The Case of the Black Pearl (27 page)

Then he and Oscar went out on deck.

Patrick chose a seat at the stern looking out over the marina to await Moreaux’s call. The dive boat had already departed and with it any concerns he’d had about meeting Stephen. Moreaux had indicated that both Chevalier and Brigitte were worried at his disappearance, but he hadn’t told either of them about finding the Ferrari. Word would get out soon enough that the car was his, but they had a small window of time, at least.

‘The less people know, the easier it will be to resume normal life,’ Moreaux had said with conviction.

Patrick wondered if he would ever be able to resume normal life as he had known it here on the gunboat, in Cannes, whatever happened.

Moreaux called him at ten on the alternative mobile number Patrick had given him, and arranged to pick him up shortly for their journey to Monaco.

Moreaux was a skilled driver, with a liking for speed similar to his own. It wasn’t the only similarity. They differed in age, and a liking for cheroots, but Patrick recognized something of himself in the stern countenance of the man who sat beside him.

Moreaux was a serving policeman, and as such had to be seen to uphold the law, but that did not mean he always did. Moreaux made his decisions based on what served Moreaux, his welfare and his own moral code. And as in Patrick’s previous occupation, personal morality was often at odds with the requirements of the job.

Patrick found it interesting that Monaco should be the location of the end game. Sold as a luxurious destination for the rich, it was little more than a concrete jungle of high-value real estate, a tax haven for the super rich, squashed into two square kilometres. Beauty it had none, except perhaps for the palace gardens, which was the image most often used to attract the tourists.

Moreaux headed for the harbour, parking in a reserved spot. Patrick wondered just how often the lieutenant visited the place. That wasn’t the only surprise, as Moreaux indicated Patrick should follow him down a walkway to a speedboat that bore the name
Michelle.
It seemed the rumours surrounding the wealth of Moreaux’s wife might well be true. Or else, Moreaux had an extra income from somewhere.

Moreaux made no attempt to explain, just informed Patrick that the black yacht was anchored in the bay and that Chapayev was expecting him. Patrick wasn’t sure whether his use of the word ‘him’ rather than ‘them’ should cause him concern, or bring relief.

The journey out there took twenty minutes, during which Patrick visited the toilet. Once inside he checked on the knife he carried, as well as his gun, retrieved from
Les Trois Soeurs.
He wanted to be ready for all eventualities, of which he feared there were many.

Whatever Moreaux decided to do, Patrick had his own itinerary.

As he resurfaced, Moreaux was already drawing alongside the platform. He secured the motorboat and jumped out, indicating Patrick should follow. Patrick climbed out more gingerly, having no wish to reveal what state he was really in.

There was no waiting reception for them on the lower deck. Moreaux strode ahead as though he knew this boat well and was welcome aboard it. For a man who had only been here once for dinner, he appeared a little too knowledgeable.

Chapayev awaited them in the stateroom.

He greeted Moreaux as ‘Lieutenant’ and wished him good day. His attitude was affable with not the remotest indication that he was nonplussed by their appearance. He then turned his attention to Patrick.

‘I see my part-time waiter has returned.’

‘From the dead,’ Patrick said.

‘I, too, have had a brush with death,’ Chapayev reminded him.

There was a moment’s standoff before Moreaux took charge.

‘We found your man Korskof in a villa called Les Sylphides. His neck was broken.’

This was news to Chapayev by the look on his face. His eyes darted from Moreaux to Patrick and back again, suspicion blossoming.

He was reassured by Moreaux’s next remark.

‘We believe this man was responsible for his death.’

Patrick’s hand was already reaching for his gun, but Moreaux was faster. Patrick felt the press of metal in his side.

‘As agreed, I hand over Courvoisier on the understanding that your interest in Cannes and its inhabitants is at an end.’

Chapayev smiled. ‘I have a lot invested as you know. It would make us both the poorer, I think.’

‘Nevertheless, that was the deal,’ Moreaux said.

Patrick’s brain was in overdrive. This was similar to the plan Moreaux had outlined, but sufficiently different to make him worried. Very worried.

‘And what of Courvoisier’s disappearance?’ Chapayev said.

‘Le Limier comes and goes. All of Cannes knows that. Except on this occasion he will not return.’

Chapayev was growing more relaxed by the moment.

