The Case of the Black Pearl (20 page)

Chapayev had not.

In a mad panic he grabbed for Patrick and they descended into the depths together. Patrick tried to free himself but it was no use; fear had made Chapayev frantic, the last of his air escaping his unhealthy lungs like a car tyre rapidly deflating. His eyes popped white with terror, yet one hand still clutched at his pocket to prevent any attempt by Patrick to retrieve the diamonds.

Patrick’s feet touched the bottom, stirring up a cloud of sand to choke them. In the resulting darkness he could no longer see Chapayev’s face, but he could hear him.

The Russian had used up his meagre supply of air and was now breathing salt water.

Patrick kicked upward, trying to pull the Russian with him, knowing he had very little time, but Chapayev had become a dead weight, his massive girth acting like an anchor. It was useless. He should simply release him and take back the diamonds, but if Chapayev drowned, Korskof would be out for revenge, and not just on Patrick. Angele and Camille would be also on his list.

His own lungs heaving, Patrick secured Chapayev round the shoulders and kicked upwards.

His head broke the surface to meet the roving beams of searchlights. A shout in Russian was followed by a ping as a bullet hit the water near him. Patrick bellowed back that Chapayev was with him, and the shooter stopped.

Feet clattered down the metal steps. Patrick heaved the Russian’s head and shoulders on to the diving platform and, taking a deep breath, submerged again. As he swam under the yacht, a chorus of yacht horns sounded in deafening unison, showing the marine audience’s appreciation of the fireworks.

They would hoot like this for at least twenty minutes, as the yachts left their moorings in a great exodus, churning up the dark waters of the bay.

Metres away now from the
Heavenly Princess
, Patrick took a quick glance back. Standing by the railing, looking in his direction, was a tall figure in a smart grey suit. The African man from the dinner party had seen him leave.

T
he return journey was nerve-wracking. No one was looking out for a swimmer mad enough to weave their way through a flotilla of moving yachts. The first bullet had caught his arm just below the shoulder. He was pretty sure it was a surface injury, but knew it was impeding his ability to swim. Speed wasn’t important, although avoiding propeller blades was.

Eventually he drew within sight of his diving spot and was relieved to see his two female fans had already left. He trod water while he pulled off the waiter’s uniform and stuffed it among the large rocks that made up the foundations of the Quai Laubeuf. Then he pulled himself clear of the water.

The path along the
quai
was thick with people leaving their vantage points and heading for their cars. Patrick did his best to negotiate his way through, eventually taking to the rocky outpoint east of the curved swimming bay. From there he dropped on to the sand and made for the beach shower. He stood under it long enough to remove the salt, knowing he had a change of clothes in the boot of the car.

Checking the Quai Saint Pierre he spotted two policeman standing next to
Les Trois Soeurs.
It was just as well he hadn’t planned to go there to shower and change, or the Chanteclair either. No doubt Moreaux would also have someone watching the hotel.

He slid into the car’s leather driving seat, still wearing his wet shorts. His plan to avoid the snarl-up on the shore road paid off. As he departed Le Suquet by the back route, the yacht horns honking their pleasure were replaced by departing cars voicing their annoyance at the inevitable traffic jam.

He eventually met the shore road beyond the body of traffic and accelerated, overtaking wherever he could. Since all the cars were headed out of town, it was relatively easy. As he drew nearer to Le Dramont, he speeded up even more, adrenaline still flooding his veins.

Parking in the upper car park, Patrick dried himself and got dressed, before composing himself to walk down through the trees to the restaurant. As he neared the building, he called out to Jean Paul, not wishing a re-enactment of his previous nocturnal visit.

Jean Paul, Joanne and Angele were sitting out on the deck. In the soft lantern light, Angele looked extraordinarily beautiful. Patrick remembered the first time he had seen her. How he had been reminded of an angel caught in the exploding bulb of a camera.

She rose and came running towards him. He could smell her excitement and her need. Desire for power and wealth had the same scent as lust. She kissed him. A long, lingering kiss that would have swept him off his feet, if it had been someone other than Angele bestowing it. Yet his loins reacted of their own free will. Angele detected this and pressed herself closer.

Patrick considered whether he would tell her about the diamonds before or after they had sex.

