by Michael Bond
‘Unfortunately, what started off with the best of intentions by men of honour gradually deteriorated into a money-making exercise per se. In fact, from that time on it not only became a core activity of the Cosa Nostra, but something of a racket which in time turned into a necessity if large companies were to survive at all. It is said that even today around seventy per cent of businesses on the island still seek protection for fear of what might happen if they didn’t play ball.’
‘Protection from what?’ Doucette set to work replenishing the coffee.
‘Unplanned disasters,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘At its most basic a member of the mob goes into a thriving restaurant and after complimenting the owner on a meal he has just enjoyed, casually remarks wouldn’t it be a shame if one day a customer found the remains of a dead rat in his soup? That simple statement is followed by an offer to make sure it never comes to pass. At a price, of course.’
‘And they don’t call the police?’
‘Only a true Sicilian can be a member of the Cosa Nostra,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘And they mean what they say. It is a variation of making someone an offer they can’t refuse. The plus side in their case is that protection comes with a capital P. Nothing is ever written down on paper, but they never go back on a promise.’
Doucette poured the coffee. ‘Biscuits?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘Not just after breakfast. I might grow tired of them. Sometimes I can go for hours without one.’
‘And the worldwide Mafia as a whole,’ said Doucette. ‘What about that?’
‘Towards the end of the nineteeth century Italy annexed Sicily and set about reshaping the country. A great many of the Cosa Nostra fled to America and set up shop there. Prohibition was in full swing with its speakeasies. From then on what was nicknamed the Mafia became a branch of general crime attracting other nationalities seeking a new life in America to its ranks. First of all it was the Irish, then the Jews, followed by the Italians. But as I said, it all began in Sicily. As for Italy, it became overrun by the Neapolitan Camorra. But that’s another story.
‘In the meantime the authorities in Sicily thought they had got the upper hand, but the Second World War changed all that. Following the devastation wrought by the Allies when around half a million of them invaded the island in order to reclaim it, the Cosa Nostra came into its own again, and later received a further fillip when the heroin that had previously gone to America via Marseilles was diverted to make the journey via Palermo. They were living in clover again.’
‘And they are allowed to get away with it?’
‘As someone once put it: “All power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.” It’s a constant battle and the Mafia have a powerful weapon on their side; it is called Omertà; the code of silence.
‘They don’t keep records. No member introduces himself to another member he doesn’t know personally. It has to be done through a third person.
‘Everything is geared to secrecy. Also, it has to be remembered that the Cosa Nostra isn’t a single body but more an association of “families”, each of which rules over its own territory independent of the others.
‘Some people who are not fully fledged members but work for families on and off are even entering the tourism business, renting out lonely properties which once belonged to the old-time bosses for people who want to get away from it all.’
‘Is that where Uncle Caputo comes in?’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘I still don’t like it,’ said Doucette. ‘I’m beginning to feel as though I have lost control of everything around me. It’s like being caught up in a giant spider’s web.’
‘There is one big difference,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You have nothing to fear from a spider’s web. They are there to act as a trap to catch food. No less and no more.’
‘Who says?’ demanded Doucette.
‘Jacques for one,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I remember making the same comment as you have just made some years back when we were working on a case together and he shot me down in flames. He maintains that even the actual construction of the web is exactly the same as has always been. The only variable is where it lands.
‘As for where they begin and where they end, I know someone much nearer home who can tell you all you need to know on the subject. Ron Barnaud was sounding off about it only the other day in the common room … Apparently there are some in the room where he is working.’
He picked up the telephone receiver. Anything to soothe Doucette’s fears.
‘I’ll see if I can get hold of him. He’s our tame scientist. Besides, he owes me one for not telling me about all the changes at the Gare de Lyon. If he knew himself, of course.’ Holding the receiver away from his ear, he pressed the enhanced hearing button so that Doucette could join in if she wanted to.
‘My understanding,’ said Barnaud, when Monsieur Pamplemousse asked the question, ‘has always been that it is largely a matter of luck. An arachnid simply releases a strand of sticky thread of a suitable length depending on its own size and then lets go of it.
‘Propelled by any light breeze which happens to be present, the thread floats away and attaches itself to the first thing it meets. If where it has landed is to the spider’s liking, it makes its way along the thread, reinforcing it as it goes. The next step is to set to work manufacturing what amounts to a Y-shaped attachment, the top ends of which hang from either end of the original thread.
‘If you can picture it, the centre point of the Y becomes the centre point of the finished web and the three separate parts of the Y form the first of a set of radii which eventually are held in place by the four sides of a rough square.
‘Once that is done to its satisfaction it sits in the middle of the web to await the arrival of its prey. They have been doing it that way for over 100 million years and they are not going to change now.’
For some reason Barnaud sounded unusually detached. In all probability he was hard at work on his app and didn’t welcome any diversions.
