by Michael Bond
‘What do you really think?’
‘I think you would have made a very good detective.’
‘Merci. I am sorry to have troubled you at such an ungodly hour.’
‘Do not worry. I was awake anyway. Thank you for your message. I am now deeply into the wines of Bordeaux. There are so many alternatives.’
‘A bientôt’
‘Sleep well.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse replaced the receiver and lay back again.
Sleep well! It was easier said than done. His mind was racing with thoughts of one kind and another. He looked around for an alarm clock, but either Madame Grante relied on instinct or she had taken it with her for some reason. He toyed with the idea of telephoning Martine again and asking her to give him an early call, but for all he knew she might want to catch up on some sleep herself if she was still working. He decided against it. He might even spend the time reading.
Much as he hated wishing his life away, he couldn’t wait for the morning. Either the note he’d left on the Director’s tomb would produce results or it wouldn’t. If it didn’t? If it didn’t, then perhaps he would have to go to the Director and admit defeat, hand over all he knew to the police and let them get on with it. It would go against the grain, but at least he would have done his best and it would absolve him of the responsibility if anything went wrong. Two days had gone by; two to go. The sands of time were running out.
He woke once in the night to the sound of Pommes Frites stirring. Luckily he had left JoJo shut up in the living-room, otherwise he might have suspected the worst. With that thought uppermost in his mind he went straight back to sleep again.
When Monsieur Pamplemousse woke the sun was streaming in through chinks in the shutters. The sky was as clear as though it had never rained before or ever would again. Windows were open all around him. People were emerging as though from a long sleep. He was about to fling open his own windows when he remembered JoJo.
He looked at his watch. It was just gone eight thirty. There was no need to hurry. Time enough for a leisurely bath, a shave, then breakfast with the toasted remains of the baguette before he got dressed.
His frugal breakfast over, he found an electric iron in one cupboard and an ironing-board in another. He looked at his watch again. It was already nine fifteen. His ablutions had been perhaps a trifle too leisurely. Time was no longer on his side.
One bright spot was that JoJo had gone back into the cage of his own accord. Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily shut the door. Perhaps it was a good omen. At least it was one problem out of the way.
Opening the doors to the balcony he went outside to get his clothes and then stopped dead in his tracks.
Even sensitive to certain ‘key’ words, like ‘Sacrebleu’ ‘Nom de nom’ and ‘Morbleu’, to name but a brief selection of those which reached his ears from the balcony on the present occasion, Pommes Frites came rushing out to see what was happening. As he skidded to a halt alongside his master he, too, looked as though he could hardly believe his eyes. His jaw dropped and he gave vent to a loud howl. For, as with the Emperor in Hans Andersen’s immortal tale, Monsieur Pamplemousse’s clothes were conspicuous by their absence. All he had left in the world were the shoes he stood up in.
‘Sacrebleu! Nom de nom! Morbleu!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start as he heard a small voice repeating his words somewhere inside the apartment. Trust Madame Grante to have a oiseau that was quick on the uptake.
‘Sacrebleu! Nom de nom! Morbleu!’
It was like having a child who inevitably gravitates towards the one word you don’t want it to repeat. Even Pommes Frites looked impressed.
‘Sacrebleu! Nom de nom! Morbleu!’
‘Sacrebleu! Nom de nom! Morbleu!’
In contemplating his lot, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t but feel that a profane oiseau – particularly one which belonged to Madame Grante – was all he needed to make his cup of unhappiness, already not far short of the brim, full to overflowing.
Given all the circumstances, for Monsieur Pamplemousse to have arrived outside Aux Deux Magots some five minutes ahead of time was little short of a miracle. The hands of the clock on the bell tower of the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés showed 09.55 as he arrived in the Place. Panic had lent him speed. He had practically run the last few hundred metres from the Odéon Métro station, taking a circuitous route which kept him clear of the crowds in the Boulevard Saint-Germain itself, which was probably just as well in the circumstances. Apart from a brief, but nonetheless unpleasant encounter with a leering clochard at Châtelet who refused to take ‘non’ for an answer, the journey had been mercifully without incident; most of those out and about had other things on their mind. All the same, he was thankful to have made it.
He was followed into the Place Saint-Germain-des-Prés at approximately 09.55 plus fifteen seconds by Pommes Frites, pointedly keeping his distance.
A dress which was patently too small by several sizes revealed parts of Monsieur Pamplemousse which, in Pommes Frites’ humble opinion, would have been best kept to himself rather than shared with those passers-by who chose to take a second, and sometimes even a third, look. A student of fashion might well have had a few things to say on the subject of matching shoes, a Hermes representative would have looked askance at the way in which one of their scarves had been tightly knotted across the lower half of the face rather than draped loosely round the neck or over the head; a milliner would have thrown up his hands in disgust; Pierre Cardin, whilst applauding the choice of sun-glasses bearing his name, might have pointed out that in designing them he’d had in mind a Mediterranean beach in high summer rather than Paris in March.
Their views would have found a ready and willing listener in Monsieur Pamplemousse. Had he decided to take up a new career as a drag artist, Madame Grante’s wardrobe would not have been his first choice; it wouldn’t even have made the short list. But beggars could not be choosers, and he’d had no option.
