by Michael Bond
It was very rare that he ventured on to the Boulevard Clichy these days, but unless things had drastically changed since his day, the ‘girls’ started early – especially the ones who could stand inspection by daylight – and even quite a few who couldn’t.
From the top of the long flight of stone steps which ran down from the Place in front of the Sacré-Coeur he could see balloon sellers in the Square Willette far below; a splash of colour against the background of grey stone buildings. Behind him the tourists were out in force; the steps in front of the Sacré-Coeur itself were littered with them. He wondered if Il Blobbo was anywhere amongst them. Il Blobbo, or his friend. He certainly wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of looking.
In one of the streets off the Boulevard Clichy, just around the corner from the Moulin Rouge, he had his first encounter.
‘Un petit cadeau, Monsieur?’ Things hadn’t changed. In the old days, when he had been in the force, it had always been a request for ‘un petit cadeau’– ‘a little gift’ – never a downright demand for money.
‘I am looking for someone new …’
‘Funny you should say that, dear.’ The woman turned to a friend lounging inside a doorway and winked. ‘It’s my very first time out.’
‘Someone … very new,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse politely. ‘I mean new new.’
‘You’ll be lucky.’ The welcoming smile disappeared.
‘Who is looking after you? Is there someone I could talk to?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced through the doorway beyond the second woman towards a dimly lit flight of uncarpeted stairs. A smell of disinfectant, lust and disillusionment filled the air. There was the sound of running water from one of the upper floors; probably from a bidet.
‘What’s it to you?’
‘It would be worth your while …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt inside his jacket. ‘I am doing an article …’
‘Piss off,’ said the second woman. ‘Fiche le camp! And take your dog with you. I’ve met your sort before.’
‘Perhaps he could do with a quick passe?’ said the first one. ‘Not stuck up like his master.’ She reached down and gave Pommes Frites a pat. ‘How about it, chérie?’
‘Doesn’t know a good offer when he sees one,’ said the second woman, as Pommes Frites backed away, showing his teeth. Releasing him from his leash, Monsieur Pamplemousse gave up the conversation and carried on up the hill. It wasn’t a good start. The occupants of a Montmartrobus eyed him with interest as it went past. He hoped there was no-one travelling on it who knew him.
Biding his time while he tried to sum up the situation, Pommes Frites followed on behind at a discreet distance. Straining his ears, he managed to catch several key phrases which emerged during the few brief conversations his master had on the way.
Unfamiliar words like ‘quickie’ seemed to predominate, followed by gestures which he couldn’t recall having come across on any of his training courses.
Much as he loved and respected his master, the thought crossed Pommes Frites’ mind more than once that Monsieur Pamplemousse’s tastes seemed to have slipped; plummeted was a word he might have used had it formed part of his vocabulary. Translated into his own terms, if the first two women were anything to go by, most of them didn’t look as though they were worth more than a passing sniff, if that. Nor were they dressed in a style which would have met with Madame Pamplemousse’s unqualified approval. Leather trousers, pink tights and jackets unzipped to the waist, didn’t normally form part of her wardrobe.
On the other hand, having said that, his master seemed perfectly capable of resisting any temptations thrust in his way, even to the point of enduring coarse laughter and jibes which clearly related to his manhood. It was all very strange.
Seeing a large, ginger-haired woman dressed in thigh boots and not much else, who seemed to be making lunges with a whip at anyone who came within reach, Pommes Frites moved out into the road. As he did so he became aware of a car moving slowly up the hill behind them. Its four occupants, three men and a woman, were all in uniform, and all – including the driver – were glued to the windows.
A group of four péripatéciennes standing in a doorway enjoying a quiet smoke saw it too and immediately froze.
Unaware of what was going on, Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to engage the women in conversation. His blandishments were unsuccessful. They might have been turned to stone for all the notice they took.
‘Is this man annoying you?’ He heard a voice behind him.
‘You are aware of the word drageur, Monsieur?’ A second voice joined in.
Monsieur Pamplemousse turned and stared at the officers. ‘Are you accusing me of accosting women?’ he protested.
‘We have been watching you. It’s a bit early in the day to be out “trawling” isn’t it?’
‘What’s the matter?’ asked the policewoman. ‘Couldn’t you sleep?’
‘What if I couldn’t?’ demanded Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘That is no business of yours.’
‘There have been complaints.’
‘Who has complained? Where? You have witnesses?’
The group exchanged glances.
‘Witnesses?’ said one of the gendarmes. ‘What’s he talking about?’
‘Don’t get cross, Monsieur,’ said the policewoman, ogling him. ‘I go off men who get cross.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse glared at her. Resisting the temptation to say that if she was the last person on earth she would be so lucky, he sought instead to encapsulate the words in a look of contempt as he blew her a kiss.
‘Attempting to importune a policewoman,’ said the leader. ‘That is a serious offence.’
‘Harassment of the opposite sex,’ broke in a second. ‘That is also an offence these days.’
‘It seems to me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that I am the one who is being harassed.’