‘And if it doesn’t catch anything?’
‘It goes through the same process all over again somewhere else. Why do you ask?’
‘My wife posed the question,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘She suffers from arachnophobia.’
‘Tell him being a spider is even worse than being a housewife,’ hissed Doucette. ‘All that work and nothing to show for it at the end of the day wouldn’t suit me at all. I would sooner be Pommes Frites. If anyone knows the answer to our current problem he clearly does, but he can’t tell us, more’s the pity.’
‘Give him time,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He’ll find a way.’
Relieved that Doucette showed signs of recovering from her attack of the blues, as though a dark cloud overhead had passed on its way, he repeated what she had said and having received no response, thanked Barnaud for his trouble and replaced the receiver.
‘What do you mean I “suffer from arachnophobia”?’ said Doucette. ‘I may not like spiders, but I don’t have a phobia about them.’
‘Barnaud can be very nosy when he likes, and he’s not as clever as he thinks he is,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, who was still smarting over his experience at the Gare de Lyon. ‘He wants to know everything. It’s none of his business why you asked … Anyway, let’s get back to basics …’
‘Perhaps we could start by making a list of all the things you know for certain,’ suggested Doucette.
‘In my case it would be very short,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I suggest we set to work on all the things we think we know for certain, but don’t necessarily.’
‘Such as?’
‘Who really killed the owner of the restaurant? Or had him killed? And why?’
‘You think it had nothing to do with Uncle Caputo?’
‘According to Jacques it happened some time before we thought it did and anyway it didn’t sound like a Mafia job.
It was too amateurish and when it comes to killing someone, the Mafia don’t usually subcontract. If they do, the person doing the dirty work for them is almost certain to be eliminated shortly after for safety’s sake. But that doesn’t mean to say Le Guide isn’t involved in some way.’
‘What else don’t you know for sure?’ asked Doucette.
‘The date on the email Monsieur Leclercq received from the member of the Club des Cent. That would narrow things down a bit. I don’t recall seeing one.
‘We don’t know how he received the message about Caterina’s visit to Paris. There are so many different ways of communicating these days. Emails; phone text; we are spoilt for choice. How do we know the Director even spoke to Caterina’s father, still less that it was he who suggested I should meet her?’
‘But, surely,’ began Doucette, ‘even Monsieur Leclercq isn’t that gullible.’
‘Monsieur Leclercq’s mind is currently taken up with two things,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The loss of a giant truffle which happens to be the property of his wife’s uncle …’ He paused. ‘Come to that I don’t even know how he received it in the first place.’
‘And the other thing that is so important?’
‘Overriding everything is the fact that Le Guide is in the final stages of completion for the coming year. As always, everything else takes a back seat. He spent most of yesterday going through it with Véronique making sure everything was as it should be; not simply those restaurants scheduled to go up in the world, but those that are going down.
‘What makes accuracy doubly important this year is the fact that if all goes well he has another project up his sleeve.’
One way and another Monsieur Pamplemousse managed to put off calling the office until halfway through the morning, and when he finally got through it was brief and to the point, or so it seemed to Doucette.
‘You look worried, Aristide,’ she said.
‘Not so much worried,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘as puzzled. Bemused, to tell you the truth.
‘The girl’s been in to see the Director already. Apparently she said nothing about her stay here. She simply picked up the truffle and left.’
‘Just like that?’
‘She said she was doing it on behalf of her father and couldn’t stop … she was late for an important engagement. While she was there she had a call on her mobile and that did the trick. In her haste to make a quick getaway she dropped it and before anyone had a chance to argue with her she had disappeared.’
‘Nobody questioned her or asked for any proof of identity?’
‘Apparently not,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Véronique has never met the real Caterina either. If I may borrow that photograph you took of her I can email it through and see what she says.’
Five minutes later and the result was in his hands. He read her response out loud. ‘“Superb. Monsieur Leclercq’s niece is real poppet. Should make good cover for the staff magazine. Any chance of two postcards for luck?? Véronique.”
‘Fronting L’Escargot indeed!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse signalled Pommes Frites to his side. ‘If you ask me it’s high time we paid another visit to the office.’
‘One up for the humble email,’ said Doucette.
‘Don’t be late back tonight,’ she called. ‘I thought I would try my hand at stuffed peppers, Neapolitan style … Giovanni gave me the recipe.’
‘It must be good then,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, as he beat a hasty retreat.
He wasn’t far from the office, approaching it via the Pont Alexandre III – setting for the romantic finale of Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris – when a feeling of déjà vu came over him.
If questioned, he would have been hard put to say why. Perhaps it was the memory of the rainswept bridge at midnight filling the screen. Then again, perhaps not. There were times when everywhere in Paris felt like a film set.
