Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Train

by Michael Bond

  Monsieur Pamplemousse experienced a momentary pang of conscience. ‘Not bad news from Madame Leclercq, I trust?’

  ‘No, Pamplemousse. Much, much worse. The message was in graphic form. The card bore a simple motif; that of a bière. A black bière!’

  ‘A coffin?’ Suddenly all ears, Monsieur Pamplemousse struggled into a sitting position. This was indeed bad news. He tried to strike a cheerful note. ‘Perhaps it was a local entrepreneur mortician in Viroflay seeking extra business, Monsieur? Times are hard.’

  ‘Times are never hard in the funeral business, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director gloomily. ‘Certainly not as far as the Mafia are concerned. In Italy they make sure business is booming.’

  ‘But this is France, Monsieur.’

  The Director was not to be consoled. ‘If it is a genuine offer of service,’ he continued, ‘why did the company not append their name and address? Besides it had been hastily drawn by someone using a felt-tipped pen. No, I detect the hand of the Cosa Nostra. It is part of their tradition. They always warn their intended victim so that he knows exactly where he stands – or falls – and meets his death fully aware of who is responsible. It is what is known as “job satisfaction”. Otherwise, when their victims are hit in the back by a bullet, they may die thinking it is only a passing sportsman with an unsteady aim.’

  ‘But why you, Monsieur? You said yourself that if anything happened to Caterina the blame would fall squarely on my shoulders.’

  ‘That was Thursday, Aristide. Since then I, too, have burned my boats. Yesterday evening Chantal’s Uncle Caputo telephoned to ask after his daughter. On the spur of the moment I concocted a story about her arrival and all the things we have done together. First the Eiffel Tower, then the Musée d’Orsay, followed by a trip on a bateau mouche and hot chocolat at Angelina’s. I must say, I became so fired with the whole thing I almost began to believe it myself. When he asked to speak to her I told him that she was tired out after all her exertions and that we had insisted on her going to bed early.’

  ‘Was he not satisfied, Monsieur? It sounds perfectly reasonable to me.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse seized the opportunity to climb out of bed and slip into his dressing gown.

  ‘Unfortunately, Aristide, I then took a leaf out of your book. I pretended I was taking the telephone upstairs to her room. I think you would have been pleased with my efforts. I made great play with the fact that the guest room is on an upper floor and that due to the age of the building the second flight of stairs is unusually steep. Breathing heavily, I knocked on a nearby bureau to simulate the sound of tapping on a bedroom door. I then essayed the squeak of an unoiled hinge followed by a series of random snores to show how deeply Caterina was sleeping after her day out.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse held the receiver away from his ear as a sound like that of a wailing banshee emerged. His spirits fell on the Director’s behalf. Knowing the chief’s habit of going over the top once he had the bit between his teeth, it was more than possible that Uncle Caputo’s suspicions had been roused.

  ‘Was that it, Monsieur?’

  ‘No, Pamplemousse, it was not.’ The Director sounded shaken. ‘It was another automobile coming in the opposite direction. I fear my concentration lapsed for a moment. As, indeed, it did yesterday evening.’

  ‘What happened, Monsieur?’

  ‘Flushed with success, I opened the window and imitated the mating call of a Mallard duck.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The Mallard, Pamplemousse, is a oiseau which at this time of the year goes into eclipse. Neither duck nor drake is anywhere to be seen. Both are resting in the reeds. The male, having lost his flight quills – probably through having given way once too often to his carnal desires, is waiting for them to grow again. The female, exhausted by constant egg laying, remains at his side.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse resisted the temptation to ask if Uncle Caputo would be likely to know that fact. Clearly, the Director was in no mood for speculation.

  ‘The die is cast, Aristide. I am now in it as deeply as your good self. There is only one consolation. There is a Sicilian saying: “Uomo avvisato, mezzo salvato”– a man who is warned is halfway to being saved. However, you can see why sleep eluded me, and why Caterina’s early and safe recovery is of the essence …’

  ‘Uncle Caputo can hardly have sent the card, Monsieur. He wouldn’t have had time. I posted Doucette a card in Rome three days ago and that has yet to arrive.’

