The Case of the Black Pearl (7 page)

‘It was from her phone,’ she answered sharply, as though she didn’t want him to throw doubt on this.

‘So what would you like me to do?’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘I have found my sister. There is no longer need for concern.’

Patrick wanted to ask about the pearl, but didn’t think it appropriate at this time.

‘I’m happy to return the advance,’ he offered.

‘That won’t be necessary.’ She rose. ‘I have to go, I’m afraid.’

Chevalier looked perplexed. ‘You won’t have lunch?’

Camille apologized. ‘We are so busy with the festival. Movie stars always want to buy diamonds. A girl’s best friend,’ she added.

It seemed to Patrick she was merely keen to get away.

‘So.’ Le Chevalier sighed at the image of Camille disappearing into the passing crowd. ‘We men must eat alone.’

When they entered Le Pistou, the average age decreased by at least fifteen years. Among the present company, Chevalier looked young, Patrick a mere slip of a boy. Le Pistou served excellent French cuisine and the discerning and more mature population of Cannes knew it. The restaurant on Félix Faure, so handy for the Palais, was not a natural choice of those attending the film festival. One glance inside would dissuade even those attracted by the menu. No obvious movie stars, directors or their eager followers sat at the pristine tables. Only those who understood and appreciated good French food.

Chevalier immediately headed for a table with a reserved sign on it. As they took their seats, Henri arrived with the pre-ordered aperitifs. Two glasses of Kir Royal.

‘You are, for the purpose of this meal, Camille Ager,’ Chevalier informed him.

Patrick was fine with that. He wanted to know more about Madamoiselle Ager, despite the fact she’d just sacked him. What she chose to eat would be a start.

The wine arrived shortly after. A half bottle of something Chevalier and the waiter discussed in reverential tones. This was soon followed by a
carafe d’eau
and the first course.

Patrick was aware that trying to discuss the recent events – in fact, anything about Camille – with Chevalier would have to wait until coffee. Chevalier took his food seriously. Patrick would be permitted to introduce a topic of conversation between courses, if time allowed. Otherwise he would have to wait.

There was little chance until coffee was served. One course followed the other, was savoured and pronounced delicious. Chevalier dabbed his moustache between times, his comments to Henri when his plate was removed were carefully considered, even if a little critical at times. By Henri’s reaction, anything Chevalier said about food was obviously worth listening to.

When the coffee arrived, Chevalier sat back in his chair contentedly, then spoke.

‘You must not stop looking for this girl, whatever Camille says.’

Patrick stirred his espresso for no other reason than to watch it circulate the tiny cup. He had felt the same himself. Something was wrong. It had been wrong on the black yacht. Wrong when a disemboweled rabbit had been deposited on his dining table. Wrong when Camille said she’d heard from her sister.

‘Camille owns Bijou Magique.’ Chevalier referred to a jeweller’s shop on Rue d’Antibes.
And therefore can afford you
, he left unsaid. Chevalier observed Patrick with an open look. ‘Why did you not believe her when she said her sister had been in touch?’

‘Anyone can send a text. And the producer of
The Black Pearl
spun me the same story and he made it up on the spot.’

A shadow crossed Chevalier’s face. ‘What about Lieutenant Moreaux?’

‘He won’t appear unless we find a body.’

Chevalier considered that. ‘You truly believe there’s a chance Angele may be dead?’

Patrick had a sudden image of Angele underwater, no bubbles rising from her mouth. ‘I hope not.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I must leave. I have a movie to watch.’

When he offered to contribute his share of the bill, Chevalier waved it away. ‘Mademoiselle Ager paid in advance. I will leave an appropriate tip.’

Les Arcades was a few minutes’ walk east from the restaurant. Unlike UK cinemas, Les Arcades did not exist for the purpose of selling its clientele large quantities of Coca-Cola, hot dogs and popcorn. They also didn’t run adverts prior to the film. The showing time was exactly that. Hence, Patrick was summarily ejected for being ten minutes early. He took himself into a nearby café and had another shot of caffeine, using the time to check his messages and to put a call through to Lieutenant Martin Moreaux of the Police Nationale.

