Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation

by Michael Bond

  CHAPTER THREE

  After the noise and bustle of the Cours Saleya the atmosphere inside the church was an all-enveloping oasis of calm and serenity. Its richly baroque décor made it feel as though he had entered a different world.

  An earnest group of tourists gathered round a carved olive wood statue to his left, comparing an entry in their guidebook to the real thing, eyed him curiously as he looked around for somewhere to hide.

  The theatrical arrangement of stage boxes on either side of the altar was tempting, but grilles barred the way and he had no idea how to reach them from behind.

  Crossing himself, he wondered whether to join the few silent worshippers dotted around on either side of the centre aisle, then decided against it. They were nearly all elderly women. He would stand out like a sore thumb. Turning his back on them, he hesitated for a moment before gently opening an exit door to his left. As he had hoped, it led into what was virtually a tiny room, the left side of which was made up of a second glass-panelled door affording a discreet view of the street.

  He was just in time to see the man appear from behind the van, clearly following the same route. The artichoke had been discarded, but he was still talking into the mobile; his eyes darting everywhere before he turned and began retracing his steps.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse slipped out of the church while he had the chance. Feeling in his pocket for a coin, he placed it in the beggar’s hand in exchange for muttered directions, then continued on his way as fast as he could without actually drawing attention to himself.

  Crossing the vast Albert 1st gardens straddling the one-time estuary to the Paillon, he followed a winding path threading its way in and out of the palm trees. Keeping a bandstand to his left as instructed, and doing his best to avoid the occasional sudden flick from a watering system which threatened to soak any passers-by who weren’t careful, he set about negotiating the avenue du Verdun on the far side. Pursued by a hail of impatient horn-blowing, he headed towards the rue de Masséna, looking for the second of Bernard’s recommended restaurants: the Villa d’Este.

  It was yet another area of Nice that had changed since his last visit. Apart from an occasional service vehicle nosing its way through the crowd, the street was closed to normal traffic. Tables and chairs from restaurants nestled cheek by jowl with designer boutiques. They spilt out on either side, taking up every available space. He glanced at his watch. Although it was barely a quarter to one, most were already more than half full.

  ‘Try the Jambon de Parme veritable with melon,’ had been Bernard’s advice. ‘You won’t get better this side of the Italian border – if then.’

  Seating himself between two girls, each with a mobile phone, Monsieur Pamplemousse placed his order.

  Watching the ham being cut, he immediately felt at home. The twisting, the caressing, the squeezing motion that went into the operation was both an act of love and a work of art. Alongside the carver, another man wielding a long wooden paddle was feeding pizzas into a wood-fired oven.

  Taste buds began to salivate in anticipation.

  Adding a demi Bandol rosé and a San Pellegrino to his order, he helped himself to some bread and sat back prepared to enjoy himself.

  Not to be outdone in the electronic stakes, he removed the laptop from his trouser pocket, powered it, and set up the Smart Capture facility. It hardly merited a passing glance from either of the girls.

  Two rollerbladers gliding effortlessly in and out of pedestrians on the crowded concourse, missing people by a few centimetres either way, swooped into close-up, their faces momentarily distorted, then disappeared again just as quickly. He let them go.

  The ham, when it arrived, was exactly as Bernard had described it, parfait! So parfait in fact, he almost missed seeing the Putin lookalike hurry into view.

  As soon as the man realised he’d been spotted he did a U-turn. Pausing outside another restaurant further along the street, he pretended to read the menu. Reaching for the keyboard, Monsieur Pamplemousse was just in time to record the image as he turned to go inside. He typed in the time – 12.55 – and filed the picture away under PUTIN.

  He wondered how the man had caught up with him again so quickly. Ignoring the beggar outside the church the first time had been a mistake, but at least his tip on the way out ought to have made up for it.

  Checking the loose change in his pocket, he realised that in his haste instead of giving the man ten francs to ensure his silence, he must have given him the 20 centimes coin he’d received in his change from the lift attendant.