Pommes Frites’ reason for keeping his distance was much more basic. Although he had become accustomed over the years to his master’s vagaries, he knew that others were not always quite so tolerant. He had no wish to be seen by any of his friends in the unlikely event of their straying across the river onto the Left Bank.
It was largely the presence of such thoughts that made him linger on the corner of the Place Saint-Germain-des-Prés and the Rue de l’Abbaye while he made up his mind what to do next, whether to follow his master into the café or wait for him outside.
As Pommes Frites stood weighing up the pros and cons of the situation he became aware of an unusual scent, one with which he had become all too familiar over the past few days. He was too well trained to react, as some dogs might have done, by seeking out the source as a matter of urgency. Instead, he remained exactly where he was. The only outward signs of anything untoward were the faintest twitching of his nostrils and a certain restlessness in the way his tail flicked to and fro, as though engaged in seeing off a swarm of unseasonable flies. After a moment or two, even those manifestations of unease died away as he mentally homed in on a nearby shop, and then more specifically on the figure of a man lurking in the doorway with his back towards the street.
Whilst gazing casually about him, Pommes Frites also noted an unusually strong police presence in and around the area. There was a blue van parked a little way along the road and two more were blocking the Rue Guillaume-Apollinaire on the far side; all were full of men in uniform. Several police motor cycles were parked in the Boulevard Saint-Germain, their riders astride them, ready to go into action at a moment’s notice. Two more policemen were directing the traffic. Another was addressing a walkie-talkie.
The information having been duly recorded, Pommes Frites decided to stay put for the time being and await further developments.
Unaware of Pommes Frites’ thought processes at that precise moment, Monsieur Pamplemousse opened a current copy of Le Guide which he had borrowed from Madame
Grante, turned to page 221, then entered Aux Deux Magots through the centre door opposite the Place. Pointedly flourishing the book aloft for all to see, he looked around for a vacant seat in the terrace section. His heart sank. For a start, he hadn’t pictured it still being enclosed for the winter, and despite the comparatively early hour, it was already full to overflowing. Usually by that time in the year people would be sitting outside as well.
Looking very aggrieved, Monsieur Pamplemousse set off down the narrow central aisle, weaving his way in and out of the tables and wickerwork chairs in a crab-like motion. It would be a disastrous twist of fate if after all the trouble he had been to he couldn’t find anywhere to sit. As he neared a table in the far corner he spotted an empty chair. It would afford him an ideal position from which he could keep an eye on things without being overlooked from behind. An elderly American couple about to start their breakfast eyed him nervously as he drew near.
Desperate situations called for desperate measures. ‘S’il vous plaît?’ Before they had a chance to reply, Monsieur Pamplemousse was sitting alongside them. Pursing his heavily painted lips, he bestowed a beatific smile in their direction whilst helping himself to one of their croissants.
‘Merci!’
As the couple hastily gathered up their belongings and fled the table, Monsieur Pamplemousse put his handbag firmly down on one of the vacant chairs and his guide on the other, daring anyone else to join him.
Smothering any feelings of guilt he might normally have had at inflicting such a grievous wound to Franco-American relations, he settled himself down and looked for a waiter. There wasn’t one to be seen. He wondered if the café still came in two-cup size pots borne on a silver tray. It was a long time since he had last been there. The previous occupants of the table had been about to drink chocolat – the cup nearest to him was still hot. He took a quick sip. It tasted deliciously rich and warming.
Outside in the Place the tree buds were at bursting point. The cobbled paving was still damp from its morning wash. A 39 autobus went past, heading towards the Seine. For some reason best known to themselves all the passengers were looking out of the window and pointing towards the café.
He glanced around. In the old days the bills had been stamped Le rendez-vous de l’élite intellectuelle. Perhaps they still were, although nothing was for ever. Most of the present clientele could hardly be described as intellectual, let alone élite. If he met any of them on a dark night he would give them a wide berth. Even through his dark glasses they looked sordid enough to make the most unwashed of intellectuals appear positively angelic. Jean-Paul Sartre would turn in his grave if he saw the depths to which one of his favourite haunts had sunk; Simone de Beauvoir would have walked out, never to return. What was the world coming to? He hadn’t seen such a motley collection of riff-raff since his days on the beat. The lower slopes of Montmartre at five o’clock in the morning could hardly have thrown up a more unsavoury assortment of humanity.
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start as he took a closer look at the occupants of the other tables. Several factors impinged on his brain at the same time. Not only was the bulk of the clientele at Aux Deux Magots that morning decidedly odd, it was also – apart from a sprinkling of unhappy-looking tourists – almost completely male; if ‘male’ was the right word to use. Worse still, they were all clutching open copies of Le Guide!
‘Merde!’ There was no need for him to waste time straining his eyes to read the page number of the one nearest to him; he knew the answer without looking. The contents of his note must have circulated like wildfire to have brought such dregs of humanity crawling out of the woodwork and from under their stones. He looked at his watch. It was almost ten o’clock exactly. Even if his quarry had intended being there he must have been frightened away by now.
