Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Train

by Michael Bond

  ‘But she got off further down the train, signore.’

  ‘Further down the train?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at the man in amazement. ‘You mean she didn’t go towards the front?’

  ‘She said she was in a hurry and I told her to leave nearer the middle. I explained to her that it is often quicker. There are exits all the way along the quai. Also it is often easier for taxis. There is another rank at the back of the gare. Everyone makes for the front.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked aggrieved. ‘Why did you not tell me that when I spoke to you yesterday morning?’

  ‘You did not ask me, signore. As I remember it you simply asked me if I had seen her.’

  The man hesitated. ‘I think she was trying to avoid someone. That is why she wished to leave as quickly as possible.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse pondered the remark. Was it possible that Caterina had not wanted to see him? His pride took a momentary fall.

  As though reading his thoughts, the conductor shook his head emphatically. ‘No, signore. Not you. There was someone else. Another person.’ He hesitated as a couple drew near, the woman pushing a trolley laden with luggage, the man comparing the number on their tickets with the one on the carriage. An electric trolley driven by a bearded porter wove its way past them.

  Realising he was running out of time and that he was still holding his wallet, Monsieur Pamplemousse made to open it. ‘This other person. Was it a man?’

  The conductor covered the wallet with his clip-board. ‘It is not necessary, signore.’ He hesitated again, looking over his shoulder as though not wanting to be overheard. ‘Come back in a little while. When the rush has died down. We can talk then.’

  Accepting the man at his word, Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to set off back down the quai towards the main concourse when he spied one of the secondary exits. Acting on an impulse, he made his way down some stairs and found himself in a vast marble concourse on a lower level.

  It was true what the conductor had said. Arrowed TAXIS signs pointed beyond the shops towards an exit at the rear of the building. Ambling after his master, Pommes Frites paused at the top of the stairs and stared back at the train as though some nameless unhappiness had entered his soul.

  But he paused in vain, for Monsieur Pamplemousse had his mind on other things. The Director for a start. He made for a row of telephones tucked away in a corner near the foot of the stairs and searched for his télécarte. It was time he checked in. For all he knew, Caterina might have turned up by now and he could be wasting his time.

  It was a felicitous thought, but one that alas was not to be borne out in fact. The Director’s first words set the tone of the conversation. It was worse than Monsieur Pamplemousse had feared. Total disbelief emanated from every nuance of every word.

  ‘Pamplemousse, would you mind repeating your last utterance. I feel I may have misheard you.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to play for time.

  ‘I said, Monsieur, that conversation is a little difficult on account of the ambient noise level in the gare.’ Even as he spoke, he was conscious of the fact that compared with the hustle and bustle of the main concourse, he had actually stumbled on an oasis of relative quiet. He wished now he had stayed put; it would have made matters a little easier.

  Catching sight of the lugubrious expression on Pommes Frites’ face as he hung on his master’s every word, Monsieur Pamplemousse buried himself deeper still into the screened telephone booth, tightening his grip on the receiver as he did so. Pursing his lips, he went into his ‘departure of the Orient Express for sunnier climes’ routine. It always went down well with his colleagues, although to be truthful he only ever performed it towards the ending of an evening, when everyone else was suitably primed, not to say well oiled. A man at the adjoining telephone stopped talking for a moment in order to listen, then said something into the receiver.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse ignored it. Clearly his own audience at the other end of the line was in a less receptive mood. Disenchantment set in almost immediately. Hardly had he completed his interpretation of a chef de train blowing a warning blast on his whistle than there was an explosion in his left ear which was little short of being on the threshold of pain.

  ‘Pamplemousse! I have had a particularly trying day. I do not wish to listen to the kind of charade you trot out every year at the staff outing. Furthermore, the last steam train left the Gare de Lyon over forty years ago. Will you please answer my question. Did I or did I not hear you say you have lost Caterina? I trust my ears deceived me.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath. ‘I said I couldn’t find her, Monsieur.’

  ‘That is splitting hairs, Pamplemousse!’ barked the Director. ‘What have you done with her?’

  Ignoring the unfairness of the question, Monsieur Pamplemousse essayed a run-down of his end of the story. There was nothing like setting out the facts in detail to another person to help crystallise one’s own thoughts.

  ‘I have done nothing with her, Monsieur. I took petit déjeuner early as I wished to be alone in order to write up my notes so that they would be ready for you at the earliest possible moment. Apropos of which, I may say the catering facilities were not quite as they were described to me. Alas, the days of le grand wagon salle à manger are no longer with us. The buffet car is admirable in its way, but one might as well be eating in a Jumbo jet. There is no longer a silver service. The salt and pepper comes in little plastic packets …’

  ‘This is dreadful news, Pamplemousse.’

  ‘It is a sign of the times, Monsieur.’

  ‘I was referring to ma petite cousine, Caterina,’ said the Director. ‘Did she not join you for petit déjeuner?’

  ‘No, Monsieur, she did not. We both took breakfast in our respective compartments. It was brought round on a tray by the conductor. When we were getting near Paris I knocked loudly on Caterina’s door to warn her. I am almost certain I heard her call out to thank me. That being so, I fully expected to see her ready and waiting as we entered the gare, but there was no sign.

