The Case of the Black Pearl (8 page)

Tied up now to the yacht, all three men climbed the metal stairs, Patrick keeping his head down, in case one of the crew should recognize him from his former excursion. Carrying the crates, they made their way to the galley, where they found François’s daughter, Monique, who didn’t resemble her father in the slightest. Her petite and curvaceous body encased in a fitted white jacket, her jet-black hair rolled into a knot, her lips painted bright red, she observed Patrick with interest.

Stephen, catching that look, introduced them.

‘Monique, Patrick de Courvoisier. The reason for our visit.’

Monique’s dark eyes glittered. ‘I’m intrigued, monsieur, but I should warn you my employer is not a man to cross.’

‘I’ll make sure we don’t meet,’ Patrick assured her.

She made a dismissive sound, then said, ‘The crew are having their meal at the moment. You have thirty minutes to take a look around before dinner is served in the stateroom.’

Patrick nodded his thanks, then indicated Stephen. ‘He stays here.’

Monique smiled. ‘I can always use an extra pair of hands.’

She handed Stephen an apron and pointed at a large pile of dishes and pots next to the sink. The Irishman’s expression was a picture. This wasn’t how he’d seen his night’s work.

For Patrick she had a waiter’s uniform. ‘Don’t serve anyone,’ she ordered.

Patrick had no time to thank her, as the chef was heard approaching the galley already shouting orders in bad French. François’s daughter made a dismissive sound.

‘And he thinks he can cook.
Salope!
’

Patrick swiftly removed himself and looked for a quiet place to don his jacket, eventually locating a laundry cupboard. A boat of this size needed a large crew, but it was common practice to hire locals to help out during the film festival, especially when entertaining on a lavish scale. If he kept a low profile, it shouldn’t be a problem to take a proper look around.

The layout mirrored most super yachts. On the lower deck the swimming pool lay at the stern, followed by five en-suite guest cabins, then the engine room amidships and the crew quarters. The first of the empty luxury cabins was being used by a large male, judging by the clothes. The next three Patrick found made up with sheets and towels, but were seemingly unoccupied. The final one he was sure had been Angele’s. The cupboards were full of clothes that looked to be her size. On the dressing table was a selection of make-up, perfumes and a jewellery box. Seeing her belongings made Angele seem suddenly more real than any discussion he’d had about her. It also increased his concern about her whereabouts.

On the bedside table was a photograph of Angele on the red carpet, a copy of the one Camille had given him. The fact that her belongings hadn’t been disposed of suggested Chapayev expected her to return. Either that or he was keeping up a pretence of it.

On the main deck were a salon, a stateroom, a dining room and the galley, together with what he assumed were Chapayev’s quarters, which were firmly locked. Patrick could hear the buzz of conversation coming from the second stateroom below the sky deck. When he reached there he found waiters putting the finishing touches to the dinner table, while the guests chatted in the open air.

The table was polished mahogany, the glasses cut crystal, sparking in the light of three candelabras. Four bottles of red wine, a rare Chateau Pétrus, stood uncorked and taking the air. The aroma from the galley promised the equivalent level of French cuisine, despite François’s daughter’s concerns.

Chapayev was sparing no expense on his guests, whoever they were.

Defying Monique’s instructions not to serve, Patrick acquired a tray of Kir Royal and carried it outside for a closer look at the assembled party. The atmosphere on deck was muted, the guests behaving much more sedately than those he’d encountered at the launch party. He suspected the important business of money, power and prestige was being discussed here.

The party stood around in small groups, with only three of the guests being women, who looked more like same-age partners than younger arm candy. There was a handsome black couple. The man was tall and dressed in a European suit, his wife more traditionally in a colourful robe and headdress that looked West African in origin. Passing them by, Patrick heard them speak French but with a definite accent.

The rest of the guests looked French. The women were chic, the men well groomed. As he hovered in the background, Patrick picked up a mix of French and English conversations, but recognized no one. If, as Stephen said, these were important people from Cannes, then they didn’t mix in the same company as himself.

Chapayev stood alone talking to a short, grey-haired man whose back was turned towards Patrick. As Patrick approached, the man turned. Almost immediately Patrick swiveled on his heel, to no avail.

