by Michael Bond
‘Or green?’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Or red?’
‘I know, I know,’ said Jacques. ‘But he had a large dog with him. That may help. They’re making up an identikit picture of the man right now. I’m waiting for it to be sent up.’
‘And the dog?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse drily. ‘Are they doing one of him too?’
‘The consensus of opinion is that it was a Great Dane.’
‘The real culprit,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘was totally unlike the person you describe. I can provide you with a photograph, if you like – in colour.’
It did the trick. Jacques was suddenly all ears.
‘You were there?’
‘As it happens … by sheer coincidence …
‘Oui. I will be at the Quai des Orfèvres as soon as possible.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse had hardly replaced the receiver when the phone rang again. This time he answered it.
‘Allo. Allo. Qui est là?’ There was a moment’s silence. In the background he could hear the sound of traffic and an engine revving, as though the driver was anxious to be on his way. Then, whoever was making the call hung up.
Monsieur Pamplemousse sat staring at the instrument for a moment or two, wondering if his caller would try again. Then he got up and wandered round the apartment, automatically straightening a picture here, aligning a row of books along the edge of a shelf there, thumbing through some old journaux.
Pommes Frites followed him with his eyes. He knew the signs of old. His master had a problem and there wouldn’t be much rest until he had solved it. He wondered what it was this time.
Having turned out the light, Monsieur Pamplemousse opened the French windows again and went outside on to the balcony. Pommes Frites padded silently after him and peered through the grille of the iron balustrade. Suddenly he stiffened and a low growl issued from the depths of his stomach.
Monsieur Pamplemousse registered the fact. It was a note of warning; a signal that something was bothering him. He followed the direction of Pommes Frites’ gaze along the street, but there was nothing to be seen. Rue Girardon was unusually empty, perhaps because of the passing storm. A car swept past and turned into rue Junot. The cobblestones glistened in the headlamps and there was a hiss from the tyres. It must have been raining hard while he had been inside.
Another flash of lightning lit up the street, and he saw a man approaching alongside the gardens opposite. He was wearing a dark overcoat and he was breathing heavily as though he had just completed the long climb up the steps from rue Caulaincourt. The thunder was nearer this time: almost overhead. As the sound died away the man stopped beneath a lamp and glanced up – either at the sky or at the apartment block – it was hard to say which.
Monsieur Pamplemousse stepped back into the shadows to await developments. Was he letting his imagination run away with him, or was it not the third time that day he had seen the man? And had the last occasion not been at the Gare de Lyon, moments after the Palatino had left for Rome?
Clearly, from the way he was reacting, Pommes Frites thought so too, and he was rarely wrong about such matters.
And if that were the case … If that were the case it meant the man hadn’t been at the gare by accident. The possibility that someone might be tailing him hadn’t crossed Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind at the time – either in the taxi to the office or on the journey home. Nor had it when he responded to the Director’s call. His mind had been so busy with other things, he had paid little or no attention to the traffic behind.
There was another possibility, of course. He had given Caterina a card with his home address. Could she have passed it on – either voluntarily or for some other more sinister reason?
Putting a finger to his mouth for Pommes Frites’ benefit, Monsieur Pamplemousse retreated slowly into the living-room and once he was inside, drew the curtains on all the windows. Only after he had made absolutely certain there were no cracks where the folds met did he turn on the light.
Then he rang the Quai des Orfèvres and asked for Jacques.
‘On second thoughts, would it be possible for you to come here?
‘You know what it’s like in Montmartre at night. You take your car out and you lose your parking space until early next morning.’
It was a truthful statement of fact. If he omitted to say that he had an arrangement with the owners of the block next door which gave him off-street parking facilities, that was simply because it was something he wished to keep to himself for the time being.
Jacques sounded pleased to have an excuse to get out of the office for a while. He bucked up even more when asked if he felt hungry.
‘I was about to go to the canteen!’
Making his way into the kitchen, Monsieur Pamplemousse opened the refrigerator door. The food Doucette had left was sitting in its polythene wrapping. So was the small package of truffles he’d brought back from Italy. Allowing for clearing up his desk and issuing orders for a car, it would be at least twenty minutes before Jacques reached him. Fresh truffles were best eaten as soon as possible. It would be a shame if he allowed them to spoil.
Twenty minutes later Monsieur Pamplemousse tested the potatoes with a sharp-pointed knife. It slid in easily. Draining the water into the sink, he replaced the saucepan on the hob for a second or two to dry out the remains of the liquid before turning off the gas. Then he dropped several small knobs of butter on to the potatoes and as they started to melt, added a little milk, followed by a sprinkling of black pepper and some grated nutmeg. He began mashing the contents of the saucepan with a fork; gently, for he wanted to preserve a slight coarseness rather than end up with pommes purée. He was in the middle of the operation when he heard the sound of an approaching siren coming up rue Junot from the direction of Clichy.
