Monsieur Pamplemousse Investigates

by Michael Bond

  ‘Hold on a moment. I will see if I can find a map.’ He remembered seeing a gazetteer in the other room.

  ‘If it’s of any help I have done that already. Montbéliard is the nearest big town south of Belfort. It is on the Canal du Rhône au Rhin. Besançon is another eighty-four kilometres or so to the south-west. Dole follows on from that. They are all on the same canal. Soon after Dole it heads north and joins the river Saône at Saint-Symphorien. North of that again it meets up with the Canal de la Marne à la Saône.’

  ‘And on to Paris.’

  ‘Exactly. I have checked with a friend of mine who knows about these things and he says Dubois could have taken another route via the Canal de Bourgogne. That’s shorter and reckoned to be the more beautiful of the two, but the first is more modern and there are far fewer locks. One hundred and fourteen as against one hundred and eighty-nine.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse was listening with only half an ear. He could have kicked himself for not having thought of it before. All along he had been picturing his quarry holed up in some small hotel. Either that or in a rented apartment. A boat was the obvious answer. The picture of him dressed in sailing gear should have provided the clue; the porter’s mention of rope-soled shoes another.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of any more help.’

  ‘You have done more than enough.’

  ‘Bonne chance.’

  ‘Merci.’

  After he had replaced the receiver Monsieur Pamplemousse lay back and thought for a while. If Dubois had set out to travel from Belfort via the Marne, then he would have arrived in Paris to the east of the city. The chances were that he would either have tied up in some backwater outside the limits – in which case the boat could be anywhere – or he might have taken it as far into Paris as it was allowed. Of the two alternatives, that seemed far more likely. In which case, entering from the east, the logical place to aim for would be the Paris-Arsenal Marina where the Canal Saint-Martin joined the Seine. That would offer a choice of escape routes if things went wrong: either back the way he had come, or on down the Seine towards Rouen and Le Havre. Failing that, he could always head northwards up the Canal Saint-Martin en route to Belgium and beyond.

  On the other hand, if that were the case – if he had ended up in the Arsenal basin – he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere without passing through a lock. There was one between the Marina and the Seine and a whole series in the Canal Saint-Martin itself. All of them were electrically powered and needed an attendant to operate them.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s knowledge of the inland waterways of France was fairly hazy, but as far as he knew none of the locks were manned during the hours of darkness. He looked at his watch, then fumbled for his shoes. There was only one way to find out for certain. Go there and look for himself.

  The main gates to the Marina were still open and as Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way down the cobbled slip road leading to the water his heart sank. There were boats as far as the eye could see. At a rough guess, there must be well over two hundred of all shapes and sizes tied up on either side of the basin.

  A line of yellow lamps along the deserted quai was still switched on, contrasting with the brighter lights from the streets high up on either side. A few of the boats were showing lights, and from one or two he could hear the sound of a party in full swing, but the majority were in darkness.

  A restaurant at the top of a flight of steps to his left was just closing for the night. During the winter months most of its trade probably came from the few resident boat-owners who were tired of cooking in cramped galleys, and they probably ate early. In the summer things would be different. Then it would attract the tourist trade as well.

  To his right lay the entrance to the long tunnel which ran beneath the Place de la Bastille and then followed the line of the Boulevard Richard-Lenoir before finally emerging some two kilometres away near the Place de la République. From there it continued via a series of old-fashioned locks and swing bridges until it reached the basin at La Villette. It was Simenon country, an area of artisans, and popular with filmmakers who went there in search of ‘atmosphere’.

  A red traffic light to the left of the tunnel entrance forbade entry.

  The area in front of him was laid out as formal gardens with rose-covered archways, paths and symmetrical rows of low-cut hedges. He could see the mast of a giant model schooner rising up out of what must be a children’s play area.

  On the cobbled quayside, a sign pointed the way to the Harbour Master’s office at the far end, near the entrance to the Seine. The building was in darkness. He would get no help there.

  Beyond it, a Métro train rattled across a bridge, its wheels shrieking in protest at the sharp curve which took it into the Quai de la Rapée station.

  As he reached the water’s edge Monsieur Pamplemousse stood for a moment or two considering what he was looking for. By process of elimination, it was unlikely to be one of the sailing boats moored on his side. Most of them were so large they had been tied up lengthways on to avoid causing an obstruction. They would have far too big a draught for a journey across France by canal. Most likely they had been brought up river from Le Havre to spend the winter inland.

  The bulk of the smaller boats were moored on the far side of the Marina. He ran his eye along them. Given the time of the year, it was unlikely that Dubois would be in an open boat, and in view of the weather and some of the currents he must have encountered between canals en route, he would have needed something with a fairly powerful motor. A medium-size cabin cruiser perhaps, one with an inboard engine. Even so, that still left a wide choice. In their various ways, practically ninety per cent of the craft came into that category. Each had its own mooring position with a selection of utility services it could plug in to.

