Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Train

by Michael Bond

  ‘I would rather not talk about it, chérie …

  ‘Oui. I will telephone in the morning. I may know more of what is happening then. Monsieur le Directeur is up to his eyes at present.

  ‘You, too. Sleep well!’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse replaced the receiver rather quicker than he had intended. He hoped it hadn’t sounded too abrupt. He sat for a moment or two lost in thought. It was good that Doucette had opted to stay with her sister. It was one less thing to worry about. Judging from the tone of the conversation, if Agathe had any say in the matter – which she undoubtedly would – he might be on his own for several days.

  His mind returned to the events at the Gare de Lyon. How was it that the man on the Palatino had been there too? Had he also been looking for Caterina? Even more to the point – had he been responsible for the death of the conductor? The more he turned the matter over in his mind, the more certain Monsieur Pamplemousse felt it was a self-answering question. The evidence was purely circumstantial, of course – it wouldn’t stand up for a second in a court of law. But it was too much of a coincidence for there to be any other explanation.

  But why? What possible reason could there have been for murder? It couldn’t have been a premeditated act.

  He rose to his feet and crossed to the French windows. Opening them, he went out on to the small balcony which ran the length of the building. Ciné 13 on the corner of rue Junot must be holding a private screening, for there were people in evening dress gathered outside. He could hear their chatter and the occasional shrill laugh. A pair of lovers stopped to watch, probably hoping to catch a glimpse of someone famous.

  Across to its left, beyond the old Moulin de la Galette and further down the hill, he could see the large shape of the Cimetière de Montmartre, where he and Pommes Frites had walked earlier in the day; an island of darkness now, submerged in a sea of twinkling lights. The resident population of cats would be on the prowl by now, safe from the likes of Pommes Frites.

  To its left, the sky was illuminated by the glow from the Place de Clichy; an amalgam of multi-coloured neon signs and light from restaurants and cinemas, criss-crossed by headlights from a never-ending stream of traffic flowing in all directions. The view across the rooftops was one of his favourites – at any time of the day or night. But night-time brought its own magic, glossing over some of the less salubrious aspects of the area.

  On the lower slopes of Montmartre – the one-time hill of windmills – the hookers would be out in force, watched over by their pimps. Racoleurs would be trying to entice likely-looking candidates into the strip joints in order to make their percentage on the grossly overpriced drinks. Concierges in the rue de Douai would be handing out ‘short-time keys’ on a strictly cash in advance basis.

  In the far distance, beyond Place de Clichy, he could make out the Eiffel Tower, and to its right the Arc de Triomphe. Beyond that lay the whole of western France, and then the Mediterranean. And beyond that again, lay Sicily with its strange medieval, closed-in society from which there was no escape, and its family feuds which bubbled away over the centuries, occasionally erupting like a volcano into unbelievably savage and bloody acts of revenge. Sicily, with its code of omertà – its conspiracy of silence – a code enforced in the old days by sawn-off shotguns, and nowadays by the short-barrelled .38 or Magnum .357 armed with exploding bullets.

  Sicily and Uncle Caputo. The name, in the circumstances, sounded more fitting than Rocco.

  And now, somewhere in amongst the teeming mass of humanity that went to make up Paris, was Uncle Caputo’s daughter, alone and unprotected. The Director was right. If anything happened to Caterina he, Aristide Pamplemousse, would be held responsible.

  Retribution would be a foregone conclusion; swift in its execution – terrible in its method. Monsieur Pamplemousse had no wish to end his days trussed-up like a goat in the boot of a car, legs doubled back behind him, feet lashed together with the other end of the rope tied round his neck. If he didn’t die by self-strangulation, he would be shot in the back of the head prior to being fed to the pigs, or liquefied in a barrel of acid which would later be poured down a drain. When the Mafia used the words like ‘erase’ or ‘remove’ they weren’t joking. They called it the ‘white death’.