‘
Garçon!
’

Too late now to heed Monique’s warning, he turned to face Lieutenant Martin Moreaux. Moreaux selected a glass and thanked him, the only sign of recognition being a delicately raised eyebrow. Patrick nodded, his face blank.

When Chapayev barked at him in Russian, asking for his name, Patrick feigned puzzlement and explained in French that he didn’t understand. He declared himself a Cannois, hired for the evening.

His explanation brought a hidden smile to Moreaux’s lips, but the detective didn’t out him.

Patrick retreated and quickly dispensed with the tray. Whoever he’d expected to find on the
Heavenly Princess
, it had not been Lieutenant Martin Moreaux. He removed the waiter’s jacket and headed for the galley, where Stephen eyed his arrival with undisguised relief.

Patrick nodded his thanks to Monique, who indicated she wanted to speak to him. She ushered them both into the corridor outside the galley.

In a low voice she told him, ‘The word is that the woman you’re looking for left the boat with the second chef, Leon Aubert.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course that could be kitchen gossip. They also say she took the black pearl with her when she went.’

‘Is that why Moreaux is here?’ Patrick said.

‘Lieutenant Moreaux?’ Stephen looked aghast.

By her expression, Monique hadn’t been aware of the detective’s visit. ‘I don’t know if he’s here because of the pearl, but I do know that our police lieutenant likes to move among the monied and you don’t get any more monied than Chapayev. I hear the fat Russian’s buying a villa in Cannes worth five million euros.’

There was a clang followed by an explosion of curses from the galley.

‘I’ll have to go. If I find out anything else, I’ll tell my father,’ Monique said.

She headed off, before turning back, having suddenly remembered something else.

‘Leon Aubert has a room somewhere in Le Suquet. You could check there.’

As the little fishing boat chugged away from the super yacht, Patrick thought he caught sight of Moreaux watching their departure from the upper deck. If the policeman had been unsure what Patrick was up to, he wasn’t any longer. The question was, why was a lieutenant in the Police Nationale being wined and dined on a Russian’s magnate’s yacht?

L
ieutenant Martin Moreaux and his wife, Michelle, lived in a large villa on a rocky promontory on the Estérel peninsula, ten minutes west of Cannes. It had a swimming pool in a walled garden with a wonderful view over the bay to the island of Sainte Marguerite.

Upmarket for a policeman, but rumour had it that Michelle’s family had money. Either that or Moreaux was earning over and above his police pay. If he was, Patrick had never been able to discover how, just as Moreaux had tried and failed to find out Patrick’s history.

Moreaux didn’t like him, that Patrick knew, but the detective had aided him on occasion, when it was to his advantage, and Patrick had returned the favour in full. He had hoped to keep Moreaux out of this job, but their meeting tonight on the
Heavenly Princess
had rendered that impossible.

His mind filled with such thoughts, Patrick turned down Stephen’s suggestion that they head for the Irish bar. He wanted time to think, and to eat. Neither would be possible in Stephen’s company, agog as the Irishman was over their trip to the black yacht.

Patrick murmured his thanks for Stephen’s help, ignored the disappointed look and headed into Le Suquet. The Rue Saint Antoine was packed, its cobbled route narrowed even further by the occupied tables set out on either side. Patrick didn’t bother checking the menus, most of them
gastronomique
, but continued to the top and into the square, where a row of small cafés and restaurants, serving the locals, overlooked a park and the local school.

Los Faroles was a favourite of his. It served excellent fresh food at lunchtime, mostly to locals, although an occasional tourist stumbled upon its menu. At night it operated only as a café-bar.

He skirted the outside tables, fully occupied by beer and wine drinkers, and entered the small space within, making for a corner table stacked with menus. Fritz, the current waiter, was German. A retired school teacher, he lived in a tiny studio flat in the nearby Rue Louis Perissol and was currently writing a history of Le Suquet. When he saw Patrick he came over to him.

‘Whatever you have left over from lunchtime,’ Patrick pleaded.

Fritz nodded. ‘Keep an eye on the outside while I fix it.’

