by Michael Bond
Busy with his own thoughts, Pommes Frites crunched noisily at the toast while his master wrote.
Soon after nine-thirty the attendant returned with his passport. Monsieur Pamplemousse was tempted to call on the girl, but decided he would give her a little longer. She would come to him if she needed anything. He wondered how she would be dressed. The demure convent girl or the woman of the world ready to take Paris in her stride? Perhaps she would surprise him once again and appear in something totally different.
He would know soon enough. All the same, on his way back from the toilet at the end of the coach, he couldn’t resist knocking on her door.
‘It is nearly time.’
He thought he detected an answering call, but there was a sudden upsurge of noise as they roared through a station – it looked like Melun – and he couldn’t be certain.
Thirty minutes later, when there was still no sign of the girl, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to try again. Signalling Pommes Frites to stand guard over their belongings, he went out into the corridor. But he had left it too late. The train was slowing down for its final approach into the Gare de Lyon and he found his way blocked by the Americans: the woman overseeing her husband, who was struggling with a positive mountain of luggage. There was no possible way past, and certainly no hint in the woman’s eyes that she might under any circumstances give way before the train had come to a complete stop.
With rather less than his usual good grace, Monsieur Pamplemousse abandoned his attempt to get past. Having collected his belongings, he took his turn in alighting from the train and waited patiently on the quai for the girl to appear.
He waited in vain. Patience gradually gave way to mental drumming as one by one the other passengers emerged and still there was no sign of her. It wasn’t as though she had a lot of luggage. He tried not to think of the queue for the taxis. Any advantage they might have gained by being in one of the forward coaches was entirely lost.
Sensing Pommes Frites’ growing restiveness, Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced round and spotted Il Blobbo again – hovering at the end of the quai nearest the main concourse. He was with another man; a look-alike in dress if not in stature. Shorter and fatter, less dapper perhaps, but wearing an equally expensive looking black overcoat and matching fedora hat. As a duo, Monsieur Pamplemousse mentally bracketed them as a pair of high-class undertakers, although since they were both carrying violin cases he assumed they must be musicians.
They appeared to be intercepting some girls who were coming off the train. None of them were any older than Caterina, and since they were wearing red hats similar to the one she had arrived in, he assumed they must be from the same school. One or two stopped to hold a brief conversation, but most shook their heads and hurried on their way.
As the two men saw him looking in their direction they turned and moved off, melting into the already thinning crowd heading towards the exit.
‘Il signore has forgotten something?’
The conductor held out an arm, barring Monsieur Pamplemousse’s progress as the last of the passengers disembarked and he made to climb back on board.
‘Not forgotten … left. The signorina.’
‘The signorina?’ The man looked at him blankly. ‘But the signorina has already gone. She left as soon as we arrived.’
He waved his clip-board vaguely in the air. ‘She went further along the train … she wished to be near the door … she was in a hurry. Molto presto! Molto presto!’
2
MURDER MOST FOUL
The view as they crossed the Seine by the Pont d’Austerlitz did nothing to raise Monsieur Pamplemousse’s spirits. Paris was noticeably colder than Rome. The temperature must have dropped several degrees while they had been away. The water, dark and metallic under the leaden sky, looked deceptively calm; a heavily laden barge travelling upstream was having to fight its way against the current. A moth-eaten spaniel occupying the front passenger seat of the taxi, eyed Pommes Frites dispassionately in the rear-view mirror. It received a blank stare in return.
As their driver turned right and accelerated along the Quai Saint Bernard, Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself automatically glancing into other taxis, wondering if he might catch sight of the girl. It was a forlorn hope, but she could have been delayed for some reason.
He felt aggrieved. Aggrieved and somehow let down. Flat was the word. He tried to tell himself that there was no reason in the world why she should have waited for him. Nothing except common courtesy; a commodity which seemed to be getting rarer and rarer in this day and age. It wasn’t that he expected any thanks for his trouble, and admittedly he hadn’t said he would be escorting her beyond the Gare de Lyon once they reached Paris. The girl wasn’t a mind reader; she had no reason to know he was going into the office anyway to collect his car. But she might at least have had the decency to say adieu. A wave would have been better than nothing. A kiss blown from the end of the quai: something to file away in his memory.
So much for the brief flirtation of the night before. It would teach him not to romanticise. There was no fool like an old fool.
On reflection, Monsieur Pamplemousse was in no particular hurry to get to the office. The last thing he wanted to do was arrive ahead of her and perhaps bump into the Director waiting on the steps. In the circumstances, it would be an embarrassment. But as always when speed was not of the essence, the lights were green all the way and they reached the Esplanade des Invalides in record time.
The vast area was unusually devoid of tourists. The few people abroad had their hands in their pockets, coat collars turned up. The boules players had not yet put in an appearance.
Monsieur Pamplemousse stopped the driver in the rue Fabert, a little short of their destination, ostensibly in order to let Pommes Frites out for a walk. In truth, he wanted to get rid of his valise before putting in an appearance at the office. He wasn’t in the mood to answer a barrage of questions. A quick in-and-out was the order of the day.
