by Michael Bond
At least the Director was back in Paris by now. A second telephone call had confirmed his arrival there in the early hours of that morning.
Any hopes Monsieur Pamplemousse might have entertained about losing the coach in Fontvieille were quickly dashed. As they approached some traffic lights in the centre of the village the driver signalled a left turn. Monsieur Pamplemousse followed suit. Small faces gazed out of the rear window at Pommes Frites as they were tailed up a long pine-shaded avenue leading out of the village and on to the D33, then left again into a vast and crowded car park. There they waved goodbye as the coach peeled off and disappeared in a cloud of dust.
The picture in the guidebook which accompanied the description of the windmill where Alphonse Daudet was reputed to have drawn the inspiration for his stories showed a circular stone building with a black pointed roof standing in splendid isolation on top of a small hill to the south of the village. A cypress tree framed the left side of the picture, whilst a solitary goat to its right directed the viewer’s eye towards the great wooden sails of the mill itself. The tips of two small patches of white cloud in the top corners of the picture added symmetry, breaking up an otherwise azure blue sky. There was not a human being in sight. It was a peaceful scene, one which any writer would have yearned for. An ideal spot for a lover’s meeting.
As Monsieur Pamplemousse drew in between two coaches, one taking on a load of old-age pensioners, the other in the act of filling the vacuum left by the departure of another, it struck him that the guidebook’s picture was either a very old photograph or whoever was responsible had been singularly fortunate in his choice of days. There were people as far as the eye could see, people preparing for a picnic, people playing games, people taking pictures of other people. The hill on which the windmill stood was alive with antlike figures. There was no sign of the goat. It must have long since given up in disgust.
Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to follow its example. Without even bothering to get out of his car, he bade farewell to the Moulin de Daudet and headed back the way they had come, resolutely turning left in the village on to the road to Arles.
Despite his momentary disappointment, it was what detection was all about; the piecing together of unrelated scraps of information – discarding one, picking up another, like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. Completing the final picture was often a matter of trial and error. That and painstaking application. If the ticket stubs to the Cathédrale had turned up trumps there was always a possibility one of the other clues might do likewise.
A member of an animal rights group was holding forth on the radio, speaking on behalf of the South East Asian civet, prized for its overpowering odour of narcissus and much used by the perfume industry as a fixer and blender, but when questioned about Brother Angelo’s disappearance he denied all knowledge.
A flower grower from Grasse declared that even if it wasn’t the Second Coming, it was still an act of God. Revenge on the profiteers in Paris who kept forcing down prices and depriving people of their livelihood.
Arles was stiflingly hot and the traffic was at a standstill. It was a classic man-made bottleneck. Posters advertised a week’s programme of bullfighting, which couldn’t help matters. The city looked full of sightseers. Cafés and restaurants lining the main through-road were already crowded. The holiday season was well underway.
A little way out of Arles he turned off the main road in order to make a detour round the Étang de Vaccarès.
The Camargue was as he remembered it – vast and flat; all 800 square kilometres of it. Driving past beds of reeds and rushes, he could already taste the salt in the air. There were pine trees shaped like parasols, acres of furze bushes, and rice fields everywhere; it was the big new industry. Thick cypress hedges acted as windbreaks. Promenades à Cheval signs proliferated; so much for the famous wild horses.
They passed a little cottage with a wooden sabot hanging by the front door. In the old days it would have been ready to receive an anonymous token of friendship from any passer-by who felt so inclined – an egg, a posy of flowers, an orange; now it had most likely been put there simply as a tourist attraction. There were roses in the garden, growing to a height undreamed of further north.
Discounting all the wild theories on the radio, the inescapable fact was that Ron Pickles, alias Brother Angelo, had disappeared without trace. The more he thought about it, the more he went over his conversation with Beaseley, which had helped crystallise his own thoughts, the more he felt sure he was right. Apart from Beaseley, he had passed on his suspicions to no one. But knowing something deep down inside was a world away from proving it to be true.
