The Case of the Black Pearl (17 page)

Patrick was no luckier the second time. To a three and a two, he added a useless ten. Chevalier scooped him with a nine and a court card.

By now Chapayev’s pleasure could not be concealed. His beady eyes glistened with joy.

Chevalier doubled the stakes. The rest of the table remained silent, eyeing one another, awaiting who might be brave enough to take up the challenge.

The Russian ran his glance round the assembled group, assessing their reluctance. For a moment Lord Osbourne seemed tempted, then wilted somewhat under Chapayev’s look. The Russian finally fastened on Patrick.

‘
Banco
,’ he said, challenging him.

It was at this point the bodyguard appeared opposite Patrick. He must have been lingering among the interested spectators hovering outside the playing area. From the quick glance he exchanged with the croupier, Patrick briefly wondered if an attempt had been made to bribe him, then decided not. Chevalier knew all the croupiers by name, and by much more besides. If Chevalier wasn’t concerned about the cards being doctored, then neither should he be.

Chapayev was waiting to see if Patrick would rise to his bait. When he didn’t, the Russian gave a curt nod and was dealt his cards. After a quick glance at them, he flipped them over with a flourish, to expose a clear nine.

There was a combined gasp from the assembled company and Alexa let slip an expletive that betrayed her Bronx origins.

Next to Patrick, Ray Silver gave an exasperated little noise as though he had really intended taking up the challenge and been prevented somehow from doing so. He whispered something in his paramour’s ear. Her expression remained blank, but her hungry eyes said it all, just like everyone else’s around that table.
If only I had taken the chance.

Patrick drained his champagne, glanced at his watch and stood up, excusing himself in a slightly embarrassed fashion, as though his funds were insufficient, or his nerve had gone. Neither Chapayev nor Chevalier paid his departure any heed. Only Alexa seemed disappointed. She caught his eye, looking for an excuse to go with him. When none was forthcoming, she pouted and turned her attention back to the game.

Patrick weaved his way through the gathered throng, feeling Korskof’s eyes on his back, guessing the bodyguard would have preferred to follow him, but couldn’t, without a direct order from Chapayev.

Which suited Patrick just fine.

He swiftly exited the casino and headed along the busy thoroughfare to the old port. It was up to Chevalier now what happened in the casino. Patrick had other fish to fry.

T
he car was parked alongside
Les Trois Soeurs
just as he’d requested. Stephen was sitting on deck, a pint of Guinness in front of him. There was no sign of Colm. Patrick checked the trunk and was pleased to see his orders had been carried out in full.

Stephen bestowed a large grin on Patrick as he approached.

‘Himself is still out for the count. What the hell did you give him?’

Patrick didn’t answer. Just said thanks and went below.

Leon lay where he’d left him, face to one side, drool running from his part-open mouth. He wasn’t a pretty sight, but judging by his pulse he was alive.

As he re-emerged, Stephen downed the last of his Guinness and stood up.

‘Where are we headed then?’

Patrick regarded his eager face. ‘I want you to stay here.’

‘You need a buddy on a night dive. What if—’

Patrick cut him off. ‘I have one.’ He observed the Irishman’s hurt expression, but didn’t change his own. ‘Lock up and bunk down when you’re ready.’

‘When will you be back?’

Patrick shrugged. He had no idea when, or even if he would return.

The texture of the Mediterranean changed at twilight, becoming limpid, as reflections from the strong sun died away and the breeze dropped. He loved night dives, even when on a job. No matter how many he did there was always a ripple of excitement and anticipation. Tonight more than ever.

The coast road was quiet, the headlights like underwater torch beams in the darkness. Above, stars glittered in a blackened sky. In the open-topped car Patrick breathed in the sharpness of Mediterranean pine and the even stronger fragrances of scent-laden gardens.

The car park was empty, the beach below a ribbon of white sand, fringed with green. Moonlight played on the water between the shore and the red rock of the island. The surrounding sounds of small insistent swishes as each fragile wave broke.

This must have been how it had been when the Allies arrived in 1944. Frightened young Americans who had never been outside their small Midwest towns, who had never seen an ocean, suddenly wading ashore on a foreign beach into Europe’s war.

