by Michael Bond
If they hurried he would be just in time to wave the Palatino goodbye.
‘You were very restless in your sleep last night, Aristide,’ said Madame Pamplemousse. ‘Was it something you had for dinner?’
‘No, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘If anything it was something I didn’t have.’
‘Did you miss me while I was away?’
‘Of course I did, Doucette. I always do. You know that. The apartment is very quiet without you.’
‘I tried to telephone you several times, but it was either engaged or there was no answer.’
That summed up the last few days to a tee.
Madame Pamplemousse concentrated on dusting a picture near the window. ‘You didn’t eat half the things I left you.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse resisted the temptation to say, ‘But I ate the other half.’ He changed the subject instead.
‘How is Agathe?’ It would be good for ten minutes at least. Agathe would complain if she had nothing to complain about.
He had arrived home late the previous evening to find Doucette already in bed and asleep. Climbing in beside her, his mind swarming with all the things that had happened during the day, he had fully expected to lie awake for hours. Instead of which he had fallen asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow, and he was only now beginning to come out of it.
‘That man I was telling you about is still there.’ Madame Pamplemousse was in the middle of listing her sister’s woes when she broke off and stared out of the window.
Prowling round the apartment, looking to see if he had left anything lying about which might be hard to explain – a photograph of Caterina, par exemple, or the remains of dinner for two, Monsieur Pamplemousse paused.
‘What man?’
‘The one I was telling you about at breakfast,’ said Madame Pamplemousse impatiently. ‘The one on crutches. You don’t listen to a word I say sometimes.’ She opened the door to the balcony in order to get a better view.
‘He’s hardly moved since I first saw him, although that’s not surprising. Poor man. How he manages to play anything at all with his legs in plaster and his head all bandaged up like it is, I don’t know. I suppose he’s a musician. He wouldn’t be carrying a violin case otherwise.’
She glanced back over her shoulder. ‘He keeps looking up this way. Is it someone you know, Aristide?’
‘Let me see.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way to the balcony. Pommes Frites hurried after him. His hackles rose and he emitted a low growl as he followed the direction of his master’s gaze to the street below.
‘Aristide!’ cried Madame Pamplemousse. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Out!’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse briefly. He looked round for assistance, but Pommes Frites was way ahead of him. When they reached the ground floor he flew out of the lift, and only the fact that the main entrance door was closed prevented him from taking action there and then.
‘Attendez, s’il vous plaît.’ Signalling Pommes Frites to remain where he was for the time being, Monsieur Pamplemousse strode across the rue Girardon to where the man was hovering.
Attack being the best form of defence, he went in with all guns blazing.
‘Salaud!
‘Cochon of a macaroni-eating peasant!
‘Allez! Allez!
‘I never wish to see you again … jamais… never!’
All the frustration and fears of the preceding few days erupted.
‘And furthermore, when you have your plaster removed tell them to throw away your clothes as well. They offend me.
‘You are nothing but a no-good cheap-skate bully of a crook masquerading in a Caraceni suit.
‘You are a maquereau – a pimp! You are worse than that – you are a failed pimp!’
Each time he thought of something new, Monsieur Pamplemousse emphasised it with a stabbing motion of his right forefinger.
To his surprise, the man suddenly toppled over backwards. As he hit the road his left hand shot towards his top pocket, but Pommes Frites was there before him.
Monsieur Pamplemousse deftly removed a four-inch hat pin and placed the pointed end against the man’s ear. ‘I could, you know.’
‘But you won’t.’
‘Don’t push me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse in disgust. ‘Just don’t push me. And I wouldn’t stay there if I were you. The Montmartrobus is overdue and the driver will be making up time. You are likely to end up as nothing but a bump in the road.’
‘Signore – all I wanted was to say grazie …’
‘Grazie?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse paused for breath. ‘You wish to thank me? Thank me for what?’
‘For finding the girl. We were in charge of her safe-keeping. Think what would have happened to us if we had failed.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared down at Il Blobbo as he absorbed what had just been said. He had been assuming all along that the two men had been looking for Caterina for their own immoral purposes. But if Uncle Caputo had charged them with Caterina’s safe-keeping while she was away and they had also lost track of her, it put a whole new slant on things. The men would have been in exactly the same position as himself. They, too, would have been going in fear of their lives, and understandably so.