Emptying the mixture on to a board, he picked up a palette knife and quickly moulded the potato into four generous-sized portions. Removing the truffles from the glass of cognac where they had been resting, he reached for a mandoline and began slicing them thinly and cleanly until they covered the top of all four cakes. The smell which rose as the heat from the potatoes permeated the truffles was earthy and good; like no other smell in the world.
He was only just in time. As he reached for the pepper pot again the buzzer on the entry-phone sounded and there was a crackle followed by a metallic voice over the intercom. Putting the plates under a gentle grill to keep warm, Monsieur Pamplemousse acknowledged the call, pressed the lock release button for the downstairs door and poured two glasses of wine from an opened bottle of Guigal ’78 Côte Rotie ‘Brune et Blonde’. It was the last but one in a case he’d bought en primeur when it became available – one of Bernard’s bargain offers. Fortunately for his colleagues Bernard had never entirely severed his earlier connections with the wine trade. Long may it remain that way!
The sound of the lift coming to a halt in the corridor outside the apartment and then footsteps, followed by the strident noise of the door buzzer, sent Pommes Frites hurrying to the entrance hall. He stood waiting expectantly, his body taut and ready for action.
Following on behind, Monsieur Pamplemousse placed his hand on the door knob and was about to slip the catch when some sixth sense, honed razor sharp through years in the force, caused him to pause. He flashed a brief signal with his eyes to Pommes Frites. It was received and understood in a flash.
‘Attaquez! Attaquez!’
Shouting out the words, Monsieur Pamplemousse flung open the door and flattened himself against the wall as some 50 kilos of unstoppable muscle, bone and flesh shot past him into the hall. There followed a brief, but satisfactory crash, and then silence.
5
CATCH 22
‘Merde! What was all that about?’ Jacques looked aggrieved, as well he might. Having had what felt like a lump of living, breathing concrete suddenly land on his chest when he least expected it was no laughing matter. It was a case of Greek meeting Greek, for Jacques was no lightweight. Pommes
Frites was looking distinctly sorry for himself too.
Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to pass it off. ‘It doesn’t do to take chances these days. You said so yourself.’
‘That was different.’ Jacques glanced around for somewhere to hang his hat. As he did so he spotted a clothes’ brush.
Keeping a respectful distance from Pommes Frites, who was clearly only waiting for an opportunity to lick him better, he followed Monsieur Pamplemousse into the living room, tidying himself up as he went.
‘It’s not like you to be jumpy. Does everyone get the same treatment?’
‘Come, I will show you why.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse went through the routine of turning out the lights and drawing the curtains back. He opened the French windows and led the way out on to the balcony. Anxious to make amends, Pommes Frites pushed his way to the front and peered down at the street. His tail dropped several degrees as it registered disappointment.
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked first towards the far corner of the tiny square Marcel Aymé. It was the obvious place to stand if anyone wanted to keep an eye on the comings and goings of the apartment block, for it was possible to see along both sides, but there was no one around. The crowd outside the cinema had long since dispersed.
The other streets in the surrounding area looked unusually deserted for a Friday night; he drew a blank in all directions. The storm must have driven everyone away. The only sign of anything untoward was a white car parked facing the wrong way on the other side of the road. Even without the blue light attached to the roof it wouldn’t have been hard to guess who it belonged to.
‘Well? I hope you didn’t make me come all the way across Paris simply to admire the view?’ Jacques sounded as though insult had been added to injury.
‘I think perhaps it was a mistake to use the siren.’
Jacques shrugged. ‘They always do in Miami Vice. Besides, you made it sound urgent.’
‘They do lots of strange things in Miami Vice,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gruffly. All the same, he took the point. It was catching. No-one in the force went anywhere these days without a siren. In his time it had been a case of ‘softly, softly, catchee monkey’.
Ushering Jacques back into the apartment, he drew the curtains and felt for the light switch. He wasn’t an illusionist; staring into the night wouldn’t make anyone appear if they weren’t there to begin with – or were making sure they were nowhere to be seen. All the same, it was disappointing.
‘Pour yourself some wine.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse motioned Jacques to take a seat at the table while he hurried out into the kitchen.
‘Don’t tell me …’ The smell as he opened the warming compartment of the oven must have penetrated into the other room, for he heard the other’s voice.
‘Diamonds of the kitchen!’ Jacques eyed the plates as Monsieur Pamplemousse returned. ‘I can’t remember when I last had any. Certainly not so as you can’t see what’s underneath.’
‘It is the only way,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply. ‘Let us not waste time. They’ve been kept hanging about too long already.’
‘Whose fault is that?’ Jacques smacked his lips. ‘There’s nothing like a good peasant dish to round off the day. When I was a boy we had them every Sunday. Truffle omelette before the main course. In those days it was easier to find the truffles than the eggs. Now look at the price.’
‘F3,800 francs a kilo in Fauchon,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Everything’s F3,800 francs a kilo in Fauchon.’ Jacques raised his glass and gave an appreciative sniff.
‘How the poor do live!’
The truffles were still beautifully fresh and crunchy; the Côte Rotie a perfect match. In its own way, it was equally earthy; powerful as the Rhône valley itself, with a fruity, fig-like flavour, combined with a wonderfully dry finish.
