Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines

by Michael Bond

  Coming to with a start, he realised Doucette was still talking to him.

  ‘You’ve got your trousers off as well!’ she said accusingly. ‘Are you sure you are all right?’ Placing a hand on his forehead, she then compared it with her own. ‘It feels as though you have a temperature. Perhaps I ought to telephone the doctor?’

  ‘I think a cold shower might be more efficacious,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. After such a dream it was no wonder he had woken up covered in perspiration.

  ‘In October?’ Reaching forward to help him with his pyjamas, Doucette gave a start.

  ‘Aristide!’ she exclaimed. ‘What have you done to your back? It’s covered in scratches…’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank. It was fatal to lower your guard for a second. Having spent time judiciously practising some difficult sideways manoeuvres before climbing into bed, movements he had honed to perfection in front of the bathroom mirror, he could have kicked himself.

  ‘I think they must be old ones, Couscous,’ he said lamely.

  ‘Old ones?’ repeated Doucette. ‘They don’t look very old to me. They are still bright red!’

  ‘Relatively speaking, of course…’

  ‘Relative to what?’ demanded Doucette. ‘Or to whom?’

  Seeking refuge in the light switch, Monsieur Pamplemousse gave up the struggle and lay back.

  ‘Just relative,’ he murmured, adding a gentle snore for good measure.

  Luckily there was no need to keep up the pretence for more than a moment or so. Doucette invariably went straight back to sleep as soon as her head touched the pillow, and much to his relief that night was no exception. He had other pressing matters on his mind.

  Although he still couldn’t put his finger on it, as with the image on Malfiltre’s screen, so it had been in his dream. Apart from the silver picture frame, which had contained a photograph of Chavignol’s assistant, Pascal – without his hat as bald as a coot, there was something else not quite right about Claudette’s boudoir. Another detail that kept eluding him. An ornament not in the right place, perhaps, or something missing…

  In the no-man’s land halfway between being awake and falling asleep the answer came to him and the realisation set his mind racing.

  ‘Sacré bleu!’

  Doucette groaned as the light came on again. ‘What is it now, Aristide?’

  ‘Tell me something, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Where does a wise man hide a pebble?’

  ‘Must you start asking riddles at this time in the morning?’ demanded Doucette.

  ‘You should know the answer,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It was you who gave me the clue in the first place… showing me those old photographs.’

  ‘You mean the ones taken in Nice? I suppose the answer is where there are a lot of other pebbles – like the beach near where we were staying. If you remember I found one shaped just like a cat, then I put it down for safe keeping and we never found it again.’

  ‘Exactement!’

  That was it. The parallel had been staring him the face all along. Where was the simplest to place to hide a photograph? In an album of course! And what was different about Claudette’s bedroom as seen on Malfiltre’s screen? The shelf in the glass-fronted cabinet between the two beds had been empty. The books were missing. Except, of course, he would be willing to bet they hadn’t been books as such! He could have kicked himself for not having thought of it sooner.

  If that theory were correct, the most likely answer to their present whereabouts, given its weight, was inside the suitcase.

  And if Claudette was about to set off for goodness knows where taking the case with her, they would have to move quickly. To lose track of her at this stage would be like letting go of a cannon at the top of a steep hill and watching it gather speed. Who knew where it would end up, and at what cost on the way?

  ‘Now where are you off to?’ asked Doucette sleepily, as he reached for his dressing gown.

  ‘I have a telephone call to make, Couscous…. I shan’t be long.’

  ‘At 03.40 in the morning?’

  He looked at the clock. ‘03.42.’

  ‘There are times,’ said Doucette, burying her head under the duvet, ‘when I wish I had never married a Capricorn!’

  Much to his surprise, Jacques picked up his call on the second ring.

  ‘What kept you?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘It took me that long to get dressed and rush downstairs,’ said Jacques. ‘I’ll tell you something else for free. Half the household is not amused. And that’s just me. The other half is livid. Yours is the second call I’ve had since we went to bed. I tell my wife; if she values her sleep so much she shouldn’t have married a policeman. What’s the problem? It had better be good.’

  Jacques listened while Monsieur Pamplemousse told him.

  ‘That’s pretty good,’ he said. ‘Not perfect, but will do for the time being. Now, since you are on the blower I have news for you. I haven’t exactly been idle.

  ‘Claudette Chavignol is booked on Friday’s 12.35 Air France flight from Charles de Gaulle to Marseille. I even have her seat number – it’s 1A in the business section, so she should be among the first off the plane when it arrives…’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘As sure as I am that it’s a quarter to four in the morning. And how do I know that? Because my wife has just reminded me of the fact. I would have but I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse ignored the last bit. The word Marseille rang a faint bell in the back of his head.

  ‘Friday!’ he repeated. ‘But that’s today…’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Jacques, ‘I don’t know how we’ve managed to survive all this time without your incisive mind at our disposal. I suppose the truth is they couldn’t find two people to replace you, so they got computers instead.

