The Case of the Black Pearl (26 page)

Reacting to the sound of movement on the terrace, Patrick heard Jean Paul order Joanne to stay put while he went to investigate. Moments later, he appeared in the doorway.

Patrick called to his friend in Cannois, hoping Jean Paul would recognize his voice.

Jean Paul came quickly forward. In the light from the doorway, Patrick’s condition was reflected in his friend’s eyes. There then followed a litany of curses and threats of retaliation that would have started World War Three.

Patrick interrupted him. ‘Can I come inside?’

‘
Mon Dieu.
Of course.’

Patrick waved away Jean Paul’s helping hand, and rose to his feet again. This time his legs remembered their job.

‘I could use a stiff drink. Whisky, if you have it.’

Moments later, he was seated by the stove, a blanket round his shoulders, with a large glass of malt whisky in his hand. The warmth of the room enveloped him like a woman’s body.

Patrick gulped down the whisky and held out the glass to be refilled.

Joanne urged him to have some food first, but Patrick wanted nothing but whisky inside him, dulling the pain. The third glass brought the inner glow he sought.

‘I’ll take some food now,’ he told a worried Joanne.

She ladled out a bowl of thick soup and sat it next to him on the stove, handing him a wad of bread. Patrick ate hungrily, finishing both soup and bread in minutes. He had a second bowl, then a third, the rich mix of meat and vegetables bringing both sustenance and warmth.

Eventually he ceased, replete for the moment.

Jean Paul, meanwhile, had sat nearby in silence, although fury furled his brow.

He now asked in guttural French what bastard had done this to Patrick.

‘Korskof,’ Patrick replied. ‘At Chapayev’s command.’

‘Then both will die,’ Jean Paul said.

Patrick shook his head. ‘You and Joanne are not to be involved.’ He shifted a little in the seat. ‘Although there’s one more thing I need you to do for me.’

‘Anything,’ Jean Paul said with gusto.

The operation took place on the kitchen table. Jean Paul had served in Algeria and knew the importance of a well-stocked medical kit. He also didn’t trust doctors in general, and the French health service in particular.

Patrick took advantage of another whisky, was then arranged face down, and given a local anaesthetic. His wound, though painful, hadn’t greatly prevented walking, despite his performance on the mountain. Patrick was convinced the bullet hadn’t penetrated far, or may even have exited.

The first scenario turned out to be the case.

Jean Paul extracted it without too much difficulty, made some reassuring sounds featuring the words ‘flesh wound’, and applied a dressing.

He then turned Patrick over, helped him sit up, and cleaned and patched up the rest of him, after which he handed him two capsules and another glass of whisky.

‘These will kill the pain.’

‘But not put me to sleep, I hope?’

Jean Paul shook his head.

‘Good, because I need to make a phone call.’

T
he double gates of Les Sylphides were firmly shut. Moreaux had expected no less, although he had hoped the motor launch he’d ordered from Cannes would be approaching the jetty below, if not already, then very soon.

He stepped out of the vehicle and lit a cheroot.

He suspected Chapayev had already flown this nest. His main reason for coming here was to check for Courvoisier. It wasn’t a long journey from where he had disappeared. Had they removed him alive from the mountain, this would have been the place to bring him.

The only reason he could think of for Chapayev keeping Courvoisier alive was to locate his diamonds. How the Russian would extract the information he wanted was something he had no wish to speculate on.

He made a call, establishing that the motor launch had docked at the jetty and someone was on their way to open the gate. According to the officer, the villa looked deserted, and they’d had access to it via the basement jetty. Moreaux ordered them to await his arrival before exploring any further.

Minutes later, the gates swung open and Moreaux and the police car entered.

The villa had extensive grounds, which included most of the promontory on which it stood. As reported, there were no vehicles in the drive, and the place looked abandoned. Moreaux approached the front door, which had been opened for him, and stepped inside.

The air of opulence immediately offended him, not because of its richness, but because it smelled of Russian money. An ornate clock ticked in the large reception area, bringing an air of timeless serenity, which matched the antique furniture seen through the open doors.

Moreaux ordered his men to examine the ground floor and took himself upstairs.