  It was a case of the clochard’s revenge and no mistake.

  The girl to his right had ordered a pasta dish of some substance. Checking with the menu he identified it as the Niçoise version of picagge verdi, made without sausage, but with Swiss chard, spinach and a little finely chopped salt pork. She carried on her telephone conversation as she picked at it with a fork.

  The girl on his left was already attacking a giant pizza. Piping hot from the oven, it was large enough for a whole family. She, too, carried on with her conversation.

  Dressed in black trouser suits, with dark sunglasses and matching black lacquered fingernails, both girls looked cool in every sense of the word. Both were pencil slim, although from their conversation more 2H than 3B, and he didn’t exactly envy their boyfriends.

  Nearing the end of his ham, he finished off the wine, then eyed their plates enviously. If they could get away with it, there was no reason why he shouldn’t too. In the interests of research and of keeping his adversary kicking his heels, he felt tempted to give one or other a try. On the other hand …

  It could have been sheer coincidence that the man was following the same path as he was. Stranger things happened all the time, but instinct told him it wasn’t, and instinct was something you ignored at your peril. Shutting down the laptop, he stowed it away in his trouser pocket. There was only one way to find out. Waving his napkin he caught the waiter’s eye.

  ‘Oui, Monsieur. Il conto.’ His bill was ready and waiting.

  This time luck was with him. Choosing his moment, he made a quick exit while he was screened from view by a group of tourists studying the menu on a metal display stand.

  The look on the man’s face as he gave him a nod while strolling past was a study in frustration. Skirting round a large woman with a sun-hat and oversize Reeboks trying unsuccessfully to pay for an ice-cream cone with a dollar bill, he slipped into a boutique further along the rue Masséna. Putting a rack of clothes in the middle of the floor between himself and the door, he waited.

  ‘Monsieur?’ A girl emerged from behind a counter at the rear of the shop and looked at him enquiringly. ‘Qu’est-ce que vous désirez?’

  ‘Je regarde seulement,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily. ‘I am only looking.’

  The last thing he wanted was to be trapped inside the shop. Unless … he ran his eye along the rack …

  Twenty minutes later, having made sure he wasn’t being followed, armed with a carrier bag and a copy of Le Figaro, he boarded a single-decker Metrazur Ventimiglia-Cannes stopping train for Antibes. There were no Mormons on board as far as he could see; in fact it was less than a quarter full.

  Feeling in need of a quiet think, he placed the carrier bag on the opposite seat in the hope that it would save him being disturbed, settled down, then immediately wished he hadn’t.

  On the other side of the aisle two Englishmen were holding forth. It was marginally worse than the girls he’d had to endure at lunchtime. At least the latter had kept their voices down.

  Burying his head in the journal, he tried hard not to listen in, but it wasn’t easy.

  ‘When I get to Gatwick I have to drive all the way to Haywards Heath against the flow of the traffic.’

  ‘Hard luck!’

  ‘The thing is, what am I going to do about the langouste in the boot of the car?’

  Everyone had their problems. Some seemed more pressing than others.

  There was
no mention in the journal of the previous evening’s affair at the hotel, but then it would have been surprising if there had been. It was hardly an event of national importance. He should have picked up the local Nice Matin for that.

  Farmers were blockading the roads in Brittany. A group of them had emptied a trailer-load of manure on the steps of a town hall. Nurses were holding a protest march in Paris, demanding more pay and better working conditions. Nothing changed.

  Removing the laptop from his trouser leg pocket, Monsieur Pamplemousse opened the lid and pressed the start button. Conscious that the others went quiet as soon as they heard the burst of music accompanying the automatic booting up operation, he returned to his journal and waited.

  The Euro had lost a couple of points against the dollar. Charles Aznavour was appearing at the Palais des Congrès in Paris.

  Perversely, he now found himself straining to hear what was being said on the other side of the aisle.

  ‘Extraordinary really. When you think the first hard disk on an IBM was like a flywheel. Weighed a ton.’