  He might, of course, be left to simmer for a while. Since it was a question of someone else’s territory, a contract would have to be negotiated, and that in turn would be followed by weeks of never leaving the apartment without wondering whether it was for the last time. Until the day came when he got careless …

  A flash of unseasonable lightning lit up the sky towards the eastern outskirts of Paris, momentarily silhouetting the massive skyscrapers of La Défence.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shivered as he turned to go back inside. Finding Caterina had to be number one priority and time was not on his side. As he closed the French windows he heard the sound of thunder rolling away in the distance.

  Crossing to the hi-fi he slipped a tape into the cassette player: Ellington and Friends. The soothing strains of Mood Indigo filled the room. He poured himself another cognac. It was a time for firewater; a time for action.

  Pull yourself together, Pamplemousse. Facts. You are not entirely without facts. You must marshal them. Put them into some kind of order. Seating himself at the table once again, he reached for his pen and began writing on the back of Trigaux’s envelope – making out a list, as he so often did at such times, of the pros and cons. It helped concentrate his thoughts.

  You have acquired a little knowledge of the girl. You spent one entire meal with her and you have been privileged to talk with her in a way that perhaps few others have, and to learn something about her.

  You know she has ambitions to be a model. Presumably that is the real reason why she wished to come to Paris. But why Paris? Why not Rome? Rome would be too close to home. From all she had said, papà would certainly not approve. And now that he knew papà’s identity he could well understand her fears.

  Assuming for the moment that she had set off of her own accord, where would she head for? Where would she start? One of the big model agencies? One of the well-known fashion photographers? Perhaps, like the girl she had mentioned – Naomi something – Campbell? – at the door of some glossy magazine.

  Hoping for inspiration, Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up the telephone directory and began flipping through the pages. He quickly abandoned the idea. There were model agencies galore. Photographers occupied several pages. He looked up journaux. There were so many he didn’t know where to begin. He would need help to go through them all. If he followed that line of thought he would have to go knocking on a great many doors.

  But then so would Caterina. Almost certainly she would start at the top. In that respect at least she would have a head start. Clearly she knew exactly what was what in matters of fashion. His own knowledge – at least as far as women’s wear was concerned – could have been written on the back of a postage stamp. It was another world.

  On the other hand, he did have her likeness. Not an end of term school photograph – although in a sense he had that too – but one which showed a totally different side to her. One which any agency or dress designer would recognise immediately if she had paid them a call.

  Working his way back through the pile in chronological order he reached the ones taken in the Stazione Termini in Rome. Suddenly he paused.

  Opening up his issue case from Le Guide, he took out a magnifying glass and focused on a picture showing a general view of the main concourse. Luckily it was one he had taken before boarding the train – almost the last of a reel of colour film. After that he had changed to black and white and it might have escaped his attention.

  Immediately in front of the departure board there was a small, red triangular telephone booth – one of a number dotted about the area. As with Caterina’s hat, it stood out amongst the surrounding tones of black and grey like a sore thumb. Occupying a booth nearest to the lens was the ubiquitous Il Blo
bbo. He had a receiver to his ear, but clearly he was more interested in watching the passing crowd than in whoever it was he was talking to; if, indeed, he was carrying on a conversation at all. The thin-rimmed dark glasses were what gave him away. The same dark glasses he had last seen lying on the track alongside the conductor in quai ‘J’ at the Gare de Lyon.

  It confirmed his worst fears.

  What was it the Director had said? ‘I need hardly remind you, Pamplemousse, that the streets of Paris are filled with those who will be only too willing to guide her …’

  Supposing it hadn’t started in the streets of Paris. Supposing it had begun much earlier. On the night train from Rome, par exemple?

  The more he thought about it, the more convinced Monsieur Pamplemousse became that he was right. It would also account for Caterina’s reserve on the subject when she had been talking to him. Women – girls – tough though they could be in many respects, could also be surprisingly naïve at times. Perhaps ‘trusting’ was a better word. You only had to read the journaux. Perhaps it had to do with wish-fulfilment. Caterina’s desire to become a model might well have outweighed her common sense.

