Monsieur Pamplemousse (Monsieur Pamplemousse Series)

by Michael Bond

  Monsieur Pamplemousse let a decent interval elapse before he came out from behind the screen. The air was heavy with the smell of cordite. Avoiding the cartridge cases that had been ejected on to the floor, he crossed to the window, threw up the blind and leaned out.

  Taking a deep breath of the fresh air he turned back into the room. As he did so he saw the door handle turning. Suddenly conscious of his vulnerable state now that his nightshirt had been destroyed by gunfire, he made a dive for the safety of the screen. He was only just in time.

  ‘At it again, Pamplemousse?’ Inspector Banyuls made no attempt to conceal his disapproval. ‘Is there no limit to your depravity? I have received a serious complaint from the Mother Superior. It seems that you have been exposing yourself to one of the novices. These young ladies have taken the vow …’

  The voice broke off in mid-flight. Very gently Monsieur Pamplemousse lowered himself to the floor in order to get a better view. But he needn’t have worried about making too much noise. The inspector’s attention was totally riveted by something just out of the line of vision.

  For a moment or two Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered what could possibly be of such paramount importance it took precedence even over the contents of the bed. Clearly, it was having a deeply emotional effect on the other.

  Then he remembered. It was his ‘thought for the day’; the one he had fixed to the wall before lunch. ‘I MUST BE KIND TO BANYULS.’

  He hesitated, wondering whether to make his pre­sence known, but before he had time to make up his mind there came the sound of a car starting up. It was followed almost immediately by an instantly recognis­able barking.

  The spell was broken. Inspector Banyuls pulled himself together, rushed to the window and looked out. Then, moving at a pace which Monsieur Pample­mousse would not previously have given him credit for, he disappeared out of the room like a man pos­sessed.

  As the pounding of feet died away Monsieur Pamplemousse hopped over to the window and peered over the edge. He was in time to see the car which had arrived earlier bearing his would-be assassin disappear out of the gate at high speed. A moment later Inspector Banyuls emerged from the main entrance, hurled him­self into his own car and followed after it.

  ‘Pommes Frites! Pommes Frites! Asseyez-vous! Asseyez-vous!’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s voice coming from on high caused Pommes Frites to skid to a halt. Pommes Frites liked chases and he’d been about to set off on yet another one. Hopefully it would have ended with him being able to slot a further piece of his jig-saw puzzle of a problem into place, for it took more than a frock and a veil and a hat to disguise the fact that he’d been in the presence of the last member of the gang.

  But hearing his master’s voice and knowing that he was safe and well was much more important. That took precedence over all else.

  He was pleased that on the off chance he’d followed Inspector Banyuls. Having drawn a blank at La Langoustine as well as several other likely places in the town, he’d begun to get worried. It had been some­thing of a forlorn hope, but the inspector did have a habit of turning up unexpectedly and he’d had a feeling that where he was his master wouldn’t be far away.

  Now all he had to do was find out where the voice was coming from.

  He hadn’t long to wait. There was a clattering of feet and Monsieur Pamplemousse came out of the hospice to greet him.

  For a moment or two all was panting and licking tongues. Then Pommes Frites bounded towards the gate, narrowly missing being run over by an ambulance that was coming the other way.

  As he rushed off up the road barking his head off, Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. Short of phoning for a taxi and saying ‘Follow two cars which went that way about ten minutes ago,’ he wasn’t at all sure what to do next.

  Pommes Frites was sure. As he came bounding back to his master and nuzzled up to him, licking him in no uncertain way, he made his feelings very clear. Pommes Frites was hungry.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch. Lunch came early in the hospice; his own had been shortly after mid-day. It was now approaching two o’clock. In the circumstances it might be best to leave the next moves to those whose job it was to worry about such things.

  He wondered whether they should eat at La Langoustine or the Bar du Centre, then reached for his note-book. If his memory served him correctly, there was a little place up in the mountains—about twenty minutes drive away, where they often had Lapin au Gratin on the menu. Rabbit marinated in white wine, then cooked gently for an hour or so with thyme and garlic, before being coated thickly with white breadcrumbs and cheese and browned under a hot grill. If he was lucky they might have it today. He’d be interested in seeing Pommes Frites’ reactions. His taste buds began to water. He was glad he’d left most of his chicken. Hunger was the best sauce in the world.

  As for the other matter; no doubt all would be revealed in the fullness of time and he was perfectly content to wait.

  10

  SATURDAY

  Monsieur Pamplemousse was whistling as he left the offices of the P.T.T. Returning his poupées—one charred beyond belief, the other full of holes—had been a symbolic act; like the tearing up of papers and the tidying of his desk in his days at the Quai des Orfévres when he’d reached the end of a case.

  The idea had come to him when he found a packing slip in the second parcel. ‘In case of complaint,’ it said, ‘return within fourteen days and your money will be refunded.’ He wondered what Poupées Fantastiques would make of them, not to mention the two burst kennels. Not for one moment did he expect to get his money back, but the action made him feel better and at least it solved the problem of what to do with the remains.

  The whistling was also a sure sign that it was nearly time to move on. Pommes Frites recognised the fact at once, even if his master didn’t.