Patrick at least knew what he was risking his life for.

Minus headlights, he eased his way down the gravel road towards the restaurant and parked behind the main building, well out of sight of prying eyes. The only light was on in the kitchen. Angele’s cabin was in darkness. She was either asleep or still chatting with Joanne. Either way was good.

He carried his gear to shore and kitted up by moonlight. He’d made the call before he left Cannes. The Swede knew where the booty was. He need only retrieve it.

Patrick watched as the inflatable from the
Heavenly Princess
appeared from behind the Île d’Or. The skipper would line up via three onshore landmarks, the restaurant probably being one. There was only one point at sea where three objects were in the same position relative to one another. A good skipper didn’t need a GPS reading to guide his boat to the spot Patrick had given.

Soon he heard the engine cut out and the plop as the anchor dropped.

They were there.

Patrick walked into the water west of the island and was soon submerged. He knew exactly where he wanted to be. He was familiar with the varying depths of water. He was clear where he’d instructed François to drop his line.

Patrick glanced at his wrist computer, checking the depth. Everything depended on whether the Swede dived alone (Patrick was certain he would) and how clearly he would follow the directions.

Turning on his torch, Patrick illuminated a bright circle in the darkness. Below him, ripples in the sand ran parallel to shore. He allowed himself a sweet moment of anticipation, before kicking off towards his goal.

Gradually, creatures of the night appeared. The ones that lurked in dark holes and crevices during the day now hunted for those asleep in their nests and burrows. Below were what François sought for the restaurants of Cannes – lobsters and crabs moving as in a dance. A rare ray fish glided past, skimming the sand, smelling prey buried beneath. Patrick’s movement disturbed water around the western outcrop of the island, resulting in a firework display of phosphorescent creatures, instantaneously lighting up the sea, to disappear just as quickly.

He switched off his torch and was instantly plunged into a suffocating darkness.

After a few moments he saw the circle of light that was the Swede’s beam. Only one, which meant he was diving alone. Patrick smiled, remembering Stephen’s scorn when he spoke of the diver they’d used in the shooting of
The Black Pearl.
How he had required the onboard decompression chamber.

It seemed Gustafson, like Patrick, took chances.

He watched from behind a rock as the Swede approached. His beam eventually focused on the sunken village, centring on the miniature church, its tall steeple long gone, removed by divers as a souvenir. Patrick watched as the Swede finned towards it, hand already outstretched for the bag the steeple contained.

Centimetres from his prize, he came to a sudden and abrupt halt.

Thin taut fishing lines were the curse of the diver, especially at night. Unseen in the torch beam, they caught on your equipment, anchoring you. Gustafson was finning but suddenly going nowhere. Turning, he tried to see what held him, his torch dancing wildly in the darkness. Twisting had been a mistake. Realizing this, he turned back, but by now the line was caught round his cylinder.

He tried to free himself, a little more frantically this time, but only succeeded in making things worse. A buddy would have realized by now that something was wrong. A buddy would have come back to cut the line and free him.

But the Swede had no buddy.

Patrick watched as the panic built up. The struggle as Gustafson flailed and twisted the dropped torch, the regulator torn from his mouth as he breathed in a foamy mixture of seawater and air. Gustafson’s hands scrabbled to find his second regulator, which, like the other, floated free in the darkness.

Patrick switched on his own torch and the Swede swivelled desperately towards the light. For a moment his eyes held hope, until Patrick removed his own regulator and mouthed the words, ‘For Marie Elise.’

It was over in seconds.

Patrick replaced his regulator and finned towards the inert body and took a closer look to make certain. Then he turned and finned swiftly away.

When he’d accomplished his final task, Patrick headed for shore, where he changed back into the tuxedo behind the restaurant, then headed for the car.

The drive back to Cannes was as fast as it was invigorating. Screeching into the underground car park by the casino, he entered by a side door. In the upstairs bar he ordered a bottle of champagne, then chose a poker table in full view of anyone emerging from the Baccarat room. Bolstered by adrenaline, he played well enough to make back most of what he had lost earlier.

Forty-five minutes later, the door opened and Chapayev and Korskof appeared. Korskof, like a good bodyguard, noted his presence. Patrick, engrossed in his game, pretended not to see him.

