by Michael Bond
Despite the modest pace at which he was travelling, or perhaps because of it, his progress didn’t go unreported. Space in the airwaves above Paris soon became at a premium.
Finally abandoning his car in a side street near the rue des Francs-Bourgeois Rivoli – the main thoroughfare leading into the Place des Vosges, Monsieur Pamplemousse set off on foot. He felt less conspicuous that way. He hadn’t gone very far before he realised the wisdom of his move. As he drew near the Place he was nearly run down by a car reversing at speed. He only just managed to jump clear in time.
‘Poule! Where do you think you are going?’
‘Voilà! Les flics.’ The driver had his window wound down. He looked anxiously over his shoulder as he drove on his way, more concerned for his own well-being than for any passing pedestrians who were foolish enough to walk in the road. It was asking for trouble.
Where he had just been, a group of gendarmes were flagging down the traffic, peering into car windows, scrutinising the occupants.
Monsieur Pamplemousse stood for a moment in a shop doorway while he considered the matter. Perhaps they were expecting more trouble after the International, or maybe there was some kind of ‘happening’ in the Place de la Bastille. The former was hardly likely – it was too much off the beaten track – the latter was too far away.
Playing it by ear, he backtracked and made a short détour towards the rue de Rivoli, entering the Place des Vosges through a side street. On the way he passed three long grey buses filled with CRS riot police. There were two gendarmes standing inside the archway at the entrance to the square, but they paid him scant attention. They were far more interested in the solitary occupant of a large Mercedes trying to leave. The car had a CD plate and the man was protesting in no uncertain terms.
The restaurant Coconnas to his right was full. Light streamed from its windows and he could see waiters hurrying about their business, but beyond it, towards the house where Victor Hugo had once lived and worked, there was a patch of relative darkness. Some way beyond that again, Monsieur Pamplemousse found the number he was looking for. There was a modern coded entry-lock, but it must have been disconnected, for when he pushed against the huge wooden door it swung open easily and he found himself entering a small, paved courtyard.
Approaching an ornate front door, he pressed an unlabelled bell push let into the wall beneath one of a pair of wrought-iron lamps.
The door was opened almost immediately by a young girl. She was wearing school clothes – a gym slip and blouse. If the intention had been to conceal what little else she might be wearing underneath, both garments were several sizes too small. Her cheeks were heavily rouged and she carried a hockey stick. There was music playing in the background and he could hear the clink of glasses and the sound of laughter coming from a room nearby.
‘I wish to speak to the “Madame”.’
‘Do you have an invitation?’
‘Non.’
The girl hesitated. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry…’ She spoke with a cultivated English accent.
‘It is I who am sorry,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse firmly. ‘The “Madame”, s’il vous plaît.’
After a moment’s hesitation the girl led him towards a flight of wide, richly carpeted stairs. Monsieur Pamplemousse reflected that it was interesting the difference clothes and subdued lighting made to a person. Dressed the way she was, she didn’t look more than fourteen or fifteen years old. As they mounted the first few stairs, he averted his gaze, glancing instead through an open door to his right. He registered all he needed to know.
What was it President Mitterrand had once said? ‘If Ministers resigned because of their peccadillos I would lose half my cabinet overnight.’ It looked as though the other half might be in imminent danger too. He recognised several well-known faces from other walks of life.
The girl tried several doors on the first landing. The first two were locked. Someone was attempting to play the hornpipe on an accordion behind one, the sound of rattling chains came from the second room.
‘My name’s Deirdre, by the way,’ said the girl. She tried another door. ‘Third time lucky!’
‘Sacré bleu!’ Following her into the room, Monsieur Pamplemousse narrowly escaped being struck on the head by a naked man swinging upside down on a trapeze. A girl kneeling on a bed in the centre of the room looked round. ‘Shut the door, Deirdre. There’s a draught.’
‘C’est impossible!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the scene.
‘Nothing is impossible with Ernestine,’ said Deirdre. ‘She’s Hungarian. Her parents owned a travelling circus. They were always on the move. Would you like to have a go? It’s super fun.’
‘Non, merci,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily. ‘I am afraid I do not have a head for heights.’
‘How about the banisters?’ Deirdre, who seemed to have a penchant for non sequiturs, licked her lips and ran her hands down the highly polished surface. ‘You can get up quite a speed if you start from the top.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse winced. He was still feeling the effects of his outing the night before.
‘I am not sure I would know what to do when I got to the bottom,’ he said.
Deirdre giggled. ‘It’s easy when you know how.’ She hitched up her skirt. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll show you.’
‘Is there no pleasure in simplicity any more?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Besides, when I said I am in a hurry, I meant just that.’
He stood back to allow another girl free passage. It struck him that she didn’t take as much advantage of his move as she might have done. She was sucking something nameless on the end of a stick and as she squeezed past him he smelt aniseed; aniseed and what could have been Chanel 19. It was a strangely disturbing combination.
