by Michael Bond
Overflowing with nymphs, angels and satyrs, festooned with flowers and horns of plenty, female forms in all possible shapes and sizes and positions gazed down at him, or in some cases ignored him completely, being fully taken up with other more important matters closer to their heart.
Named after the legendary Train Bleu, which once upon a time ran every day between Paris and Ventimiglia on the Italian border, the mythological scenes were interspersed with landscapes painted in oils by a variety of artists of the 1900s, depicting the countryside it would pass through en route.
Above it all, partly hidden by giant chandeliers, lay Flameng’s original painted ceiling.
Apart from the staff, nothing had changed in over hundred years, but somehow it always came out fresh.
A girl wearing a wedding dress suddenly put in an appearance and seated herself nearby. She was accompanied by an entourage of young men. There was no sign of a groom, so it was hard to tell if it was before or after the event, or perhaps she was simply taking part in a film, or a television series. It was all part of life’s rich pattern, but from all around mobile phones with their inbuilt cameras recorded the scene as they came into play. Yet another sign of the times. Nothing was sacred any more.
He was on the point of reaching for his Nikon when the first course arrived. Had he been wearing his normal working clothes he would have automatically reached for his trusty notebook, secreted in a hidden pocket of the right trouser leg. One of Doucette’s unique embellishments, he felt lost without it. As it was, he would have to rely on memory and a few scribbled notes on a blank page of his diary.
The asparagus soup was presented in a tall glass, the bottom half of which contained the main ingredient, while the top half was filled with a creamy concoction flavoured with Parmesan cheese. It was accompanied by a small pastry case of mixed herbs. He gave it six out of ten.
The house champagne came already poured and according to the menu was a Demoiselle Vranken Millesime 2003. It was a first as far as he was concerned, although glancing through the separate wine list he could have chosen many another had he wished.
So far, so good; better by far than many station hotels he had encountered over the years, and at least everything arrived with commendable speed.
That was one thing that had changed. Gone were the ancient slow-moving waiters of yesteryear. Service was brisk. The waiting staff, young, well drilled and clearly used to dealing with a clientele constantly on the move, could hardly be faulted. Carrying their fully laden trays with practised ease in one hand well above the heads of anxious departing passengers laden with luggage, there was never an impatient sideways glance.
His Cross ballpoint pen came into action again as he jotted ‘poetry in motion’ in his diary. Adding 10/10 for endurance and good grace, he fell to wondering how Caterina would have fared on her train. No doubt she had been travelling first class and by now she would be in the final stages of her long journey; brushing her hair, applying make-up, making sure she was ready to face the world.
Catching the waiter’s eye, Monsieur Pamplemousse tapped his Jean d’Eve wristwatch as the man drew near. ‘I am meeting someone off the 13.23 train from Milan,’ he said.
The waiter raised one eyebrow and allowed himself a discreet sucking noise through his teeth. He glanced down as he cleared the table before hurrying off.
The meaning was clear. ‘You are pushing your luck, Monsieur.’
‘Effronté,’ muttered Monsieur Pamplemousse. The cheek of it! Catching a train was one thing, but you didn’t need running shoes in order to meet up with someone arriving after a long journey. They wouldn’t be first off the platform. For two pins he would revise his award of 10/10.
All the same, he checked his wristwatch against the restaurant clock to make doubly sure they tallied.
The arrival of the main course, again in double-quick time, restored his good humour, and he ordered a mixed glace vanille and a sorbet framboise along with the bill to follow it.
‘Oh, là, là!’ said the waiter. ‘Is that wise, Monsieur?’
‘Oui,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse firmly.
‘Bonne chance!’ The waiter treated him with renewed respect. ‘Perhaps the train will be late arriving,’ he added brightly.
Monsieur Pamplemousse opened his diary and having jotted down: ‘Waiter attentive, but of a nervous disposition’, snapped it shut. Taking things as slowly as possible, he toyed with the glass of red wine. It helped dampen his growing irritation before starting on the cannelloni.
Normally he would have been the first to admit that his knowledge of Italian cuisine left a lot to be desired. It simply wasn’t his field. That being the case, he eyed the large tube of pasta occupying the entire width of his plate with a certain amount of reserve. It could have been a bicycle-tyre inner tube for all he knew.
Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind he remembered reading there were two ways of preparing the dish. Either the pasta was brought in and arrived that way or, and it was supposed to be the aficionado’s approved method, the chef constructed a flat piece of pasta made up of a number of squares held together with béchamel sauce on which the filling was spread, before rolling it into a long sausage shape, much like a Swiss roll.
He tried lifting it up with a fork to see if there were any visible joins, and then, conscious that the waiter was watching his every move, briskly cut it in two. Time was precious, and his report to Monsieur Leclercq would have to take second place on the agenda. It was a matter of priorities.
The filling was predominantly a mixture of avocado pear, tuna fish, tomato and olives, held together by the béchamel sauce, and the pasta was yellow, suggesting eggs had been used in its making. There was a green salad on the side. All very acceptable.