‘There is the little matter of the three diamonds he still has in his possession.’

‘They are forfeit,’ Moreaux said.

‘And the black pearl?’ Chapayev said, looking to Patrick.

‘You indicated it had been recovered,’ Moreaux said.

Now this was news to Patrick.

As though on cue, the far door of the stateroom opened and a woman walked in. She was dressed in dark-blue silk, the pearl hanging round her neck. Angele was as beautiful as ever, although her eyes had the look of someone heavily sedated.

‘Ah, Angele. Look who has come to visit us.’

If she recognized Patrick, Angele didn’t show it. Chapayev caught her and drew her to him, cradling her in the crook of his arm. His big hand rose up to catch her breast. If his grip was painful, she didn’t register it, her pupils big with whatever substance she’d chosen to take, or he had administered.

‘The movie has done very well. It is going to make Angele a star,’ he told them.

Moreaux seemed unaffected by Angele’s appearance and Patrick wondered whether he’d known all along that she would be there.

‘So,’ Chapayev said. ‘It is time to make a decision, Lieutenant. All those dignitaries you mingled with on the
Heavenly Princess.
How would they react if you ban me from Cannes? He paused for a moment to allow time for his words to sink in. ‘There is, of course, an alternative solution. We dispose of Monsieur de Courvoisier. You return to your police station and life continues as normal.’

As Moreaux appeared to contemplate this, Patrick felt the pressure of the barrel lessen on his side, while Moreaux muttered something in Cannois.

Patrick took him at his word and slipped his hand in his pocket, just as Chapayev sensed a change in Moreaux’s demeanour. He pulled Angele in front of him as the gun which was pressed in Patrick’s side was raised to point at Chapayev.

The sequence of movements all took place in a matter of seconds.

Angele, too drugged to figure out what was happening, stared at them with startled eyes, like someone disturbed in their sleep.

‘Don’t be a fool, Lieutenant. If you take me in, I will implicate you. Your career will be over. If we let him go, Courvoisier will do the same.’

Patrick eased his hand into his pocket to clasp his weapon of choice. The UK-SFK knife hadn’t seen the light of day since he’d arrived in Cannes, but fitted as well in his hand as it had always done.

‘You have no choice, Lieutenant,’ Chapayev was saying. ‘You cannot kill me and get away with it. Come, let us both dispose of this nuisance, and continue as normal.’

Sensing Moreaux’s hesitation, Chapayev levelled his gun at the policeman’s head as a figure appeared in the doorway. It was henchman number two, armed and ready to finish the conversation in whatever way Chapayev wanted it to go.

Patrick had waited long enough.

The speed and accuracy of the throw was as soundless as it was deadly. The thin-edged blade embedded itself firmly between Chapayev’s eyes, just as his gun went off. The bullet skiffed Moreaux’s cheek as he threw himself sideways and let off a volley towards the doorway. For a moment the stateroom resounded to Angele’s screams and the thud of bullets burying themselves in the walls.

Then it was over.

Patrick, his gun out now, surveyed the damage. The gunman had taken a shot in the chest that didn’t appear fatal. Chapayev lay on his back, staring upwards in startled death. Angele, released from Chapayev’s arms, curled on the ground beside his body, weeping silently.

Patrick moved swiftly, first to remove his knife from Chapayev’s brain, then to block both doors to the stateroom in preparation for the next onslaught. Just then he heard the deafening scream of a police siren, followed by another, as two launches swept into view.

He crossed to Moreaux and helped the policeman to his feet.

‘Who are they coming for?’ Patrick said, still unsure how this would end.

‘Not for you, Courvoisier,’ Moreaux said with a grim smile.

T
he rain came on as they left the marina, falling in torrents as they met the race track route used in the Grand Prix. Steep concrete walls rose on either side of them, channelling the downpour on to the road surface, reminding Patrick of racing along a storm drain in Los Angeles.

Moreaux drove at speed, surface water flying from his wheels, his flashing blue light causing drivers to give way before them.

Patrick sensed the adrenaline running through the policeman’s veins, recognizing the same in himself. They had both faced death and survived. Life could never taste sweeter than it did at such a moment.