  One thing was certain. If it was the man on the Palatino there was no knowing where she might end up. It certainly wouldn’t be on the catwalk at a fashion show. He wouldn’t have trusted the man any further than he could have thrown him, and subsequent events seemed to bear that out.

  Crossing to the cassette player, Monsieur Pamplemousse stopped the tape and slipped it back into its case. ‘Sophisticated Lady’ was hardly a suitable refrain in the circumstances.

  He picked up the telephone.

  Despite his promise to the Director, there were times when you needed the help of the professionals, and this was one of them. Without giving away his true reason for asking, there would be no harm in putting out a few feelers.

  He dialled the number of the Sûreté and asked to be put through to his old department.

  Luck was with him. Ex-colleague and friend, Jacques, was working late.

  ‘Aristide! Comment ça va?’

  ‘Bien, merci. Et vous?’

  Jacques sounded pleased to be interrupted. He regaled Monsieur Pamplemousse with a list of reasons before getting down to routine inquiries.

  ‘Doucette?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. ‘She is well. She is staying with her sister in Melun for a few days.’ Now that he had the floor, so to speak, he looked for a way to justify his reason for calling.

  ‘I was wondering if you can help me. I am doing an article on prostitution for the Staff magazine …

  ‘Oui, I know Le Guide is to do with food, but there are other appetites which often go hand in hand …

  ‘Non, I would rather not talk to anyone in the vice squad for the moment.

  ‘Non, nor anyone in the Brigade for the Repression of Pimping. In my day they did not have such a body.’ Having lit the fuse, he paused for Jacques to begin. He hadn’t long to wait. Clearly it was a subject close to his heart.

  ‘The vice squad is run by a woman these days. Mme Martine Monteuil: ex-drug squad with the smashing of a Chinese heroin racket to her credit before she became Paris’s only female police commissaire. I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of her.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse could almost sense Jacques looking apprehensively over his shoulder. He had read about Mme Monteuil. Elegance personified. The Hermès scarf; the fashionably short skirt; the classic quilted Chanel shoulder-bag housing not a powder compact, but a .357 Magnum. By all accounts she was ready to use it, too.

  ‘Mind you,’ said Jacques, ‘if you want my opinion, at the end of the day she’s on to a losing battle. You don’t always have the sympathy of the hierarchy behind you, let alone the public. The rue St Denis without its women would be like cheese without wine, and most of them are a mine of information. Remember the last big raid there?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse did. In addition to a varied selection of pimps, prostitutes and clients, the police had netted three of their own senior officers, all of whom had claimed they were involved in secret undercover operations. Under the bedcover operations more like it.

  ‘You’re right in your equation,’ said Jacques. ‘There are two things that are always going to be in demand – food and sex. And when you really get down to it people can go without food for a long time. Prostitution is the only business in France that doesn’t shut down for August. Close down one area in Paris and it soon opens up again in another.’

  ‘So what’s new?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  Jacques considered the question for all of three seconds. ‘Not much has really changed since your time. Shifting Les Halles out to Rungis caused a big upheaval, as you can imagine. Taxis are out – the girls have taken to waiting at the exits to the Périphérique with their caravanettes. Most of the old hôtels de passe have been shut down, and there’s even a trade union now: the Association d’Action et de Défense des Prostitutées they call it.’

  ‘How about brothels?’

  ‘Well, as you know, prostitution is still legal – provided you aren’t caught moving while you tout for custom. Brothels aren’t, so those who run them go to great lengths to trade under another name – they’re much more discreet these days. They’re called clandés and most of them have a little plaque by the door saying “Villa –” or “Résidence whatever”. There was a case in the 15th not long ago. A certain Mme Zabbel set up a charity for what she called the “Association for Happy Animals”. Her first big mistake was putting a brass plate up outside her house announcing the fact. All the kids and old ladies in the neighbourhood turned up with stray pets they’d come across. Her second mistake was going on television – one of the vice squad recognised her as someone he’d arrested years before for the same thing …’

  ‘Any other areas I need to know about?’

