The Case of the Black Pearl (21 page)

Moreaux sampled the whisky again. ‘Her diamond business?’

Here was the first indication that Moreaux knew something of the diamonds. Patrick waited for more.

‘Perhaps the situation with Mademoiselle Ager has been resolved,’ Moreaux said quietly.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘The
Heavenly Princess
has left port.’

‘What?’ Patrick couldn’t hide his surprise. He hadn’t checked for the distinctive lights of the big black yacht as he’d approached Le Vieux Port; he had been too intent on looking for Moreaux’s car.

‘You didn’t know?’ Moreaux was fishing, but he wasn’t going to catch anything.

‘I didn’t,’ Patrick said honestly, although whether the yacht had left with Chapayev dead or alive on board was something he definitely wanted to establish.

‘But that wasn’t the reason I asked to speak with you,’ Moreaux continued. ‘I would like you to identify a body.’

‘What body?’ Patrick said cautiously.

‘A diver. Your friend the Irishman found him caught in a fishing line off the Île d’Or. We think he may be the Swedish national who was with Marie Clermand the night she died.’

Patrick was silent for a moment. Did this mean Moreaux was unaware of the Swede’s involvement with Chapayev? Or was he merely bluffing?

‘I only glimpsed him at the restaurant. It was Marie Elise who caught my eye.’

‘Nevertheless …’ Moreaux finished his whisky. ‘How is Oscar? I believe he was quite badly hurt that night?’

Patrick bit his tongue, remembering his story of the bitch in heat.

‘Pascal found him on the point with a head injury. He’s lucky to be alive.’

‘As are we all,’ said Moreaux as though he meant it. He rose. ‘I will expect you at the morgue at ten o’clock.’

Patrick watched the car drive away. Moreaux was an expert at gleaning information whether he asked questions or not. Not for the first time he thought Moreaux was wasted in the police force and should be working for the intelligence services.

Patrick took a seat on the upper deck to mull over what had just happened. If Chapayev was dead, it seemed his death hadn’t been reported to the authorities, which would suit Moreaux very well. The lieutenant did not relish spending police time and resources on the wandering rich and often criminal fraternity who chose to visit Cannes.

If Moreaux was in any way involved with Chapayev personally, then it seemed their business was complete. Moreaux had played his hand well. Whatever the lieutenant had learned during their interview, he had certainly given nothing away.

The air was cool and fresh after the warm cabin. He was tired and the thought of sleeping in his own bed tonight was a welcome one. The clock in La Castre struck four. Le Marché would soon be in full swing, local fishermen including François would chug out past
Les Trois Soeurs
on their way to their fishing grounds. Patrick went inside, calling Oscar to bed, before remembering he wasn’t there.

He woke again at eight, as refreshed as it was possible to be on four hours’ sleep. A shower helped, plus a fresh pot of coffee and a croissant from the nearby bakery. He took his coffee out on deck. Today he would bring Oscar home. Pascal would be devastated, of course, but maybe he could lighten his distress by offering to loan him Oscar on occasion. It would be cheaper than boarding him with the vet, although, with the various titbits Oscar was receiving at the Chanteclair, weight gain might be a problem.

Patrick stood for a moment, surveying the west bay. The yachts which had sailed in to watch the fireworks had all departed, including, he could now see for himself, the
Heavenly Princess.
The harbour too seemed remarkably empty after last night’s packed rows of smaller boats. With the end of the film festival, Cannes was returning to normal, for a while at least.

He had slept with his gun to hand. The revelation that the Russian’s yacht had sailed hadn’t succeeded in making Patrick sleep easy. Chapayev dead or alive, there was no way of knowing what the outcome of last night’s events would be. And there was also the question of Korskof. Had he departed with the yacht? Or had he been left on shore to ensure that all debts were repaid?

Patrick finished his coffee and set off for the Chanteclair, where Pascal had a queue of festival attendees waiting to check out. This suited Patrick very well. There could be no histrionics in front of guests. He waved at Pascal and indicated he was taking Oscar for a walk, then headed back out of the courtyard, Oscar trotting at his heels.

The dog’s scar was pink but looked nicely healed and Oscar had a spring in his step, which boded well for his recovery. Patrick walked him along the Quai Saint Pierre, and re-boarded
Les Trois Soeurs.
If Oscar’s last occasion there brought back bad memories, he didn’t show it, rushing round the boat, sniffing and squeaking with pleasure. The dog was glad to be home. And Patrick was glad to have him there.

