess
floated on a midnight sea, her layered decks painted silver by a full moon. Designed as a luxury home for the mobile rich, she was equipped with a helipad, a forty-two-foot motor yacht, and a decompression chamber for those who liked to take risks while diving. For those who sought relaxation, the
Princess
boasted a waterfall that tumbled over the aft lip of the sky deck into a large Jacuzzi.
Currently, the view north from the sky deck was of the city of Cannes, playground for the rich, and currently host to the most famous film festival in the world. Being too large to tie up at the main jetty, the
Princess
was normally anchored in the west bay, although tonight she had moved a little nearer to the island of Sainte Marguerite, whose colourfully lit medieval fort had been used in a scene from the movie
The Black Pearl
, a thriller involving yachts, jewels and death, which had been shown at the festival.
Having a party on board therefore required ferrying the cast to and from the harbour, along with film stars attending the festival, international journalists, beautiful young actresses and the rich older men who intended bedding them.
One such actress now stood on the sky deck, the tinkle of the waterfall masking the chat and music that drifted up from below. It was Angele Valette, star of
The Black Pearl.
A little over five feet five inches tall, her body was slim but curvaceous. Wearing an indigo gown, her hair spun gold, she appeared to embody the moonlit sky above her. Around her neck hung the other star of the movie, the pearl itself. She fingered its warm smooth surface as she waited, martini glass in hand, looking towards the sheer wall of rock on which the brightly lit fort stood.
Hearing a footstep she turned, searching the shadows, but whoever she sought did not appear. She drank the martini in one gulp and placed the delicately stemmed glass on a table next to the Jacuzzi. As she did so she caught the sound of an engine and, scanning the water, spotted the beam of a motor boat, heralding the approach of another group of festival attendees, looking to party among the rich and famous. While she watched them board below, she heard someone call her name softly from the shadows.
She turned as the figure of a man came into view. Moonlight glistened on the dark hair, aquiline nose and square-cut jaw of her handsome co-star, American Conor Musso, his Italian-Irish ancestry obvious in the bright-blue eyes and olive skin.
‘What are you doing up here? Everyone is looking for you. They want to see the pearl.’ Conor looked flushed under his tan.
‘I was too hot. I needed some air,’ she said in accented English. Conor joined her at the rail, standing close enough for Angele to catch the astringent scent of his cologne.
He slid his arm about her shoulders, drawing her to him. ‘They want to see you too,’ he said in a husky voice, moving his other hand to touch her breast.
She slapped him away and turned her attention back to the water.
When he spoke, his voice was petulant. ‘Chapayev wants you downstairs. Now.’ He turned and walked away.
Angele did not move. Let the fat little Russian wait. The movie had shown to great reviews. He had served his purpose. She no longer had to dance to his tune. She leaned over the rail, dangling the pearl above the dark glistening water, and smiled. She would soon be free. Free of Conor Musso and his busy hands, free of Chapayev and his flabby body and small mean eyes. Contemplating her freedom, Angele did not hear the soft nudge of a dinghy against the opposite side of the yacht.
By the time she turned, the figure was already behind her.
T
he woman paused to check the name on yet another yacht moored along the
quai.
Taller than the average movie star hopeful, with shoulder-length dark hair and long slim legs showing discreetly below a stylish blue dress, she was striking and classy. And, Patrick suspected, bringing trouble his way.
The thought pleased him.
Things had been quiet since March, when he’d dealt with a Swedish national who’d attempted to leave without paying six months’ rent on one of Chevalier’s properties at the top of Le Suquet, just next to the church and with a view to die for.
Since then, Patrick had spent his time doing repair work on his boat,
Les Trois Soeurs
, climbing in the Estérel Mountains, reading and indulging his desire to take risks at the nearby casino. By May he’d had enough of the quiet life and was looking for a challenge.
It appeared his prayers had been answered.
Having reached his boat, the lady was scrutinizing its name.
The Three Sisters
was not the usual type of yacht moored in the old port. A former French gunboat, heavy hulled, she stood out like a French bulldog among a line of poodles, or at least that’s what he liked to think.