The number three piped up. ‘Monsieur is also doubtless aware that it is against the law in Paris to take a dog out without a lead?’
‘A law,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘which is never enforced.’
‘Never?’ The officer in charge held out his hand. ‘La carte d’identité, Monsieur. S’il vous plaît.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse knew better than to argue. It wouldn’t help matters that Pommes Frites had just been relieving his boredom by doing a pipi on the rear wheel of the police car. Circumstantial evidence, it was true, for he was now looking in a shop window as though such an act would never cross his mind in a million years. All the same, he could have chosen a better time and place.
He felt in his pocket. He had already caught a faint gleam of recognition in the officer’s eyes. Once he saw the name on his card the game would be up. There would be nudges and winks. Cracks about his past record; the affair at the Folies; his enforced early retirement.
He was right.
‘Pamplemousse!’ The man’s face lit up. ‘Of course! Pamplemousse of the Sûreté.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to take a chance. ‘Exactement! He nodded meaningly towards the four women, who were still frozen in their original pose.
‘Please pay my respects to Madame Commissaire Martine Monteuil. Tell her my report is almost complete. It will be on her desk shortly – always provided, of course, I do not receive too many interruptions.
‘I take it she has not changed? As I remember her, she does not suffer fools gladly. The Vice Squad has not been the same since she arrived on the scene. I hope I can tell her how helpful you have been in assisting me in my researches. All four of you.’
It worked. Returning the salutes, Monsieur Pamplemousse called Pommes Frites to heel and made his way on up the hill with all possible speed. He wondered how long it would be before the others remembered that Madame Monteuil had arrived long after his retirement.
One thing was certain. He would have to give Montmartre a miss for the time being.
Perhaps it was time he put plan ‘C’ into action. What was it Jacques had said earlier
? ‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.’ It would be his last chance to make direct contact with those in the know.
But it would have to be later, after dark, when there was less chance of being recognised. The one thing he couldn’t risk at the moment was being arrested. That would put an end to all his plans.
And it would have to be without Pommes Frites. Regrettably, they must not been seen together again for a while. From now on he would be on his own.
Quite how or when or why he had hit on plan ‘C’ was not a question uppermost in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind as he parked his car near the Boulevard St Denis soon after dark that evening. Later on it would be, and later on, as it happened, wasn’t as far away as he anticipated.
As he made his way towards that part of the Boulevard St Denis which lies to the south of the métro station, or as purists might have it, the point which marks the old city limits, indicated by the fact that beyond it the rue St Denis becomes the rue Faubourg St Denis – faubourg meaning ‘suburb’ – he had to confess to a feeling of excitement; the particular kind of excitement that can only come from doing a naughty deed after dark in a naughty world.
It was a feeling which grew with every step he took. Naughtiness, dressed in its party clothes, was lurking in every shop doorway and on every street corner. Not that any of it reached out to take him in its arms; rather the reverse, in fact. Shadowy figures drew back as they saw him approach.
It was a long time since Monsieur Pamplemousse had been in the area by day, let alone at night; still less on a Friday evening. As he remembered it, the bottom half – the end nearest the Seine – was mostly porno-movies and air-conditioned lesbian double acts. The top end was where all the action used to be, and by the sound of it things hadn’t changed. There was a feeling of revelry in the air. He could hear whistles being blown. Shrill blasts rent the air, followed by cheers and counter cheers. It suited his purpose admirably. Any worries he might have had about attracting attention on his own account soon disappeared.
It was as he turned a corner into the rue St Denis that Monsieur Pamplemousse caught the full force of a fire hose on his chest. It knocked him sideways, propelling him inexorably into something which felt warm, soft, perfumed, and splendidly suited to cushion his fall. But his moment of respite was all too brief. Having taken stock of his sodden state, the owner of the doudons he was clasping uttered an apposite oath and sent him spinning on his way again.
From that moment on everything became a blur; a confused montage of black stockings and fish-net tights, of gendarmes with batons drawn, and of fighting, screaming girls in leotards, lace panties, leather, or simply total nakedness beneath fur coats thrown open to the elements.
Monsieur Pamplemousse also registered a group of strange hairy creatures in skirts, uttering wild barbaric shouts and grunts, the like of which he had never before encountered in the whole of his career.
At least it answered Jacques’ question as to where the travellos had gone – from the Bois de Boulogne to the Boulevard St Denis.
Monsieur Pamplemousse was in the act of bending down to tie up his shoe-lace while he took stock of the situation, when he heard a guttural cry from somewhere near at hand. Before he had a chance to take evasive action, what felt like the claws of a small but powerful mechanical digger reached up from behind, groping as it came. As it made contact with his person it tightened its grip in no uncertain manner.
A cry of mingled rage, disgust and disappointment followed, but by then Monsieur Pamplemousse had all but passed out. He was vaguely aware of helping hands lifting him to his feet, half carrying him, half dragging him along the street, then he flew through the air and joined an assorted pile of other bodies in a van, where he lay gasping for breath like a stranded whale cast ashore after being caught in an Atlantic storm.