The vast Étang came into view. It wasn’t hard to imagine the furore the film company must have caused when they turned up intending to part it. At certain times of the year they might have got more than they bargained for. According to the guidebook, waves could reach a height of a metre or more.
He spotted a whitewashed, thatched gardien’s cabane nestling amongst some tamarisk trees. Built with a rounded rear and a tiny opening at the front to provide shelter from the Mistral, it would be equipped with a fireplace and everything needed to hold out for days at a time. In theory it would be an ideal hiding place for anyone on the run, but in practice the reverse would almost certainly be true. The Camargue was still a relatively unpopulated area. Anything the slightest bit out of the ordinary would be spotted immediately.
A brick-red patch in the water resolved itself into a group of flamingoes. One leg tucked beneath their plumage, they stood erect on their remaining limb as they busied themselves over an early lunch. Beaks plunged deep into the mud in search of worms and insect larvae and whatever else of interest might be lurking beneath the surface.
Monsieur Pamplemousse brought his attention back to Ron’s disappearance. He had lain awake most of the night turning the problem over and over in his mind. It seemed to him that Beaseley’s theory of cherchez la femme was the most likely. Ron must have had an accomplice and given his reputation it was more than likely to be female.
It certainly wasn’t his agent. He was going around giving a passable imitation of the man who had lost the goose that laid the golden egg, and his fears sounded genuine.
And if Ron had fled the Cathédrale, where would he have gone to? Presumably somewhere not very far away. He’d left it too late to try and leave the country – at least for the time being. From all the coverage he had received everybody would be on the lookout for him.
If that were the case, then it would need to be somewhere pre-planned where he could meet up with his girl Friday when the coast was clear.
Daudet’s windmill had been a disappointment, that he had to admit. Browsing through the guidebook at three o’clock in the morning it had looked an ideal rendezvous for a romantic meeting.
A buzzard on a reconnaissance mission flew high overhead, keeping a watchful eye on the passing scene. The flamingoes took to the air in a perfect V-formation.
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at his watch, wondering if he had time to stop and take a picture, but it was gone eleven-thirty. By rights they should be in Les Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer.
At least they were making better time than Van Gogh. One June day in 1889 it had taken the painter five hours to make the journey by diligence from Arles. Including stops, Monsieur Pamplemousse in his Deux Chevaux had taken just under an hour. There was one great difference. After his journey Van Gogh was able to write to his brother, ‘I walked one night along the deserted beach by the sea … It was beautiful.’
The pleasure of walking along a deserted beach was one which they were clearly not destined to share. Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank as he caught sight of an arrow pointing to an out-of-town car park. Ignoring the sign, he took a chance and followed one marked Centre Ville. Luck was with him. He found an empty space on a pedestrian crossing, and from there fought his way down towards the sea front and the old fortified church, built to commemorate the landing of Mary Magdalene after she
had been cast adrift from the Holy Land. It was number two on his itinerary.
Place de l’Église was full of gypsies; the girls, dark-eyed and proud, pushed their way in front of the passers-by, almost daring them on pain of unmentionable future disasters to say no to having their fortune told. Any one of them, hearing his story, would probably have told him he was wasting his time. Anywhere less suitable for a clandestine meeting would be hard to imagine. He left Pommes Frites to wait while he went inside the church.
The one-franc coin Michelin advised him to have ready to feed into a coin operated light switch was redundant. The church was packed. There was nothing for it but to join the shuffling crowd of half-naked sightseers waving their video cameras to and fro like so many hosepipes.
It was hard to tell what they were thinking: a pause to see the fresh water well inside the nave at the far end, down into the crypt for a momentary glimpse of the statue of Sarah, patron saint of the gypsies, up again past a side altar with its model of the legendary boat, and suddenly he was outside again, inexorably ejected like the cork from a champagne bottle.
