by Michael Bond
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at the motionless figure for several seconds, trying to absorb the fact and the meaning behind it, before he turned and began retracing his steps along the quai, slowly at first, then with gathering speed.
Mindful of the Director’s warning, and conscious that others were watching his movements, he called Pommes Frites to heel as they drew level with an exit and as though obeying a sudden whim, stopped abruptly and led the way quickly down the steps, feeling for his car keys as he went.
Reaching the lower level rather quicker than he had on the previous occasion, Monsieur Pamplemousse threw dignity to the wind and broke into a run. There were times when discretion was the better part of valour, and this was undoubtedly one of them.
3
OUT ON A LIMB
Le Guide’s headquarters was ablaze with light. Everyone was working late. It was the busy time of the year.
Rambaud – who rarely emerged from his gate-keeper’s office when there was an ‘r’ in the month – had stationed himself outside the main entrance. He wore a scarf round his neck to keep warm. The large wooden doors, as discreet in their way as the entrance to a London club, unadorned by anything so plebeian as a nameplate and normally kept closed to the outside world, were wide open. When he caught sight of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s car approaching Rambaud stood to one side and signalled him to enter. It was an unheard of occurrence. Normally parking space in the inner courtyard was for VIPs only, the sole exception being a carefully marked area set aside for Monsieur le Directeur near the entrance to his private elevator.
One of the girls in reception was waiting for them by the lift. Rambaud must have given prior warning of their arrival, for she was holding the door open in readiness.
‘Merci.’
As Monsieur Pamplemousse entered the lift the girl handed him, a large, official-looking brown envelope. It bore the Art Department’s emblem. If Trigaux had done his stuff with the films it might well come in useful.
They were whisked up to the seventh floor without stopping once. As the doors slid open he saw Véronique, the Director’s secretary, standing outside. She led the way along the thickly carpeted corridor.
‘How was Rome?’
‘Warmer than here,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The children were mostly in costume. They were throwing confetti everywhere. It was the last big festival before Lent.’
‘And the food? Did you eat well?’ Clearly the subject of the Director’s cousine was not up for discussion.
‘On the first evening I had culatello di zibello. It is a prosciutto made from a knuckle of ham which has been aged, then soaked in sparkling red Lambrusco. It was possibly the most beautiful ham I have ever tasted; so soft it almost melted in the mouth. I followed that with tortellini alla panna. It was a speciality of the house and it was served covered with thinly sliced truffles. The taste comes back to me every time I think of it.’
He followed Véronique into her outer office and waited while she pressed a buzzer.
‘Yesterday for déjeuner I ordered baked baby lamb with rosemary. It was accompanied by a green salad and it was so good Pommes Frites had a second helping. He made short work of the bones as well.’
Véronique opened her desk drawer and took out an imaginary violin which she began to play.
‘Work, work, all the time work. It must be unbearably hard at times.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse put on his injured look. ‘On both occasions the wine was of the most ordinary. The house vino rosso, which came in a glass jug. The information may come in useful if we ever do an Italian edition of Le Guide.’
Véronique stopped playing. ‘Pigs might fly.’ She tried buzzing the Director again. There was still no response.
‘I should go on in. And watch out – I think Monsieur le Directeur is in one of his moods.’
Unexpectedly, despite the cold, the Director was standing outside on his balcony gazing into space. He looked in sober mood as he turned to greet his subordinate.
‘Aristide, you are the last person in the world I would have wished this to happen to.’ He gave a shiver as he came back into his office, closing the French windows behind him.
‘But, Monsieur, it is I who should feel badly about the whole thing. Even now it is hard to say how it came about.’
Avoiding Monsieur Pamplemousse’s gaze, the Director motioned him to sit, then crossed to the far side of the room. He looked as though he had aged ten years.
‘Let me get you a drink.’
Catching sight of the portrait of Monsieur Hippolyte Duval, founder of Le Guide, it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that for once he, too, seemed to be avoiding his gaze. Normally, those magnetic ice-blue eyes, captured in oils by the artist at the turn of the century, followed visitors everywhere they went in the room; there was no escaping them. Now, they seemed to be gazing into the middle distance. It must have been an optical illusion for as soon as the Director opened the door to his drinks cupboard and the light came on the feeling disappeared.
‘A little white wine, Monsieur. A glass of Muscadet, perhaps?’ He suddenly realised how thirsty he felt.
‘Why not have something stronger?’ The Director reached for a bottle of cognac. ‘A glass of my Roullet Très Rare Hors d’Age – numero vingt-six, perhaps? Everyone should have at least one glass before they die.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse pretended not to have noticed the last remark. Véronique was right. The chief was in a downcast mood and no mistake. Stifling any kind of response, he watched while a more than generous measure was poured. Clearly something was afoot. Even Pommes Frites shifted uneasily as he recognised the signs.
Putting a brave face on matters, Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to turn the conversation in a happier direction.
‘Should you ever choose to embark on an Italian edition of Le Guide, Monsieur, you may like to know that we had an excellent dîner in Rome the night before last. It was in a little family restaurant called Colline Emiliane, not far from the Piazza Barbarini …’
‘I doubt, Pamplemousse, if any of us will be venturing on to Italian soil for some time to come,’ said the Director gloomily.