7
THE MORNING AFTER
Monsieur Pamplemousse woke to the harsh, metallic sound of a key turning in a lock and an iron gate being swung open. He felt cold, hungry and he had a splitting headache. He also perceived a dull ache in his private parts, which was hardly surprising considering what they had been through. He regretted now having left Pommes Frites at home. Pommes Frites would have stood up for him, administering punishment in like manner, but with compound interest. The unknown assailant who had grasped Monsieur Pamplemousse where it hurt most, would have felt the full measure of Pommes Frites’ wrath encapsulated in molars which, in their time, had caused many an adversary to tremble in his boots. Nor would he have let go in a hurry.
Waving aside the token breakfast offering, Monsieur Pamplemousse asked once again to be allowed to use the telephone.
The request granted, he was led up a flight of stone stairs. His entry into the charge room was greeted by a cacophony of whistles and cat-calls from a large holding cage opposite the main desk. The population seemed to have swelled far beyond its maximum capacity level since he had last seen it. It was like a scene from the Snake Pit; Brueghel gone mad. Worse even, if that were possible, than the episode in the rue St Denis the night before; although at the time that had seemed bad enough.
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at the occupants of the cage, some barely able to stand, clutching the bars for support, others lying on the floor out for the count, their spreadeagled hairy legs protruding at odd angles from their skirts as though long since abandoned by their owners. In a far corner a small group were crouched over a communal bowl, their heads clutched in their hands.
He turned to the inspector behind the desk. It was someone he hadn’t seen before. The early morning shift must have taken over. ‘You have had a busy time.’ It was a statement rather than a question and as such met with a non-committal grunt.
‘Brazilians over here for the operation?’ hazarded Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Animaux,’ growled the officer. ‘It is worse than the zoo. You are lucky you got here early and had a cell to yourself. Some of us had to sit here all night looking at them.’ He shook his wrist in time-honoured fashion.
‘So who are they? Where are they from? Don’t tell me the “B” team from Mars are playing an away match?’
From the look on the man’s face it felt as though he could be getting warm.
‘Les écossais. Scotsmen. They are over for the Rugby International. It is the big match of the season today. With supporters like that who needs a ball?’
‘Who, indeed?’ Suddenly it all became clear. What a night to have picked! Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed round at them. ‘They won’t see the game.’
‘Non!’ The inspector could hardly conceal his pleasure at the thought as he handed Monsieur Pamplemousse the telephone. ‘It is the same every year. They come – they get drunk – they miss the match – they go home again. Not that there is any doubt as to who will win. The matter is one of pure formalité.’
‘If it is like that before the match, think what it will be like tonight!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse dialled the Director’s home number for the umpteenth time and then stood back, half expecting to hear the engaged signal, as had happened the last half dozen or so times during the night when he had tried. He caught the eye of the inspector looking at him.
‘Haven’t I seen you before?’
‘Possibly.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse turned away. He had no wish to be quizzed on the subject of his past. Once word got around that old Pamplemousse of the Sûreté was in the nick he would never hear the last of it.
He received several blown kisses from the occupants of the cage for his pains.
‘Allo. Allo! Is anybody there?’ It sounded like a wrong number.
‘Pardon. Excusez-moi …’
‘Pamplemousse! Thank goodness it is you.’ The voice suddenly became recognisable, as though a sock had been removed from the speaker’s mouth.
‘I have been trying to telephone you, Monsieur, but each time you were engaged …’
‘Not engaged, Pamplemousse … in hiding! I took the precaution of leaving the receiver off the hook in case ther
e was another call from Sicily. Where have you been?’ The Director contrived to make it sound as though the fault lay entirely with his subordinate.
‘It is not so much where I have been, Monsieur, as where I still am. That is the reason why I have been trying to contact you.’
‘You have news of Caterina?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced round at the inspector, who was making play of filling in a report form. Clearly it wasn’t receiving his undivided attention.
He cupped a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It is hard to say, Monsieur.’
‘Why is that, Pamplemousse?’ The Director’s booming voice came through loud and clear. ‘Are you not alone? Is someone else listening in to our conversation?’
As Monsieur Pamplemousse bent over the counter someone opened the door leading to the street and he felt a draught of cold air sweeping up behind him. It provoked another round of whistles, cat-calls and what were clearly, from the accompanying gestures through the bars, obscene Celtic remarks being directed at his nether regions from the occupants of the cage.
‘Pamplemousse, what is that noise I hear?’ barked the Director. ‘It sounds like something out of Grand Guignol. Is someone being attacked?’
‘It is nothing, Monsieur. It is simply that my frock has a large tear down the back … I am being given the once-over by a group of Scotsmen who are the worse for drink …’
‘Did I hear you use the word frock, Pamplemousse?’ The Director sounded in a state of shock.
‘Oui, Monsieur. I can explain everything, but for the moment my hands are tied …’