by Michael Bond
‘Give me your address,’ barked the Director. ‘If, indeed, you are in a fit state to know it. I will arrange for a dispatch rider to deliver you a knife as soon as possible…’
‘Monsieur, I can explain.’
‘There is no need to, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director coldly. ‘Provided it does not bring opprobrium on Le Guide, what you do in your spare time is no concern of mine, although I must confess there are times when your extra-mural bedroom activities leave me at a loss for words.
‘Bondage is something I have never been able to understand. Neither is sado-masochism. I admire your tenacity in leaving no stone unturned when you are hot on the scent, but there are limits. I fail to see what you hope to gain by these esoteric avenues of investigation, other than to satisfy some bizarre twist in your character in the process.’
‘Monsieur, I am telephoning you because I am in urgent need of some string-pulling …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse winced as a crack like a pistol shot nearly shattered his ear-drum. It sounded as though the Director might be striking his telephone on a particularly solid item of furniture. It said much for the makers that the handset still worked. If anything, the quality seemed to have improved.
‘Things go from bad to worse, Pamplemousse. How dare you try and involve me in your sordid bedroom games! Were it not for the exceptionally good turn you have done me, I would be sorely tempted to leave you to stew in your own juice for a while. As it is, I will do what I can, but it will not be easy. Today is Saturday and most of my contacts in the higher echelons of authority will have left Paris for the weekend. However, before I do anything, I must come and see you in order to apprise myself at first hand of the salient facts …’
‘That will not be necessary, Monsieur.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse closed his ears to all around and spoke coldly and clearly into the telephone. ‘The salient facts, as you call them, are quite simple. Firstly, I am not in the habit of indulging in bondage, or in sado-masochism. Nor, for that matter, are my hands tied to any bedposts. It was a metaphor I used on the spur of the moment in order to describe my present situation. I am in a Gendarmerie in the 2nd arrondissement and I am in urgent need of some string-pulling in order to secure my release. How I came to be here in the first place is something I will explain to you later, but for the time being every second spent arguing is a second wasted at a time when each and every one is precious. Secondly, either you wish me to continue with my task, or you do not.’
‘Pamplemousse …’
‘I am in a gendarmerie in the 2nd arrondissement,’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘A word in the ear of the examining magistrate, peut-être? Otherwise …’
‘Aristide …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse replaced the receiver. He hesitated, wondering whether to try his luck and ask if he might be allowed an extra telephone call in order to get a message through to Jacques, but he decided against it. The desk officer was all ears. Word would spread like wildfire. Besides, the gendarmerie had enough problems on its hands without his adding to them.
As it happened Monsieur Pamplemousse had hardly got back to his cell, a matter of ten or fifteen minutes at the most – although it could have been more, he had lost all feeling for time since he had been deprived of his watch the night before – when he received another summons.
‘You’re in luck,’ said a gardien, as he opened the cell door. ‘You must have friends in high places. Someone has been talking to someone.’
Maddening though the Director could be at times, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but feel grateful for his ‘connections’. On this occasion he really had excelled himself, breaking all previous records.
‘Sign here.’ The inspector gave Monsieur Pamplemousse an odd look as he spread an assortment of belongings across the counter.
Anxious to be on his way as quickly as possible, Monsieur Pamplemousse did as he was bidden and swept the articles into a large brown paper bag without even bothering to check them.
‘Why?’ The officer looked him up and down sadly, then shook his head. ‘What possible reason?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt tempted to say that it had seemed like a good idea at the time, but he thought better of it. It was the kind of remark that was open to misinterpretation.
‘It happens when there is a full moon,’ he said. ‘I can’t help myself.’ The simple explanations were often the best. At least they avoided a lot of tedious explanations.
‘I’ve got an uncle like that.’ A gendarme pecking away at an ancient typewriter near the back of the room looked up. ‘About the same age as you. He can’t help it either.’
‘I could lend you a skirt if you like,’ said a woman colleague.
‘That will not be necessary,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse stiffly.
The inspector nodded towards the cage. ‘It must be worse where that lot come from. Especially when there’s a full moon.’
The walk back to his car was not a happy one for Monsieur Pamplemousse. The Boulevard de Bonne Nouvelle was crowded with people heading west to do their shopping, but at least his car was still astride the pedestrian crossing where he had left it.
He drove the rest of the way home crouching as low as he could behind the dashboard. From a distance there were times when it looked as though there was nobody at the wheel at all; a fact which didn’t pass unnoticed by several alert members of the Paris police force, who duly reported the phenomenon.
Pommes Frites greeted his master in somewhat muted fashion; a mixture of relief at seeing him again, coupled with anxiety at what might befall him next; joy tempered with fear that he might be too late to rescue him from whatever fate had in store. Tail-wagging was sincere but tentative.
Seeing that his friend and mentor clearly had other things on his mind, Monsieur Pamplemousse put two and two together and led him to the lift, where he pressed the button for the ground floor. Pommes Frites was well able to look after himself when he got downstairs, but to make doubly sure Monsieur Pamplemousse rang the concierge to let him know he was on his way.