The ice cream and sorbet came and went, as did the bill. Having paid by card, and with a full three minutes to go, Monsieur Pamplemousse nonchalantly rose from the table and sauntered out of the restaurant, stationing himself fair and square in the middle of the balcony at the top of the staircase.
Camera at the ready, he zoomed out, took a couple of wide-angle shots of the scene before him, and while pocketing it converted the movement into a quick glance over his shoulder.
His waiter was not so much engaged in a deep conversation with a colleague, as indulging himself in a display of shrugging, hands at shoulder height, palms facing upwards, that wouldn’t have disgraced an instructor in a school for the profoundly deaf and dumb. As an encore the man made the international sign for slitting someone’s throat before going on his way.
Returning to the matter in hand, Monsieur Pamplemousse pressed the playback button on his camera and ran through the pictures he had just taken. As he did so he stiffened.
It wasn’t possible! It simply wasn’t possible!
Not only was every quai occupied by a stationary train, but there was a distinct absence of any passengers either coming or going. He ought to have registered the fact while he was taking the pictures, but that was the downside of having to rely on a small electronic screen rather than an optical viewfinder. Exterior lighting falling on its surface often rendered it worse than useless. He should have brought the Fuji X-Pro1 after all.
Racing down the stairs two at a time he waylaid the nearest SNCF representative.
‘What happened to the train from Milan?’ he demanded. ‘Where is it?’
‘Where is it?’ repeated the man. He pointed towards the arrivals board on the far wall. ‘If Monsieur would care to consult the tableau des arrivées he will see that it was scheduled to arrive in Hall 2 at 13.23. Quai nombre 7.
‘Hall 2?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘What do you mean … Hall 2?’
‘When was the last time Monsieur used the Gare de Lyon?’
‘A few years ago,’ admitted Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I can’t remember the exact date.’
‘Ah!’ said the voice of authority patiently. ‘There have been major developments since then, Monsieur. The Gare de Lyon now
has trois halls.’
‘Trois!’ echoed Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘What on earth for?’
Affecting not to hear him, the man launched into what was clearly an oft-repeated explanation. ‘We are at present standing in what is now known as Hall 1, which is for all French SNCF express TGV trains to and from the Côte d’Azur, the Savoy and the Alps.
‘Hall 3, which is on a lower level, below Hall 2, is for all the Paris Underground services; Métro Lines 1 and 14, and RER Line A.
‘Hall 2 is reserved for our foreign partners who run TGV International trains to countries outside France. That includes the one Monsieur was looking for: TGV France–Italie from Milan.
‘It is a major improvement,’ he added, catching the look on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s face. ‘Passengers no longer have to change trains at the border.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his wallet. ‘Can you get me to Hall 2 as quickly as possible?’ he demanded. ‘It is very important.’
The man waved his gesture to one side. ‘That is not necessary, Monsieur. It is part of my job. You are not the only one to be confused. It happens all the time.’
He glanced up at the arrivals board. ‘The 13.23 from Milan is no longer listed, so it must have arrived on time. Alas!’
‘Alas?’ Conscious that he was in danger of turning the conversation into a repetition contest, Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the man.
‘Unfortunately, Monsieur, the quai is some distance from here. I can escort you, but it is not straightforward. The passengers will have dispersed by the time we get there.’
‘I still wish to go,’ insisted Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The person I am meeting may well be waiting nearby.’
‘Must be waiting,’ he repeated inwardly, as the man led the way along the furthermost quai. ‘Must be waiting. It can’t happen to me twice.’
His heart sank as they made a turn to the left and met up with a sea of people moving in all directions. Why on earth hadn’t Barnaud warned him of all this palaver? He must have known about the change in the layout. Perhaps he was only interested in the electronics of the Mètèor Line anyway.
‘Is it always this busy?’ he asked.
‘Toujours,’ said the man, raising his hands heavenwards. ‘Over 90 million passengers pass through the Gare de Lyon every year. Autant chercher une aiguille dans une botte de foin.’
‘Pardon?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, his mind preoccupied with higher mathematics.
‘Finding someone is like … What is it les Rosbifs say? “Like looking for a needle in a haystack”? It is impossible!’
They went the rest of the way in silence.
‘Monsieur is very quiet,’ said his guide, as they came to a halt and he pointed towards quai 7, totally devoid of passengers.
‘Merde!’ exclaimed Monsieur Pamplemousse. It was addressed to the world in general, but it came out louder than he had intended. Heads turned.
‘Is it very serious?’ asked the man.
‘I have been trying to divide 90 million by 365,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Someone else was asking me that only the other day,’ said the man. ‘The daily total is a little under 250 mille.’
‘250 thousand!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse wished now he had brought Pommes Frites with him. Given a brief sight of the picture he carried in his wallet he would at the very least have reduced the odds against finding Caterina down to a sizeable figure of rejections in no time at all.
Thanking the man for his trouble, he took a shot of the empty quai and followed that with a few random wide-angle shots of Hall 2 for luck and, if necessary, to back up his story, then found a relatively quiet spot and rang Doucette on his mobile.
Perhaps not surprisingly she was out, so he left a message on the answering service instead.
‘There is a problem, Couscous. Don’t wait up. Expect me when you see me!’