Fritz slipped behind the kitchen counter and Patrick heard the hiss of the gas. He headed outside to fulfil his duties. One of the beer drinkers, a very large man dressed in a light suit and Panama hat, asked for two more beers in bad French. His companion was much younger and dressed in a similar fashion to the
Black Pearl
producer, in long shorts and T-shirt.

Patrick removed their empty glasses and brought replenished ones and another bowl of potato chips. As he turned back inside, a couple strolled past to sit at a table at the top restaurant on Rue Saint Antoine.

Marie Elise looked stunning in a long pink dress that revealed her shapely shoulders. Her companion was a tall handsome man with white-blond hair. The contrast in colouring was drawing admiring glances from everyone, including the beer drinkers he’d just served. Marie Elise didn’t appear to notice. She had eyes only for her companion, chatting easily to him in Swedish.

Patrick stepped quickly inside.

He was spared working out why he didn’t want to be seen when Fritz gestured to a plate of eggs and sautéed potatoes on the corner table. Patrick gave him the thumbs-up and set to work on it. Eating wasn’t the only reason he had come here tonight, however. Fritz was an authority on current residents of Le Suquet, both itinerant and long established.

Patrick got his chance to ask about Leon Aubert fifteen minutes later when Fritz announced he was closing. The surprised clientele, used to late-night Cannes, looked somewhat bemused as Fritz stacked chairs around them. Finally persuaded that he was indeed closing, they headed off to find an alternative drinking establishment.

Patrick rinsed glasses while Fritz secured the metal shutter. As it descended, so too did the noise of Cannes.

Fritz waved a bottle of cognac in Patrick’s direction. ‘You have time for a drink?’

Patrick nodded. ‘I have something I wanted to ask you.’

‘I suspected as much.’

Fritz put two tumblers on the table and poured a generous measure in each glass. He sniffed his and gave a small satisfied smile before sampling.

‘A Camus,’ he informed Patrick. ‘Good.’

Patrick gave Fritz time to savour his cognac, before offering him the name Leon Aubert. Anger instantly suffused his face and he muttered a curse which Patrick translated as ‘a walking piece of shit’.

‘He came here looking for a job. Said he could cook. Lasted a week. When he went, we were missing at least a dozen bottles of good wine. I wanted to contact the police but He would have none of it. (He being the boss and owner of Los Faroles.) I went to his room on Rue du Pre. His landlady said he had a job cooking on a yacht in the harbour. God help them.’ Fritz rolled his eyes.

‘Monique Girard says Leon didn’t turn up for work the other night,’ Patrick said. ‘That’s why she’s helping out on the black yacht.’

Fritz considered this. ‘Did the owner find something missing?’

When Patrick didn’t answer, Fritz said, ‘What did he take?’

Patrick contemplated what, if anything, he should divulge. He didn’t know for certain that the black pearl was missing. And he had no proof that Leon Aubert had anything to do with its possible disappearance.

Fritz accepted his reticence. ‘The old woman he rents from said he had a girlfriend. Sylvie or Sophie, something like that. She works at the Crystal Bar. You could ask her where Leon is.’

Patrick nodded his thanks and finished up his cognac.

They exited the café together. When Fritz headed up the steps towards La Castre, Patrick took a left, but not before he checked out if Marie Elise and her companion were still at dinner.

The blond and dark heads had disappeared, replaced by two men with festival badges hanging round their necks. Patrick chose not to surmise where Marie had gone, and what she might now be doing. He cursed himself for not getting in touch with her sooner, and vowed to do so as soon as he met up with Chevalier again.

Rue du Pre was deserted. Few visitors ventured over the hill, not realizing they could access the western beachfront by walking down the backstreets of Le Suquet. Here, the late-night grocery shops and fast-food restaurants catered mainly for local inhabitants, many of them Algerians or itinerant workers from other African countries.

Leon’s room was in a block at the foot of the street where it met the busier carriageway of Rue Georges Clémenceau. Patrick rang the buzzer and an elderly female voice answered. When Patrick said he was there to see Leon Aubert, she let him in.

She was waiting for him at an open door on the first floor. Behind the short rotund figure swathed in black, he could see the flash of a television set with an accompanying rattle of words in Arabic.

The woman peered at him through wrinkled folds. ‘He’s not here. Hasn’t been for two weeks and he owes rent.’