It wasn’t until he went into the bathroom and caught sight of his reflection in the mirror that he realised for the first time the full extent of the damage he had suffered. It was no wonder Pommes Frites had looked worried.
His make-up was, to put it mildly, no longer in pristine condition. Lipstick, eyeshadow and rouge had run in all directions, and the foundation cream had certainly not been improved by a night’s growth of beard. His face bore a remarkable resemblance to an early map of the Camargue marshlands. As for Doucette’s frock; it looked like something the cat had brought in.
Monsieur Pamplemousse lay in the bath for a long time, growing gloomier and gloomier as he took stock of the situation. He was rapidly running out of ideas, and he was no nearer finding Caterina than when he had started. Short of going against the Director’s wishes and bringing in the authorities, he didn’t know which way to turn. And if he did that, Heaven alone knew where it would all end. The fat would be in the fire and no mistake.
Half an hour later, dressed and ready to face the world again, he started going through his belongings to make sure everything was there. His Cross pen, his Cupillard Rième watch – both of which he would have been mortified to lose – were safe and sound. The contents of his wallet looked intact – he must have held on to Doucette’s handbag like grim death during the fracas. Emptying the contents on to the dining-room table – keys, télécarte and various other odds and ends, he came across a small sealed envelope bearing his name. The flap was tightly sealed down and he had to slit it open with the tip of his pen. Inside, there was a card. It bore the name of an Italian restaurant called Mamma Mia’s, in the 2nd arrondissement.
Someone had scrawled a message across the card: ASK FOR MARIA. Alongside it there was an arrow pointing towards the right-hand edge. He turned the card over. On the back the same hand had written the day’s date and a time – ‘19.30’.
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at it for a moment. Somewh
ere in the back of his head the name Mamma Mia rang a faint bell.
He picked up his copy of Le Guide and thumbed through the Paris section devoted to the 2nd arrondissement, but there was no mention of the restaurant. It was hardly surprising. Checking the address again on a map, he saw it was in the north-eastern section – not very far, in fact, from where he had left his car the night before: hardly a fertile eating area.
He jumped as the phone rang.
‘Allo.’
‘Pamplemousse!’ It was the Director.
‘Monsieur! I cannot thank you enough.’
‘There is no need. I have to admit straight away, your release had nothing whatsoever to do with any efforts on my behalf. In fact I telephoned the station where you were being held to let you know that it was as I feared – most of my contacts are out of Paris for the weekend and that it might take some time, when they informed me you had already left.’
‘That is very strange, Monsieur.’
‘Very,’ said the Director drily. ‘The inference was that someone on high has been leaned on. It certainly had nothing to do with me.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse absorbed the fact. If it wasn’t the Director, who could it have possibly been?
‘Regardless of who was responsible, Aristide, it is good news. I am sorry if I flew off the handle this morning – especially after the exceptionally good turn you did me. I have been thinking about it since then …’ He broke off. ‘Are you listening, Pamplemousse?’
‘Oui, Monsieur.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse sounded puzzled. ‘It was something you said a moment ago … about my doing you a good turn … You used the word exceptionelle.’
‘Modest as ever, Pamplemousse. You are a strange mixture and no mistake. One moment you indulge in practices which would bring a blush to a raven’s cheeks, the next moment you hide your light under a bushel. I refer of course to your kind act in arranging for the overnight installation of what I can only call an early warning system. There are lights over every door. From where I am standing I can see at least three. I trust you will bill Le Guide direct … I will see to it that Madame Grante in Accounts gives it her approval … I must also ask you to pass on my thanks to the workmen. They must have worked swiftly and silently. I didn’t hear a thing.’
‘Monsieur …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried hard to keep the note of alarm from his voice. ‘Where are you speaking from?’
‘I am on my way downstairs, Pamplemousse. I wish to carry out a closer inspection of your arrangements. So far I have only seen them from my bedroom window.’
‘What is the weather like, Monsieur? Is the sky very blue?’
‘It is indeed, Pamplemousse. The sun is almost over the tree tops. After all the rain, we are in for a perfect day. Spring is here at last.’
‘Monsieur, you must not, under any circumstances, set foot outside your house until I have given the “all clear”. Furthermore, you must warn anyone who approaches – the mailman – the gardener – not to come anywhere near …’
‘Why in Heaven’s name?’ boomed the Director. ‘I cannot be incarcerated in my own house like this, Pamplemousse. I have important work to do …’
‘Because, Monsieur, the “arrangements” as you call them, have nothing whatsoever to do with me. Furthermore, I have good reason to believe the lights contain high explosive…’
‘High explosive?’ repeated the Director. ‘Is this some kind of joke …’
‘No, Monsieur. I assure you, it is deadly serious.’
During the silence which followed, Monsieur Pamplemousse took the opportunity to go through his wallet, checking the contents with his free hand.
‘What shall I do, Aristide?’
‘I can only suggest you pray for rain, Monsieur. I will try and obtain a copy of the instruction manual, but as the devices are solar-powered I fear it may need a long spell of inclement weather before the batteries lose their charge. I will also check with the weather bureau.
‘At least you are safe from attack. The device will work both ways. Short of using a helicopter, not even the Mafia can get anywhere near.’