He held out a large, balloon-shaped glass. Monsieur Pamplemousse took it reverently with both hands, warming the contents before lifting it to his nose. He was rewarded by a superbly rich and opulent bouquet.
‘Perhaps,’ said the Director, seating himself behind his desk, ‘I should begin at the beginning.’
‘It is always a good place to start, Monsieur.’
‘The name Caterina, Pamplemousse, is derived from a Greek word meaning pure. I don’t know what impressions you may have formed, but I think you must agree that if ever the choice of a name was inappropriate it has to be that with which Chantal’s petite cousine was christened.’
Even if Monsieur Pamplemousse had been inclined to answer, he wasn’t given the chance.
‘She has always led a sheltered existence,’ continued the Director. ‘Her formative years were spent on her parents’ estate. She was never allowed outside its four walls. They have always guarded her chastity. She is an only daughter, her mother’s pride and joy, the pomme of Uncle Rocco’s oeil, and when she began to show unmistakable signs of maturity she was dispatched to a convent for safe keeping.
‘As things turned out it was a disastrous move. Desires held in check all those years blossomed as they emerged from beneath the metaphorical bed-clothes. Loins which hitherto had only been exercised in the picking of orange blossom, were girded before being unleashed on an ill-prepared world. It must have been somewhat akin to Mount Vesuvius erupting after a particularly hot summer. Imagine her parents’ distress when, after only a week in her new surroundings, she was asked to leave.’
‘All young girls are high-spirited, Monsieur. Perhaps she found the regime too strict. Was it a Jesuit establishment?’
‘This was not a simple case of high spirits, Pamplemousse. She pushed the Mother Superior into the swimming pool. Having been cau
ght behind the changing rooms in flagrante delicto with a young gardener, she was trying to make good her escape when she was intercepted. Unfortunately the encounter took place near the deep end of the pool, and as swimming had not been part of the curriculum when the Mother Superior was a child it nearly ended in disaster. Nuns’ garments weigh exceedingly heavy when they are steeped in water.’
‘Is that so, Monsieur?’
The Director chose to ignore the interruption. ‘Caterina was judged to be a corrupting influence on the other girls in her class,’ he continued. ‘She was told to pack her belongings and her parents were sent for. But Uncle Rocco, who has connections with the Vatican, persuaded the powers that be to change their minds. As a result they now have one of the finest tennis courts that money can buy.’
‘And the gardener, Monsieur? What happened to him?’
The Director shrugged. ‘He was never seen again. But that was no problem. I am told that even though they pay only the minimum rates there is always a sizeable queue of applicants for the post. But that is a thing of the past. The nuns have learned their lesson and they are paying the price with backs bent over the hoe.’
‘But with respect, Monsieur, we are living in the latter half of the twentieth century …’
‘Correction, Pamplemousse. We may be living in the latter half of the twentieth century, but not everyone recognises that fact, still less do they allow others to enjoy the benefits that go with it. Some people – particularly those who are used to living in a relatively closed community – set great store by what they consider to be their “property”. They guard it assiduously. That is the case with Uncle Rocco and his daughter and that is why I entrusted you with the mission.
‘Anticipating her safe arrival, our own gardeners have been briefed. Warnings have been issued. The pool has been drained. And now …’
‘I wish you had told me all this earlier, Monsieur. To be forewarned is to be forearmed.’
‘You are not the only one, Pamplemousse. You are not the only one. My wife and I discussed the matter at great length and in the end Chantal felt the least said the better. We did not wish to worry you unduly.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse sipped his brandy thoughtfully. ‘I still do not understand, Monsieur, why you are so against calling in the police. Surely, a discreet word in the right quarters …’
‘That is out of the question, Pamplemousse. Utterly out of the question. Uncle Rocco is impatient with authority. In his eyes there are no “right” quarters. He is a law unto himself. We shall need to mobilise our own forces – and quickly. Speed is of the essence. He will be awaiting a call to hear that all is well and there is a limit to the number of excuses I can find when he asks to speak to his daughter. The sound of a departing steam train, however well executed, will cut little ice in the circumstances.’
‘But, surely, Monsieur …’
‘There is no “surely” about it, Pamplemousse. Chantal’s Uncle Rocco is a very powerful person and Chantal is his favourite niece. He is also by nature the sort of person who at the slightest whim would pick up a telephone and erase her from his memory with no more thought than he would put to telling the captain of one of his merchant ships to alter course for the Azores. He is also, I may say, perfectly capable of erasing others from his memory too.’
And from his will, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. That had to be it: the reason for his boss’s unhappiness. The more some people had, the more they wanted.
‘Life will not be worth living once he gets to hear what has occurred,’ said the Director.
‘But what can he do, Monsieur? He may be powerful in the world of shipping, and I agree that he has good reason to be upset … but here in Paris …’
The Director dithered for a moment or two, making a show of tidying his desk before replying. ‘Uncle Rocco’s interests are not entirely confined to maritime matters, Pamplemousse,’ he said at last. ‘He is involved in many things. He has his fingers in a multitude of pies. Buying and selling … the construction business … his tentacles are like those of an octopus and they stretch far beyond the confines of the island where he lives. He has connections everywhere.’