Monsieur Pamplemousse had barely registered the fact when his ears were assailed by the strident blast of a whistle from somewhere close at hand. Seconds later pandemonium broke out as a horde of blue-uniformed figures suddenly appeared from nowhere and began streaming in through the door. Others appeared as if by magic to bar the exit through the main café itself.
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s first regret was that he’d chosen a table in a corner from which there was patently no chance whatsoever of escape. His second regret was that Madame Grante’s handbag was full to overflowing with his own belongings. He looked in vain for somewhere to hide his copy of Le Guide.
‘Monsieur …’ A stocky figure clad in a black leather jacket and riot gear appeared in front of him and held out his hand. ‘May I see that?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse did a quick flick of his wrist. ‘Of course, Monsieur. I was planning a little holiday in Brittany. You will find it somewhere near the beginning of the book.’
Looking him straight in the eye the man turned the pages back again.
‘I think you have made a mistake, Monsieur. On page 221 you are in the Jura.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave up. It had been worth a try, but there was no point in arguing. It was a no-win situation. He was dealing with a member of the CRS – the Compagnie Républicaine de Sécurité. Purposely kept caged up behind barred windows for hours on end beforehand, like a bull getting up steam before entering the ring, the man would be spoiling for a fight. One more word and it would be a charge of resisting arrest. Two and it would be a clout around the tête with a baton.
As he found himself being bundled unceremoniously up the steps of a waiting van along with the other occupants of the terrace, Monsieur Pamplemousse looked around for Pommes Frites. A judiciously well-placed bite on the rear of his captor would not have come amiss, but he looked in vain. For once his friend was nowhere to be seen.
Although not visible to Monsieur Pamplemousse, Pommes Frites was, in fact, quite near at hand. He was caught on the horns of a dilemma. On the one hand loyalty to his master tugged him in one direction. On the other hand, all his training led him to the inescapable conclusion that he should hang on at all costs to the trail he had just picked up. He opted for the latter.
It was a difficult moment for Pommes Frites and he had the grace to avert his eyes as he saw his master being escorted from Aux Deux Magots before disappearing behind the crowd that had already collected outside, avid as ever for a free spectacle, just as they had been centuries before when on that very same spot justice had been dispensed on the gibbet and pillory by those in power.
Fortunately, looking the other way gave him a great advantage, for he was just in time to see his quarry boarding an autobus.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he set off in pursuit. The antique shops of the Rue Bonaparte, the view from the Pont du Carrousel, the glass pyramid covering the new entrance hall of the Louvre, all passed in a flash as he strove to keep up with the autobus while it crossed the Rue de Rivoli and thence into the Place Palais-Royal. So intent was he on his task that when it pulled up at the first stop in the Avenue de l’Opéra he overtook it and nearly missed seeing the man get off. He was now waiting in the shelter, looking back the way he had come. Following a zig-zag course, sniffing at yarious objects en route, Pommes Frites retraced his steps and then stationed himself on the other side of the glass where he could keep a watchful eye on the man’s legs.
Several more autobus went past before the other made a move. Then, as the fourth one arrived, he climbed on. Pommes Frites sprang into action again, following on behind as it turned right into the Rue Sainte-Anne. This time the going was much easier, for the road was narrow and progress was slow. The problem was not so much one of keeping up with the autobus, but occupying himself inconspicuously while it squeezed its way in between various lorries and roadworks en route. In the end Pommes Frites decided to keep as far behind it as possible, hoping he wouldn’t be seen. He was glad that he had, for as the autobus made another right turn, this time into the much wider Rue du Quatre Septembre, it came to a halt again and he saw the man get off, hesitate for a moment or two, then take shelter in a nearby doorway.
/> As though engaged on an important errand, Pommes Frites turned left, then paused to relieve himself on the nearside wheel of a large camion parked at the side of the road. He positioned himself so that he would get a good look at his quarry, imprinting the image on his memory for future reference.
It was as well that he did, for he had scarcely begun to tap his ample reserves when another autobus drew up and he saw the man break cover and move towards it. Once again luck was with Pommes Frites: it was an autobus with an open rear platform. He was over the rail in a flash. The driver was too busy watching the traffic as he pulled out to notice, and if anyone else did they failed to react.
The journey this time was much longer and Pommes Frites was beginning to wonder if he’d been given the slip when, through a gap between the side and a handrail, he saw the man getting off again.
Pommes Frites waited until he was looking the other way and then, as the autobus stopped at some traffic lights a little further on, he seized his opportunity. He was just in time to see the man disappearing down a side-street. Hastily marking the spot in the time-honoured way that nature had intended, Pommes Frites followed on behind at a respectable distance. As he did so he sniffed the air, his brain cells beginning to work overtime as he weighed up the pros and cons of the situation.
Although relatively unversed in the thought processes which had gone into the planning of the Paris autobus system, he was all too conscious that if his sense of smell hadn’t let him down and he was where he thought he was, then there had to be quicker ways of reaching it than the route they had taken. All of which led him to but one conclusion: the man he had been following didn’t want to be followed, and if that was the case then in Pommes Frites’ view, it was a very good reason for doing just that.