  ‘Coated with the same paint they used on the Golden Gate Bridge, so they say.’

  ‘Their latest microchip is 800 times thinner than a human hair.’

  ‘How about the Intel Pentium 4? 10 million transistors and several kilometres of wiring packed into a square centimetre.’

  ‘That’s progress for you.’

  ‘Did you see where he kept it?’

  ‘Inside his trouser leg! Something new every day.’

  ‘It’ll never catch on.’

  ‘Bet you he’s got some kind of magic act. Kid’s parties, perhaps. Or cabaret.’

  ‘Ideal for a rep, of course.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered for a moment what a rep was, then he remembered. It was the English term for a voyageur de commerce. Which, in a way, he supposed he was.

  ‘Looks more like a doctor to me. Probably entering up his notes.’

  ‘Or a policeman.’

  ‘Watch it!’ They dissolved into chuckles at the thought.

  All the same, they had made it in four. Monsieur Pamplemousse scrolled back to the first picture. Did he really look like a policeman? He couldn’t see it himself. But then, you never did see yourself as others saw you.

  He felt tempted to pass some kind of comment. It didn’t take an ex-detective to guess they must be heading for the International Science Park at Valbonne Sophia-Antopolis; the French equivalent of Silicon Valley in California.

  It was hard to imagine why anyone would want to leave a langouste in the boot of their car – harder still to see what the problem might be if they did. Unless, of course, the man was flying back to England. In which case it probably smelt to high heaven by now. If he were travelling with hand baggage he wouldn’t be too popular.

  Glancing down at his laptop he realised the screensaver was on. Restoring the picture, he entered the Still Viewer. The journey provided a good opportunity to recap on the pictures he’d stored. At least he didn’t have to wait for them to be processed.

  There was a pause, then the last shot taken outside the restaurant came up on the screen. He’d been a fraction late on the button. The Putin lookalike was already half out of frame on the left-hand side, carefully avoiding his gaze as he went.

  Shifting the pointer onto a sliding bar Monsieur Pamplemousse tried moving it along to the left, and found himself scrolling back at speed through the complete set of images he had captured during the day. Apart from the first mirror image of himself, he was building up a regular rogues’ gallery.

  The Englishmen had resumed their conversation, having changed the subject completely. He wondered if they always talked at the top of their voices, or whether it was because they assumed no one would understand what they were saying. Either way showed a kind of arrogance.

  ‘Breast-feeding isn’t allowed in our Houses of Parliament on the grounds that it’s forbidden to bring refreshments into the Chamber.’

  And they said the French were devious! He made a mental note to store it for future use. It would be a good conversation stopper.

  The second picture of the boat with the Panamanian flag was followed by the one he’d taken at the beach café. He stared at the screen.

  At the time he’d hardly registered the scene. Now, seeing it again as a static shot, it clicked home. The man turning his head briefly towards the camera was one and the same as the policeman he’d encountered in Nice. Admittedly he had been wearing sunglasses on the second occasion, but he recognised the jacket. It was food for thought.

  He was half-right about the Englishmen. As the train approached Villeneuve-Loubet station the one with the problem awaiting him in his boot made ready to leave.

  ‘Give my regards to the little woman. Have a good flight.’

  ‘Ciao! See you back at the ranch in a week’s time.’

  He gave a nod in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s direction as he left. Monsieur Pamplemousse took pleasure in responding in English.

  ‘Good luck with the langouste.’

  It was like the proverbial water off a duck’s back.

  As the train gathered speed again, the vast curving terraces of the luxury apartments of the Marina-Baie des Anges came into view; a permanent eyesore to some, a way of life to others. It was followed by a long, straight stretch of parallel road and rail and a pebbled beach crowded with sun-worshippers.