Having started out fully intending to reach the office as fast as he could, he slowed down and tucked himself in behind a slow-moving excursion bus heading towards Les Invalides and one or other of its three vast museums. Perhaps, given the time of year and the fact that it was off-season for tourists, it would take in all three for the benefit of the few passengers huddled on the open top deck, with the Dome and Napoleon’s tomb thrown in for good measure. The possibility didn’t do anything for his joie de vivre which was getting lower by the minute.
His remark to Doucette regarding the state of Denmark had been a throwaway comment made on the spur of the moment to soothe her obvious fears. Now he wasn’t so sure. Pre-publication time at Le Guide was rarely without its dramas, real and/or imagined. A single typo or misspelling of a word passed over during countless readings and rereadings during the proof stage would stand out like the proverbial sore thumb once it appeared in the final publication and there was no going back.
Not that he had experienced such an occurrence, but there was a first time for everything. Now he was on his own he began to see things in a more analytical light. Everything suddenly looked more serious and once a publication was in the shops there was nothing you could do about it. The damage was done.
His mind went back a few years. Heaven forbid it should be another case of sabotage on the very eve of publication, as had happened when the disk on the main computer was hijacked. The object then had been revenge and it had very nearly succeeded.
On that occasion they had been a hair’s breadth away from awarding the Golden Stock Pot lid for the best restaurant in all France to the Wun Pooh – a Chinese takeaway in Dieppe, the consequence of which would have been their becoming the laughing stock of gourmets everywhere. Michelin and Pudlo would have been rolling in the aisles.
At the other extreme, remove a Stock Pot or two from a flourishing establishment without very good reason, and the lawyers would have a field day.
Buying a few more minutes of time before reaching his destination, he took a left turn and circumnavigated the Esplanade des Invalides in order to approach the rue Fabert from the opposite direction to the one he usually took.
Sensing his master’s change of mood, and coupling it with the departure from their normal routine, Pommes Frites also suffered a sea change in his demeanour as he gazed out of the car window. He’d heard the word truffle mentioned before they came out. In fact, as far as he could make out the giant truffle was the main reason why they were going into the office. Given the power of speech he could have told them a thing or two.
If only he could find a way of explaining what he knew to be a fact, he felt sure it would make all the difference.
He would find a way, must find a way of communicating it. But for the time being he had to content himself with a supporting role as he followed his master into Monsieur Leclercq’s office where, to the surprise of both of them, there was a small gathering of familiar faces.
‘Pamplemousse …’ The Director rose to his feet, hand outstretched, as they entered. ‘And Pommes Frites. This is a pleasant surprise.’
‘We came as soon as we heard the news,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
The Director continued the wave of his hand to take in the other members of the group: his secretary, Véronique; Madame Grante, the Head of Accounts; and Mlle Ranier, the Head of Reception.
‘I am just apprising these key members of my staff as to the unhappy event that has taken place. Véronique was here at the time to witness it, of course, and although I am aware that what has happened is of no great moment and we have nothing to worry about, given the parties involved and the nature of the happening, not to mention the salient fact that we are almost on the eve of publication and just prior to a major event yet to be announced, I feel it is incumbent on me to make sure everyone in this room is in the picture and fully conversant with the situation, lest there be any other last-minute untoward distractions which will divert attention away from the main reason for our very existence.’
When he was ‘on song’ Monsieur Leclercq wasn’t in the habit of m
aking do with one word when he could seize the opportunity of fitting in four or five more. It was thirsty work and he poured himself a liberal glass of water.
‘You are all free to ask questions,’ he said, when he had finished
‘May I ask,’ said Madame Grante, ‘what is the main event?’
‘I am afraid not,’ said Monsieur Leclercq firmly. ‘It will be announced shortly.’
‘I simply wished to be fully conversant with all that is going on,’ said Madame Grante stiffly.
‘You will be, dear lady,’ said the Director. ‘You will be any day now. I have yet to receive the all-clear from a certain person.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse seized the opportunity to ask Mlle Ranier a question.
‘No,’ said the Head of Reception. ‘The truffle didn’t arrive in the mail. It was delivered by a courier to the main desk. It was contained in a small parcel labelled URGENT – STRICTLY PRIVATE, and addressed to the Director.
‘Nobody saw the person who delivered it,’ she added. ‘But that is what must have happened. These things don’t appear as though by magic.’
‘And the note that came with it?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse ignored the implied reproof. ‘There was nothing to say how the truffle was to be returned. Only that it should be?’
Monsieur Leclercq reaffirmed that fact and everyone else in the room waited patiently while he searched for the original note in a sheaf of papers on his desk.
‘He simply said he was seeking an expert opinion on its validity.’
‘That was all?’
‘My wife’s uncle is a man of few words,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Had he intended me to keep the truffle he would have said so. When I heard Caterina was planning a visit to Paris I assumed she would be taking charge of it and I had Véronique make sure it was ready for collection.’