Interrogations did not take place in such luxurious surroundings. As in the police station, they took place behind locked doors, where the sounds of distress could not be heard. The second storey consisted of a variety of bedrooms and accompanying bathrooms. Moreaux left these to his men and ventured further.

A set of wooden stairs took him to the attic.

There were three doors off the landing, all of them firmly shut.

Moreaux opened the first to find a cupboard, the second a sparsely furnished bedroom, which left the third. He stood outside for a moment. Had he been a religious man, he would have prayed. As he wasn’t, he uttered a curse as he opened the door.

The first thing that hit him was the smell – a mixture of vomit, sweat, urine and human excrement. The draught from the open door caused a cloud of flies to rise and buzz furiously before settling again on the open eyes of the figure on the floor. Moreaux took in the chair and the wall behind where blood splatters had painted a picture of what had taken place in this room.

Moreaux felt bile rise in his throat, and fought it back down as he established that the body on the floor was not that of Courvoisier, but of Korskof.

M
oreaux was standing on the jetty, considering his next move, when the phone call came. Studying the unknown number on the screen, he considered whether to answer. Thinking it might be Brigitte, he did so.

He didn’t recognize Courvoisier’s voice at first, or perhaps he thought he was speaking with the dead.

‘Courvoisier?’ he said, to make sure.

‘Lieutenant Moreaux.’ The voice now took on the faintly mocking tone that was the norm for their conversations.

A sense of something like relief washed over Moreaux.

‘I thought you were dead,’ he said.

‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

Moreaux didn’t deny disappointment, but said instead, ‘We need to talk.’

‘I agree.’

‘Where, exactly?’

‘I will be waiting in the car park at Le Dramont thirty minutes from now.’

As Moreaux rang off, the setting sun broke through a thin film of dark cloud. In the distance, he could make out the Île d’Or. All roads, it seemed, led back to the place where the Swede had died.

If Courvoisier was in the vicinity of Le Dramont, he was less than fifteen minutes by car from the villa and the body in the attic. A closer inspection had revealed that Korskof’s neck had been broken. Not an easy thing to achieve on a man his size. Whoever had snapped that thick neck had known exactly how to do it. Which suggested it was not the first time they’d carried out such a manoeuvre.

The jigsaw that was his image of Patrick de Courvoisier just had another piece fitted. It was not a pretty picture, but it was a more admirable one, in Moreaux’s eyes, than that fashioned from Korskof or Chapayev.

The team from the mountain would come here next. Korskof’s body would have to be examined and then taken to the morgue. It was important that this unfortunate sequence of events came briskly to an end, and life in Cannes got back to normal.

Perhaps it would take the combined forces of himself and Courvoisier to achieve this.

Jean Paul insisted on driving Patrick up the hill at least. Patrick agreed, but only on the condition that he dropped him and immediately drove back down.

‘I do not trust Moreaux,’ Jean Paul argued.

‘Neither do I,’ Patrick agreed, ‘but in this case, I have little choice.’

Jean Paul expressed his distrust even further through a selection of choice phrases. ‘I have seen his type before, in the army. They look only to their own interests.’

‘In this case, I believe, our interests are the same.’ Even as he said it, Patrick hoped that was true.

As the lights of the jeep wound their way back down the hill, Patrick revisited his plan. If he could trust Moreaux, it might work. If it did, it was to the advantage of both of them, provided Moreaux valued a quiet life and a return to normality.

If, instead, Moreaux had his eyes on a hefty pension and early retirement, then Patrick might well end up dead, or behind bars. To reassure himself, he thought of Brigitte. Perhaps she knew Moreaux better than Patrick did, or better even than Moreaux did himself. Patrick could only hope that was true.

Patrick stepped behind the landing craft as a set of headlights slowed on the road, then swung left into the car park. He watched as the car drew up some metres away and doused its lights. Moreaux obviously thought he was there first, which was to Patrick’s advantage.

He waited, checking to make sure Moreaux was in fact the only occupant. Then he heard the window roll down, saw the striking match and caught the familiar scent of Moreaux’s cheroot.

Patrick moved as swiftly as he could to the car, opened the passenger door and slid inside.