There was a moment in which Patrick imagined the policeman studying his name on the screen and deciding whether he wished to speak to his nemesis or not. Moreaux and he had been involved in a number of cases together, not through desire, but necessity. Moreaux had found himself in the position of needing Patrick’s help on occasion, which the detective had disliked intensely. The feeling was mutual.

‘Monsieur de Courvoisier.’ The voice was clipped, the manner uninviting. ‘How can I help you?’

Five minutes later, Patrick had established that Moreaux knew nothing of a missing starlet and did not wish to know. As far as he was concerned the rich came and went during the film festival. What problems they generated while in Cannes they could take with them when they left.

Patrick rang off, confident that no body had been discovered in the harbour, or washed ashore along the Côte d’Azur. However, he had alerted Moreaux. Patrick had been discreet, talking about drunken starlets disappearing for a few hours, but Moreaux was no fool.

It wasn’t what Patrick had said, but what he’d omitted to say. He’d kept Chapayev’s name out of the discussion, talking about a minor actress in a minor film whose sister was looking for her. He had not fooled Moreaux. The short, suave, iron-haired lieutenant would already be checking with his sources. Cannes and Le Suquet were his patch and nothing much passed him by.

Before he rang off, Moreaux asked after Oscar.

‘He’s well, thank you,’ Patrick said.

Oscar was the only thing Moreaux approved of with regard to Patrick, mainly because he was involved in the dog’s origins. His wife Michelle bred French bulldogs and Oscar had come from one of the litters.

Martin Moreaux and his wife had been wed for thirty years, although for many of those years, according to Chevalier, the couple had indulged in other relationships. Michelle was currently playing the role of cougar to a twenty-four-year-old chef on a cruising yacht, while Moreaux had been seen with Madame Lacroix in the courtesy bar of Le Cavendish, a classy boutique hotel adjacent to the police station.

The fact that a serving police lieutenant was a ‘friend’ of a Madame, however upmarket her business, didn’t seem to worry Chevalier, or anyone else for that matter.

Patrick paid for his coffee and entered the cinema. This time he was given a ticket and offered a pair of 3D spectacles. Apparently the underwater scenes were better if he donned them. Looking at Angele Valette in 3D didn’t seem a big cross to bear. The blurb in the foyer read like the producer’s T-shirt.
The Black Pearl – A Movie to Die For.
Patrick hoped that wasn’t true in reality.

The cinema was three-quarters full, which wasn’t bad for an indie movie showing at Cannes. Les Arcades didn’t show trailers, neither during or outwith the festival. Patrick settled himself two rows from the back as the lights dimmed.

The movie opened with a stunning shot of a small fishing craft chugging through the blue waters of the Mediterranean. In the background was a deserted beach, with a backdrop of the blood-red Estérel Mountains. As the camera moved in, Patrick recognized Conor Musso as the young fisherman. As he retrieved his lobster pot, he caught sight of something on the shore. He took the boat closer, realized what it was and jumped into the water, swimming powerfully towards what was undoubtedly the figure of Angele, half-drowned and naked, apart from the black pearl hanging around her neck.

Regaining consciousness, Angele could not remember who she was, or how she had come to be there. Cared for by the fisherman, who became her lover, she was haunted by dreams of what may have happened in the past. One such dream featured the underwater scene Patrick had viewed on the DVD. Then a large black yacht appeared offshore and two men came in search of her. Terrified, she begged Conor to hide her. The two escaped into the mountains, but those who wanted both Angele and the pearl back had no intention of giving either of them up.

One hour and fifty minutes later, Patrick emerged with the feeling that what he’d said to Polinsky had been entirely true, despite having made it up. Angele had turned
The Black Pearl
into a highly saleable international commodity. The movie might also make Angele into a star.

He checked his watch before heading for Rue d’Antibes and Camille’s place of work. Having now seen the film, Patrick was convinced that Angele, desperate to be a movie star, would not have disappeared by choice. By rights she should be giving countless interviews to promote the film and herself.
The Black Pearl
was her big chance and Patrick just didn’t buy the idea that Angele would willingly pass it up. Not even for a possible mythical theatre job in Paris.