  ‘Paris is but a telephone call away, Pamplemousse. Doubtless the Cosa Nostra have reciprocal mailing arrangements with their opposite number in France. The Mafia is organised on military lines. Each Godfather is like a general – responsible for his own territory. However, they have watertight methods of communication; their own codes.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘But what, Pamplemousse?’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense, Monsieur. Even if Uncle Caputo found your performance less than convincing, something else must have happened to arouse his suspicions. What could it have been?’

  ‘I cannot answer that question, Pamplemousse. All I know is that the Mafia moves swiftly. Decisions are always instant and to the point. There is no dithering.’

  ‘Unless …’

  ‘Unless what, Pamplemousse?’

  ‘Nothing, Monsieur …’

  ‘Well, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director severely, ‘I trust that your deliberations on nothingness bear fruit within the very near future. Otherwise, I fear for both our lives … not to mention the lives of our nearest and dearest.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse was saved any further interrogation as the Director’s voice was engulfed by a wave of static. He waited a moment or two in case reception improved, then replaced the receiver and made his way towards the bathroom.

  The news that the Director had also received a card bearing a picture of a coffin came as something of a surprise. Instinct told him that no matter how efficient the Mafia’s lines of communication were, it could hardly have been sent by Uncle Caputo, or even at his instigation. But if Uncle Caputo hadn’t sent it, who else would have done? And why? It would have to be someone who knew Caterina was missing. It would also need to be someone who was armed with a lot of information; the Director’s home address outside Paris for a start – unless, of course, he had been followed too, but that suggested a whole army of people on instant call.

  Lying back in the bath, Monsieur Pamplemousse’s thoughts returned to events at the Gare de Lyon. The man on the Palatino had certainly been met by someone when he arrived in Paris – either that, or the two had travelled up separately on the same train. But if it went beyond that, if there were a number of other people involved, why had Il Blobbo turned up outside his apartment block the night before? Why hadn’t someone else been given the job? It would have made more sense.

  Pommes Frites, who looked as though he had been up for some while, came out from under the table as his master entered the kitchen.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse returned his greeting absentmindedly as he put some coffee on to brew, then he sliced the remains of the previous day’s baguette and put it in the toaster while he made himself a glass of fresh orange juice.

  He should have asked the Director if his postcard had borne a stamp, or whether, like his own, it had been slipped in by someone amongst the rest of the mail.

  Worries about Caterina, already tempered with fears about his own and Doucette’s future, now included anxiety on the Director’s behalf.

  He gazed out of the kitchen window. At this time of the day, before the tour buses arrived, Montmartre was a haven of peace and quiet, much as it had been when Utrillo was alive and committed so much of it to canvas. In their time, Toulouse-Lautrec, Degas and Renoir had been inspired by their surroundings, too.

  The storm had passed and the water he could see glistening in the sunshine as it ran down the gutters carrying all before it, came from underground pumps, not from the sky, which was blue and cloudless. Pigeons and sparrows
carried out their morning ablutions. A few early-morning photographers were out and about.

  ‘You had better make the most of it!’ As he poured himself some coffee, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but wonder how much longer he and Doucette would be there to enjoy the view.

  The apartment had become theirs soon after they were married. It was at a time when prices were low and they had just come into a little money after Doucette’s father died. Such good fortune wouldn’t happen twice. Marcel Aymé, the writer, was living there when they first moved in. They had seen him many times. A statue fashioned after a character from one of his books – Le Passe-Muraille – about a man who discovered he could walk through walls, had been made part of a real wall outside the building, and the Place itself had been named after him. The composer and conductor, Inchelbrect, had been another neighbour.

  A smell of burning brought Monsieur Pamplemousse back to earth. He pressed a button to switch off the toaster, then buttered the slices and gave one to Pommes Frites while he consumed the rest standing up.