Jean Paul waved him over to the table. ‘Sit. I’ll fetch more wine. Have you eaten?’

It seemed a lifetime ago that Pascal had brought food into the courtyard for him. Patrick couldn’t even remember if he’d eaten any of it. Jean Paul took his silence as a ‘no’ and disappeared inside to fetch him a plate, which brought a scowl to Angele’s face.

Patrick ignored her silent protest and took a seat. The night was still and filled with fragrance, pine and the sea, and something tasty warming in the kitchen.

Jean Paul appeared with a bottle of red. ‘Suitable for a celebration,’ he said.

Patrick nodded and accepted a glass. The wine was dry and full of flavour. He settled down to eat the plate of food Jean Paul had set before him. This time the casserole was rabbit, flavoured with wine and herbs. It seemed pertinent, somehow.

Hunger overtook him and it wasn’t until he wiped the plate with the last of the bread that he fully acknowledged that the atmosphere round the table was less cordial than it had been on previous occasions.

Angele’s enthusiastic greeting had been replaced by a sullen look. Joanne kept exchanging glances with Jean Paul, who, it seemed, was waiting until Patrick finished his meal before saying something.

‘We had some excitement here after you left,’ he finally said.

Patrick looked to Jean Paul in concern. ‘Really, what?’

‘Angele had a visitor.’

‘Who?’ Patrick directed his sharp question at Angele.

She pouted, then answered defensively, ‘Leon, if you must know.’

After Korskof, it was the last name Patrick wanted to hear.

‘How did he know where to find you?’ Patrick said worriedly.

Angele moved from little-girl pout to attack mode. ‘I told him.’

Jean Paul’s muttered expletive voiced exactly what Patrick was thinking.

‘What happened?’ Patrick said, trying to stay calm.

‘He wanted to see me in person, to know that I was safe, and to ask about his passport so he can leave Cannes.’ Angele directed him an innocent, big-eyed look.

Lying, like acting, Patrick realized, was second nature to Angele.

He rose and, taking her firmly by the arm, led her towards the cabin. Once out of sight of Jean Paul, she gave a little sob, as though she was upset, rather than annoyed at being found out. When this didn’t work, she resumed her petulant air.

‘You shouldn’t have told Jean Paul to spy on me.’

Patrick didn’t answer as he unlocked the door and threw it open. The air that escaped was stuffy and smelled of sex, which meant Leon had got more than just information on his visit. Patrick was surprised he’d been up to the job, considering the damage done to his genitals by Chapayev.

He pulled Angele inside and slammed the door shut.

‘What exactly did you tell Leon?’ he said.

She hesitated, deciding how she should deliver her next line. ‘That I was sorry Chapayev had hurt him.’

‘Did you mention the pearl?’

She shook her head. ‘And he doesn’t know anything about the diamonds.’

He wondered what line she had fed Leon about the worthless necklace; what she had said about the pearl, and about his role in all of this.

‘Get your things,’ he said. ‘We’re leaving.’

Her beautiful eyes widened. ‘Now? I thought you would …’

‘Would what?’

She glared at him. ‘I thought you would show me the diamonds.’

He paused before answering. ‘I gave them back to Chapayev.’

Her look was incredulous. ‘What?’

Realizing by his expression that he was telling the truth, Angele flew at him, nails outstretched. He caught her wrists before they reached his face, and she let loose a string of expletives that were new, even to him. Patrick waited until she paused for breath.

‘It was the only way to get Chapayev, and Moreaux, off your back,’ he said firmly.

She studied him. He knew she was imagining he still had the diamonds. That he planned to double-cross her and keep them for himself.

His mobile rang. Patrick released her and looked at the screen. It was Moreaux.

‘Lieutenant Moreaux.’

Patrick listened in silence to Moreaux’s message, rewriting his plan for the rest of the night as he did so. When Moreaux finished, Patrick said, ‘I’ll be there in forty-five minutes,’ and rang off.

Angele’s eyes narrowed. ‘What did the policeman want?’

‘Change of plan. You’ll leave in the morning,’ Patrick said.

‘What about you?’ she shouted at Patrick’s retreating back.

Patrick didn’t answer.

