Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation

by Michael Bond

  ‘In fact,’ there was another, longer pause. ‘A certain person has been informed, and I would go so far as to say he expects it of you.’

  ‘Never is a very long time,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But you have my word that for the time being at least I shall keep silent.’

  ‘Good!’ The Commandant sat down again.

  ‘Suppose, just suppose, the attempt on your life had been successful … I will paint a picture for you.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse lay back, closed his eyes and listened. Much of what he heard was as he had begun to suspect, although the balloon, as such, was far from what he’d had in mind.

  At the end of it all he lay deep in thought, weighing the pros and cons.

  ‘I will agree,’ he said at last. ‘But on one condition. My wife must be told the full story.’

  Rossetti considered his response for all of five seconds. ‘I can live with that,’ he said.

  In the circumstances, considering what he was being asked to do, and given the fact that his own life was being placed in considerable danger, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help thinking the response could have been better phrased.

  It was after one o’clock in the morning before Pommes Frites made it back to the Hôtel au Soleil d’Or. It had taken him much longer than he had expected on account of the time he’d had to spend dodging people in uniform who were clearly out to catch him.

  The illuminated sign over the entrance had long since been switched off and the front of the building was in darkness, so he made his way round to the back via a short cut he knew.

  Having deposited his booty in the kennel, he then helped himself liberally from the water bowl, partly because the long trek had left him feeling thirsty, but also because he needed something to take away the taste. Climbing the concrete steps leading up to the terrace, he hurried past the bar where the light was still on and searched around until he found a half open service door leading into the hotel. Once inside he quickly found his way through to the reception area.

  Almost immediately the sound of a gong rang out, echoing round the corridors of the hotel. Lights began to come on. The assistant concierge appeared, gave a double take, headed towards Pommes Frites, then thought better of it. Retreating behind the counter, he contented himself with a few desultory claps and some half-hearted shooing. A dog had to do what a dog had to do, and Pommes Frites clearly didn’t intend leaving his post until he had received satisfaction.

  Four floors up, recognising the unmistakably rhythm of a tail being used to great effect, a repeat of the sound he had heard the evening of the Pamplemousses’ arrival, Mr Pickering reached for the bedside telephone and dialled a number. A light came on in the Airstream trailer further along the road and after a brief conversation he started to dress.

  ‘Don’t forget your umbrella, dear,’ said Mrs Pickering sleepily, as he made for the door.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse pushed against the lid of the coffin and peered out through the gap. A long line of black limousines stretched out as far as he could see. Not for the first time he regretted the loss of his laptop. It would have made a unique composition. Rossetti was right about one thing. It was a no-expense-spared operation.

  He hoped he was right about some of the other things he’d said too.

  ‘There is only one thing the Mafia love better than a good murder – that is a good funeral. They will be out in force.’

  In vain had he pointed out that they were dealing with the Russian Mafiya, who might have a different attitude to such things. Rossetti was not to be deflected.

  ‘It will be like the great gathering of the La Cosa Nostra in the US all over again.

  ‘Remember the 1957 meeting of top brass in Apalachin, upstate New York? Everyone turned up, from Vito Genovese and Carlo Gambino downwards. There were fifty-eight arrests. The only one who escaped capture was Sam Giancano. But this time, instead of making arrests we will simply have our men everywhere taking pictures.’

  If Monsieur Pamplemousse remembered correctly, there had been talk afterwards about the whole thing being a great betrayal. The finger of suspicion had pointed towards those members of the hierarchy, the Godfathers and the Dons, who hadn’t turned up at the conference; people like Meyer Lansky, Frank Costello and Lucky Luciano.

  He had to admit that so far everything had gone according to plan. When it came to funerals, Nice, with its annual death rate of nearly six thousand retirees, was a favourite catchment area for the industry. It was big business. When a person died a lot of palm-greasing went on for custody of the body.

  The ergonomics of transferring his own ‘body’, first to the morgue and from there to the funeral parlour, couldn’t have been easy to arrange. A good deal of money must have changed hands to make certain people kept their mouths shut. Money, or perhaps threats – if there were handsome profits to be made there was every likelihood the Mafia would be involved somewhere along the line. That was without counting the cost of the funeral cortege itself. Presumably the coffin would be reusable – the holes bored in the side to permit the passage of air could be plugged, but there were the bearers, not to mention the hearse and all the other trappings, the flowers …

  That was another thing that irked him! At the back of the funeral parlour, before he had been placed in the coffin, he had caught sight of the flowers on display, among them some from Le Guide.

  He couldn’t help feeling that a bunch of mixed blooms wrapped in cellophane and labelled Produce of Holland was, to say the least, minimal.

  And in Nice of all places! A city famous for its flower market and its annual festival. He couldn’t read the inscription on the card, but since it clearly had Le Guide’s logo at the top, he detected the iron hand of Madame Grante at work.

  Alongside them, by contrast – and it was rubbing salt into the wound – there was a boxing ring complete with gloves made entirely out of flowers for a pugilist he had never even heard of. Someone else – presumably a local tippler of note – had an arrangement depicting a bottle of Hermitage vin rouge awaiting his departure. It was the size of a nebuchadnezzar!