‘He lives on an island, Monsieur?’ The word ‘tentacles’ coupled with that of ‘island’ caused faint warning bells to start sounding in the back of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s head. ‘I assumed he lived somewhere near Rome.’
‘Did I say that?’ asked the Director innocently.
‘No, Monsieur, you did not. I merely assumed …’
Draining his glass, the Director rose and crossed to the French windows, where he stood gazing out across Paris. The golden dome of St Louis des Invalides gleamed dully in the cloud-filtered sunset. Much further away and to its left, the equally distinctive dome of the Sacré Coeur on the heights of Montmartre seemed nearer than usual; a hint, perhaps, that rain was on the way.
But Monsieur Pamplemousse noticed none of these things. His thoughts were concentrated on more immediate matters. The Director’s behaviour for a start; his wife Chantal’s unexpected absence – they all began to add up. He had a sudden mental picture of the conductor’s body sitting where it had been placed on the railway track. At the time the method of killing had seemed extraordinarily bizarre, now he wasn’t so sure.
‘What was the name of the island where Caterina spent her childhood, Monsieur?’
The Director waved one hand vaguely in a westerly direction. ‘Corsica, Sardinia … there are so many … I really cannot remember which one.’
‘Were you to be gifted with extraordinarily long sight,’ persisted Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘could you, from where you are standing, Monsieur, perhaps see beyond Corsica, and beyond Sardinia, to an island known as Sicily?’
‘Sicily!’ There was barely a split second’s hesitation, but it was more than sufficient. ‘That was it. Thank you, Pamplemousse. It all comes back to me now. An interesting island, steeped in history. First colonised by man towards the end of the Ice Age. Occupied for a time, according to Greek mythology, by a race of one-eyed cyclopean giants of cannibalistic propensities. There was also the Barbarian period; the Byzantine period; the Arab period …’
‘The Cosa Nostra period?’ broke in Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Which began shortly after Garibaldi drove out the last of the Bourbon kings and which has been active ever since.’
‘Sicily has always been a turbulent isle,’ said the Director evasively, turning his back on the outside world. ‘Greeks, Romans, Barbarians, the Emperors of Byzantium, the Arabs, the Normans and the Germans; they have all occupied it at various times.
‘Over the centuries the inhabitants have had more than their fair share of troubles, and it is perhaps not surprising that they have turned to those who are prepared to help. Two thousand years of foreign occupation and despotic rule have also taught them to keep their mouths shut. I need hardly remind you, Aristide, that “Cosa Nostra” means “our affair”.’
The Director raised his hand as he saw Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to interject.
‘Please don’t misunderstand me. I am not for one moment saying the Mafia is a force for good – quite the reverse. Their motivation is simply one of greed. Where there is easy money to be made, that is where you will find them. They rule by fear and once you are a member there is only one way out – feet first.
‘Having said that, there have been times when the State has been undeniably bad; hopelessly out of touch with the needs of its people and seemingly indifferent to their fate. There are those – mostly poor peasants, who in times past have felt abandoned by their government – who might say that life would be infinitely less happy and secure without the protection of the Uncle Caputos of this world. I would not like to sit in judgement of that belief. There, but for the Grace of God, Aristide, go I.’
‘Caputo?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start. ‘But, did you not say, Monsieur, that the name of your wife’s uncle is Rocco?’
The Director brushed aside the remark. ‘It is me
rely a nickname. A childish appellation Chantal bestowed on him when she was small. Her Uncle Rocco is not, I fear, a very good loser. Sometimes, when they were playing together and he found things weren’t going his way he would bring the game to an abrupt end – either by sending her off to play hide and seek and then never going after her, or else by pretending to shoot her, saying “Right, Chantal, your time is up – you are caputo.” She has never forgotten the fact. Over the years it became something of a joke in the family.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse digested the information slowly and carefully.
‘And when he is not playing games, Monsieur, what does Uncle Caputo do then?’
‘This and that,’ said the Director vaguely. ‘I understand he plays a prominent role in the Sicilian laundry business. He is highly thought of in ecclesiastical circles.’
‘You mean – he takes in the Vatican’s washing?’
The Director glared at Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean, Pamplemousse. Chantal’s Uncle Caputo happens to enjoy a good relationship with a certain dignitary in the church, an official holding high office whose duties take him to the mainland from time to time. This person is not averse to lining his cassock with whatever he is given, in return for enjoying the many benefits concomitant with travelling first class, not the least of which is that of having extra space between the seats. It is a happy arrangement on both sides.’
‘Would it be true to say, Monsieur, that within your own family circle Il Signor Rocco is more of a Godfather than an uncle?’
The Director gazed unhappily at Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘If you insist on my spelling it out, Pamplemousse, I am saying that Chantal’s Uncle Rocco is an important member of the Cosa Nostra and as such he commands respect. People cross swords with him at their peril. He does not live in an unnumbered house in an unnamed street on the island of Sicily for nothing.’
‘In what other directions do Uncle Rocco’s tentacles travel, Monsieur?’