In all probability they would both have ended up suffering the same kind of fate as had the American, William Jackson – a classic case of its kind, demonstrating the extremes of revenge the Mafia took on those members who failed their bosses. People still talked about it.
William ‘Action’ Jackson, who had blotted his copybook with Mafia boss Sam Giancana, ended his days hanging from a steel meat hook in a Chicago meat-rendering plant, literally hacked and burned to death, slowly, deliberately and without mercy, by gang members wielding a variety of weapons; ice picks, knives, razors … a blowtorch.
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at Il Blobbo. ‘Think yourself lucky,’ he said gruffly.
He almost wished now he hadn’t mentioned the Montmartrobus. It would be a fitting punishment. Il Blobbo by name, ending up as a blobbo in the road.
‘Aristide!’ Doucette stared at her husband as he came back into the room. ‘How could you? Attacking a poor defenceless man on crutches. Whatever came over you?’
‘I was doing it on behalf of the family of a late attendant on the Palatino,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Also, a coachload of lathe workers from Nagihuku in Japan. It is unlike the Japanese not to finish off things properly, but that is the way the world is going, I fear.’
‘There are times,’ said Madame Pamplemousse, ‘when I feel I shall never understand you properly.’
‘It could have been worse.’ Briefly and succinctly, and leaving out certain aspects which experience told might slow down rather than advance the story, Monsieur Pamplemousse brought Doucette up to date, ending with the sorry tale of William Jackson. When he had finished she gave a shudder.
‘Such things!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. Doucette didn’t know the half of it.
Jackson’s story hadn’t ended there. Shot in the knees, an electric cattle prod stuffed up his rectum and water poured over it for good measure, he had somehow managed to survive for two whole days, setting a record which to date no one had been in a hurry to break.
Photographs of the grim event in its various stages had been distributed as a warning to others not to transgress. He would never forget seeing a copy at the time; even hardened members of the force had gone silent.
‘Shouldn’t you tell someone?’ asked Madame Pamplemousse.
Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up the phone. Doucette was right as usual. There was no reason on earth now why he shouldn’t come clean with Jacques.
‘I was just about to ring you.’ Jacques beat him to it. ‘We’ve got a line on the two men. The short fat one owns a television store in Palermo. On the side he’s a specialist in things electronic; phone bugging, safe-blowing …’
‘… solar-powered burglar alarms?’ said Monsieur Pample
mousse drily.
‘You name it. The one you call Il Blobbo is known as Giuseppi “the Pin” – no prizes for guessing why. Both are known members of the Cosa Nostra. We’ll pull them in as soon as we find them, but your guess is as good as mine as to what happens then. You know what it’s like. The best we can probably do is make things difficult for them.’
‘I don’t think either will be bothering anyone for a while,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘If you let me have a copy of the identikit picture and a medical dictionary I will make certain modifications.’
As quickly as possible he gave Jacques an edited version of all that he had told Doucette. He could always fill in the details later.
‘Bang goes my dream apartment,’ said Jacques when he had finished. ‘I was planning to make you an offer when you moved out.’
‘It’s nice to know who your friends are,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
Madame Pamplemousse gave a final flourish of her duster as he put down the phone. ‘Did I hear you say the girl has gone back home?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch. ‘All being well, she should be in Rome by now.’
‘She didn’t stay very long. Although if she was how you described her, I imagine Monsieur le Directeur won’t be sorry.’
‘Merde!’
‘Really, Aristide!’ exclaimed Doucette. ‘I don’t know what has come over you this morning.’
Monsieur Leclercq! He had made one abortive attempt to telephone the Director from the Gare de Lyon the previous evening, but the number had been out of order. Since then he had been so embroiled with his own problems he had quite forgotten to try again.
‘He left a message soon after I got in last night,’ said Doucette. ‘He said to tell you to use his other number next time you called. Ever since his telephone line was cut he’s been having to make do with his mobile phone …’
‘The Director’s line was cut?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at his wife.
‘Apparently it happened soon after you telephoned from the gendarmerie and he forgot to tell you the last time you spoke.’