  Suddenly, he felt rather than saw a movement at his side, and his spirits rose. It was Pommes Frites; large as life and in the circumstances, twice as beautiful. If Pommes Frites didn’t actually say ‘Sssh’, he made his meaning very clear as he stretched out on the ground beside his master. Only the faintest movement of his tail betrayed his pleasure.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse bent down and gave his friend a pat. Pommes Frites’ neck felt cold and damp and he was trembling all over, but whether it was a simple case of cause and effect or sheer excitement it was hard to tell. From the alert expression on his face and from the way he was lying, ears pricked up, nose twitching, legs ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice, Monsieur Pamplemousse strongly suspected the latter. He turned to look back at the Marina.

  Pommes Frites’ gaze was firmly fastened on a boat moored, stern on, almost opposite them on the far side of the basin. It was a motor cruiser some ten metres in length, with a closed-in wheelhouse aft of the forward cabin. Even to Monsieur Pamplemousse’s inexpert eyes it looked solid and workmanlike compared with those tied up on either side of it. The decks were of varnished teak and there was a businesslike array of radio aerials attached to a stubby mast. From where he was standing it was impossible to see the stern.

  Straining his eyes, Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he detected a momentary glimmer of light from inside the wheelhouse, but a second later it disappeared.

  He looked to his right and then to his left, trying to decide the best way of getting across to the far side. It was a case of swings and roundabouts. The boat was moored rather nearer the Place de la Bastille than the Seine, but there was another Métro station between the Place and the Marina and if they went that way it would mean losing sight of it for a while, then taking a chance that the entrance near the tunnel on the far side was open.

  If they went to the left and crossed over via the lock they would be able to keep the boat in view the whole time, but against that they would have to travel much further and then run the risk of being seen as they made their way along the opposite quai which looked totally empty and bereft of any kind of shelter.

  He tossed a mental coin and chose the first way.

  The p
avement area above the tunnel was packed with parked cars and they had to squeeze a tortuous path in and out of them. It took rather longer than Monsieur Pamplemousse had bargained for. Worse still, when they finally reached the other side, although the gate at the top of the steps was open, a second one half-way down was securely padlocked. He glanced through the bars at the Marina.

  ‘Merde!’ Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the boat was edging away from the quai. Already there was a good metre between the prow and the mooring post.

  Somehow or other they must have been spotted. He could see someone lying prone on the foredeck, inching the boat along by pushing against the one in the next berth. Even from a distance he was clearly recognisable as the man in the photograph.

  Signalling Pommes Frites to follow on behind, Monsieur Pamplemousse slowly backed up the steps, keeping as close to the shadow of the wall as possible.

  Having reached the top, he set off across the Place de la Bastille as fast as he could go. Although he was acting out of pure instinct, Monsieur Pamplemousse was also aware that Dubois had very little choice in the matter. He was hardly likely to make for the Seine. His exit would be blocked by the lock. If he went through the tunnel he could either hide in there until morning – in which case there would be ample time to bring in reinforcements – or tie up just beyond the far exit near the Place de la République, some two kilometres away.

  Given the fact that Dubois would most likely want to put as much distance as he could between himself and his pursuer, the latter course seemed the more likely of the two. If the worse came to the worst, once Dubois reached the far end he could always abandon Madame Grante and make good his escape. The prime object uppermost in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind as he tried to ignore the agony in his calves was to get there ahead of him.

  In the beginning luck was with him. He’d picked a moment when the main stream of traffic was flowing off to his left towards the river and he reached the island in the centre of the Place in double quick time. But as he set out to cross to the far side, he encountered a mass of cars and buses sweeping round from the new Opera House. Dodging in and out of it, he left in his wake a cacophony of screaming tyres, horns, shouts, and an ominous dull crunch of metal hitting metal. The insurance companies would be busy in the morning.

  As he reached the safety of the wide central reservation which divided the Boulevard Richard Lenoir in two, Monsieur Pamplemousse’s pace began to slow. It dawned on him that in no way was he going to make the other end of the tunnel before the boat, if indeed he got there at all.

  Already his feet felt as though they were made of lead. His heart was pounding, and his temples were beginning to throb.

  Pommes Frites had no such worries. He was just getting into his stride. Galloping on ahead, he looked good for another thirty kilometres at least. Clearly, as he stood waiting for his master to catch up, he was anticipating further instructions. Equally clearly, he was going to have to wait awhile.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse bent down in a vain effort to touch his toes. Almost immediately he felt a sharp pain in his side. It was nature’s warning; the beginnings of a stitch.

  He looked around for a taxi, but as always at such moments, there wasn’t one in sight, and he certainly didn’t intend braving the wrath of those in the Place by going back in search of a rank.

  After a moment or two, having got his second wind, Monsieur Pamplemousse moved off at a slower pace, trying to keep up a steady, if less ambitious jog trot. At least he had a head start, although it was a moot point as to how long that would last once Dubois started the engine and got up speed.

  Once upon a time, the central reservation had been open to the sky, the canal itself separating the fourth from the eleventh arrondissements. As he skirted round some railings he was reminded of a boat trip he had once taken on the canal with Doucette.