CHAPTER FOUR
After what could only be described as a personal débâcle to end all personal débâcles at the Gare de Lyon, the rest of the day was little short of a nightmare.
One by one, Monsieur Pamplemousse explored all the possible things that might have happened to Caterina, and the more he drew a blank the gloomier he became.
Being wise after the event, he realised, of course, that she should have been provided with his telephone number and/or address in case of a slip-up in the arrangements. But it had all come about so quickly it hadn’t occurred to anyone to think that far ahead.
The last thing he wanted to do was phone Monsieur Leclercq in order to break the news. For all he knew, Caterina might have friends living in Paris she could contact, but that was something he couldn’t bank on, and since standing still and doing nothing at all wasn’t an option, he soon gave up looking around the station with its all too ample supply of restrooms and small cafés, and set about checking hotels in the area; a task that would normally have been passed on down to the newest recruit in any police force.
It brought back memories of his own early days as he methodically called on the most obvious ones first of all: the largest of those close by.
Stalwarts such as the Novotel Gare de Lyon, and the Mercure, took one look at Caterina’s photograph and suggested his best plan would be to contact the nearest police station, as did most hotels of similar standing he visited in the area; a move that wouldn’t have gone down too well with either Monsieur Leclercq or his wife’s Uncle Rocco, both of whom discouraged what they would have called unnecessary publicity.
Having whittled down the obvious possibilities, he turned his attention to what might be called the ‘also rans’; the second- and even third-rate possibilities. Not that he expected Caterina to lower her sights, but simply because it was what combing an area was all about. It was ‘all or nothing at all’. You couldn’t afford to make exceptions.
If it did nothing else, it brought home to him a sad fact of life commonplace the world over. For one reason or another, large railway termini tended to attract unsavoury characters, and historically the Gare de Lyon was certainly no exception to the other Paris terminals.
Both the Gare du Nord and the Gare de l’Est had been credited with lowering the social status of their area of the 10th arrondissement even before they were built; and the Gare Montparnasse, having attracted an influx of hopeful girls from Brittany in search of fame and fortune, soon turned the streets of the 14th into a notorious haunt of prostitutes.
But long before the advent of the railway, the part of the 12th arrondissement where the Gare de Lyon now stood had been deemed a ‘no-go’ area. Known latterly as Paris’s Chinatown, it became a drug-infested slum area of narrow alleyways, frequented by criminals of the very worst kind, its one claim to fame being the fact that it was once home to the infamous Mazas prison.
So it wasn’t too surprising that showing Caterina’s photograph around should meet with a totally different reaction to the one he had experienced until then, ranging from total indifference, through suspicious owners who clearly thought they might be laying themselves open to a trap of some kind, down to hearty denials of there being any possibility that the hotel might let rooms by the hour. The last mentioned was usually followed by a nudge, a wink, the dangling of a key, and the information that of course there were always exceptions to any rule.
In desperation after the tenth such encounter – or was it the eleventh? He was beginning to lose count – he decided to ring Jacques, an ex-colleague in the Sûreté, and an old friend.
At first, Jacques was less than helpful. On hearing Monsieur Pamplemousse’s tale of woe, he cheerily launched into a story about Ernest Hemingway’s first wife Hadley. Having packed the only copies of everything he had ever written, both published and unpublished, into a suitcase, she set off to join him in Lausanne where he was on an assignment for the Toronto Star. Leaving the case momentarily unattended in a train at the Gare de Lyon, she returned only to find it had been stolen.
‘Can you think of anything worse?’ asked
Jacques.
‘Orson Welles not only lost his screenplays, but all his films and other creations when his villa in Madrid burnt down in 1970,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Just think,’ said Jacques, not to be outdone. ‘Hemingway only had an old Corona portable in those days, and yet he set to work straight away retyping everything from memory at the rate of five hundred words a day. And he had to work standing up, because he suffered from a bad back.’
‘I imagine the air was blue,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘It didn’t do the marriage a lot of good either,’ admitted Jacques. ‘But at least he ended up winning the Nobel Prize for his writing, which is more than any of those who tried imitating his methods at the time can say. Most of them didn’t stay the course. Mind you, he was a perfectionist. When he got to the end of A Farewell to Arms he dithered for ages over some forty or so possible titles.’
Sensing a lack of enthusiasm in his audience for the problem in hand, Monsieur Pamplemousse changed tack.
‘Which reminds me,’ he said. ‘I was going to phone you about a Mafia-type murder of a restaurant owner that took place recently in the 3rd. His body was found floating in the canal St Martin.’
‘It doesn’t ring any bells,’ said Jacques. ‘But he wouldn’t be the first one to end up that way by a long chalk. Do you have a date?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse picked on one that as near as possible tallied with the Director’s tale of woe.
‘Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can find out,’ said Jacques. ‘In the meantime I suggest you watch where you’re going. The area you’re in at the moment isn’t much better after dark. It may have come up in the world, what with all the “grand projets” they’ve gone to town on: Mitterrand’s Bastille Opera, the Palais Omnisports, and Frank Gehry’s American Center, to name but a few. But you can’t lose sight of the fact that their roots are embedded in tainted soil that will take years to regain its good health.