  ‘Unfortunately my own departure was delayed for several minutes by an extremely large American lady with a great many valises. Even Pommes Frites couldn’t get past. I suspect she was being deliberately difficult.

  ‘When I finally managed to alight I was told by the conductor that Caterina had made her way to another coach shortly before I appeared. I assumed he meant nearer the front, but I have just learned I was mistaken. Since when I haven’t seen her.’

  ‘I say again, Pamplemousse, this is dreadful news. I charged you with her safe keeping. You have failed to carry out my orders.’

  ‘With respect, Monsieur, that is not entirely correct. You merely suggested that as I was investigating the catering facilities on the Palatino and as by chance your petite cousine happened to be travelling on the same train, we could keep each other company. Caterina is no longer a child, Monsieur. Furthermore, I must remind you I am employed by Le Guide as an Inspector of hotels and catering establishments, not as a nursemaid. I assume you are not suggesting I should have shared Caterina’s sleeping compartment. There is no other way I could have kept my eyes on her all the time. Unless, of course, you wanted me to camp out in the corridor. There are little fold-down seats. I could have sat on one of those all night. Madame Grante would have been pleased. It would have saved Le Guide a considerable sum.’

  There was a moment’s silence before the Director spoke again.

  ‘Forgive me, Aristide. I am overwrought.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse relaxed. The apology sounded genuine enough. The chief always grew a bit edgy towards publication day.

  ‘I must admit to feeling a little put out that she hadn’t even waited to say goodbye, Monsieur. I put it down to the forgetfulness of the young. Forgetfulness coupled with the excitement of the occasion. I assumed she was making her way straight to your office.’

  ‘What time did the train arrive?’

  ‘Ten-ninet
een, Monsieur. It was two minutes late. There was a slight air of restiveness everywhere. Watches were being consulted. I have never seen the gare so crowded on a Saturday morning. It was a seething mass of schoolchildren going on their skiing holidays. I had to fight my way through. I tried mounting the grand staircase leading to Le Train Bleu restaurant, but I encountered a certain amount of resistance. Pommes Frites was dying to obey the call of nature by then and not unnaturally when he saw the Christmas trees he took advantage of them. I became involved in an argument with one of the waiters who was cleaning the stairs and that delayed matters still further …’

  ‘Christmas trees?’ barked the Director. ‘In March?’

  ‘Exactement, Monsieur. I trust the whole thing will be removed at the end of the skiing season. It is an eyesore.’

  ‘They used to serve the best dry martini in Paris,’ said the Director dreamily. ‘The barman merely showed the label on the vermouth bottle to the gin.’

  ‘It is possible, Monsieur, that he still does,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  Taking advantage of the change in the conversation he tried to maintain the hopeful note he had struck.

  ‘It is the usual syndrome when someone is late, Monsieur. First there is irritation. Then one becomes cross. Crossness gives way to worry. Finally, when they do arrive, there is relief; relief mixed with guilt at ever having doubted them. It is early days to get one’s culottes in a twist. There could be a dozen reasons why Caterina is late. She may have met an old friend, or she may have decided to do some shopping before she came to see you.’

  ‘It is not my culottes I am worried about, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director meaningly. ‘We are talking about the culottes of a young girl who has spent much of her life in a convent. We all know what that means.’

  ‘We do, Monsieur?’

  ‘It is a highly charged atmosphere, Pamplemousse. Sex is always uppermost in the mind of the pupils. Couple that with a sense of guilt instilled at an early age by the Sisters and you have a sure-fire recipe for trouble. The nearest comparison which springs to mind is that of a piece of dry tinderwood awaiting the striking of the first match.’

  ‘My knowledge of convent life. Monsieur, is limited. I know only those things I have heard at second or even third hand.’

  ‘Me too, Pamplemousse. Me too. But as a boy my imagination was much exercised by a book called The Dreadful Disclosures of Maria Monk. It was required “under the desk” reading at the lycée.’

  ‘Surely things have changed since that was written, Monsieur?’

  ‘I think not, Aristide. I think not. Only in matters of detail. The book is probably part of the National Curriculum now, but I strongly suspect lascivious thoughts are still rife in the minds of those attending such establishments – fed as they are on a diet of fish.’

  ‘We ordered steak for dinner last night, Monsieur …’

  ‘The damage is done, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director impatiently, ‘It is a well-known fact that those whose diet consists largely of fish procreate like the proverbial lapins. It is the presence of so much phosphorus. Take any fishing community in the world. Notwithstanding the fact that many of the men-folk are away for long periods of time, the birth-rate is invariably above the national average. That is why I fear your comment on twisted culottes was singularly misplaced.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse remained silent for a moment or two. He was beginning to wish he had never used the phrase. The Director was fond of throwing in statements one longed to disprove. Apart from which, it was hardly the time to let fall the fact that the last time he had seen Caterina he doubted if her culottes were of a type to have passed muster at her convent’s weekly knicker inspection, let alone have sufficient material in their construction to allow for much in the way of twisting.