  ‘The point is… do you think she’ll have everything with her? Prints, negatives and all?’

  ‘I’m sure she will,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It doesn’t sound as though she’s going away for the weekend, and I can’t picture her being one of the world’s great readers. If she’s doing a flit she won’t want to risk being parted from them any longer than she has to. They’re much too precious.’

  ‘Fancy a trip to Marseille?’ asked Jacques. ‘City of probity, rectitude and seafood restaurants? I can fix it so that you catch an earlier flight. There’s one at 10.40. That’ll give you plenty of time to work out the lay of the land before meeting her plane and seeing where she goes. It should be just up your street.’

  ‘I would need to clear it with my Director first…’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dubiously.

  Jacques’ mind was running on ahead of him as usual. The more Monsieur Pamplemousse thought about it the less the idea appealed to him. For a start he wouldn’t be able to take Pommes Frites on the plane.

  ‘Think bouillabaisse,’ said Jacques.

  ‘At this time in the morning?’

  ‘Well, for the time being, think restaurants. Think smells… the sea… the Miramar restaurant in the old port… Then think bouillabaisse…’

  ‘It won’t work,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘She’s almost bound to catch sight of me at some point, then the cat really will be out of the bag.’ Realising he hadn’t let on to Jacques the depth of his own involvement with Claudette, he wondered whether he ought to or not.

  Deciding it was too early in the morning for confessions, he tried another tack.

  ‘In any case, I have no power. Suppose Marseille is only a stopping off point. Just suppose she moves on. She could take a plane or a boat to practically anywhere in the world.’

  ‘Anything is possible,’ admitted Jacques. ‘But if that’s the case, why go there in the first place? I tell you something else the computer has thrown up. Guess when the booking was made?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse had no idea. He was beginning to lose all sense of time. He made a wild guess. ‘Yesterda
y?’

  ‘Three weeks ago…’

  ‘Three weeks… Morbleu!’

  ‘Exactly my sentiments. Look, if you don’t fancy being on your own I could probably arrange help at the other end, but that would take a bit of explaining. The less people involved the better. I might even go myself. I could do with a spot of fresh air. Do you want a short list of all the possibilities, or a long one…’

  ‘Apart from anything else,’ broke in Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘there has already been one attempt on my life…’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously. Either that or a warning shot that was too close for comfort.’

  ‘Sapristi! When?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse told him.

  ‘But who would want to do that?’

  ‘Quite a few people over the years, I imagine. But in this particular instance it must be someone who feels I may be getting close to the truth. Not only that, but someone who has killed once and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.’

  ‘Or with sufficient clout to have someone do it for him,’ added Jacques.

  ‘Going back to the problem in hand,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘We must stop Madame Chavignol leaving Paris at all costs.’

  ‘Maybe we could pull her in at the airport?’ Jacques tried another tack. ‘We could get Security to go through her bags.’

  ‘Would that be wise?’

  ‘Just clutching at straws. You’re right, though. Once those boys get their hands on the pictures who knows where they might end up? On their canteen wall most likely! It could defeat its own object.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘they won’t be in her hand luggage. If my hunch is right they’ll be in the baggage hold of the plane.’

  ‘Bags can go missing,’ mused Jacques. ‘It happens all the time. It’s one of those things people take for granted. They only grumble when their own case gets lost. Have you ever been behind the scenes at Charles de Gaulle? It’s like watching one of those giant machines the P.T.T. use for sorting mail, except it’s spread over a much bigger area. The wonder is not so much that things go astray; it’s the fact that it doesn’t happen more often.’

  ‘There’s one big snag,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Hers won’t be the only item of Louis Vuitton luggage heading for the South of France. You can bet your life on that. Identifying the right one and getting it out of the airport without doing a lot of explaining would be something else again.’

  While Jacques was talking his mind had been racing on ahead. ‘I have an even better idea.’ He borrowed a leaf out of the Director’s book. ‘Perhaps I could run it up the flagpole and see what you think.’

  It was also a case of role reversal. He was now the one thinking on his feet, and give him his due, Jacques was proving a good listener.

  ‘I can’t see any reason why it shouldn’t work,’ he said at last. ‘We shall need to play it carefully and not tread on too many toes. It’ll be a question of territories.

  ‘We shall need a couple of extra bodies, but that shouldn’t be a problem. There are so many identity checks these days, what’s one more?’

  ‘I can look after the check-in side of things,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘That will save one. I’m afraid the rest will be up to you.’

  ‘Leave it with me,’ said Jacques. It was fast becoming his signing off phrase.

  ‘See you at Charles de Gaulle airport. Outside Terminal 2D. The flight leaves from gate 70, so it will be somewhere near the Paris end of the terminal. Better make it eleven fifteen to be on the safe side.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Don’t forget to bring Pommes Frites.’

  ‘As if I would!’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘And drive carefully!’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse had two calls to make in the 7th before joining the Périphérique and then the Al to Charles de Gaulle. Despite the delay he still reached the airport first.