They were back in Cannes in record time. Moreaux drew up alongside
Les Trois Soeurs
, light still flashing, causing all the lunchtime drinkers outside the Irish bar to stare at them. A few more emerged to see what was going on, but thankfully Stephen wasn’t among them.

When Patrick climbed out of the car, Moreaux immediately took off without a word of farewell. During the return journey the policeman had said nothing. The silence between them had been as full as a conversation.

Moreaux had seen the knife. Had witnessed Patrick use it. Moreaux now knew more about him than Patrick would ever have willingly volunteered.

Patrick had been present at the conversation between Moreaux and Chapayev. He now knew more about the policeman than Moreaux would be comfortable with. It would have been better for Moreaux had Patrick died during the incident.

Both had had secrets revealed that should have remained hidden, and both were now in one another’s debt.

And debts always have to be repaid
, Patrick thought, as he climbed aboard the gunboat and greeted his excited little dog.

L
ater that evening, showered and changed, his wounds treated via the medical kit, Patrick took a stroll to Le P’tit Zinc with Oscar, hoping to catch Chevalier at his aperitif.

Chevalier wasn’t there, but Moreaux was, with a glass of red wine in front of him.

‘Ah, Courvoisier. I see you have recovered from being shot at.’

‘Thanks to you.’

Moreaux indicated that he should sit.

‘Your assailant has been apprehended, the one that was left alive. He will face prison for attacking a lone driver in our beautiful Provence countryside.’ Moreaux assumed a deeply offended expression. ‘
Naturellement
, the story will not be reported on. We do not want to scare away the tourists from Cannes or Blavet Gorges.’

Moreaux went on: ‘My men tell me you drive very fast, too fast for those country roads. Speed can kill, Courvoisier.’ He gave a thin-lipped smile.

‘I owe you one, Moreaux.’

The lieutenant acknowledged this with a small nod and reached for his glass. The gold ring from Bijou Magique suited him well. Patrick wondered which of his women was wearing its mate.

‘I am sorry that Chapayev died,’ Moreaux continued.

‘Really?’ Patrick kept his voice even.

‘Had he not, I would have charged him with smuggling diamonds.’ Moreaux shrugged. ‘However, we have picked up his accomplice. A Mr Jacob Haruna, a Nigerian with interests in Zimbabwe. He was on board the
Heavenly Princess.
You may have seen him and his wife at the dinner party where you were serving as a waiter.’

‘It was an interesting party.’

Moreaux nodded. ‘If I were you, I would not mention the names of the other guests. They are important people and would not want their names mixed up with a Russian diamond smuggler.’

Patrick was rescued from commenting further by the arrival of Veronique with a glass of red wine, which she plonked down in front of him. Patrick had been planning to order something else, but decided by Veronique’s expression it was better not to.

Oscar had moved to sit beside Moreaux, who was ruffling his ears, just the way Oscar liked it.

‘I do not like people who are cruel to dogs,’ Moreaux said firmly.

Patrick couldn’t agree more.

‘What of Angele?’ Patrick said.

‘Free to pursue her movie career, which will go very well, I believe.’ He raised an eyebrow at Patrick.

A few minutes later they heard the roar of Chevalier’s motorbike in Rue de la Misericorde. Chevalier looked decidedly pleased with himself as he approached them after parking it. Tonight he was dressed in cream with a blue silk cravat, fastened with a delicate diamond pin. Patrick was pleased to see the diamond had been put to good use. He glanced at Moreaux to see if he had noticed it.

Moreaux indicated his new ring. ‘Madamoiselle Ager stocks such pretty items, don’t you think?’

Without asking, Veronique arrived carrying a third glass of red and a selection of hors d’œuvre.

Chevalier smiled his thanks, then raised his glass.

‘Gentlemen, shall we have a toast?’

‘To Le Suquet,’ Patrick suggested.

‘To Le Suquet,’ the two men chorused.

Oscar barked his approval, while Veronique allowed a smile to fleetingly pass her lips before heading back inside.

A sense of peace descended on Patrick on his walk back along the
quai.

Perhaps life had returned to normal as Moreaux had indicated. He hoped so.

He pulled down the walkway and stepped aboard. Oscar was immediately in attack mode, his hackles rising, a low growl in his throat. Patrick put a hand on his head to silence him. The scent when he opened the cabin door was not of a female, but of an expensive male cologne.