For a moment or two they ate and drank in silence. It would have been sacrilege to do anything else.
‘So, what can you tell me about the stiff at the Gare de Lyon?’ Jacques wiped his plate clean as a whistle, glanced hopefully towards the kitchen, then helped himself to some more wine.
Monsieur Pamplemousse pushed the photograph he had taken of the main concourse at the Stazione Termini across the table.
‘That’s your man. I would stake my life on it.’ He indicated the telephone kiosk with his forefinger. ‘The one with the dark glasses.’
Jacques stared at it dubiously. ‘You’re sure it’s not a fly?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse rose from the table and returned a moment later with the magnifying glass. ‘Try that.’
Pushing aside his wine glass with a certain amount of reluctance, Jacques picked up the photograph and held it to the light. Then he felt inside his jacket and withdrew a folded sheet of A4 paper and made a show of comparing the two.
Glancing over the other’s shoulder, Monsieur Pamplemousse was relieved to see the identikit picture bore only a superficial resemblance to himself, or at least the way he saw himself. Far be it for him to say so, but any self-respecting judge would have sentenced the man depicted in the made-up picture to five years’ hard on sight. Even so, he didn’t doubt the phone would start ringing at the Quai des Orfèvres once the likeness was circulated. It always did.
The drawing of Pommes Frites was inset into a square at the bottom of the page. Apart from having four feet and a tail, it was like no dog he had ever seen before. It wasn’t altogether surprising that Jacques hadn’t made the connection as yet, although that was perhaps only a matter of time. The people who had furnished the original description probably hadn’t seen it either. Corrections would be made. Who knew what strange mutation they would end up with?
Jacques looked up. ‘Any idea what the motive could have been?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his hands to Heaven in a gesture of mute ignorance.
‘Do you have the negative?’
‘No problem.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked inside the envelope. They were neatly packaged in a transparent envelope. ‘I’ll let you have it before you go.’ The lab wouldn’t thank him if he got truffled fingerprints all over it.
Jacques took another look at the print. ‘It’s not much to go on. It might be anyone in a crowd.’
‘You could add height around 167 cm. Weight approximately 60 kilograms. Natty dresser. Dark suit – old-fashioned style. Expensive haircut. Manicured nails …’
‘What is he? Some kind of gigolo?’
‘Non.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘Anything but. I would say he’s simply someone who spends a lot of time sitting in a barber’s chair watching the world go by.’
‘The dark glasses don’t help. If he’s got any sense he’ll give up wearing them for a while.’
‘I’m sure he already has.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse took the opportunity to pour some more wine.
‘You mean – the ones on the track? Bausch & Lomb?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. ‘He is also left-handed.’
Jacques glanced up. ‘You seem to know a lot about him.’
‘That’s about it. Except, I happen to know he is still around.’
‘You’ve seen him since?’
‘Outside the block – just after we talked on the phone.’
‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. He was rapidly reaching the point where any further explanations might become difficult, not to say embarrassing.
‘So what happened?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse launched into a brief run-down of the journey back from Rome with the Director’s petite cousine and his return visit to the Gare de Lyon. In part, it helped crystallise his own thoughts and get them into perspective.
Not unexpectedly, Jacques wasn’t slow to spot the deliberate mistake.
‘Why did I go back there?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse repeated the question, playing for time.
‘You heard me. Don’t tell me you’ve taken up trainspotting in your old age
!’
‘I mislaid something.’ Even to his ears it sounded lame.
‘The office of the Service des Objets Trouvés is in the main building,’ said Jacques, ‘not on quai “J”. Come off it.’
‘All right,’ growled Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Someone.’
Jacques stared at him. ‘Don’t tell me! Not the girl you were supposed to be looking after?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse pushed the pictures of Caterina across the table. ‘That’s her.’
‘Did you take these?’ Jacques let out another whistle, longer this time, a mixture of surprise, envy and admiration. ‘I thought you said she was still at school.’ He tapped his teeth with the end of a pen. It had, recalled Monsieur Pamplemousse, been a source of irritation in the old days.
‘So she is.’ Sorting through the pile he found the one of Caterina arriving with the two nuns.
‘Talk about before and after.’ Jacques gave the second photograph a cursory glance and then returned to the pictures taken on the train.
‘I’m surprised at you. Losing someone like that doesn’t come under the heading of being careless – it’s downright criminal; a chargeable offence. If you let me have the negs along with the other I’ll get some more prints done straight away.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that is not possible.’
‘Never mind. I’ll get copies made of these. The sooner they’re circulated the better.’
‘You misunderstand me. When I said it is not possible, I meant simply that. I cannot let you have either the photographs or the negatives. They may fall into the wrong hands.’
‘Fall into the wrong hands?’ Jacques stared at him. ‘You realise what you’re saying?’
‘I have made a promise that I would not tell the police,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘At least, not for the time being.’
‘A promise to whom? The family?’
‘You could say that.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse refused to let himself be drawn. ‘You will have to accept my word that there are very good reasons.’