The Case of the Black Pearl by Lin Anderson Read Free Book Online

the larger human kind. He saw a body lying on snow, turning the white to red. The face wore a grin, or was it a grimace? Drawing closer, Patrick recognized his own face in death.
    He woke, gasping for breath as he always did when the nightmare revisited him. Annoyed with himself he rose, bathed in sweat, and went back out on deck.
    This was the time he liked best. Too late for the night-time revellers, too early even for the fishermen or the marketeers. Le Suquet slumbered amid its maze of secret alleys and passages, intricately layered buildings with red-topped roofs that clung to the hill, climbing ever upward until they reached the castle.
    Patrick had no love for the modern Cannes that stretched eastwards along the bay, nor for the elegance of the Croisette’s manicured palm trees and flower displays. He preferred the Saracen town where life had begun. He loved the old town’s resilience and the prickly nature of its inhabitants. Which is why he’d ended up on a French gunboat in Le Vieux Port. Oscar, hearing him come back on deck, had deigned to join him, despite the late hour.
    The sound of an argument punctured the late-night serenity, causing Oscar to give a warning growl. Patrick identified a man and a woman on a nearby balcony, overlooking Place Massuque, their French as rapid and incisive as gunfire. Eventually they ceased and went inside and silence descended again. Patrick directed his gaze out to sea. From here he could just make out a row of lights he identified as belonging to the
Heavenly Princess.
    He had been right to think, when he spotted Camille Ager on the
quai
, that she was bringing trouble his way. He relished that feeling again, his skin prickling, the scent of rabbit’s blood in his nostrils.
    The sun rose just after six. Patrick stirred from his shallow sleep and went to fetch his dive suit from the engine room. He had his own air tanks, but in this instance he would make use of Stephen’s supply. It was a short walk along a deserted
quai.
The occupants of the neighbouring motor yachts were fast asleep; the local fishing boats,
les pointus
, already departed.
    Stephen was on deck. ‘I have to be back for a class at nine thirty,’ he reminded Patrick.
    ‘No problem.’
    The heavy, flat-bottomed boat chugged out of the harbour, wetsuits swaying on the overhead rail. Colm appeared from below with a flask of coffee, its strong aroma sharpening Patrick’s senses as he poured out two cups. The Irishman’s face looked less fiery in the dawn light, but he was as reticent as ever. Last night Patrick had assumed Colm had been unable to get a word in edgeways. Now it looked as though he was naturally taciturn, or only half awake. Or maybe he preferred to commit all his fine words to paper.
    The sea appeared flat calm until they crossed the line of buoys where it began to exhibit a long, slow swell. The
Diving Belle
, by the nature of her hull, was an uncomfortable boat if you suffered from seasickness. Patrick had watched some of Stephen’s tourist divers go green as they exited the harbour. Once in the calmer waters between Sainte Marguerite and Saint Honorat they usually rallied and, embarrassed by their display of weakness, tried to make up for it by taking chances underwater, much to Stephen’s irritation.
    They were fast approaching the
Heavenly Princess.
The decks were empty, the partygoers sleeping off their excesses of the night before. Through binoculars, Patrick could make out a few crew members moving about, no doubt clearing up the mess. No one seemed interested in the battered dive boat making its way sedately past.
    Patrick joined Stephen at the wheel.
    ‘How far do you want to go?’ Stephen asked.
    ‘She was anchored closer to the island for the launch party. A scene from the film was shot at the fort. They wanted that as a backdrop.’ Patrick recalled Chapayev’s studied gaze in that direction, when he’d been aboard the black yacht the day before. Both the Russian and his