  He looked at his watch. It showed eighteen-thirty-five. ‘If you will forgive me, Monsieur, I must go. I have been questioning the conductor of the Palatino. He may have some vital information.’

  Even as he spoke, Monsieur Pamplemousse realised he hadn’t the slightest idea what Caterina had been wearing. Her school outfit or something a little more chic?

  ‘If I draw a blank I will telephone the police. Although I doubt if they will do very much at this stage other than circulate a description.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line. ‘That is the very last thing you must do, Pamplemousse.’

  ‘But, Monsieur …’

  ‘No buts, Pamplemousse. I cannot explain matters over the telephone – there are certain complications. Continue your present inquiries by all means, but I suggest that as soon as they are complete you return to Headquarters, tout de suite. I will await your arrival.’

  ‘But, Monsieur …’

  ‘Immédiatement!’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse replaced the receiver and removed his télécarte.

  Quite understandably, the chief had sounded worried. But there had been something else as well: overtones of some deeper emotion; for want of a better word, a distinct note of apprehension – apprehension bordering on panic.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s own fears, which until that moment had lain dormant, perhaps if he was completely honest with himself, had been deliberately swept under the carpet, now surfaced. His pace quickened as he led the way back up the stairs.

  As though infected by the same sense of urgency, Pommes Frites ran on ahead and was waiting by the Palatino as his master emerged from the stairway.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked for the conductor, but he was nowhere to be seen. Assuming the man was inside the coach making last-minute preparations for the train’s departure, he made his way along the quai peering in through the windows. But he drew a blank. Unfamiliar faces stared back at him, as though resenting the intrusion of a peeping tom. It was vexing to say the least.

  With a feeling of impatience he boarded the train and looked inside the little office at the end of the coach. It was empty. There was a clip-board and a small pile of ticket stubs on the table. Alongside it was a tray with some bottles of mineral water, several glasses and an opener.

  He checked the nearby toilet and once again drew a blank. A passenger standing in the corridor waving a last goodbye to someone outside eyed him curiously.

  ‘Le chef de train,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The conductor. I was looking for him.’

  The man gave a shrug. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know. He was here earlier.’ He resumed his waving, more urgently this time.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch. It was time he left. It would be the final straw if he found himself trapped on board. Dijon was probably the first stop.

  Calling Pommes Frites to follow, he made a less than dignified exit on to the quai. They were only just in time. The two-minute warning of the train’s imminent departure was already being made over the loudspeakers. First in French, then in English, then in Italian.

  Those on the quai who had come to see their nearest and dearest safely on their way stood back a little as the hands on the clock above the stairs moved inexorably closer to departure time. There was the faintest jolt from the Palatino as it prepared to leave. Somewhere towards the front came the sound of a whistle being blown and moments later, as the second hand reached the vertical, the train began to move.

  Impatience gave way to frustration and a sense of failure as Monsieur Pamplemousse watched the coaches glide past, gradually gathering speed. The engine that had brought the train into the quai followed on at a respectful distance, perhaps some twenty or thirty metres or so behind, the driver clearly anxious to return to his depot.

  As it went past Monsieur Pamplemousse turned and began walking slowly back up the quai towards the main concourse. It was infuriating. The conductor must have been deliberately avoiding him. There was no other explanation. And for what reason? Perhaps they should have stayed on board after all until the man put in an appearance.

  He was so engrossed in his thoughts he was totally unaware of wh
at was going on around him.

  At last, sensing that for some reason best known to himself, Pommes Frites was trying to attract his attention, he glanced up impatiently and was just in time to see a shadowy figure in a dark overcoat ducking beneath a gap between two coaches of a stationary train waiting alongside the adjoining quai.

  Even from the back, there was something familiar about the person, but before he had time to call out, that train, too, began to move. It gave him quite a turn, for he felt sure the man must have been caught by it before he had a chance to scramble clear.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse stood rooted to the spot for a moment, half expecting to see the worst as the last of the carriages went past, but instead all that remained was an almost empty quai. Whoever it was must have escaped by the skin of his teeth and made a bolt for it.

  Gradually he became aware of yet another distraction; voices coming from further up his own quai, near to where he had been standing only minutes before.

  Turning round, he saw that the engine which had brought the Palatino into the gare had ground to a halt alongside a small group of officials. He recognised the bearded porter among them. They were staring down at something on the line.

  With a growing sense of foreboding, Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way back up the quai. As he drew near the group he followed the direction of their gaze and saw a figure in brown sitting in the gap between the two tracks. It was the conductor from the Palatino.

  He looked for all the world as though he were taking part in a game of cards. From the total lack of expression in the eyes he could have been playing a hand of poker. Only the decorated head of a silver hat pin protruding from his right ear and a small trickle of blood running down behind his collar proclaimed the truth. The pointed end of the pin must have entered his brain. Death would have been both instantaneous and soundless.

  Alongside the man lay a pair of dark glasses, one lens of which was smashed as though it had been trampled underfoot.