  They could, of course, stay with friends for a while. He had lain awake the night before, going through various possibilities in his mind, rejecting them one by one. In the end he could only think of Doucette’s sister in Melun. The thought depressed him. Anyway, he told himself it wouldn’t be fair to involve anyone else.

  One thing was very certain. They wouldn’t be going anywhere at all unless he did something and did it quickly.

  Pouring a second cup of coffee, he went into the living-room and picked up a copy of Le Guide. Flipping through the pages until he found the section he wanted, he reached for the telephone. It was early days, but it was worth a try. The Director wouldn’t be able to hold Chantal’s Uncle Caputo at bay for very long before the latter began to smell a rat, if he hadn’t already.

  On the principle that there was nothing like starting at the top, Monsieur Pamplemousse dialled the number for the first hotel listed under GRAND LUXE ET TRADITION and asked to be put through to the Concierge.

  Using an assumed voice, for no reason he could logically have justified, he pretended to be telephoning on behalf of a very important foreign dignitary.

  ‘I cannot mention his name. Discretion is paramount – you understand? He requires a suite and accommodation for his entourage …’ Times were hard in the hotel business and there was no harm in holding out a carrot or two. ‘He is also in need of someone to entertain him. A young lady of an amiable disposition.’

  ‘When would this be for, Monsieur?’ From the tone of the man’s voice he might have been asking for an extra lump of sugar to be sent up to accompany his café.

  ‘Tout de suite. He is arriving in Paris shortly and he is not a patient man. He will be wishing to relax after his long journey. He has a penchant for young Italian virgins …’

  ‘Puceaux Italiennes?’ It was the equivalent of two lumps.

  ‘One would do,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Preferably convent educated and under seventeen, with dark hair. Money is no object. You know of an agent who could arrange for such things?’

  The concierge lowered his voice. He knew of several likely candidates, but in his opinion they could all be sued under the trade descriptions act, particularly if Monsieur’s client spoke Italian.

  ‘It stands to reason, Monsieur. It is a once-only situation. It is like a car – once it leaves the showroom it is second-hand. If the Monsieur you represent would care to lower his standards a little … perhaps something with a low mileage on the clock?’ The motoring metaphor had clearly been used before.

  ‘My client is not accustomed to second best,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse severely. ‘I would need to speak to your agent in person.’

  No, that would not be possible. However, all things were open to negotiation … If Monsieur cared to make an appointment …

  Monsieur Pamplemousse thanked the concierge for his trouble and hung up. He marked the entry in Le Guide with a cross. It might be worth bearing in mind for future reference.

  At least the man had been honest, which was more than could be said for the next two.

  ‘Pas de problème, Monsieur,’ was the immediate response. They seemed surprised that he was bothering to ask, as though they had immediate access to an inexhaustible supply of young Italian virgins.

  Lowering his sights slightly, Monsieur Pamplemousse set about tackling the HÔTELS GRAND CONFORT. The first on the list, a small but discreet establishment with an unusually high ratio of suites to rooms, sounded hopeful to begin with. After asking him to attendez for a moment, the person on the other end – he suspected it was the manager – had the call transferred to another line. He then asked Monsieur Pamplemousse if he would mind repeating his request in more specific terms. The man sounded slightly guarded, as though he were not the only one listening in to the conversation. Monsieur Pamplemousse put down the receiver.

  It was not a promising beginning. It only served to underline the enormity of his task. In the old days he would have delegated it to a subordinate.

  He flipped through Le Guide again. Some twenty or so pages of hotels were listed. It would require a whole team of helpers on the job.

  He wondered about giving the office a call – Loudier was an expert on Paris – he might have some ideas. Maybe he should have come clean with Jacques after all and told him the whole story. The trouble was it wouldn’t stop there, and then the fat would really be in the fire and no mistake.

  The phone rang. He reached for the receiver. Talk of the devil!

  ‘I’ve been trying to get you for the last ten minutes!’ Jacques sounded put out, as people always did when the person they wanted to speak to was engaged.