  Dotted along the length of the tunnel there were a number of round openings, each about two metres across. Basically intended to provide ventilation, during the daytime they also gave those below the benefit of a series of strange, almost translucent shafts of light. It stuck in his mind because at the time he had tried to capture the effect on film and had wildly misjudged the exposure.

  The top of each opening was protected by a domed steel frame covered in thick wire mesh, and these were further screened off from the public by railed-off areas planted with shrubs and roses. During the summer months the holes themselves were scarcely visible.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse vaulted over the first set of railings. Ignoring the thorns tearing at his trouser legs, he reached down and tugged at one of the covers. It remained firmly in place. He tried a second one. That showed no sign of movement either. Feeling along the inside of the rim he came across some stout metal cleats let into the concrete.

  He ran on to the next enclosure, but once again luck was against him.

  The fifth cover shifted slightly when he pulled at it, but it was beyond his strength to lift the frame clear of the stonework. In desperation he looked around for something he could use as a lever, but there was nothing.

  Lying prone on the ground, Monsieur Pamplemousse put an ear to the opening and heard the faint chug-chug of an approaching engine. Pommes Frites heard it too and began pawing the ground impatiently.

  About half-way along the first leg of the Boulevard, just before the Richard-Lenoir Métro station, Monsieur Pamplemousse found what he was looking for. As he pulled at one of the frames it gave slightly and he heard a splash of falling masonry in the water below.

  Gathering all his strength, he made another attempt to shift it and this time managed to lift the metalwork clear of its concrete surround. Bracing himself, he pushed upwards and outwards on the frame as hard as he could and as it rolled over he flung it clear into the nearby shrubs.

  Bending down, Monsieur Pamplemousse peered into the darkness below, but it was impossible to make out anything. He took hold of a loose piece of masonry and dropped it through the opening. From the time it took to hit the water he judged the distance to be about five metres at the most. Given the height of the boat, that would make the deck a little over three metres away – always assuming Dubois was steering a course down the middle of the canal, which would be the natural thing to do.

  Above the sound of traffic flowing past on either side of the island, he could hear the engine again – much closer this time, and faster.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse lowered himself over the edge of the shaft and, as ill luck would have it, caught his jacket on some kind of projection. He felt himself dangling in space, his feet clear of the bottom of the opening. He held his breath as he caught sight of an approaching spotlight. Luckily it was pointing in a downward direction. The water below showed up inky black in its rays. Even if he’d had the strength to lift himself up again, there wasn’t time – the boat was almost on him.

  In retrospect, although he wouldn’t have been prepared to swear on oath that Pommes Frites actually pushed him with intent – giving him the benefit of the doubt, it was probably more a case of the excitement of the chase getting the better of him – the effect was much the same, as some fifty kilograms of bone, muscle and flesh landed on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s shoulders.

  Even above the roar of the engine echoing around the walls of the cavern-like tunnel, Monsieur Pamplemousse was aware of a rending sound as he parted company with whatever it was that had been holding him back and he felt himself falling.

  The next few seconds felt like a clip from some modern ‘pop video’, the kind where no single image lasted long enough to leave more than a fleeting impression.

  As he landed awkwardly on the foredeck he sprawled over on all fours, carried forward by the speed of the boat. He clutched at the mast to stop himself falling over the side, acutely conscious that if his fall had been delayed by even a fraction of a second he might well have been impaled on the end of it.

  While he was struggling to regain his balance, he heard a second crash just behind him, followe
d immediately by the sound of splintering wood.

  Once again, viewed in retrospect, it would have been hard to say whether Pommes Frites was in total control of the situation. Inasmuch as he landed fairly and squarely on the middle of the wheelhouse, which was considerably higher than the foredeck, he was luckier than his master, for he had less far to travel. On the other hand, honours were rendered more or less equal when he went straight through the roof.

  As his rear end disappeared from view the boat rocked violently and went out of control, heading at speed towards the starboard side of the canal. There was a brief exchange of growls and oaths, followed by a cry of pain, then two splashes in quick succession.

  As Monsieur Pamplemousse crawled across the roof of the wheelhouse and lowered himself down through the hole he caught a brief glimpse of two dark shapes in the water. It looked as though the second was gaining rapidly on the first.

  There was a crash and the boat rocked even more violently as they struck the granite edge of the towpath a glancing blow. Monsieur Pamplemousse made a grab for the wheel. He had no idea how deep the canal was at that point, and there were better ways of finding out than by sinking.

  With his other hand he reached for the throttle control and slowly eased it back, but not before they hit the towpath on the opposite side.

  From somewhere astern of the boat he heard a cry of pain. Pommes Frites must have caught up with his quarry. One thing was certain. If he had got his teeth into Dubois there would be no letting go. He would hang on until the bitter end.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse eased the throttle lever back still further until they were barely moving, then he tried the door leading to the forward cabin. It was locked. He called out but there was no reply.

  For the second time in as many moments the sound of splintering wood echoed round the walls of the chamber.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse felt round the edge of the door frame until he found a switch. He clicked it on.