After his long journey, Pommes Frites looked perfectly content to be left to his own devices while his master disappeared into the depths of the underground car park bearing their luggage.
He was still waiting patiently by the same bench ten minutes later when Monsieur Pamplemousse returned, having deposited his films in the art department for Trigaux to process.
By eleven-twenty they were on their way, and shortly before midday Monsieur Pamplemousse was unlocking the door to his apartment in rue Girardon.
As he opened it he could hear the phone ringing, but by the time he had removed his overcoat it had stopped. Pommes Frites made his way into the kitchen and glanced hopefully at his food bowl, but clearly there was no-one at home. The sound of lapping water filled the air.
Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to open the French windows to let in some air when he spied a note propped against a bowl of flowers in the centre of the dining-room table.
It was from Doucette saying she had gone to Melun for the day to see her sister Agathe, who was feeling poorly again. Without either of them realising it, they had probably passed each other that morning travelling in opposite directions. Doucette would have taken the local train from the Gare de Lyon. There was a picnic lunch in the refrigerator. The salad dressing was in a jar on the top shelf. There was also some fresh cheese and some strawberry barquettes. Agathe said she had a lot to tell her so she might be late back.
Monsieur Pamplemousse absorbed the news with mixed feelings. He was beginning to feel hard done by, as though the world had suddenly turned against him. It would have been nice to have been greeted by something other than a note about a cold collation; the smell of a stew simmering on the stove, perhaps, or a coq au vin in the making. Even the pungent whiff of some freshly brewed café would have been better than nothing. He had even brought back some fresh truffles from Italy; not the white variety from Piedmont, which Doucette didn’t really consider proper, but ironically some imported black ones from France, large, succulent and earthy, each
separately wrapped in tissue and packed in an airtight plastic container. They would keep, but not for very long.
On the other hand, matters could have been worse. It was Friday; the day when Agathe was wont to cook tripe à la mode de Caen, under the mistaken belief that all you had to do was line a casserole with onions and carrots, shove in a kilogram or so of tripe, along with a calf’s foot and the rest of the ingredients, leave it all to simmer for about ten hours and something magical would happen. It never did; not when he was there anyway. More often than not something went wrong. Either Agathe didn’t add enough water, or else she didn’t seal the pastry top completely tight. Once she even forgot to turn the oven on.
Going into the kitchen, Monsieur Pamplemousse encountered Pommes Frites coming out. An empty bowl pushed to the centre of the floor made clear his feelings.
A walk was indicated. A walk as far as the Place de Clichy. Pommes Frites could work up an appetite chasing a few stray cats in the Cimetière de Montmartre and afterwards they would indulge themselves with a leisurely lunch at, say, Le Maquis in the rue Caulaincourt.
Pommes Frites registered approval as his master picked up the telephone and booked a table. It was a sign that things were returning to normal. Basic decisions were being made.
Some three and a half hours were to pass before they returned home, tired but happy.
Monsieur Pamplemousse took off his shoes and lay back on the bed. What was the word he had used in Le Guide to categorise the food in the restaurant? Copieuse? He saw no reason to recommend a change in his next report. And cuisine bourgeoise was the only way to describe a meal which began with feuilleté au roquefort – the mountain of cheese still bubbling away in its casing of flaky pastry – followed by gigot d’agneau rôti with pommes Lyonnaise; the portions of leg of lamb so generous there was scarcely room left on his plate for the potatoes (on reflection, that had been an error of judgement on his part – following cheese in pastry with cheese in potatoes). Sadly, he had been forced to refuse the plâteau de fromage in order to leave room for the tarte sablée aux framboises.
He closed his eyes in order to contemplate it the better. Pommes Frites’ snores from the foot of the bed said it all. If Stock Pots were Le Guide’s symbol of excellence, snores were Pommes Frites’. So, too, in a matter of moments were those of his master.
Monsieur Pamplemousse woke to the sound of the phone ringing. He looked at his watch and saw to his horror that it registered seventeen-fifteen. It was not possible. It could not be.
It was not only possible. It was, according to the Director’s secretary, a matter of some urgency.
Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to focus his attention on what she was saying. Having a whole bottle of Côtes-du-Rhône-Villages to himself had been a mistake. His head was throbbing.
‘Monsieur Pamplemousse … it is Véronique. Forgive my troubling you. I know you must be tired after your journey … but I wonder if you can possibly help?
‘I tried several times to get you. Monsieur le Directeur wishes to know what the problem is …’
‘Problem? What problem?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to concentrate on what was being said.
‘Monsieur le Directeur is reluctant to telephone Rome for fear of causing unnecessary alarm, but he wondered if perhaps there was a mix-up at the other end …’
‘A mix-up?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse forced himself into a sitting position. ‘Are you saying his petite cousine is not with you?’