The room the first girl took him to was at the front of the building. It was lavishly furnished in the style of the period. Whoever lived in the house must be wealthy beyond most people’s wildest dreams. Thick wooden beams supporting the high ceilings were ornately inlaid with other woods. From the central beam there hung a sizeable unlit chandelier.
Deirdre glanced up. ‘Would you like a “freebie” while you’re waiting?’
‘I am in a hurry,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘A “quickie” then?’
‘There comes a time in a man’s life,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse with a sigh, ‘when the word “quickie” betrays a certain degree of optimism.’
‘I don’t mind waiting.’
‘Please. There is no time to lose.’
For one awful moment he thought she was going to cry, then the door closed behind her.
Left on his own at long last, Monsieur Pamplemousse crossed to the window and parted the curtains slightly. If anything, police activity was on the increase. More gendarmes were now stationed just inside the arcade on the west side, where they were able to keep an eye on traffic entering the square. The only other way in, except on foot, was through an archway directly opposite the one he had just used. From a policing point of view the layout of the square couldn’t have been better. There were just two ways in – from the north and from the west, and two ways out – to the east and to the south.
‘What are you doing here?’
He turned at the sound of a voice. ‘I think I might ask you the same question.’
‘I presume you know the truth – otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed long and hard at Caterina. In the glow of the soft pink light from table lamps scattered about the room she looked positively ravishing. Even more so, he had to admit, than when he had last seen her on the train. She was wearing an ivory coloured dress of a simplicity which only came when expense was no object. With her hair up, she had an air of authority beyond her years. It made him feel momentarily sad.
He motioned her to sit. It was no time for beating about the bush.
‘I have just had a long conversation with your mamma. She applauds what you have done, but now
she wants you to come home. If you stay it will lead to nothing but unhappiness, to tragedy even; to a war within the “family” itself.’
‘I am sorry. It is too late.’
‘You realise your papà will be forced to kill you.’
‘Me?’ Caterina laughed, but it was clear a chill had entered into her. ‘That is not possible. He would never do such a thing.’ For the first time she avoided his gaze.
‘He would have no choice,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He is bound by the code of the Cosa Nostra. He has been “baptised”; he has sworn an oath, he has undergone the ritual, mixing the blood of his trigger finger with the blood of others. You of all people should know, from that moment on the Mafia Family took precedence over his own, even if it means killing his only daughter. That is the rule. It is a total requirement and there is no escaping the fact. He would demand it of others, and he would expect them to obey the rule without question. Therefore, as a Man of Honour, he cannot possibly escape it himself.
‘You have committed one of the worst sins of all – a whole series, in fact. You have disobeyed his orders, and what you are doing is something that in itself will bring disgrace.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s thoughts went back to the conversation he’d had with Caterina’s mother and a question he had posed: ‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘Because I want Caterina back and I want the explanations – the pressure – to come from someone else. If this thing leaks out it will kill her father.’
He sat down beside Caterina and placed a hand on hers. ‘You must close down. Now. This moment.’
‘But I can’t. It is the opening night.’
‘Then it must also, I fear, be the closing night. Apart from anything else, from what I have seen in the very short time I have been here, you have managed to accumulate enough “names” to promote the biggest scandal that has hit France for many years.’
‘What if I refuse? You cannot make me.’
‘You are right. I cannot make you. But if you go ahead, then just as surely as night follows day, you will be responsible for the death of your father. Even if he goes against his own code – the code of the Cosa Nostra – and if others let that be, which is unlikely, he will be unable to stand the disgrace. A daughter who disobeys his commands? A daughter who runs away without permission to do her own thing? A daughter who opens a bordello in Paris?
‘You know what they would say? They would say he was no better than a pimp. A pimp, living on his daughter’s earnings. For someone with his background there could be no greater insult.’
It was, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse, yet another case of Catch 22 with a vengeance. Catch 22bis.
‘But can it not wait? Until the end of this evening at least. I cannot go back on my promises …’
‘Promises to whom? The worst that can happen is that you will leave behind a lot of unsatisfied customers; unsatisfied in the truest sense of the word. They will probably take it out on their subordinates in the morning, but so what?’
Caterina shrugged, then she looked around. ‘It has been a lot of work for nothing. What do you think of it all?’
‘Banisters will never be the same again,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It has also given me a whole new perspective on lollipops.’
‘No, seriously.’
‘Seriously …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse crossed to the window again and parted the thick curtains. ‘Look!’
He raised his hands as Caterina joined him. ‘It is not of my doing, believe me.’
‘Then who?’
‘I do not know. It is of no consequence. We are dealing in facts. And the fact is, unless we leave now you will be in serious trouble, and so shall I. They will throw the book at me.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at her curiously. ‘You ask me what I think. I think you have done much in a very short time. In some respects I am lost in admiration.’
‘It was very easy really. The house is empty. It belongs to a member of my family – an uncle. Mamma spoke of him many times. He is out of the country.’
‘And the girls? How many are there?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Fifteen! Where do they all come from?’
