The Case of the Black Pearl (3 page)

Patrick was neither.

However, he did know one of the guards on duty, who had once hired him to sort out a personal problem. Bruno had a long memory and a generous heart. Not only did he wave Patrick through, he handed him a journalist’s badge to avoid any problems once inside.

The large reception area of the Majestic was thronging with movie people and journalists, on mobiles or standing talking in noisy groups. As he threaded his way through, a door opened on a large press conference and Patrick caught a glimpse of a platform of movie stars and their director taking questions amid the popping flashbulbs.

He located a lift and, stepping into the sudden and welcome silence, pressed the third-floor button.

When Camille had supplied him with Sergio Gramesci’s contact details, she’d indicated that as far as she was aware, Angele hadn’t revealed to her film colleagues that she had a sister. Nor would Angele like the idea of her interfering.

‘I just want to make sure she’s all right,’ Camille had said quietly.

With that instruction in mind, Patrick had put a call through to Gramesci. The director had been distinctly unhelpful on the phone, until Patrick mentioned the possibility of financing his next movie, whereupon Sergio had swiftly changed his tune.

Patrick stood outside room 301 for a moment, listening. Despite the solid door, he could hear sounds of an argument: a woman’s high-pitched voice and the more guttural sound of a man. Patrick waited until they paused for breath, then knocked. A few seconds later the door was opened.

Sergio Gramesci was tall, sleek and handsome. Whatever anger had been present behind the closed door had disappeared from his perfectly tanned face. Patrick offered his hand and introduced himself in Italian as Gerard Dubois, a French investment banker.

‘I should warn you I have very little time,’ Gramesci apologized. He raised his hands in mock horror. ‘Cannes at the festival.’ He stood aside indicating that Patrick should enter.

The woman whose voice he’d heard stood beside a table on which sat an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. She was dark-haired and dark-eyed, and she was angry, but covering it less well than Gramesci.

Patrick met her frosty look and held out his hand, which she grudgingly took.

‘Madame?’ he enquired.

‘Celeste Colbert.’

At his ‘
enchanté
’ her expression softened, but only a little. Patrick realized that worry as much as anger lurked in those eyes.

He turned his attention to Gramesci. ‘As I indicated on the phone, I’m interested in financing your next film.’ He paused. ‘On the understanding that it would again star Angele Valette.’

The woman concentrated on a champagne glass, her expression studiously blank.

Gramesci, on the other hand, eyed him with interest.

‘You have seen
The Black Pearl
?’

‘No, but I have heard very good reports from reliable sources in the industry, which is why I’m here.’

The smile that curved Gramesci’s lips showed he wasn’t immune to flattery. Behind him the woman had adopted a scowl, which grew deeper. Patrick got the impression she had moved from studied indifference to biting her tongue.

‘I’d like to discuss this opportunity with your leading lady,’ Patrick said.

A cloud swept over Gramesci, killing his sunshine smile.

‘I’m terribly sorry, but Angele is unavailable at the moment.’

Patrick feigned disappointment. ‘When will she be available?’

‘She’s a very busy lady,’ Gramesci said.

‘I have to be in the Cayman Islands three days from now,’ Patrick interrupted his excuse. ‘I’m keen to place the funds before that.’

A mixture of avarice and worry crossed Gramesci’s features. The woman attempted to catch his eye, but was ignored.

‘I’ll discuss it with Angele and see what we can arrange,’ he said smoothly.

As he was obviously buying time, Patrick decided to put him on the spot. ‘What about this evening?’

Gramesci came back quickly with his lie. ‘She’s out doing a photo shoot in the mountains. I’m not sure when she’ll return,’ he apologized.

‘So it isn’t true that she hasn’t been seen since the launch party?’

Gramesci’s look of amazement was impressive. ‘Who told you that?’

Patrick chose not to answer the question. Instead he said, ‘When I get to meet Mademoiselle Angele, we’ll talk further.’ He handed Gramesci a card. ‘You can reach me on that number. Night or day.’

They shook hands at the door. When it shut behind him, Patrick waited, listening for the reaction to his visit. The argument had started again, the woman’s voice being the most insistent. It was being conducted in Italian, but the only words he could clearly make out were ‘stupid bitch’, which he took to refer to the missing Angele.