Pommes Frites had a faraway look in his eyes. He could have been dreaming once again of a penthouse kennel in Beverly Hills, or shopping at Cartier for a diamond encrusted collar. Monsieur Pamplemousse gave him a consoling pat. Mary Magdalene would have sympathised. She would have turned round and gone straight back to Palestine. Although in truth Pomme Frites’ preoccupation had more to do with a gnawing feeling in his stomach than with his immediate surroundings.
The Cinema Le Camargue down by the harbour was showing an old Von Strudel film. A children’s carousel on the other side of the road was doing a better trade.
It was as they were making their way slowly back to the car along an avenue Frédéric Mistral awash with souvenir shops, bars, cafés and restaurants, that Monsieur Pamplemousse remembered the matchbox he’d been carrying in his pocket. There was no point in leaving Les Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer without exploring all the possibilities.
Le Croissant d’Or turned out to be a Chinese restaurant. It was a card of sorts, but not exactly the one he’d been expecting. Hardly the ace of trumps.
After the blinding sunlight, the inside looked distinctly gloomy. Even the bamboo had been painted black. A bead curtain made of old Coca Cola crown tops separated the kitchen from the main eating area. An unseen loudspeaker was emitting strains of what sounded like an oriental version for Chinese wood block and crash cymbals of ‘I Did it My Way’.
Monsieur Pamplemousse chose a pavement table. Perhaps Ron, brought up on a diet of Chinese take aways in his native Sheffield, had been drawn to the restaurant on a wave of nostalgia – or desperation. He was beginning to feel that way himself.
Pommes Frites eyed his bowl of bean-shoots with a look of distaste bordering on downright suspicion; aware perhaps, with that extrasensory perception given to canines, that in other circumstances, in other climes, he might well have found himself featuring on the menu as an integral part of lunch ‘C’ – (six personnes min.). It was not what he’d had in mind while he’d been waiting outside the church.
Lunch was a hurried affair – the Chinese habit of bringing everything at once was not without its merits, but even so, by the time they had finished the restaurant was full. Monsieur Pamplemousse called for l’addition and mentally crossed it off his list.
Leaving Les Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer by a back road, he headed for the car ferry near the mouth of the Rhône. It would be better than driving back to Arles and risking getting snarled up in the traffic again.
It was not the best idea he had ever had. There was a long queue of like-minded drivers for the double-ended, drive on drive off boat, and it was late afternoon before they eventually arrived at their last port of call. Set high up in the steep northern face of La Sainte-Baume Massif, it was the cave where Mary Magdalene was reputed to have spent her last thirty-three years, and the one remaining place marked in Ron’s guidebook.
As he parked his car, Monsieur Pamplemousse recognised the coach he’d followed into Fontvieille earlier in the day.
From where he stood it was impossible to see beyond the first hundred metres or so of the stony path which led up to the cave. It disappeared into a forest of huge trees – beech and lime and maple – rising majestically out of an undergrowth thick with holly and ivy.
He consulted Michelin. They quoted an hour on foot there and back. Another way of putting it was more likely to be an upward trudge of three quarters of an hour plus fifteen minutes to come back down again.
Glad of a chance to stretch his legs, Pommes Frites ran on ahead as they set off up the path. The first of the kamikaze mosquitos arrived almost at once. They were followed by a swarm of madly persistent flies. Halfway up they met an old lady sitting on a rock, awaiting the return of her family who were making the final assault. Monsieur Pamplemousse was sorely tempted to join her. Pommes Frites paused long enough to slake his thirst from a fresh water spring.
The path began doubling back on itself concertina fashion. Voices assailed them from all sides as school-teachers dressed in suitable shorts led their chattering flocks on what was probably an oft-repeated end-of-term outing.
Steps carved into the sheer rockface came into view, followed by a door leading to the Sanctuary. There were signs asking for silence; others were marked NO FLASH and CHIENS INTERDITS. None were having much effect.