Eventually he joined Patrick on deck. Patrick ruffled his ears, a gesture Oscar was particularly fond of, then put him on guard while he set out to view the body in the morgue.

He took the route along the pedestrian Rue Meynadier, which was already busy with local shoppers reclaiming their town after the festival. As the railway station came into view, Patrick wondered if Angele had caught the train to Monte Carlo as ordered, and had made contact with Jacques. Jean Paul hadn’t been in touch, so Patrick assumed all was well for the moment, although he doubted that he’d heard the last of Angele Valette.

Crossing the busy Place du 18 Juin, Patrick climbed the steps of the Police Nationale headquarters.

Moreaux came down for him as soon as the officer on reception made the call. He looked a little less tired, although Patrick guessed by the hard line of his mouth that the lieutenant was annoyed about something. He acknowledged Patrick with a curt nod and indicated he should follow him.

They took the lift down to the basement in silence. It was the first time Patrick had been in the morgue, but it brought no surprises, and he had seen much worse in West Africa. The smell of decomposition was evident, despite the disinfectant, but it didn’t bother him. You never got used to the scent of death, but you could learn to mask it over time.

The Swede was lying on a metal gurney. The post-mortem over, he had been neatly sewn together again. The fishing line having been entangled with his tanks, there were no external marks on his body apart from the incisions made by the pathologist to allow him to investigate the internal organs.

Studying the face of Marie’s killer, for a moment Patrick recalled the eyes behind the mask as the Swede had struggled for air. Patrick felt no qualms about Gustafson’s death. If the Swede had taken a dive buddy with him, he might well be alive. Marie Elise had had no such luxury.

‘Is this the man you saw with Marie Clermand?’ Moreaux said.

‘It is.’

‘We have evidence which leads us to believe he was her killer.’

At least the police had worked that one out.

‘So I’m out of the frame?’

‘For her murder at least,’ Moreaux said, ominously.

He led Patrick from the room. On the other side of the metal doors, the air was much sweeter.

‘I’d like to ask you a few questions,’ Moreaux said.

‘Of course.’

They adjourned to an upper room, where Moreaux had coffee brought in. No tape was set to record them and no one else sat in on the interview. Patrick glanced about, checking to see if there was any evidence of cameras and found none. Whatever was going to be said in here, was for their ears only.

They each drank some coffee.

‘I had a call from Angele Valette, the missing starlet.’ Moreaux put his espresso cup down. ‘It seems she has been staying at Le Dramont at Jean Paul Suchet’s place.’ He paused. ‘But then you would know that, since you had dinner with them there last evening.’

At least Angele had done something he’d asked her to.

When Patrick acknowledged that this was correct, Moreaux continued. ‘Madamoiselle Valette was relieved to learn the
Heavenly Princess
had sailed without her. It seems Chapayev was a very demanding employer.’

When Patrick offered no comment on this, Moreaux went on. ‘So, after the incident at the church …’ He waited for Patrick.

‘I drove to Le Dramont, where I was when you called.’

‘And when the diver died?’

The question, slipped in, almost caught Patrick off guard.

‘When was that?’

Moreaux gave him the time Stephen’s boat had appeared off the Île d’Or.

Patrick met his gaze squarely. ‘I spent the night with Mademoiselle Valette. We had breakfast together outside and noticed the activity on the water.’

‘And yet you weren’t curious to find out what it was about?’

‘I had other things on my mind. Mainly Mademoiselle Valette.’ Patrick smiled. The truth was, the memory of that particular night was a very good one.

Moreaux sat back in his chair, and extracting a cheroot from his cigarette case, lit up.

A waft of blue smoke filled the air between them. The ‘no smoking’ sign was obviously not intended for Moreaux.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Am I to take it that you and Madamoiselle Valette are an item?’

Patrick shook his head. ‘Sadly no, Angele is headed for Hollywood. I remain here in Cannes.’

Moreaux assumed a disappointed air, whether for Patrick’s loss of the lovely Angele, or for the fact that he intended staying on in Cannes, he didn’t divulge.

Moreaux pushed his cup away. It seemed the interview was at an end. Patrick should have felt relieved, but didn’t.

