Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation

by Michael Bond

  Taking the hint, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned away from the balcony and headed towards the orientation table. Pommes Frites was right. It was a time for dealing with realities, not fantasies.

  The reality was that where he was standing four hundred thousand years of history lay spread out around him. In 400 BC the Greeks had named it Nikêa, and when the Romans took over some two hundred and fifty years later, forming the province of Alpes-Maritimes with Nice as its capital, they had built the town of Cimiez on the surrounding hills, where one wonderful summer’s evening not so many years ago he had listened to Dizzie Gillespie playing.

  In its time Nice had been fought over by Ligurians, Saracens and Barbarossa’s Turkish hordes, before the pendulum swung to and fro between France and Italy.

  These things had shaped the Provençals in much the same way as countless other influences over the centuries had shaped France profonde. Beyond the distant line of the Alps, Auvergnats like himself had become different to the inhabitants of Burgundy and different again to those in Bordeaux to the west, Brittany and Normandy to the north, not to mention Alsace, with its candle-lit fairy-tale windows at Christmas, to the east.

  It was no wonder General de Gaulle had once bemoaned the difficulty of trying to govern a nation that had 246 varieties of cheeses. How much harder it would have sounded if he’d said 36,532 communes; 96 departments; 22 regions, which was the way it had ended up. But was that not part of France’s strength; its infinite variety and its dogged independence?

  Much of it was reflected in the cuisine. During the comparatively short time he had been with Le Guide, he had travelled the length and breadth of the country – a ‘gastronomad’ as Curnonsky, self-styled prince of gastronomes, would have put it – and he had seen many changes. More and more, restaurants were in the hands of accountants, who knew the cost of everything and the value of nothing.

  But for all that, they still cooked with butter in Paris and olive oil in Nice. Walnut oil was still de rigueur in the Dordogne, just as cream and cider was in Normandy.

  Deep down they all owed a debt to Auguste Escoffier who had laid down the ground rules some seventy years before in Le Guide Culinaire, setting standards which still prevailed today, not only in France, but all over the world.

  His influence had been present in the meal they had shared with the Pickerings two evenings ago; in the clarity of the consommé; in the way the chicken had been carefully dissected beforehand, the bone removed from the thigh, so that each and every part had been perfectly cooked.

  Was it possible that all this could be destroyed by yet another invasion, this time from a totally unforeseen direction? He would be out of a job if it were. So would millions of others. It mustn’t happen!

  Hearing what sounded suspiciously like a sigh, he glanced down at his feet where Pommes Frites lay with his head between his front paws. Having dried out, he was wearing his martyred expression. Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch. It was 11.30. Time to move on before the firing of the noonday gun sent everyone in search of food.

  ‘Buon giorno, Signor.’ It was hard to say if the waiter recognised him or not. Either way, it didn’t affect the warmth of his welcome.

  It was tempting to take a seat. Pommes Frites wasn’t normally very keen on pasta, but it would be interesting to see what he made of it, and he would certainly enjoy some of the sauces.

  In the interests of research, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to try somewhere new. He could always pay a return visit. There were some places you just had to go back to, and the Villa d’Este was one of them.

  In the end he opted for another Italian restaurant in an adjoining street. It certainly looked less crowded.

  Accepting the first table in the front row, he glanced at the selection of plats du jour displayed on the ubiquitous metal stand to his right, and ordered Piccata de Veau aux cèpes for Pommes Frites and some still water. He then opted for a risotto au safran for himself. A demi vin rosé and a Pellegrino completed the order.

  Curled up under the table, Pommes Frites had chosen a position where he could keep a watchful eye on comings and goings. He was particularly wary of the rollerbladers, who seemed to be out in force. That was something else he would have had added to his guidebook, under a special section marked ATTENTION! ROLLERBLADERS, along with the location of some giant cactus plants he’d come across when he’d been taken short on the way to the restaurant. Care was needed if you wanted to leave your mark on a cactus.

  While he was waiting, Monsieur Pamplemousse seized the opportunity to rearrange the objects about his person. The weight in his right trouser leg pocket was beginning to make him feel lopsided. Leaving the laptop where it was, he squeezed the mobile into an inside jacket pocket – one of those hidden away affairs, for which it was rarely possible to find a good use. Too big for a fountain pen, too small for even the tiniest of rolled-up umbrellas, it fitted the mobile like a glove. At least no thieves would be able to get their hands on it.

  Settling down, he removed the egg from another trouser pocket and replaced it with the dictating machine. He gazed at the egg. More and more the ergonomics of the whole thing bothered him. If it was meant to be a present for Madame Leclercq from her Uncle Caputo, then why had his intermediary chosen to make the hand-over on what was virtually enemy territory? It not only didn’t make sense, it had clearly been a last-minute decision.

  Monsieur Leclercq had very definitely stated the item was to be picked up in Nice. According to Doucette they had planned to do it themselves, but because of a delayed flight they had gone straight on to Paris where Chantal had a hair appointment. That, at least, certainly rang true.

