The Case of the Black Pearl Read Online Free PDF Page A

supposed robbery.
    Five minutes later, Chapayev, dressed in a smart, lightweight suit, his ample girth structured by its good cut, appeared on the sky deck and was immediately surrounded by a swarm of women. Ignoring them, he gestured to a tall, heavyset man, also suited, and they moved towards the railing. As though by prior arrangement, the other occupants of the sky deck melted away, out of earshot.
    The Russian was imposing in the flesh. Big and ugly, he commanded your attention, just as the more famous movie stars drew your eyes when on screen. The man with him had the body and face of a heavyweight boxer, complete with broken nose.
    There followed an animated and disgruntled conversation which Patrick could neither hear nor lip-read, which involved a number of glances towards Fort Royal on the nearby island of Sainte Marguerite. He contemplated exiting the Jacuzzi and trying to get a little closer, but knew that that would only draw attention to himself. The short exchange over, Chapayev and the man moved towards the stairs, his guests parting before him like the Red Sea before Moses.
    Patrick climbed out of the Jacuzzi and followed.
    The reconnaissance did not last long. Chapayev made for the helipad and boarded a black helicopter with the letters VC on the side in red. The helicopter took off, heading, Patrick decided, for the landing at the rear of the Palais des Festivals.
    Patrick took his time making his way down through the yacht, memorizing the layout, becoming an inebriated French journalist if challenged. Most of the crew ignored him, although at one point the suited man from the sky deck took an unhealthy interest until Patrick feigned a bout of nausea, leaning over the railing, and making retching sounds to the consternation of those below.
    Having seen all he was able to gain access to, he checked his watch, then made his way back to the stern and negotiated the metal stairs to the dive platform. Any swimmers who had been there on his arrival had given up by now. The sun was on its way down and the warmth of the day was dissipating. Patrick sat for a moment on the dive platform, then slipped into the water, hopefully unheeded.
    Making his way round the stern, he emerged on the opposite side of the yacht. Before striking out across the bay, he took a last look for any signs of surveillance from the upper decks. Seeing that none of the figures clustered there seemed remotely interested in him, he set out for shore.
    This time the current was with him and he made good progress until he reached the mouth of the bay, where things became more difficult, the westerly flow seeking to carry him right past the entrance. Patrick stopped at the earlier buoy and trod water to regain his strength for the final lap to shore.
    He emerged on the beach to find it deserted, apart from a gang of teenagers mucking about up by the rocks. Patrick quickly dressed and headed for the promenade. Conscious of the time, he walked swiftly along the Vieux Port to find Oscar no longer on deck. He whistled, expecting the dog’s distinctive head to pop up and be followed by a rumbling bark of welcome.
    When the bulldog didn’t appear, Patrick pulled down the walkway and went on board, calling Oscar’s name. As he entered the cabin, he was immediately hit by a fragrant scent. A woman he presumed to be Marie Elise was seated on the leather couch, cradling Oscar, who regarded Patrick with a jaundiced and unwelcoming eye. At a whistle he managed finally to rouse himself and come over to greet his master, albeit reluctantly.
    ‘Marie Elise?’
    She stood up. Tall, with ebony skin, her hair was cropped short and sleek to her beautifully shaped head. He suddenly realized he had seen her before in Le Suquet, in the market perhaps or in one of the many restaurants. She stepped forward to greet him with the customary kiss on either cheek. Patrick, his face and body crusted with salt, felt at a distinct disadvantage.
    ‘I’m sorry, I seem to be a