  The least he might have expected from Le Guide was something in the shape of its logo – two escargots rampant. A couple of snails laid out on their sides would have been better than nothing and certainly wouldn’t have stretched the imagination of the florist.

  Raising the lid a fraction more he saw Doucette arriving. Dressed in black, she looked pale and drawn as she was helped into the first of the cars. He wanted to call out, or at least extend a finger or two, but clearly she had her mind on other things. She was accompanied by Mr and Mrs Pickering. The former, looking suitably funereal, was carrying the inevitable Baedeker and rolled umbrella. Pommes Frites appeared wearing a black bow round his left foreleg. That must have been Doucette’s idea. He looked ill at ease, and by what was clearly popular consent he was given a car to himself. The driver was the only one who looked less than happy as he held the door open for him. There was no sign of Commandant Rossetti, but then he was probably keeping a low profile, overseeing things at the cemetery.

  Catching sight of a uniformed attendant heading his way, Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily lowered the lid. The man was carrying a bucket filled with rose petals, presumably to sprinkle over his coffin, as was the custom. It was yet another of the optional extras.

  Hearing voices and feeling a slight movement of the hearse as others began climbing aboard, he made himself as comfortable as possible. One half of him was beginning to wish he’d accepted the offer of a mild sedative for the journey. When he’d been asked how he was in confined spaces, he hadn’t realised the interior of a coffin would be quite so claustrophobic once the lid was on. At least there was no need to keep quiet. The soft lining absorbed any sound.

  Apart from the flowers, it hadn’t been a bad send-off. So far …

  They set off at a slow, but steady rate. The plan was that soon after the start the hearse carrying Monsieur Pamplemousse would peel off, to be repl
aced almost immediately by another carrying an identical, suitably weighted coffin. After which he would be whisked away to an unspecified rendezvous where he could ‘disappear’ for the time being.

  At least he had his mobile with him, switched on at all times in case anything went wrong and he needed to be contacted – or vice versa if it came to that.

  They hadn’t gone far when he sensed a sudden increase in acceleration.

  Instinctively bracing himself as the hearse swerved to the right, he felt the blood rush to his head as it appeared to swoop downwards, probably into a tunnel. Then gradually the dizziness passed as they began to climb and the feeling of weight transferred itself to his feet. He could still feel the speed and guessed the changeover must have happened. Probably the second car would have been waiting at the top ready to drop into place and take over at the head of the procession. With luck, no one would have noticed the slight glitch.

  He wondered if he should test the system and try phoning Commandant Rossetti. Worming his arm up so that he could reach inside his jacket pocket he managed to retrieve the mobile and was about to reach for the button when he paused. The number he needed was written on a piece of paper and even if he found it there was no way he could possibly read it in the dark. That was something else that hadn’t been thought through. The need to bring a torch.

  He was about to return the phone to his pocket when he nearly jumped out of his skin as it suddenly began to ring.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur.’

  He didn’t recognise the voice.

  ‘Comment ça va?’

  ‘Ça va,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse non-committally.

  ‘Bon.’ The voice went into what was clearly a much-rehearsed spiel, leaving no room for interruption.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse stood it for as long as he could, then he took a deep breath.

  ‘I am attending a funeral,’ he barked.

  It did the trick. ‘I hope it is not someone close, Monsieur.’ The man sounded mortified.

  ‘Very close,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In fact,’ feeling for the off button, he spent the few moments before pressing it describing as succinctly as possible how close it really was and why the man was wasting his time trying to sell him double glazing. It produced a very satisfactory silence.

  Letting go of the phone, he gathered his strength and pushed upwards. To hell with Commandant Rossetti and his brainwaves.

  Suddenly, despite the growing heat, he broke into a cold sweat. It felt as though someone had literally run an icy finger down the length of his spine. His stomach turned to water. For whatever reason, no matter how hard he pushed, the lid wouldn’t budge.

  For a brief moment he wondered if by chance someone was sitting on it, then dismissed the idea. It was much heavier than that. Racking his brains, he tried to remember how coffin lids were normally fastened. The inescapable truth was that it felt as though it had been screwed into place.

  Despite everything, a feeling of panic began to set in. There flashed before his eyes the memory of a story that had been going the rounds when he first joined the force.

  It concerned a con-man who called himself the Marquis de Champaubert. As part of a scam he had dreamt up, armed with enough food and drink for the night, and with a breathing tube connecting his coffin to the outside world, he allowed himself to be buried in a wood just outside Paris. Sadly, when the police were called to his rescue the next morning, he was found to be dead; asphyxiated by the fumes from his own breath. He had struggled so much in trying to escape from his living tomb his clothes were torn to shreds.

  It had all happened in 1929, long before he had joined the force, and doubtless the story had been embroidered over the years, but he had no wish to put it to the test or to risk having history repeat itself.

  The holes in his own coffin were minuscule by comparison and already the air was beginning to foul up.

  In an effort to conserve what little of it remained, he lay very still, trying to concentrate on what was happening outside in the hope of getting his bearings. But apart from the fact that while for most of the time they appeared to be driving fast through level country, every now and then they slowed down or stopped altogether, suggesting they were in a built up area – it was a hopeless task. He could be anywhere.