  ‘Our man’s put in an appearance.’

  The proprietorial use of the word ‘our’ didn’t escape Monsieur Pamplemousse’s notice.

  ‘You won’t believe this, but he went into a security shop soon after nine o’clock this morning and bought up their entire stock of solar-powered security lights – the sort that switch on automatically if anyone comes within range of the infra-red beam.’

  ‘How on earth did you get to know that?’

  ‘It’s run by someone who used to be in the Department – probably after your time – name of Frèche – Crème Frèche we used to call him. Anyway, he got fed up with advising people about what to do after they’d been broken in to. He was for ever putting business into the hands of other people and not getting any thanks for his trouble, so he handed in his badge and set up on his own account.’

  ‘Why did he tell you?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Because … and here’s the funny part … it was a case of the biter bit. The man left without paying. You know what he said?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘He wasn’t into buying retail.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help laughing. It wasn’t funny, but …

  ‘He simply admired the windows,’ continued Jacques. ‘Said what a pity it would be if they got broken, glass being expensive, and the cost of replacement being what it is these days. Also it wouldn’t look good in a shop specialising in security. To have it happen more than once might well result in a great loss of trade. Then they walked out with all twelve units. Imagine!’

  ‘They?’

  ‘There was another man with him. Short. Stocky. Swarthy looking. Frèche felt he knew him from somewhere.’

  ‘And you’re sure the first man was the one I told you about?’

  ‘A blow-up of your photo is on its way to Frèche right now, but the description fits. Besides, he spoke with an Italian accent. They both did.’

  ‘What on earth would they want with twelve solar-powered burglar alarms?’

  ‘Who knows? Unless it’s for something entirely unconnected with the present problem. I asked Frèche and he came up with the suggestion that they might be using them to trigger off some kind of explosion. Apparently he’s seen the idea written up in an American magazine. Rather a nifty th
ought. It doesn’t require much imagination to think what would happen if you replaced the light with an ignition device and some semtex. The beauty of it is that being solar-powered you wouldn’t need any external wiring.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the proposition for a moment, but he couldn’t for the life of him see where it might lead to.

  ‘How about the telephone kiosk?’ he asked. ‘Any luck there?’

  ‘Ah … that’s something else again. The fingerprint boys are still working on that. But thanks to you, they’ve struck a rich seam. Two breaking and enterings. Three sex offenders. A known heavy-breather. One with a record for armed robbery as long as your arm – or, to put it another way, by rights he should have a record as long as your arm, but apart from a spell inside for attempted murder we’ve never been able to pin anything on him. We should try it more often.’

  ‘No other leads?’

  ‘Give us a chance – it’s not eleven o’clock yet.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at his watch. He had lost all track of time.

  ‘Anything else I can do?’ asked Jacques.

  ‘Nothing … No, wait … Do you think you could ask around the local taxi companies? Allo Taxi operates around here. They’re on 42-00-67-87, or there’s G7 – they’re on 47-39-33-33. See if they had a request from someone wanting to travel outside Paris late last night. South-west of the city – out towards Viroflay. If they don’t turn up trumps you could try Taxis Bleus. After that I guess it’s the car hire companies. They must have got some transport from somewhere. Unless, of course …’

  ‘Well?’

  It occurred to Monsieur Pamplemousse that the second man might have driven up from Italy.

  ‘It could have a Rome number plate.’

  ‘Thanks a heap!’

  Despite his protest, Jacques was clearly beginning to enjoy the whole operation. ‘I’m off to see Frèche. For two pins I’d set up in business myself. You know what they say – “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em”. Bonne chance.’

  ‘Bonne chance!’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse sat for a moment or two sipping his coffee. Good luck was something he would need in abundance if he was to make any progress. Telephoning round the hotels had been something of a non-starter, but at least it had got his brain working. Perhaps it was time he did some field work – spread the word around a bit. A walk with Pommes Frites wouldn’t come amiss. It would do them both good, and it would also be an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone; a chance to put plan ‘B’ into action.