‘That was the least of the problems. You forget – I attend a convent school.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse suppressed a whistle. No wonder the place threatened to be such an instant success. It must be quite unique in the annals of maisons de débauches.
‘Do you realise the risk you are running? There are other ways of proving yourself. You have your whole life before you. It is pointless to gain your freedom only to lose it again. Besides, remember what happened to the Dugong … there is such a thing as being too successful.’
While he was talking, he ushered Caterina out of the room. ‘Round up the rest of the girls – as quickly and as quietly as possible. Tell them to get dressed. I will see you outside.’
Giving her no time to argue, Monsieur Pamplemousse hastened down the stairs and let himself out into the arcade.
He looked to his right and then to his left, trying to decide what to do for the best. Shadowy figures made their way round the perimeter of the Place, but now he was on ground level again it all looked relatively quiet. Only the stationary headlamps from waiting cars and vans on the north side gave a clue to the activity that was going on. By their light he could see passers-by being asked for their cartes d’identité.
Fifteen girls! Sixteen, if you included Caterina – and he had no intention of leaving without her. Even in small groups they would never make it without being stopped. It was like a war-time operation. No one was being spared.
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s attention was momentarily diverted by a burst of flash guns further along on his side of the Place. A party of Japanese tourists, streaming out of a café, were boarding a parked coach through a door in its side, taking photographs of each other as they went. Photographs of each other and … Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start.
To his astonishment he saw Pommes Frites posing alongside one member of the group. Not so much directing operations, but clearly taking an active interest in what was going on. He had an extraordinary capacity for putting in an appearance when it was least expected. It was quite uncanny.
Whether it was the flashlights, or simply a case of built-in extrasensory perception was hard to say, but Pommes Frites caught sight of Monsieur Pamplemousse at almost exactly the same moment, and came bounding towards him full of the joy of his discovery.
He looked pleased with himself, as well he might, since in his way he was partly responsible for bringing together and coordinating the forces not only of those who were looking for his master, but those who, coincidentally, were even now about to home in on the clandestine activities in the Place des Vosges. For all its outward aloofness, the Marais was like a village. News travelled fast.
That the two events were not necessarily compatible didn’t cross Pommes Frites’ mind as he exchanged greetings with his master. As far as he was concerned, their meeting up was sufficient in itself.
‘Wait.’ Seeing the door open behind him, Monsieur Pamplemousse signalled both Pommes Frites and Caterina to stay where they were.
Brushing past the last of the Japanese tourists, he approached the front of the coach and tapped on the door. Receiving no response, he slid it open. The driver was laid back, feet on the dashboard, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.
Waving his Guide pass with an authority learned in the Sûreté and developed over years of dealing with some of Paris’s worst criminal elements, who thought they knew all the answers, Monsieur Pamplemousse glared at the man. His first thought had been that they might all beg a lift, but something told him he wouldn’t get very far with that idea. He decided to try another tack.
‘Do you see anything strange about the way you are parked, Monsieur?’
The driver didn’t even bother to remove the cigarette. ‘Non. Why should I? This is where I always park.’
‘Oui.’ The man made play of looking out of his window. ‘What would you have me do – stay in the rue des Francs-Bourgeois and cause an impasse?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Out,’ he barked, dropping any pretence at politeness. ‘I am booking you for illegal parking. Furthermore, I am also booking you for causing an obstruction and for being in charge of an unsafe vehicle.’
‘Unsafe?’ Brushing ash from his jacket, the driver clambered out of the coach and joined Monsieur Pamplemousse on the pavement. ‘It is brand new. It was delivered from the factory only two weeks ago. It has two toilets, a bar, video, air-conditioning, walk-in luggage space, tinted windows.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse withdrew his notebook from the concealed fold in his trousers and flipped it open. ‘A flat tyre on the nearside rear wheel.’
The man kicked it. ‘I have no flat tyre.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse removed his Cross ballpoint pen from an inside pocket, gave the barrel a quick twist, and then applied the pointed end to a valve. There was a satisfying hiss of escaping air. Fortunately for his purpose the wheel was one of a pair. The coach would still be driveable.
‘Merde!’ Leaving the man gazing disbelievingly at his tyre, Monsieur Pamplemousse strolled in leisurely fashion round to the back of the vehicle. He was beginning to enjoy himself. It was quite like old times. ‘One defective rear light.’
‘Morbleu!’ bellowed the man as he joined him. ‘That is nonsense! Look at them!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse lifted his foot. There was a crash of splintering plastic and the light went out. He turned to a new page.
‘Telling lies. Arguing with those in authority. I wouldn’t be in your shoes. Wait till I get you back to the station. The Squad for the Protection of Tourists may have other ideas.’
Having carefully made sure none of the police were looking his way, Monsieur Pamplemousse mimed waving to an imaginary colleague, going through a routine of whistle blowing and holding a telephone to his ear. As an encore he made a throat-cutting gesture followed by the classic sign for ‘at the double’.