Chevalier followed ten minutes later. Patrick acknowledged him with a small nod, gathered his winnings and excused himself from the table. They both adjourned to the bar, where Patrick ordered more champagne.

Chevalier looked tired, but content. He accepted the glass of champagne gratefully. Examining Patrick’s expression, he appeared to find there what he sought.

They touched glasses.

‘For Marie Elise,’ Chevalier said. ‘May she now rest in peace.’

I
t had been a long night, but Patrick had no intention of sleeping. Not yet. Parting from Chevalier, he walked towards Rue d’Antibes and Madame Lacroix.

Shuttered shops lined the empty street. His footsteps echoed from the metal shutters like jackboots. The Nazis had loved Cannes. The sun, the food, the sea. They’d used it for recreation, for wine, for sex. Just as the rich like Chapayev did now.

The inhabitants of Cannes had survived invaders before and would do so again. It would give those with money what they wanted, and use the payment to prosper. Patrick had a great admiration for the town’s survival instinct. It matched his own.

The window overlooking the street was in darkness, but he suspected, tonight of all nights, Brigitte would answer the door. He pressed the bell and waited, hearing it echo in the cavernous marble entrance hall and stairwell.

Brigitte’s voice in response sounded thick with smoking, and not a little anxious.

‘Courvoisier,’ he said.

There was a moment’s hesitation, then she buzzed him in.

Patrick ignored the lift and took to the stairs. Something made him pause on the halfway landing. A scent? An instinct? He didn’t know. He slipped the gun out of his waistband.

Brigitte was waiting for him at the open door, looking tired and worried.

‘Everything OK?’ he said quietly.

‘She’s gone.’ Brigitte opened the door wide for him to enter.

Following her through, Patrick glanced round the empty room.

‘What happened?’

‘He got in. I’m not sure how. Maybe she let him. Anyway, she went with him.’

‘Went with who?’ Patrick said.

‘He was Russian, big, very big.’ Brigitte gave a description that matched Korskof.

Patrick was dumb-founded. How the hell had Chapayev found out where Camille was?

‘Did Camille make any phone calls while she was here?’ he asked.

Brigitte shook her head. ‘I have no idea. I showed her to her room, then went back to mine. Later, I heard a noise and came through to find him here.’ She shuddered at the memory. ‘I asked her not to go, but she ignored me.’

Patrick stood for a moment, assimilating this news. Camille had taken his advice and come here. He remembered her terror when she’d viewed what Chapayev had done to Leon. Why would she willingly go with Korskof?

‘You’re sure he wasn’t holding a gun on her?’

Brigitte raised her shoulders. ‘If so, it wasn’t visible.’

The woman was trembling. Patrick took her arm and urged her to sit.

‘They must have followed her from the gunboat,’ he said.

Brigitte looked distraught.

‘Can I get you a brandy?’

She shook her head and found a cigarette pack on a nearby table. Fumbling it open, she extracted one and lit it.

‘I’ve been trying to call you since it happened.’ Her hand shook as she raised the cheroot to her lips.

‘I’m sorry.’ Patrick sat down beside her, waiting while she took her first draw. As she exhaled, he told her why he was here. ‘Marie Elise has been avenged.’

Brigitte met his steady gaze, and for a moment he saw pleasure in her eyes.

‘And what of this girl, monsieur? What is to happen to her?’

Patrick had no idea, but he said what he hoped was true. ‘She works for Chapayev. I think they want to speak to her, not kill her.’

‘I hope so.’ Brigitte blew out a cloud of smoke.

‘When I leave, call Moreaux,’ Patrick told her. ‘Tell him you had a visitor in the shape of a Russian. Tell him about Camille and that you are worried for her safety.’

Brigitte was surprised by his suggestion. ‘Is that wise?’

Patrick nodded. ‘Just don’t mention me. Say Camille called you and asked to stay over, because she was afraid of someone. Naturally you agreed, after what had happened to Marie. Explain that a Russian man arrived and persuaded Camille to go with him. You’re not totally sure it was of her own free will. Lieutenant Moreaux will be forced to investigate.’