D
eparting room 301, Patrick headed for the bar. Situated between the white marble foyer and the main restaurant, the room was reminiscent of the Belle Époque in its opulence and view of the outside terrace.

He settled himself in a chair and, when the waiter arrived, ordered a vodka martini. The place was bustling, populated by those who wished to conquer the world of movies. The French and American contingent were clearly distinguishable, mainly for their style or lack of it. Young men, carrying the bags issued with the delegate pass, had their ears perpetually glued to mobiles or their gazes fixed on interactive tablet screens.

He eventually spotted the guy he’d seen manning the small office for Black Pearl Productions close to Gramesci’s room on the third floor. The sign on the desk had said ‘Producer’. The money man, according to Camille. Tall, pudgy, wearing long shorts and a T-shirt with the words ‘The Black Pearl – A Movie to Die For’ emblazoned across the front, he entered the bar, took a swift look round, then went out on to the terrace.

Patrick picked up his glass and followed, waiting by the open double doors until the object of his attention had settled himself at an empty table, before striding over.

‘Excuse me, monsieur. My name is Gerard Dubois,’ he said in French this time. ‘I wonder if we might discuss a possible investment in Black Pearl Productions?’ When he was met by a blank stare, Patrick repeated his little speech in English.

‘Hey, sorry man.
Je suis américain.
That’s about all I can say in French.’ His proffered hand was hot and clammy. ‘Richard Polinsky, producer of
The Black Pearl
,’ he said proudly. The accent was Californian, which showed how movie money crossed all frontiers, even Russian–American ones.

Polinsky waved Patrick to a seat just as the waiter arrived. He eyed the martini glass. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

Patrick shook his head. ‘You know what they say: “One martini is fine, two is too many and three is not enough”.’

Polinsky gave a small laugh and ordered himself an American beer. When the waiter departed, Patrick got down to business.

‘I would very much like to meet your leading lady, Angele Valette. She really made
The Black Pearl
a sellable commodity.’

The delight dropped from Polinsky’s face.

‘She’s still in Cannes, I hope?’ Patrick said anxiously.

Polinsky gave a sorrowful smile. ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Really? I understood she was staying on the black yacht in the west bay.’

Polinsky hesitated a fraction too long. ‘She had an audition to attend – in Paris,’ he added imaginatively.

‘You mean she won’t be starring in your next movie?’ Patrick looked suitably shocked.

Polinsky, quickly realizing his mistake, tried to back pedal. ‘Oh, we’ve already signed her up for that. Her and Conor. This is just an in-between she might do, while we’re raising the money.’ He looked expectantly at Patrick.

‘I very much wanted to meet with Mademoiselle Valette before I commit myself.’

‘I don’t blame you.’ Polinsky raised an eyebrow. ‘She’s a popular lady. Maybe she could get in touch when she gets back?’

‘And when will that be?’

‘In the next day or two.’

Patrick considered this for a moment before asking, ‘Who was your main backer on
The Black Pearl
?’

The pudgy face screwed up. ‘That’s kinda private.’

‘I understand the yacht where you held the after-show party belongs to Vasily Chapayev, a Russian entrepreneur.’

Polinsky gave a secretive little smile. ‘Hey, you’ve got me there.’

‘Will he be investing in the next movie?’ Patrick tried to sound territorial.

‘Nothing’s settled yet,’ Polinsky said swiftly.

‘This money. I don’t want it to sit around for too long.’ Patrick inclined his head. ‘French bureaucracy might force me to put it elsewhere. You understand?’

Polinsky understood all right.

‘How does Angele contact you, when she gets back from Paris?’

Patrick handed him the card for Dubois International Investments Ltd’s head office in the Cayman Islands. ‘My number. Once I take Angele out to dinner, we’ll talk.’ He gave Polinsky a smile that indicated a male understanding of what the dinner invitation really meant and held out his hand. ‘I’ll look forward to hearing from Angele.’

As he turned to go Polinsky caught his arm. ‘A little something while you wait.’ He handed Patrick a DVD. ‘Some promotional footage of Angele I think you’ll enjoy.’