  Jacques looked slightly put out. ‘If this place gets any bigger there won’t be much point in taking a plane,’ he complained. ‘It will simply be a case of calling in for a refuel and a cup of coffee, then driving where you want to go. 3000 hectares. That’s a third the size of Paris!’

  As they entered the vast Departures hall he took one look at the people milling around. ‘It could end up being quicker too.’

  Taking advantage of a relatively quiet spot behind a magazine store, he produced a selection of clip-on identity tags. Monsieur Pamplemousse recognised the photo on his as having recently appeared in one of the journaux. Jacques must have moved fast.

  ‘You are now a temporary member of Special Services Group – Section F. It will get you most places you need to go, but not necessarily all. If anyone asks what you are doing give them a good earful. Tell them you are not at liberty to say.’

  ‘Do the Sûreté know about it?’

  Jacques sighed. ‘Questions, questions! Let’s just say those who matter do. Look, as I’ve said before, there are so many checks going on at the moment they are beginning to be taken for granted. Just don’t put it on your CV.’

  ‘What CV?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘They didn’t have such things in my day.’

  He slipped the tag into his pocket. There was no point in attracting attention unless it became absolutely necessary. In his experience “those who mattered” would probably deny all knowledge of him if it came to the crunch.

  ‘I’ve got one for “you know who” as well,’ said Jacques. ‘Just to be on the safe side. Do you think he’ll mind?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at the photograph as he attached it to Pommes Frites’ collar. ‘He ought to be pleased. He’s aged a bit since this was taken.’

  ‘You’re sure he won’t have forgotten what he’s supposed to be looking for?’

  ‘Now you are likely to offend him,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Besides, I gave him a little reminder on the way.’

  He glanced up at the nearest bank of monitors. Most of the flights, including the 12.35 AF7674 to Marseille, were scheduled to leave on time.

  Jacques led the way up a flight of stairs to their left where a balcony outside the Club Class lounge afforded an overhead view of the whole of the check-in area. It could have been purpose built.

  The check-in section itself was momentarily empty, which was more than could be said for Economy. There were long queues at all the desks.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered what his old mother would have made of it all. He could hear her voice: “I can’t think where they’re all going.” But then she had never been up in an aeroplane, or travelled outside the Auvergne, let alone seen the sea.

  While they were waiting they went through the plan once more.

  No one entering or leaving the lounge seemed surprised by the presence of two men with a large Bloodhound. The few who happened to glance their way looked reassured rather than apprehensive. It was a sign of the times.

  At 11.52 Madame Chavignol appeared, immaculate as ever. Figures wandering aimlessly about the hall gave way automatically as she headed towards the check-in area.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded in her direction. ‘She’s here. Steel grey tailored suit, low heeled travelling shoes. You can’t miss her.’

  ‘Not exactly deep mourning,’ murmured Jacques, unconsciously echoing Monsieur Pamplemousse’s own thoughts when he had first met Claudette.

  A man pushing a trolley piled high with luggage followed her. ‘Who’s that?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his camera. ‘Chavignol’s ex-gofer, man-of-all-work, general factotum, faithful retainer…’

  ‘Are you sure about the faithful bit?’ said Jacques, as they passed below them. ‘I don’t think much of his suit, but if the Hermès tie is anything to go by it looks as though he could be on to a good thing. Do you think he’s travelling too?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. ‘Who knows? As for the tie, it goes with the job.’

  He realised it was the
first time he had seen Pascal in his entirety. He was taller than he had pictured; but then Chavignol had been too, which figured. It was not dissimilar to two people entering into a relationship having spent the first few days gazing at each other full-face from across a succession of restaurant tables; sometimes the wider view, or an unexpected expression caught when they weren’t looking could prove a bit of a let down. By then, it was often too late.

  So it was with Pascal. In contrast to his ex-boss he looked down-at-heel; seedy. It was amazing the difference a good tailor could make.

  Was he going too? The same thought had gone through his own mind more than once since he’d heard how long ago the flight had been booked.

  He gave Jacques a nudge.

  A little further down the hall another trolley had appeared from out of nowhere. If anything, it looked even more heavily laden than Pascal’s. So much so, whoever was in charge seemed to be having difficulty maintaining a straight line.

  ‘It looks like an unguided missile of the very worst kind,’ said Jacques.

  The two trolleys began closing in on each other, both apparently oblivious to the other’s presence. Seen from above, short of one or the other taking last minute evasive action, the outcome was a foregone conclusion; an accident in the making. Luckily no one down below seemed to notice or take it upon themselves to interfere.

  It was all over in a matter of seconds. Both parties recovered and went on their way.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse breathed a sigh of relief. During the brief exchange of words following the collision he had taken a quick snap of the scene. The Director’s camera was proving invaluable. Besides, Malfiltre might like one for the record.

  ‘The man pushing the second trolley looked familiar,’ said Jacques thoughtfully as it disappeared.

  ‘Did he now?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It’s a small world.’ He watched as Claudette and Pascal reached the check-in desk.