The Case of the Black Pearl Read Free

they sat with a modestly priced glass of local wine and watched disdainfully as the wealthier visitors passed by.
    Patrick departed the gunboat and, walking the length of the
quai
, entered Le Suquet via the Rue Antoine. Already six o’clock, the various restaurants that stretched from quayside to the square atop the hill were busy constructing their outside platforms, and perching tables to line the narrow cobbled thoroughfare.
    Le Zinc was also taking advantage of the increased traffic by claiming a corner of the Rue de la Misericorde, although its tables weren’t draped in snow-white linen and set with sparkling glassware, but rather were Formica topped and supplied with an ashtray, most of which were in use.
    At one such table sat Chevalier, a small glass of red wine, almost finished, before him. Catching his eye, Patrick gestured that he would fetch his friend a refill, and went inside.
    Veronique, the proprietress, stood behind the long zinc-topped counter that gave the café its name, muttering as she poured a glass of beer. Her words were unintelligible, but definitely annoyed. When she spotted Patrick she told him exactly what it was that had incensed her.
    Two tourists had bought fast food and, taking a seat at one of
her
tables, had proceeded to eat it. If they want a snack, she told him,
she
would provide it. Veronique gestured angrily to the small blackboard that advertised today’s offerings, among which featured the inimitable croque-monsieur.
    Patrick waited until she reached the end of her tirade, nodding in between at the righteousness of her wrath, then ordered a half carafe of house red and another glass. Veronique raised her shoulders indicating she would deal with him after the miscreants. Exiting behind her, Patrick saw Chevalier observing the ungracious delivery of the beer with an amused smile.
    ‘They will be lucky to leave with their lives,’ he pronounced, as Patrick took his seat.
    The tourists had got the message. They hastily drank their beers and vacated the table, finding refuge in the continuing stream of sightseers climbing the Rue Antoine. Veronique called something after them, which Patrick roughly translated as ‘good riddance’.
    When the wine arrived, via the now placated Veronique, Patrick topped up Le Chevalier’s glass, then filled his own. The two men took a moment to savour the wine. There was no hurry. Le Chevalier was well aware why Patrick had sought him out.
    The day had been warm for May, a notoriously fickle month in Cannes, when the sky could produce a sudden downpour as easily as rays of sunshine. Today the sun shone down from a clear blue sky. Le Chevalier wore his spring outfit of colourful shirt, dotted bow tie, smart jacket and trousers. With his smooth black hair and neat moustache he reminded Patrick of a modern version of Hercule Poirot, although Patrick doubted if the Belgian detective would ever have climbed aboard the magnificent Yamaha TMAX currently parked on the Rue de la Misericorde.
    Setting the glass on the table, Chevalier drew out a checked handkerchief from his top pocket and dabbed his moustache dry.
    ‘I take it Camille followed my advice and came to see you?’
    ‘She did,’ Patrick said.
    ‘And what did you think of Mademoiselle Ager?’
    Had it been anyone other than Chevalier, Patrick might have construed this as a subtle enquiry as to his visitor’s sexual desirability. Chevalier, however, was a perfect gentleman, who was only interested in other gentlemen, despite evidence to the contrary in the macho motorbike.
    ‘Intriguing,’ Patrick admitted. ‘And very worried about her missing half-sister.’
    Chevalier contemplated his response for a moment, before pouring himself another glass.
    ‘I suggest you talk to Brigitte. I believe one of her girls was also at the
Black Pearl
party.’
    This was welcome news.
    ‘A friend of Camille’s?’ Patrick asked.
    ‘I don’t believe so. Her name is Marie Elise.’
    ‘Is that her real