  Feeling around for the mobile, he regretted letting go of it. At some stage it must have slid out of reach. He had no idea where to look. Any thoughts of finding it and dialling 17 for the emergency services – which he could have done by feel – went by the board.

  That something had gone dramatically wrong with Rossetti’s plan was patently obvious. It was too late for regrets. He was on his own.

  Visions of being cremated … interred alive … or even buried at sea entered his mind; nightmare scenarios that didn’t bear dwelling on, except he couldn’t help himself. Cremation might be the quickest way to go. Being buried at sea would be the longest. He pictured the remains of the man who had been washed up on their first night and immediately wished he hadn’t.

  Gradually, through the dreamlike mist beginning to envelop him, he thought he detected the sound of running water …

  As he regained consciousness Monsieur Pamplemousse realised that he was once again in a strange room, only this time it was almost completely bare. He resisted the temptation to pinch himself. It was as though he had been taking part in some kind of macabre time play; a drama in which he was forever moving on, his surroundings getting bleaker and bleaker with each change of scene. It was becoming too regular for his liking.

  For a moment or two he lay where he was, trying to adjust to his new surroundings. The sense of relief that he was still alive was almost palpable. The only light came from a small window let into the ceiling, far too high to reach. From the angle at which it was set, he guessed he must be in a loft. There were pipes running up one wall and from somewhere overhead he could hear the steady sound of a tank filling.

  Feeling overcome by the heat, he crawled across the bare floorboards towards the solitary door. Pulling himself up by the handle, it took less than a moment to confirm that it was locked. On the same side as the handle there was a small stainless steel panel let into the wall at shoulder height. It held a light switch and alongside that a calibrated knob. He tried turning the knob in a clockwise direction. There was a creak from overhead as a weather-proofing seal round the window parted, then a welcoming draught of air. For a brief moment he thought he could hear music, but it stopped almost immediately.

  Taking hold of the door handle again, he lowered himself gently to the floor. His legs still felt weak after the journey and it was marginally preferable to standing.

  Hungry, thirsty, miserable; he sat where he was for a while contemplating his lot.

  To say that he had been through the worst time of his life was putting it mildly. Not only had it been the worst, but also, however long it had taken in ‘real’ time, it had felt the longest. Whoever coined the proverb ‘as long as a day without bread’ had never been shut inside a coffin for five minutes, let alone however long it was that he had been incarcerated. His whole life seemed to have passed before him not once, but several times before he passed out.

  Automatically glancing down at his wrist, he realised his watch was missing. A brief search through his jacket pockets revealed his Cross pen was no longer there, nor was his wallet. The dictating machine hidden in the inside pocket had also been taken.

  He turned his trouser pockets inside out and again drew a blank.

  He had been stripped of all the things he normally took for granted: credit cards, the keys to his apartment, his diary with all the phone numbers and addresses.

  More than anything, he was angry with himself for allowing the whole thing to happen. Getting involved with the DGSE at all had been a mistake. It was typical of all such organisations. The left hand often didn’t know what the right hand was doing, or didn’t want to know. Like their abortive attempts to assassinate President Nasser, whilst at
the same time he was being supported by the CIA. It was all very well for Rossetti. He could simply sit back and see what happened.

  As for the unfairness of it all … it was ironic. How many times in the heady days when he had first been made an inspector in the Paris Sûreté had he told his subordinates not to grumble? How many times had he not warned them that when they went out patrolling the streets of Paris they would see ample proof that life was unfair? Not just from the time you were born, but from the moment of conception, and that you had to make the best of it. How many times had he not lectured them on the impossibility of lifting the mass of ‘have-nots’ to the level of the ‘haves’; that in a world which was growing steadily more crowded by the second, one shouldn’t assume the privileged few are necessarily happier than the so-called underprivileged. On the contrary; ulcers was a complaint mostly suffered by the former.

  Looking at his current surroundings; Monsieur Pamplemousse decided he had definitely entered the realm of the have-nots. The possibility that the room he was in might end up being the last place he saw was one he didn’t care to dwell on.

  And all for what? All for the sake of an egg, which he had lost down a drain.

  He couldn’t even seek solace in the dog-eared, faded photograph of Doucette he kept inside his wallet. Taken in the early days of their courtship as she was boarding a Vedette off the Place de Pont Neuf, he only looked at it once in a blue moon, but he suddenly felt lost without it. It was like being deprived of a security blanket.

  He wondered about Doucette. She must be worried sick by now. Pommes Frites, too. It was a good job the Pickerings were around.

  Suddenly aware of an urgent need to relieve himself, Monsieur Pamplemousse clambered unsteadily to his feet. He had no wish to end up in a pool of his own urine. It would be an ignominious end to his career. The thought galvanised him into action.

  Banging on the door with both fists, he didn’t really expect to get a response, nor was he disappointed at first. But when he tried again, this time using his right foot as well, he was pleasantly surprised to hear footsteps approaching up some stairs and the sound of voices. There was the rattle of a key in the lock and the door opened to reveal two men.