  It was only at the last minute, when they arrived at the hotel, that they found the venue had been changed. The concierge had the tickets ready and waiting.

  His order arrived in a large copper pan. The waiter served him a generous helping, left the pan on a stand to keep warm, then returned seconds later with grated parmesan cheese and tomato purée.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse tried a mouthful of the rice before mixing in the rest of the ingredients, noting with approval that it had been first sweated in a hot pan with olive oil before the chicken stock had been added, allowing the grains to open and absorb it.

  While the wine was being poured Pommes Frites busied himself under the table with his plate of veal, and with a buon appetito, the waiter left them to it.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse returned to his thoughts. So far the Director had neither asked about the hand-over, nor had he mentioned the concert. Proof, if proof were needed, that he didn’t know about the change of plans. Nor, presumably, did he have any idea of the nature of the so-called ‘work of art’.

  Was the whole thing an elaborate ploy on the part of the Russians to send a message in the strongest possible terms back to Uncle Caputo? A plot which had partially back-fired because Pommes Frites had come across the egg.

  Heads turned as a young girl on rollerblades entered the precinct at speed pushing an elderly lady in a wheelchair. Whatever next? He’d seen everything now. Zig-zagging in and out of the petrified pedestrians, narrowly missing an open manhole on the opposite side of the precinct where some workmen were busy erecting a protective barrier, she shot past the restaurant.

  It was yet another classic Cartier-Bresson situation: the girl, young, blonde, shapely; the little old lady, her face partly covered by a shawl, a blanket draped over her lap despite the heat. If only he’d had his camera with him. But how many times had he heard that said? He hadn’t, and that was an end to it. The girl and her charge had disappeared as quickly as they had come.

  Helping himself to some more wine, Monsieur Pamplemousse returned to his thoughts.

  Was the fact that the Russian child had gone missing a swift retaliation on Uncle Caputo’s part? He wouldn’t put it past him.

  The question was, where did he go from here? He didn’t know anyone in the Police Department at Nice. Blanchet had been moved elsewhere following one of the
division’s periodic upheavals. Duhesme had taken early retirement and had opened a small bar in Cannes-sur-Mer, or so it was said. At a pinch he might call in and sound him out, although whether he would want to talk would be another matter. His livelihood might be on the line.

  He was beginning to wonder what he was doing in Nice at all. Why not simply let things stay as they were? Part of him was feeling irked that he had been drawn into a situation over which he seemed to have no control, for no better reason than having agreed to perform a favour. Perhaps other people were right. Perhaps it was a case of once a policeman – always a policeman. He’d always been a bit of a loner, but he suddenly missed the cameraderie of his time in the Sûreté; the feeling of working as part of a team.

  He slipped the egg back into his trouser pocket. One thing was certain. Showing it to the local police would be tantamount to never seeing it again. In short, he was on his own.

  For the second time in as many minutes he was aware of heads turning; people at other tables began pointing, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the girl again. She must have made a complete circuit of the block, following exactly the same route, only faster this time. It was like viewing a speeded-up tape loop.

  This time the woman in the chair was staring straight at him. As they drew near, she threw back the blanket and it suddenly clicked home. Momentarily mesmerised, he gripped the front edge of the table. The last time he had seen her had been up on the hill, only this time, instead of pebble glasses, he found himself looking into the business end of a pistol.

  To most of those present, everything from that moment on appeared to happen at once, although in fact it was Pommes Frites who reacted first. A split second before the gun went off, he leapt to his feet and gave the table an almighty heave. As it shot up into the air, scattering plates, food, glasses in all directions, a stream of bullets ricocheted off the metal surface, leaving the menu sign hanging at a drunken angle.

  Before any of the stunned onlookers had time to react, and in the brief moment of silence between landing on his back with a force that jarred every bone in his body and bedlam breaking out, Monsieur Pamplemousse clearly heard the sound of something rolling across the paving.

  Pommes Frites heard it too. Faced with the choice of seeing to his master, chasing after the wheelchair or finding the egg, he decided on the latter. He knew from the way Monsieur Pamplemousse kept playing with it that he set great store by the present, and from the way he was already berating a passer-by it was clear he was still in one piece.

  ‘No,’ came a bellow. ‘I am not all right! I am lying in the middle of the road because I am about to begin a one-man manifestation against rollerbladers, little old ladies in wheelchairs who carry sub-machine guns, and imbéciles who ask idiot questions.’

  Looking over his shoulder, Pommes Frites was just in time to see his master struggling to sit up. His face dripping tomato purée, risotto au saffron covering his shirt front, he looked for all the world as though he had been left disembowelled following an unfortunate encounter with Attila the Hun. It was no wonder his would-be rescuer appeared to be in a state of shock.

  Pomme Frites hurried on his way towards the open manhole. Clearly his master would live to see another day.

  Hearing the sound of an approaching siren and suddenly aware of a violent pain in his right leg, Monsieur Pamplemousse sank back onto the pavement. Reaching down, he discovered it was a case of cause and effect, although he hardly had time to dwell on the matter, for moments later he felt expert hands lifting him onto a stretcher.