His old comrade in arms was back in the kitchen, taking his anger out on his pots. When Patrick entered, Jean Paul told him exactly what he thought of Madamoiselle Angele Valette. Patrick agreed with him. By bringing Leon here, she had endangered Jean Paul and Joanne. But the fault lay with him. He shouldn’t have involved Jean Paul in the first place.

His apology was met with silence, then a shrug.

‘I have enemies of my own,’ Jean Paul reminded him.

Patrick reached in his pocket. ‘Are you still planning that extension to the kitchen?’

‘When I have the money.’

Patrick passed him a small fold of cloth. Jean Paul opened it and gave a long low whistle at the diamond nestling inside.

‘I need one last favour,’ Patrick said. ‘Can you put Angele on the first train to Monte Carlo in the morning?’

‘With pleasure.’ Jean Paul smiled at the thought. ‘Anything else?’

‘I spent last evening here with you and Joanne.’

Jean Paul nodded. ‘What time did you arrive?’

Patrick did a quick calculation. Chevalier would vouch for his presence in the church at nine thirty. ‘Just after ten,’ he said.

‘When we ate rabbit with a good red out on the deck.’

‘With Joanne and Angele,’ Patrick added.

Jean Paul raised an eyebrow.

‘I want Moreaux to know she’s been staying here.’

Jean Paul shrugged. Whatever Patrick decided, he would go along with.

‘I take it I’m on guard duty again tonight?’

Patrick nodded. Moreaux had indicated on the phone that Korskof had been let go. Apparently, Camille Ager had come forward and testified that she’d let him into Madame Lacroix’s apartment and had gone with him willingly. There were therefore no charges. Moreaux’s tone had been deadpan, but Patrick recognized it as a warning of a kind, for which he was grateful to the detective.

Angele was sitting outside the cabin, smoking when he returned. She darted him a poisonous look on approach, which Patrick ignored.

‘Jean Paul will put you on the seven-thirty train to Monte Carlo tomorrow morning.’ He wrote down a phone number and handed it to her. ‘Ask for Jacques and tell him I sent you. He will buy the pearl. After that, go and see Lieutenant Moreaux. Tell him you were exhausted by the festival and went to ground here with Jean Paul to get away from the pressure.’

She considered this for a moment.

‘What if Moreaux asks about the pearl?’

‘Tell him you have no idea where it is. That you changed in your room, where you left the dress and the pearl. Then you left the yacht with Leon. You’re a good actress. I’m sure you’ll be able to convince him that you’re telling the truth.’

Angele’s expression suggested that she had no doubt of her ability on that score.

‘And Chapayev?’ she said.

‘He won’t bother you any more.’

Patrick departed before Angele could challenge him on that.

M
oreaux’s black car sat next to
Les Trois Soeurs.
As Patrick approached, smoke drifted from the open driver’s window and he caught the scent of Moreaux’s trademark cheroot. Another pleasure the detective shared with Brigitte.

The officers who had been on duty earlier had disappeared. It was just the two of them. Something that suited Patrick, and obviously Moreaux.

Moreaux got out of the car and they stood for a moment, yards apart, eyeing one another.

‘Lieutenant Moreaux.’

‘Courvoisier.’ Moreaux said the name with a sigh, indicating Patrick was causing him problems, as well as depriving him of sleep.

‘Would you like to come aboard?’

Moreaux acquiesced and Patrick lowered the walkway, hoping there wasn’t an additional welcoming committee waiting inside.

He offered Moreaux a drink, craving one himself. Moreaux asked for a whisky and Patrick poured two of the same malt he’d enjoyed earlier at the Chanteclair. They agreed to sit down. Moreaux looked tired, and not a little puzzled. Patrick waited for him to go first. He had no idea whether Chapayev had survived or not, or what that meant regarding the diamonds. He also didn’t know what story was circulating about the death of the Swede.

Moreaux took his time, savouring the whisky. It brought a little colour to his pale cheeks, but only for a moment.

‘Chevalier tells me you were in the church tonight.’

‘I was.’

‘Yet you failed to reveal yourself.’

‘My presence seemed unnecessary.’

Moreaux considered this.

‘Mademoiselle Ager dropped the charges.’

‘Because Chapayev is blackmailing her.’ Patrick watched Moreaux closely as he said the Russian’s name, but could discern no change in his expression.

‘Really? How?’

‘He invested money in her business. Now he wants it back with substantial interest.’