‘Is that all?’ he said.

Moreaux inclined his head to indicate there was something else.

‘I thought you would like to know that we have released Marie Clermand’s body for burial. Brigitte is organizing the funeral. She’s being laid to rest tomorrow at Cimetière du Grand Jas. Mass is at the Chapelle de la Misericorde at ten.’

Patrick found himself unable to reply for a moment.

‘Thank you for telling me,’ he finally managed to say.

Moreaux nodded as though, at least on this, they were in agreement.

On the walk back along Rue Meynadier, Patrick called Chevalier and they agreed to meet for lunch. It seemed a long time since they had eaten together in Le Pistou. On this occasion, Chevalier suggested Los Faroles, which suited Patrick. He wanted to ask if Fritz had any news of Leon.

There was an air of relief on Rue Saint Antoine. The tables were out, but the madness that had existed during the film festival had dissipated. The French were back, the American voices depleted, a more studied enjoyment of the food replacing the frantic deal-making.

He passed the restaurant where he had last seen Marie Elise. He believed now that she had come to the gunboat the night she died, to tell him more of her conversation with Angele, perhaps even to warn him of the danger Chapayev posed.

The Russian had seen Marie as a threat, an inconvenience or simply a way to remove Patrick, by framing him for her death. Had Patrick arrived minutes later, he would have been caught red-handed with Marie’s body. The swiftness of Moreaux’s arrival had been testament to that.

Chevalier was already seated outside Los Faroles when Patrick arrived. His friend had discarded the formal jacket and was wearing a brightly checked long-sleeved shirt with a primrose silk cravat. When he glanced up, the neatly trimmed and waxed moustache glistened in the May sunshine. Chevalier rose to plant a kiss on each of Patrick’s cheeks. His own cheek was smooth as a baby’s and his cologne smelled as delicate.

‘I have already ordered the catch of the day.’

Patrick nodded and joined him. There were two glasses and a half bottle of red on the table. Chevalier poured them each a glass.

‘The Russian’s yacht has departed,’ Chevalier offered, ‘and with it my sale on the villa,’ he said with a sigh.

‘I’m truly sorry about that.’

Chevalier shrugged. ‘No matter. Cannes already smells sweeter.’

On that note, Patrick said, ‘I’ve just come from the morgue.’

Chevalier raised an eyebrow. ‘Really, why?’

‘Lieutenant Moreaux asked me to identify the diver found off the Île d’Or as the man I saw Marie Elise with the night she died.’

Chevalier took a sip of his wine. ‘At least Moreaux got that right.’ He muttered a popular Le Suquet curse. ‘Brigitte is unhappy that he let the Russian’s sidekick go.’

‘Moreaux had no choice, unless you can persuade Camille to press charges.’

Chevalier shook his head. ‘Whatever arrangement she has with Chapayev frightens her too much.’ He eyed Patrick. ‘Do you know what hold he has over her?’

‘None,’ Patrick said. ‘Her debt has been repaid.’

He passed Chevalier a fold of cloth. ‘A little something for your trouble and the loss of a sale on Villa Astrid. Although the thought of Chapayev’s presence in the house of my ancestors was a little hard to take.’ Patrick smiled.

Chevalier cast him a quizzical look, placed the cloth on his knee and discreetly unfolded it.

Inside was the second of the three diamonds Patrick had removed from the bag. Chevalier had risked his money in the casino and lost a good sale to help. He deserved it.

Chevalier smiled in astonishment, then re-folded the cloth and slipped it into his top pocket.

‘
Mon Dieu.
So this was never about the black pearl?’

‘It was, and it wasn’t,’ Patrick said.

‘It is over, I hope?’

‘So do I,’ Patrick said with relish, although he wouldn’t have placed a bet on it.

Chevalier waited for a moment. ‘You know the details of the funeral?’

Patrick nodded. ‘Moreaux told me.’

They were prevented from discussing this further by the arrival of the food, which turned out to be sea bass, caught that morning by François, around the time that Patrick had fallen gratefully into bed.

When they’d finished their meal, Fritz removed their plates, brought them coffee and pulled up a chair.

‘Leon’s about. He’s been asking for credit in various places, insisting he’s coming into money.’ Fritz raised an enquiring eyebrow at Patrick.