Five minutes later he stood outside Bijou Magique, which proved to be small, discreet and very classy. The current colour scheme of the window displays was lavender with a backdrop of Provençal artwork. One window housed the diamond collection, unobtrusive and expensive. The second window held a more avant-garde collection of pink-clouded stones in a variety of settings – intricate gold and copper bracelets, and a pair of unusual rings that immediately caught his eye. One was gold, the other silver, each setting resembling an ancient coin. The silver displayed a sky with a half moon and a single star; the gold a bright sun. Evidently designed for a match made in heaven.

As Patrick appeared, a young woman emerged from the back as though on cue. Patrick enquired if Mademoiselle Ager was available. The young woman gave him a steely eyed stare and asked who he was. Patrick offered his correct name and wondered by the flicker of recognition if she had been warned he might turn up.

‘Mademoiselle Ager has gone to Paris to see her sister.’

‘When do you expect her back?’

The young woman shrugged. ‘She did not say, monsieur.’

Patrick thanked her with a warm smile which wasn’t returned, then exited, immediately heading round the corner to the Rue Buttura to glance in through the window. The young woman was engaged in a rapid mobile phone conversation, the words of which he couldn’t decipher, but he was pretty sure it was about his visit.

He left her to it and headed back towards Le Suquet. He had been discharged by Camille Ager and therefore had no reason to pursue the matter any further, yet he, like Chevalier, was concerned enough not to let it go.

He took out the photograph of Angele given him by Camille. Both women were beautiful, but they did not resemble one another in the slightest. That wasn’t unusual when people shared only one parent. There could of course be an entirely different explanation. One that he hadn’t considered until that moment. What if Angele Valette did not in fact have a half-sister?

If that was the case, what was Camille Ager’s role in all of this?

A
second and more worrying thought occurred to Patrick as he walked back to the boat. What if Camille was working for Chapayev? What better way to find out the whereabouts of the missing starlet – and more importantly the pearl – than for Chapayev to send Camille to Le Limier and have her profess fear for her sister?

If Chapayev had managed to locate Angele himself, then he, Patrick, was no longer required. Hence the true reason why Camille had dismissed him.

Patrick didn’t like any of the possibilities that were presenting themselves, but the last thing he believed was that Angele was auditioning in Paris.

Reaching the
quai
, he ducked under the barrier at the fishermen’s zone, where a line of six small boats, each uniquely numbered but unnamed, were tied up. Stephen and a fisherman Patrick recognized as François Girard sat enjoying a pastis under an awning. Beside them a crate held the catch of the day, which was headed for the black yacht’s kitchens and tonight’s dinner party. It seemed sea bass and langoustines were on the menu.

Stephen invited Patrick to join him and, finding another glass, poured him a pastis, while François loaded the crates.

‘I want to come with you,’ Stephen said in a low voice.

‘I prefer to go alone.’

‘Come on, Patrick. I promise I’ll stay in the kitchen while you take your look round.’

Patrick finally succumbed to the Irishman’s pleading look and nodded. Stephen was generally good in a crisis and had a fierce left hook, but Patrick suspected that the Russian contingent might offer an altogether different level of violence.

‘You’ll stay in the kitchen,’ he ordered.

‘Scout’s honour,’ Stephen said solemnly.

‘You were never in the Scouts.’

François, or Posidonie as he was known locally, his beard resembling the tendrils of sea grass prevalent in the bay, said nothing as he directed the small blue fishing craft out of the harbour. Meanwhile Stephen supplied a few more details.

‘His daughter is helping the onboard cook. The second in command in the kitchen was sacked the night of the launch party,’ he told Patrick.

‘Do we know why?’

‘He didn’t turn up for work.’

Leaving the bustling harbour behind, they chugged out into open water. Behind them, dusk was bathing Cannes in a warm rosy glow. Ahead, the upper decks of the
Heavenly Princess
were a blaze of coloured lights, although the sound of voices was at a much lower level than on Patrick’s previous visit.

‘François says the dinner party is only for twelve. None of them film people.’

That was interesting. ‘Who then?’ Patrick asked.

Stephen made a superior face. ‘Important people from Cannes.’

That could mean many things. Local dignitaries. Prominent businessmen. The rich who had their exclusive villas in Super Cannes or Californie.