‘Monsieur le Directeur waited on the steps for over an hour this morning. When she didn’t appear we tried telephoning you, but there was no reply so we thought perhaps the train had been delayed. It was only when we found out that it had arrived on time that we began to get worried.’
‘May I speak with the Director himself?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse was suddenly wide awake, all his senses working overtime.
‘I am afraid that is not possible, Monsieur Pamplemousse. He is with Sister. He fears he may have caught a chill. It is very cold for this time of year and Rambaud had the main doors open …’
‘Then tell him I will phone as soon as possible.’
‘I will see if I can put you through …’
‘Non. I am going out now.’
‘But, Monsieur Pamplemousse …’
‘A tout à l’heure, Véronique. Thank you for calling.’
‘Monsieur Pamplemousse …’ Véronique sounded worried.
‘What is it?’
‘Monsieur le Directeur would not wish for any publicity. Only as a last resort, you understand?’
‘Oui, Véronique. Je comprends.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse replaced the receiver with rather more force than he had intended. He understood only too well. Véronique was only doing as she was told, but it was typical of the Director that in a moment of crisis his first thought should be one of fear at being on the receiving end of any kind of adverse publicity. If ever there was a case for telephoning around, this was it. Well, they would have to see. First things first.
He hurried into the bathroom in order to freshen up with some cold water and in a matter of minutes, with Pommes Frites sitting beside him, he was at the wheel of his 2CV heading down the boulevard Magenta in the general direction of the Gare de Lyon.
As yet, he had no clear idea in his head as to why he was going there, or what he would do when they arrived. It was a matter of instinct – of past experience – going back to square one and starting again; much as an electrical repairman might handle a piece of faulty equipment. Check all external connections to make sure they were correct and move on from there. Tedious and painstaking it might be, but more often than not it was what produced results in the end.
Square one was the Gare de Lyon. It was hard to picture, but for all he knew Caterina might still be waiting there, panic having set in when she found herself lost in a strange city. Despite her outward self-confidence, she was still only a schoolgirl, and a schoolgirl with very little experience of the outside world at that. The gare, with its multitude of layers, each one teeming with travellers indifferent to anyone’s problems but their own, was about as far removed from the cloistered calm of a convent as it was possible to imagine. She could have met with an accident, or been knocked down and suffered a loss of memory – stranger things had been known. The possibilities were endless. Mugged? Heaven forbid! He would never hear the last of it.
In any event, it would be a start. For the moment he refused to allow thoughts of anything more serious to enter his mind. The explanation, when it came, would probably turn out to be something quite mundane.
It was the height of the evening rush hour and traffic was heavy; the reverse of his morning journey. Every junction had its hold-up. Lorries fighting their way into the city, cars fighting their way out, with no quarter given on either side. Autobuses exerting their priority over other traffic – the drivers with their telephones at the ready in case a total impasse was reached.
Finding somewhere to park his deux chevaux was yet another problem. It took him something over ten minutes before he found a suitable gap in a side street behind the gare. As they made their way towards the entrance the clock in the belfry above the Big Ben bar showed midday on one face, on another four-twenty. The architect, Marius Toudoire, would not have been pleased. Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch. It said eighteen-fifteen.
Inside the station, he set off on a quick voyage of exploration, retracing much the same path he had followed that morning. As before, he soon gave it up as a bad job. There were innumerable places Caterina could still be without having left the building. The Gare de Lyon was vast, and it had grown larger still since its integration with the RER high-speed underground system. It would take for ever to search all the different levels thoroughly, particularly with so many people milling around.
Monsieur Pamplemousse returned to the main concourse serving the Grandes Lignes and looked around and up in search of inspiration. It came almost immediately in the shape of the Departures
board.
Scanning it for want of something better to do, he registered the fact that the train they had travelled up on – the Palatino – was scheduled to leave for Rome in less than half an hour’s time. At eighteen-forty-nine to be precise. Quai ‘J’. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that the same staff would be manning it for the return journey. Most of them would be going home.
The train was already in the quai. Looking slightly old-fashioned amongst the chic orange and grey livery of the TGVs, it still managed to exude an air of quiet superiority; of the way things should be done. Inside the first-class compartments people were unpacking their bags; hanging suits and dresses on to hooks; others had already drawn their blinds. Several coaches along, Monsieur Pamplemousse saw a familiar figure in brown clutching a clip-board.
As they drew near there was a glint of recognition. An official hand reached out for his ticket.
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘We are not travelling.’ He decided to plunge straight in. For the moment there was a lull. Quite possibly it wouldn’t last very long. ‘I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions?’
‘Questions, signore?’ There was the faintest change of expression on the conductor’s face.
Before it had time to harden, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt for his wallet. It was becoming an expensive operation.
‘Last night I travelled up from Rome with a girl …’
‘Sì, signore.’ The man’s face lit up again. ‘I remember her well …’ He sought for the right words. ‘Che bella figura!’
‘It was my intention to escort her to her destination,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But somehow in the rush we missed each other. You may remember. I looked for her at the front of the quai, but …’