  Although in the circumstances it was a comparatively minor problem, he found himself wondering how he would explain yet another case of damaged equipment. This time it would take more than a P37B to satisfy Madame Grante.

  At least he had the consolation of knowing that not only had the laptop’s metal case saved him from serious injury – perhaps even the loss of a leg – but before leaving the hotel he’d had the foresight to download its contents to Headquarters via the built-in modem.

  At which point, although he was hardly aware of it at the time, he passed out.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Monsieur Pamplemousse came round to find he was lying on a bed in a darkened room. As he slowly regained consciousness he was vaguely aware of a voice and a figure in white flitting between him and what little light there was entering through a slatted window blind. He tried calling out, but even as the words formed he heard the sound of a door being closed.

  His right side was numb and he felt partially detached from the world around him. As the memory of all that had happened gradually returned he reached down in a sudden panic and was relieved to find his leg was still there; bruised, but intact. Further investigation revealed the laptop was missing, but then so were his trousers.

  As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he tried focusing on his surroundings: a bedside table with a carafe of water and a tumbler alongside it; a picture of a snow-clad mountain on the wall facing him; a television receiver. His jacket and trousers were hanging on a portable rail alongside an upright chair. He wondered whether anything else apart from his laptop had been removed.

  Making a half-hearted attempt at sitting up, he realised he wasn’t alone. There was a man occupying an armchair in a recess near the window.

  ‘Where am I?’

  A hand reached up and a light came on over his bedhead, leaving the other still in shadow. ‘The Hôpital St Roch. It was the nearest to the scene of the “accident”.’

  ‘And Pommes Frites? Where is he? Is he all right?’

  ‘Pommes Frites?’ His visitor looked puzzled.

  ‘My dog …’

  ‘Ah!’ A notebook materialised. ‘A bloodhound. Male. Black and tan. Traces of red here and there, some fawn. Hazel eyes. Large ears. 45–50 kilos.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded and immediately wished he hadn’t. His head was throbbing.

  ‘A dog answering to that description turned up soon after the ambulance took you away. He seemed upset about something. Possibly because he couldn’t find you.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  There was a shrug. ‘He was last seen heading towards Antibes. A call has gone out. He refuses to let anyone get near him. Not that they want to.’

  The visitor held his nose between thumb and forefinger by way of explanation. ‘He had been down the sewers. Not only down, it seems, but up to his neck. Why? Nobody knows.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a question being directed at him, but he didn’t rise to the bait.

  The man removed a small leather notecase from an inside pocket and flipped it open. ‘In case you are wondering, allow me to introduce myself. Commandant André Rossetti – Direction Général de la Sécurité Extérieure.’

  The surname explained the man’s swarthy appearance, but as he absorbed the information Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered what a member of the French Intelligence was doing in his room. Come to that, why was he in a private room rather than a ward? He realised now why his visitor looked familiar. His face was beginning to haunt him. It belonged to the man he had first seen having breakfast with the Russian at the beach café, and later that same day when he had turned up outside the antique shop.

  ‘You are probably about to ask why I am here.’

  ‘I presume,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that since you have told me who you are, the rest will follow.’

  ‘Touché! As you are no doubt aware, there is considerable interest in the activities of our recent visitors from across the Russian border.’

  ‘They don’t exactly hide their light under a bushel.’

  ‘True. And while they spend their money freely nobody complains too much. But when it comes to murder in broad daylight in the centre of Nice, that is a different matter.’

  ‘There has been a murder?’

  The Commandant looked at him.

  ‘Correction. An attempted murder. But it could well have been successful.’

  ‘I know the gu
n that was used,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply. ‘I should do. I was looking straight down the barrel. It was a 9mm Stechkin Machine pistol. Set to fully automatic, at 750 rounds a minute it is barely controllable. I was probably the safest person there. The old lady firing it – if she was an old lady – may well have done herself a mischief. It is obsolete – a relic of the East German army.’

  ‘Another time they will choose their weapon with greater care,’ said Rossetti. ‘What bothers me is the cold-blooded audacity of it all. Any later in the day and it would have caused mayhem. I put it to you that your life is in great danger.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘But it could be the last.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the matter. ‘Why are you telling me something I already know?’

  ‘Because …’ The Commandant rose from his seat and crossed to the window. Parting the blinds with his fingers, he looked out through the gap as though carefully weighing his words.

  ‘As you will have gathered, things are not entirely as they seem.’

  ‘In my experience,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dryly, ‘they seldom are.’

  The slats rattled back into place as his visitor turned to face him. ‘What I am about to say must never be repeated outside these walls. If it is, not only will my own life be worth less than a fig, which you may well feel is of small moment, but all my work will be rendered worthless too, and that I do care about.’ He paused again.

  ‘I would like to float a balloon into the air. A balloon containing the germ of an idea which I must tell you has received approval from on high. It will serve two purposes. First, it will ensure your safe-keeping. Secondly, it will bring those who have been gunning for you out into the open. However, putting the idea into practice is another matter. It will require your co-operation.