Predictably, it was a repeat of everything that had gone before. The inside of the vast semi-circular cave was packed with visitors. It was cold and it looked as though it was permanently wet. The only dry place visible in the flickering light from the candles was in a cavity behind the altar. It contained a recumbent statue commemorating the thirty-three years Mary Magdalene had spent there in solitude.
Monsieur Pamplemousse paid his respects and left. Ignoring a souvenir shop run by the Dominicans, he rejoined Pommes Frites on the balcony. The view from a thousand metres up was magnificent; the mountains in the far distance had a mauve haze from the fields of lavender. But he wasn’t there for the view.
As an exercise in detection it had been a total disaster. In truth, romantic notions arrived at under cover of darkness seldom lived up to their promise next day. A feeling of dejection came over Monsieur Pamplemousse as he made his way down the steps, past a bronze Calvary and out through the gate to begin their downward trek. It had been a totally wasted expedition.
Taking it slowly to avoid catching up with a crowd of schoolchildren, he found himself wondering how the Director was getting on.
‘As well as could be expected,’ according to the Sister. That probably meant he was feeling sorry for himself. If he knew he’d been the innocent victim of a practical joke he would have felt even more upset. Or was it a joke? One of Von Strudel’s ‘bugginks’. Swapping two name boards might have been someone’s idea of a bit of harmless fun. Moving four around was taking a joke a little too far. Six smacked of some deeper reason.
At least his chief was safely tucked up in a mosquito-free bed. He didn’t know how lucky he was.
Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly felt cut off from things. Paris seemed a long way away, remote and eminently desirable, even though half the population would have fled to the sea.
Perhaps by the time he and Pommes Frites got back to Les Baux there would be some news. Ron might even have reappeared. Maybe it was all a publicity stunt; a gigantic Bible-inspired hoax. If that were so his time in hiding must be almost up.
Alone in his trailer, the memory of his night-time visitor still disturbingly fresh in his mind, it had been all too easy to arrive at a romantic answer. Beaseley would have embroidered it in cinematic terms; music reaching a climax as the two lovers walked towards each other in long shot before meeting in a passionate embrace. Cut to BCU. Hold for the final chords. Dissolve. Credits superimposed over a shot of the windmill.
Monsieur Pamplemousse stopped dead in his tracks as he realised there was a fatal flaw in his reasoning. He was allowing
his heart to rule his head.
The girl who had entered Brother Angelo’s trailer the night he was there must have been a regular visitor. She’d had a key and she knew her way around in the dark. Presumably she hadn’t even bothered checking the name on the door. What was more, she hadn’t been at all taken aback to find the bed occupied. Her immediate reaction had been one of pleasurable surprise rather than shock – her clothes had been discarded and she had climbed into bed without a second’s hesitation – until she realised all too late the occupant wasn’t who she’d expected it to be, when she’d fled like a frightened rabbit. The inescapable conclusion was that it must have been someone who was not only on intimate terms with Brother Angelo, but knew he was still in the area; hence the lack of surprise at finding him there.
If that were so, lovers’ trysts as such were probably the last thing on their minds. Whoever it was would most likely stay put until the unit broke up rather than arouse suspicion.
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s feeling of depression mounted as he and Pommes Frites climbed into his car and they set off on the homeward journey. Depression combined with a vague feeling of unease that was hard to rationalise.
The news on the radio was mostly about traffic jams, and even via the autoroute, dusk was already gathering by the time they reached Les Baux and checked in at the gate. Monsieur Pamplemousse drove straight to his quarters, parked the car, and did what he should have done at the beginning of the day; what he certainly would have done had his mind not been full of romantic notions. He took the screwdriver out of a drawer where he had left it and offered it to Pommes Frites. Pommes Frites gave the handle a thoughtful sniff, registered the information and fed it into his computer. Recognition dawned almost immediately. He looked enquiringly at his master.
‘So?’ he appeared to be saying, ‘what are we waiting for?’