  Outside in the square things were much as usual for a Saturday morning. A couple waiting for the autobus recognised them and nudged each other. Their interest communicated itself to others in the queue and there was a ripple of turning heads. An old woman in black came out of the mini super-marché pushing a chariot laden with packets of soap powder, crossed herself when she saw them and turned up an alleyway. He took a quick photograph before she disappeared from view. A small boy came running up to ask for an autograph. Monsieur Pamplemousse obliged, thinking himself lucky he wasn’t a pop star having to do it all the time. With a name like Pamplemousse he’d soon get writer’s cramp. The boy thanked him and then looked disappointed when he saw the paper, as though he’d been expecting something more. Perhaps he ought to have added Pommes Frites’ paw print for good measure.

  He glanced at his watch. Ten thirty. Time for a quick stroll before his meeting with Giampiero, time to put together a picnic.

  As they made their way down the Grande Avenue Charles de Gaulle for the last time they received more curious glances. A café went quiet, then started up again as soon as they were past. Some people crossed the road to take a closer look, others made efforts to avoid them. Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself walking self-consciously, in much the same way as he always did if he was involved in any kind of theatricals. He couldn’t have felt more awkward if he’d actually possessed wooden legs. Madame Peigné was looking hopefully out of her shop window. Pommes Frites obliged, drawing on some of his infinite reserves.

  By the time they got back to the Square du Centre the autobus had been and gone. There was a large van outside Monsieur Dupré’s. Four men, looking like mime artists as they struggled with their invisible load, were fitting a new window into place.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse climbed up the steps to the hotel terrace, selected a table a little apart from the others, and ordered café for two. He had a feeling Giampiero would be on time. Pommes Frites had a quick drink from the fountain, repaid some of it in kind on the side, then joined him.

  Inside the hotel, through one of the dining room windows, he could see the staff getting ready for a wedding party th
at afternoon, arranging flowers, setting tables together in a long row, lining up the glasses meticulously. He caught a glimpse of Madame Sophie supervising. Doubtless it was a scene which was being enacted all over France that morning. It was the time of year for weddings.

  He thought of Doucette and wondered how she was getting on. Despite all the activity in the hotel, Auguste had still found time to take her back up to the gazebo after breakfast on the pretext that he wanted to check on his property. Monsieur Pamplemousse suspected he wanted to pump her on the subject of his Stock Pot rating. Knowing Doucette he wouldn’t get very far. They rarely discussed such matters anyway.

  Auguste had returned with the news that it would need a small crane and a lorry to get the gazebo back down again and reinstalled. In the meantime Madame Pamplemousse was happy. She was hoping to finish another sleeve before lunch.

  At eleven o’clock precisely Giampiero appeared on the steps of the hotel. Monsieur Pamplemousse noted regretfully that he was alone. He’d been hoping to meet the delectable Eva, but he had a feeling that was now something which wasn’t to be.

  Giampiero looked like a new man, as indeed he was in at least one respect. It gave them something in common.

  He held out his hand in greeting as he came towards the table. Monsieur Pamplemousse grasped it warmly in his own, retaining his hold for perhaps a fraction longer than he normally would have done, making sure it was real. Not to be outdone, he crossed his legs as he sat down, revealing a few inches of calf. It didn’t pass unnoticed.

  Giampiero settled down beside him. ‘And Madame Pamplemousse, how is she this morning? None the worse for her experience, I trust?’

  ‘On the contrary. She hasn’t enjoyed herself so much in years. It is quite like old times. She is spending the day at what she calls her “mountain retreat”. I swear it is the first time I have seen her take her coat off out of doors in the twenty years we have been married. Not only that, but she will be able to do her meditating in peace. It is like having her own little temple on top of a mountain. She is determined to stay there until it is taken away.’

  The words came out automatically. It was like the beginning of a fencing match; there were little pre­liminaries to be got through, niceties to be observed, whereas in truth there were so many things he wanted to know he was dying to get on with the main purpose of the meeting.

  ‘And you? You are still planning to leave?’

  ‘Pommes Frites and I have another appointment,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse non-committally. He tossed the question back. ‘How about you?’

  ‘I shall return to Rome. I, too, have another appoint­ment. I may take a few days off to get used to these again.’ Giampiero lifted up both hands and flexed his muscles. The fingers looked pinched and white where they had been compressed by the steel claws, as if he was suffering from advanced anaemia.

  ‘It is surprisingly difficult. I keep reaching for things and stopping short. Shaving is the worst. I suppose you get used to anything in time, but it has given me a new outlook on life. I shall never again pass by a beggar without arms.’

  ‘If it were me I think it would take more than a few days,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  Giampiero shrugged. He gazed out across the square. Already a group of men were getting ready for a game of boules, surveying the ground; kicking aside stones, polishing their equipment with pieces of old towelling.

  ‘I shall also have to get used to being “single” again.’

  They both fell silent, each busy with his own thoughts.

  The revelation when they’d met earlier that morning that Giampiero worked as an investigator for one of the big Italian insurance companies had not come as too much of a surprise. It fitted the facts. Now that his work was over he’d slipped into his normal character, much as Monsieur Pamplemousse might have donned a favourite sports jacket.