‘Like a shadow, as always.’ Moreaux turned to look at Patrick. After a moment he reached up and switched on the inside light. Now he could see Patrick’s face in all its glory. He flicked the light off again.

‘That was your blood on the walls of Les Sylphides?’

Patrick contrived to sound puzzled. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Moreaux took a draw on his cheroot. ‘Then where did you get the injuries?’

‘Someone took a pot shot at the Ferrari up near Blavet Gorges. I pulled up and got out. I managed to make the trees.’

Moreaux smiled. ‘And from there to here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who patched you up?’

‘A friend.’

Moreaux turned his gaze downhill. ‘Ah, Jean Paul, who also helped Angele Valette, I believe.’

Patrick remained silent.

‘Brigitte saw Korskof leave the graveyard just after you,’ Moreaux said.

Patrick understood now why the car had been found.

‘So we must presume it was he who fired on you.’

‘Probably,’ Patrick conceded.

‘He won’t be doing that again,’ Moreaux said. ‘Korskof’s dead. Someone broke his neck.’

Patrick stared out the window, remembering the snap and relishing it.

‘I intend to visit Chapayev’s yacht,’ Moreaux went on. ‘I would like you to come with me.’

This was the moment Patrick had been dreading. He was about to be handed over to the Russian, in payment of what? A debt? Or a hefty pension and early retirement? Jean Paul had been right. Moreaux wasn’t to be trusted.

‘Why would I do that?’ Patrick said coldly.

‘Because I intend to arrest him, but I need your help in convincing him otherwise.’

M
oreaux drove Patrick back to the gunboat. They travelled in silence, having discussed the plan in full. Patrick wasn’t persuaded they were on the same side, and Moreaux made no attempt to convince him.

Moreaux’s reason for taking Chapayev into custody was clear. The Russian had overstepped the mark and had to be curtailed from inflicting further damage, which was in both their interests. Patrick agreed, but wasn’t sure that the plan to achieve this would come out in his favour.

Yet he had to admit, if only to himself, that he could not do it alone.

They arrived back around midnight. The Irish bar was in full swing, the remainder of the
quai
quiet. Patrick checked the outside crowd for Stephen, before exiting the car. He had no wish to engage his friend in conversation or to offer any explanation for the damage to his face, or for that matter the rest of his body.

Pulling down the walkway, he heard Oscar’s joyful snuffled bark. Patrick took some time over the small dog, noting that someone had put food and water aboard for him. He guessed Pascal, and was grateful the dog hadn’t been simply removed in his absence.

He took Oscar below, fixed himself a drink and sat down on the leather couch.

He would sleep on Moreaux’s proposal. If he decided he didn’t want to accept it, then he would have to leave Cannes, and swiftly. Moreaux would no doubt feel it necessary to question him about Korskof’s death. He had intimated as much during their lengthy and circular conversation.

If Moreaux chose not to apprehend Chapayev, the Russian would not give up on Patrick once he discovered Korskof was dead, and Patrick alive.

Debts must be repaid
being his motto.

‘Mine too,’ thought Patrick as he stretched out on the couch, rather than drag himself into the bedroom and a proper bed.

He woke as the early morning light found the portholes. The warmth on his face was pleasant and he strove to enjoy that moment before wakening fully and facing the day. This time standing had become easier. He put on the coffee pot, but chose not to venture out for fresh croissants, and made a cooked breakfast instead. He ate first, then went through to the bathroom to wash and take a good look at the damage.

Viewing himself in the full-length mirror, he took stock. He didn’t care how bad he looked, but he did care if he thought his body wasn’t up to the job ahead. The wound in his leg had knitted well together. Jean Paul had been correct when he’d declared it superficial. The nick in his arm from the earlier bullet wound sustained on board the
Heavenly Princess
looked fine. There was a great deal of bruising on his upper body, but most of the blood splattering in that room had come from head cuts, particularly one to the back of his head.

Jean Paul had patched him up well. He still resembled a boxer who’d gone too many rounds, but he was free, unfettered and could look at the sky any time he wanted. Patrick dressed and returned to the galley where he poured another coffee, added a tot of whisky to it and swallowed two painkillers of sufficient strength to let him believe he endured no pain.