‘He forgot to tell me …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse checked in his diary, then picked up the telephone and dialled. It solved another problem that had been bothering him. He could well understand Il Blobbo wanting to render the Director incommunicado with the outside world – it would have been one of the first things he would have done himself – but leaving him with a telephone had seemed to render the whole operation pointless. Clearly, he thought he had, and equally clearly he had reckoned without Monsieur Leclercq’s addiction to gadgets.
‘Monsieur …’ But once again Monsieur Pamplemousse had to wait his turn. The Director was bubbling over with his own news.
‘Pamplemousse … an extraordinary thing happened this morning. I was awakened by a loud explosion. I rushed to the window and was just in time to see pigeon feathers floating down out of the sky. It was an incredible sight – there they were, silhouetted in the light from the rising sun. If only you had been here with your camera.
‘What can it mean, Aristide? Do the Mafia have some new method of radio-control at their disposal? Or have they attached some fiendish device to the bird bath?’
‘I think, Monsieur, it simply means you can come out now. If you go to the window again and look down, I suspect you may find your front door is no longer there.’
While the Director was absorbing this latest piece of information, Monsieur Pamplemousse seized his opportunity.
‘Good news, Monsieur. Your petite cousine is safe. She is on her way home. You can breathe again. In fact, we can all breathe again.’
Quick to jump to the wrong conclusions in times of trouble, the Director was equally prompt in lavishing praise when events took a turn for the better.
Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered how long it would be before the Chief’s mind started working in the same direction as his own. The answer came almost immediately.
‘You must take Madame Pamplemousse out to celebrate, Aristide. Taillevant, perhaps, or Guy Savoy. I will make the necessary arrangements for this evening. If Chantal can get back to Paris in time we may even join you.’
‘It is Sunday, Monsieur. They will be closed.’
‘You are right. I have lost all track of time.’ Monsieur Leclercq tried unsuccessfully to keep the note of disappointment from his voice.
‘I did have somewhere slightly less exotic in mind, Monsieur.’
‘Good. Good. Am I allowed to know where?’
‘It is called Mamma Mia’s. I believe the owner is a distant relative of Chantal’s Uncle Caputo. You are welcome to join us there.’
‘You have some unfinished business, Aristide?’ The Director sounded slightly nervous again.
‘No, Monsieur, simply some unfinished ossobuco.’
Pommes Frites pricked up his ears at the magic word. If it was anything like the ossobuco he had found in the back of his master’s car the night before, he couldn’t wait. Cold, it had been delicious – although he could have done without the foil – so what it would be like hot didn’t bear thinking about! Gastric juices began to flow. Saliva accumulated. He could hardly wait.
‘It sounds to me, Aristide,’ said Madame Pamplemousse, ‘very much as though you are about to make me an offer I cannot refuse.’
‘That, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘is one way of putting it. Although I think Pommes Frites would agree with me, it would be much nearer the truth if you simply said ought not.’
About the Author
Michael Bond made the decision to become a writer while serving in the Army in the Second World War. In 1947 he returned to the BBC, where he had worked previously, and spent some years there as a cameraman. Paddington Bear was born after a shopping trip on Christmas Eve when he spotted a small, solitary bear in a large London store. Paddington Bear is now a household name, and the Paddington Books have been translated into over twenty languages.
Monsieur Pamplemousse (‘The Gallic welcome of a kiss on both cheeks for a new detective’ Good Housekeeping) was Michael Bond’s first novel for adults. Such was the success of his inspired blend of comedy, crime and cuisine that a series of books followed starring Pamplemousse and his bloodhound Pommes Frites. Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes The Train is the tenth in the series.
Also by Michael Bond
Monsieur Pamplemousse
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Secret Mission
Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot
Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure
Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft
Monsieur Pamplemousse Investigates
Monsieur Pamplemousse Rests His Case
Monsieur Pamplemousse Stands Firm
Monsieur Pamplemousse on Location
Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Train
Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat
Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation
Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation
Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Tangled Web
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
12 Fitzroy Mews
London W1T 6DW
allisonandbusby.com
First published in 1993.
This ebook edition first published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2016.
Copyright © 1993 by MICHAEL BOND
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in a
ny form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–1802–3