  What still staggered him, though, was the business of the steel claws; the fact that the hands had been artificial in all senses of the word. It took a bit of getting used to. Giampiero looked naked without them. Like a man who has just shaved off his beard.

  He gazed curiously at the other. The world of insurance was an alien one to him. He’d once put in a minor claim after a burglary, but it had been turned down on the grounds that he’d left his window open—a window on the seventh floor! Since then he’d treated all insurance companies with suspicion; they were a law unto themselves, the very first to cry wolf if they suspected anyone was trying to do them down, inventors of the small print, masters of the escape clause. But this was clearly something different again. It must have been a no-expense-spared operation, far removed from anything he’d ever had to deal with in the Sûreté.

  ‘It would be interesting to hear your story. I promise it will go no further.’

  Giampiero poured himself another coffee. ‘There was money at stake. Big money. It was not the first claim Eva had made on the group. Hopefully it will be the last. Insurance companies do not like being taken for a ride and they have very long memories.’

  ‘How many were there, then?’ ventured Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Claims, I mean.’

  ‘This would have been the fourth, if you count the first, legitimate one; each larger than the one before. This time it wasn’t so much a claim as a “misappropri­ation of funds”, but it would have amounted to the same thing in the end.’ Giampiero sipped his coffee, then added some sugar.

  ‘Eva G. 92-62-92. Height 172 centimetres. Weight 40.82 kilos. Caucasian blonde. Swedish. Born Saltsjöbaden—a small town outside Stockholm, of respectable middle-class parents. Small scar above left ear from an early skiing accident. Birthmark behind right upper thigh.’

  The facts were reeled off from memory in the way most men might have talked of their cars.

  ‘At fifteen she went to stay with a rich uncle in Berlin who promised to complete her education. His idea of completing it was to jump into bed with her the first night she arrived. Ten minutes later her hatred of men was born. Two years later she got her revenge by marrying him. Two years after that he got his revenge. He died, but the money he had promised her in his will went instead to a Home for Destitute Women, with a rider saying that he hoped she would benefit in the fullness of time. Her hatred of men was now absolute.

  ‘Suddenly, she found herself alone and without money, so she looked around and soon discovered that the world—especially the international playgrounds of Italy and the South of France—is well blessed with the rich and the elderly and the lonely, many of whom are only too pleased to receive the attentions of the young and the beautiful. It pleases their vanity and they can afford the price. There are many to choose from and, believe me, when Eva set her mind to it she could be very alluring. She could take her pick.’

  ‘I believe you.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse thought back to the very first evening. Despite the row he remembered finding it hard to keep his eyes off her. There had been many others in the room who would have been only too pleased to have been the object of her attentions. Supposing it had been her making a play for him and not Madame Sophie? What then?

  ‘Her second husband she met in Cannes. He, poor devil, fell off his yacht shortly after marrying her, but not before he’d taken out a heavy insurance in her favour.

  ‘The inquest returned an open verdict. A little too much to drink. A dark night. A slippery gang-plank. No one saw it happen. The company paid up, but at the same time they put a little red star on her file.

  ‘When, a few years later, her third husband met an untimely end—this time in a road accident—a head-on collision with a lorry on a mountain road in Tuscany, the file was left out.

  ‘Eva had made her second big mistake in choosing another company within the same group so soon after her first claim. Her first mistake was in getting more greedy, but having tasted the good life she found it impossible to give up.

  ‘Again, through lack of evidence, the insurance company had to pay up in the end, but it was noted that soon after she co
llected the money large sums were withdrawn from her account and certain payments were made to persons unknown. The money was “laundered” as they say, and by a very roundabout route ended up not far from where it started. Other people began to get interested. The tax authorities. Interpol.

  ‘So, plans were laid, and that was where I came on the scene. The first accident was set up, then the second. The right amount of publicity was generated and after a suitable interval an introduction arranged.’

  ‘How did you know she would fall for it? You couldn’t have been sure.’

  Giampiero smiled. ‘Greed is a great motivator. By then Eva was getting a bit fed up with the kind of life she was leading. It isn’t all that much fun playing nursemaid to geriatric millionaires. She jumped at the chance of a younger man. In a way, I quite enjoyed playing the part of the helpless ingénu who has suddenly acquired undreamed of wealth and doesn’t know how to handle it. As a student of human nature you must agree that given the sum involved the probability of its succeeding was pretty high.

  ‘Soon after we were married I began to make it grow sour. I developed a mean streak which Eva didn’t like at all.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to picture the scene. ‘Weren’t you afraid you might go the same way as the others?’

  Giampiero laughed. ‘I took out some insurance policies of my own. First, I absolutely refused to change my will in her favour. Then, on the excuse that no company would offer me cover with my record, I made certain that I was of more use to her alive than dead.

  ‘After that I began sowing ideas into her head. Other possible ways of screwing me for the money. Moving in the circles she did she had accumulated certain contacts. Connections with the fringe of the Mafia, people who would do anything provided the price was right.’