Free The Case of the Black Pearl by Lin Anderson Page B

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.’
    Patrick pointedly reached for his wallet. ‘I’d like to take a look at his room,’ he said.
    She didn’t ask why but swiftly accepted the fifty euro note, slipped it somewhere among the black folds, checking over her shoulder as she did so. Shuffling out, she inserted a key in a nearby door, pushed it open and flicked on a light, before heading back to her own place.
    Patrick stepped inside and shut the door.
    The room was tiny, with scarcely space for the metal bed, single wardrobe and desk and chair that occupied it. On the wall was a calendar displaying super yachts available for hire. The address was a company with an office next to the Irish pub.
    Patrick went through the scarce contents of the wardrobe, checking trouser and shirt pockets, before pulling the wardrobe away from what proved to be a blank wall. There was nothing under the bed or in the desk drawer either. It didn’t take him long to realize he had paid dearly to view an empty room. Patrick wondered just how many visitors the landlady had scammed in their search for Leon.
    As he made to leave, the calendar caught his eye again. Patrick took it down and flipped through, and was finally rewarded. On the back of the May page he found a faintly scribbled phone number. He tore out the page and slipped