‘That is true, Aristide.’ The Director sounded slightly mollified. ‘You know, I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘It is the Mob’s favourite form of murder,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Remember the “pineapples” in the Twenties.’
‘No, Pamplemousse, I do not remember the “pineapples” in the Twenties. And I do wish you wouldn’t keep using the word “murder”. It makes me nervous.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse placed the receiver under his chin. While they were talking he had suddenly stumbled across an item he had completely forgotten about.
‘Later, Monsieur,’ he said. ‘I will telephone you later.’
‘Pamplemousse …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse replaced the receiver, then he picked up the piece of paper on which Caterina had written her forwarding address. It was the same as that for Mamma Mia’s. He compared the handwriting with that on the card, but it was totally different.
The telephone rang again, but he ignored it. It was the first glimmer of a breakthrough and he wanted time to think. His mind was racing with possibilities, none of which seemed to make any kind of sense.
It was only then that he realised Pommes Frites still hadn’t returned from his walk.
Monsieur Pamplemousse turned into the rue Jardis and drove slowly along it until he saw the address he was looking for. It was sandwiched between a store specialising in costume jewellery and another stacked to the ceiling with bales of dress material.
By day the whole area would be a seething mass of humanity, the pavements awash with men struggling to manipulate trolleys piled high with cardboard boxes; the traffic almost permanently grid-locked. It was a wonder any business got done at all. Now it was relatively quiet and peaceful.
The street was narrow and strictly one-way, with room for parking on one side only; a rule enforced by iron posts set in the pavement. Having passed a vacant space almost opposite the restaurant, he managed to find another some 20 or so metres further along.
Backing in to it, Monsieur Pamplemousse switched off his lights and checked the time on his watch – nineteen-twenty. He hadn’t been aware of another car on his tail, but seeing he was early it was worth waiting a few minutes, just to make doubly sure.
Mamma Mia’s was in one of the less salubrious parts of the 2nd arrondissement; an area packed with sweat shops catering for the rag trade. In a game of Monopoly, landing on it would not under any circumstances have constituted a stroke of good fortune. Building a hotel on the site would have been an act of desperation on the part of the unlucky thrower of the dice. On the other hand, during the daytime it must enjoy a near monopoly in providing food for the workers – if they were allowed that much time off.
There were net curtains at the windows and the lights were on inside, but there was no sign of anyone either coming or going. The woodwork looked as though it could have done with a lick of paint, as indeed, could most of the other buildings round and about.
The few people abroad wore a furtive air, as though they spent their lives waiting for the tap on the shoulder. An old woman shuffled past pushing a pram. She stopped by a pile of garbage just beyond the restaurant and poked at it with a stick for a moment or two before going on her way, her hopes unfulfilled.
Monsieur Pamplemousse waited until the hands on his watch said exactly nineteen-thirty, then he climbed out of his car, locked the door and crossed over the street, wondering what to expect, but prepared for the worst.
To his surprise, the restaurant was almost full. In his experience Italians usually didn’t begin eating until much later in the evening, whereas most of the occupants of Mamma Mia’s looked as though they were already halfway through their meal.
As he closed the door a man he took to be the patron came forward to greet him.
‘Monsieur has a reservation?’
‘The name is Pamplemousse.’
The man’s face lit up. ‘Ah, signore. We are expecting you.’ He led the way towards a row of three small tables placed in front of a banquette seat which ran along the fabric-covered wall of an alcove near the window. It faced the back of the small entrance lobby, so the whole area was relatively isolated from the rest of the room. Preparations had clearly been made for his arrival, for all three tables carried a Reservé sign and the chairs which normally would have faced the banquette had been removed.
Taking away the middle sign, the patron pulled the table out so that Monsieur Pamplemousse could seat himself.
‘You are expecting others?’
The man shook his head. ‘It is so that you will not be disturbed.’ He put a finger to his lips. ‘Molto tranquillo.’
Suddenly realising how hungry he was, Monsieur Pamplemousse looked around as he settled down. Taste buds began to throb as he unfurled a napkin and tucked it inside his collar. The atmosphere felt warm and inviting. There were propitious signs everywhere. People were eating with obvious pleasure. From the kitchen there came the sound of a woman’s voice singing an aria from Madame Butterfly. He wondered if it was Mamma Mia herself. A happy chef was a good chef.
On the matchboarded wall opposite him there was a large mirror decorated with an advertisement for Cinzano. Framed pictures of past customers and other memorabilia covered the wall on either side of it.
A bottle of Sicilian wine arrived on his table, along with a long glass containing some sticks of wrapped grissini.
‘Tell me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Who is Maria? Will she be joining me?’
‘Later, signore.’ The patron pointed towards the kitchen. ‘For the moment she is busy. It is Saturday night. In the meantime she says you must eat and enjoy yourself.’
‘She is your wife?’
‘Sì, signore.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked for the menu but the owner held up his hand in protest.
‘Signore, for you, she is preparing spaghetti all’ acciuga in salsa d’arancia – spaghetti with orange and anchovy sauce. It is all home made.’ Lip-smacking was accompanied by the classic finger and thumb to the mouth gesture. ‘Molto buono.’