His visitor had decided she’d found what she sought and was looking up at him, Patrick de Courvoisier, seated on the upper deck, reading, or pretending to. Lying across his feet, Oscar, an actual French bulldog, snorted in his sleep as though he knew and disapproved of what was about to happen. Patrick wondered if the dog might be right. But there was something about trouble – a scent as enticing as his favourite dish at Le Pistou on the nearby Rue Félix Faure – that he could not resist.
‘Monsieur de Courvoisier?’ She observed him quizzically, although it may have been the sun in her eyes.
Patrick often made a decision on voice alone. If he agreed to work for someone, he had to be prepared to listen to them pouring out their troubles, pleading, lying, arguing, complaining and sometimes refusing to pay.
Her voice reminded him of a cocktail served up in the Irish bar across the road. The cocktail contained, or so he’d been told, Bailey’s liqueur, chocolate milk and whipped cream. It was entitled, in the understated way of the Irish, an Orgasm.
Patrick stirred himself and answered the luscious voice.
‘
C’est moi.
’
Her rendition of his name had suggested French or at least someone whose pronunciation hadn’t been learned from a phrasebook or at school. Now he waited as she decided whether he was French or had simply acquired the name from a French branch of the family. She chose correctly, which impressed and offended Patrick at the same time.
‘May I come on board?’ she said in lightly accented English.
‘Be my guest.’
He lowered the walkway.
She hesitated for a moment. Having found him, she was entertaining second thoughts. Patrick wondered if the story he was about to be told was in the process of being re-written.
Oscar roused himself and stood up, observing the attractive intruder with a baleful eye. When he gave a low growl, she responded by offering him a hand to sniff, which showed courage, as she wasn’t to know that Oscar was far less threatening than he sounded.
Patrick waved her to the second chair under the awning, picking up her fragrance as she brushed past. Then a thought struck him.
‘Or you might prefer to sit inside?’
Her relief, although masked, was tangible. Patrick indicated the open cabin door, and that she should go in first. He dipped his head and followed her down the steps into the instant gloom of the dark wooden interior.
He’d bought
Les Trois Soeurs
from a French couple who’d lived on board for half their married lives. Intensely private, they’d discouraged visitors, preferring to meet their friends at one of the numerous restaurants and café-bars that lined Le Vieux Port. Patrick had been permitted to board only after he’d declared his intention of buying
Les Trois Soeurs
, even if he never saw inside her, endearing himself to the female half of the couple, Madame Blanc.
The moment he’d stepped aboard, he’d felt at home. Madame Blanc had stayed true to the masculine interior, her only feminine touch being the addition of a couple of colourful cushions. The polished wood, clean lines and a galley he could cook in all pleased him. The double bedroom was more than fit for purpose – and then came the surprise. Madame had asked him to follow her through the old engine room towards the stern, where she’d opened a door to reveal the
pièce de résistance
: a sunken mahogany bath.
His reaction and delight had brought a small smile to her stern countenance.
It was a surprise Patrick had often used on visitors that he, too, wished to impress.
At this moment, his visitor was viewing the cabin discreetly. He formed the impression that she rather liked what she saw.
‘May I offer you a drink?’ Patrick said.
Again the slight hesitation, or perhaps she was internally translating his request into French. Her reply in English, when it came, surprised him.
‘A Bloody Mary, if you have the ingredients?’
He smiled an ‘of course’ and extracted a bottle from the display on the bar.
‘Russian vodka?’ he said.
‘Please.’
He extracted ice from the small freezer compartment and dropped it into a long glass. Choosing Stoli Gold, he added a good measure, some tomato juice and a dash of Tabasco.
When he handed it over, she thanked him, then took time to taste the mix before indicating that it was good. At close quarters her eyes were blue with a violet tinge. Patrick thought that he had never seen eyes quite that colour before. Eventually she spoke.
‘I believe you are known as Le Limier?’
‘Some call me the fixer; others use less flattering terms.’