  ‘Minitels are the “in” thing nowadays. There’s no need to go out any more – you just tap out the options on a screen. The PTT are making a fortune, but nobody gets them for living off immoral earnings. There was even a case of a call-girl operation being run on a church computer under the guise of a share-dealing service …

  ‘Of course, if you’re doing an article on vice you can’t leave out the gay bars and clubs – the rue Sainte-Anne is lined with them. Or there are the boîtes à partouze – the clubs for mass sex – there’s one on the rue de Chazelle. Massage parlours, escort services – you name it.

  ‘Then there’s the Bois de Boulogne, but that’s been cleaned up ever since the boys from the Salubrité du Bois de Boulogne moved in. At one time you could hardly move at night for all the travelos – transvestites, transsexuals out walking their dogs hoping to rake in enough dough to pay for a sex change operation in Morocco – not to mention the ones who’d turned up to watch.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse suppressed a smile. That was one area he wouldn’t have to bother with. He felt sure Caterina would be perfectly happy to stay the way nature had intended her to be, thank you very much.

  ‘How about the pimps themselves?’ He broke in while he had the chance. Jacques sounded as though he had settled down for the rest of the evening.

  ‘They’re having a harder time. The Eric Botey’s of this world – remember him? He used to run that chain of hotels in Pigalle – they’ve mostly gone. The ones that are left go in for real estate – renting “studios” they call it, at prices only someone on the game could afford. On top of that they use hot-dog salesmen with their street barrows to keep an eye on the comings and goings – just so they don’t lose out on their percentage. They don’t miss a trick – if you’ll pardon the pun.’

  ‘Where would the youngest and newest girls be found?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he detected a slight hesitation at the other end. ‘Luxury or cheap? Comme ci – comme ça. Avenue Foch or rue de la Goutte-d’Or? It depends on what you want. There are always new ones arriving. Look round any main-line station.’

  ‘How about
the trains themselves?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse broke in again.

  ‘I haven’t come across it, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Since I did an attachment to the vice squad nothing surprises me. It might be a good way of picking out likely candidates without running the risk of being jumped on.’

  ‘The sort of girl I am looking for,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘would be young, still at school – a Catholic girls’ school – she would have blue eyes, dark hair …’

  ‘Oh, là, là!’ A whistle assailed his left ear. ‘She could name her own price. If you go up the social ladder a rung or two then things work in a different way. At the top there are always people willing and able to pay for the best. It depends on what your tastes are.’

  ‘I am not asking how much,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I am simply asking where?’

  ‘Money no object, eh? Things must be good in the restaurant business. Is it the seven-year itch?’

  ‘Hardly. I have been married twenty-eight years.’

  ‘The very worst. That’s the four-times factor. You must have got it badly.’

  ‘Now look here …’

  ‘How long did you say Doucette’s away for? I must say you don’t waste any time.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath while he counted up to ten. Talk about giving a dog a bad name. Any moment now he would be reminded of the affair at the Folies – the scandal that had forced his early retirement. No doubt the number of girls credited with being involved had risen with the years.

  ‘If you want my advice, old man, you’ll stick at home with a good book. It’s much safer these days.’

  Sensing that Jacques was about to terminate the conversation, Monsieur Pamplemousse tried another tack.

  ‘Before you go,’ he said, ‘there was a murder at the Gare de Lyon earlier this evening … I think I may be able to help.’

  ‘We already have a description of the man we want,’ said Jacques. ‘Middle-aged. Height around 170, maybe 175 centimetres. Weight around 100 kilogrammes. Small moustache. Fresh complexion. Wearing an overcoat and a brown hat – or it may have been black.’