  He felt a momentary pang of remorse. His own ‘little woman’ must have been looking forward to their unexpected time away together. His absence must be maddening for her, although over the years she had undoubtedly grown used to it. Much of their married life had been spent apart. Office hours as such hadn’t existed during his time with the Paris Sûreté, and since working for Le Guide he spent more time away from home than ever. Pommes Frites saw more of him than she did, although even that didn’t seem to be the case this time round. Not that he was happy lying on a beach all day, and luckily Doucette felt much the same way, although she was better at it than he was and enjoyed the opportunity for a swim.

  That was another difference between them. Unless there was somebody near at hand, ready and willing to give him the kiss of life should something go wrong, he preferred being on dry land. Once out of his depth he quickly went into sinking mode.

  As for the sun: prolonged exposure turned him lobster red rather than mahogany brown, leaving him feeling conspicuous amongst all the seasoned sun-worshippers. His preferred method of seeing it was from behind glass, preferably tinted when he was out driving, although that luxury was not on the list of optional extras for his deux chevaux.

  Seeing Marineland flash past on his right, he began packing up his belongings.

  Why did having tinted glass immediately make the occupants of a car objects of suspicion? In a sunny region like the Côte d’Azur it was a very sensible optional extra. He wondered if the Mercedes in Nice had been the same one that had been parked outside the hotel. On neither occasion had he taken a note of the number; something he would have done automatically in the old days.

  But then one Mercedes looked very like another. Half the taxis in the area were Mercs. The one that had taken them to the hotel on their arrival had been an E Class. The diver had eyed Pommes Frites less than enthusiastically when he took advantage of the open door and climbed in the front seat, although he hadn’t argued the point.

  Unless things had changed very much since his day it was very unusual to find the police using one. In general, unless it was a covert operation, they operated a see and be seen policy. And even if it were a covert operation it was highly unsuitable. They would be more likely to use a battered old van. There was nothing more calculated to draw people’s attention than having darkened windows. Passers-by immediately wanted to see inside, and if they couldn’t they suspected the worst.

  Bidding the remaining Englishman goodbye, he made his way to the rear of the carriage.

  He was back rather sooner than he had expected. Although he hadn’t
achieved what he had set out to do, the journey hadn’t been entirely wasted. Interesting; enjoyable; at times instructive.

  Being without a car had been an unexpected bonus. Normally he felt lost without it. But he’d felt a curious sense of freedom wandering around. On the other hand, he’d missed having Pommes Frites for company. And he was no further ahead with tracking down the Director’s painting. It was beginning to irk him, but comme ci, comme ça, you won some, you lost some.

  The taxi rank outside Antibes station was empty, and a small queue had already formed. Wondering whether to take a stroll round the harbour, he looked at his watch.

  There was time to spare before the hotel courtesy bus was due at the pick-up point.

  Hearing the sound of a fairground going full blast from the direction of the port, he decided against it, opting instead to walk into the town.

  Having got as far as the Place General de Gaulle, he was wondering whether to venture any further or call it a day, when he heard his name being called.

  ‘Aristide!’

  Turning, he saw an immaculate white-suited figure, a black object over one arm, and an English journal tucked under the other, emerging from a librairie.

  ‘Monsieur Pickering! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Staying at the same hotel, as a matter of fact. It’s a small world. I saw you there last night – with Madame Pamplemousse, I imagine – not to mention the redoubtable Pommes Frites. But we didn’t want to interrupt while you were all eating. Then, suddenly, there you were – gone.’ He waved the journal. ‘Can’t do without the crossword. English papers don’t arrive until the afternoon.’

  ‘But this is wonderful!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a pang of guilt for having harboured uncharitable thoughts about the mysterious man at the next table. He saw Mr Pickering only rarely. They communicated mostly by telephone, but over the years their friendship had blossomed. The last time they had met was when they were both involved with the ill-fated plan to launch a luxury airship service between their two countries. Monsieur Pamplemousse had been acting on Le Guide’s behalf over the catering arrangements for the inaugural flight, and Mr Pickering, revealing his connections with British Intelligence, had been on the trail of a terrorist. Their paths had become inextricably linked.