Patrick smiled his appreciation. ‘I’ll look forward to watching it.’ He slipped the DVD in his pocket.

Once beyond the screen of flowering camellias that bordered the terrace, Patrick checked back to find Polinsky talking rapidly on his mobile – a call, he suspected, instigated by his visit. But was it a call to Angele? Somehow he didn’t think so.

He made his way back to the security gate where he gave Bruno the thumbs-up. When he tried to return the journalist’s pass, Bruno waved it away.

‘Keep it. It’ll get you into all the best parties.’

As he left the Majestic’s grounds, he was passed by a big black limo, its occupants hidden behind smoked glass. Cheers of approbation met the car as it turned on to the Croisette. The screams grew louder as it approached the red carpet, rising to a crescendo as its occupants, a male and a female, climbed out and posed for photographers.

According to Camille this was the adulation her sister craved. Perhaps
The Black Pearl
would have propelled her towards Hollywood and that dream.

So why throw it all away by stealing from her benefactor?

Unless staying with Chapayev had proved a more frightening prospect than going. Patrick had yet to meet the Russian, but even from what little he knew of the man, he didn’t believe ditching him would have been easy.

He glanced out to the sleek black shape of the yacht in the bay. As he watched, a motorboat took off from its side and headed towards the shore.

A visit to the
Heavenly Princess
was a necessity and soon. He fingered the journalist’s pass clipped to his breast pocket. He could try out his new-found status as a movie journalist. If that didn’t get him on board, he had other ways at his disposal.

O
nce away from the Croisette, the crowds began to thin. Celebrities could be spotted further west in Le Suquet, but most fans simply hung around the red-carpet entrance to the Palais, unaware that the restaurants of the Rue Saint Antoine and the pizza restaurant by the old harbour were popular places for the famous to dine.

Patrick made his way along the harbour walkway, hoping the local dive boat wouldn’t be currently out on a trip, but its berth was empty. He would have to catch up with its proprietor Stephen later in the Irish bar.

Oscar lay asleep under the awning on the upper deck of the gunboat, his sleek tan body stretched out in the shape of a frog. Patrick gave a low whistle and Oscar dragged himself up, somewhat reluctantly, from his heat-induced snooze and awaited orders. When Patrick told him to ‘stay’, Oscar lay back down and went back to his slumbers.

Continuing along by the harbour, Patrick made for the curved bay of the Plages du Midi. At this time of day in May, it was normally populated by the members of Cannes’s elderly swim club, who took a dip whatever the time of year, whatever the weather. A few film festival delegates had swelled their numbers, looking worn and hot, and wishing they had brought the means to swim in their festival bags.

Patrick took off his shirt and sandals and left them in a pile near the water, then walked in far enough to perform a shallow dive before heading straight out of the bay. The end of June would see rafts anchored all along the coast, including here in the west bay, but for now only a few grey heads bobbed the water apart from his own.

A strong steady crawl took him to the first of a line of buoys in fifteen minutes. He trod water there, checking out his line of sight, estimating the
Heavenly Princess
to be up to an hour’s swim away, depending on the current.

He headed eastwards, keeping to the line of marker buoys that marked the edge of the shipping lane, before cutting directly across, keeping his eye out for motor boats. No one racing along the coast in a flurry of spray would be on the lookout for a lone swimmer outside the line of buoys, unless round a moored yacht.

As he neared the
Princess
, he spotted a few figures larking about in the water at her stern. From the various decks came the sound of laughter, music and voices. Regardless of the stolen pearl, the Russian’s guests were still partying. Patrick pulled himself on to the metal platform and sat there for a moment, as though he too was a guest who’d decided to take a swim to cool off.

He was joined almost immediately by a young woman, who stripped off her dress to reveal a pair of enhanced breasts and a tiny thong.

‘Is it cold?’ she asked, her eyes bright with alcohol, or some other substance.

‘Refreshing,’ Patrick assured her.

She poised, then dived, her slim brown body entering the water with barely a splash. He watched her surface a few metres away and join two men.

Patrick rose and climbed the metal steps. At the top, a waiter in a fitted white jacket and tight black trousers presented him with a tray of drinks. Patrick chose a champagne glass with a strawberry attached. Now he was one of them, he could take a look around.