by Michael Bond
8
ROBBERY WITH VIOLENCE
If Monsieur Pamplemousse had been born with a tail he would have wagged it unashamedly. The sight of Pommes Frites wagging his own appendage furiously as he drew near the harbour in Bélisaire gave rise to feelings it was impossible to describe.
Ignoring the waiters as he hurried past the waterside café Monsieur Pamplemousse greeted his friend like a long lost brother. The response was satisfyingly mutual.
Pommes Frites was overjoyed. Waiting on the quai-side had been his second brainwave of the day. His thinking had been that since they had arrived by boat, it was more than likely his master would go back that way. All the same, he could hardly believe his eyes when he saw Monsieur Pamplemousse coming down the road. Even the fact that he appeared to be wearing a suit which was several sizes too small for him failed to dampen his relief. As for the way he was walking – in a kind of mincing, crab-like motion, as though his feet were hurting – that was neither here nor there. The simple truth was there for all to see. His master was alive and well.
Patently Pommes Frites’ line of reasoning more than made up for his earlier débâcle on the beach, but it had taken its toll and he felt quite worn out as they made their way on to the pier. Given a choice between exercising his grey matter and a run along the beach, Pommes Frites would have chosen the latter every time; it was much less tiring.
Ignoring the hunger pains gnawing away at his stomach – he could hardly expect to be welcomed with open arms at the restaurant – Monsieur Pamplemousse led the way along the jetty and joined a small group waiting outside the ticket office for the arrival of the last ferry to Arcachon. Already it could be seen heading their way.
Idling away the remaining few minutes before the boat arrived, he expended two francs of his change on a coin-operated telescope. To his disgust it didn’t work. He slapped it several times but nothing happened. The screen remained obstinately blank. The harbour master emerged from his box and struck it once with the palm of his hand. There was a click. The trick wasn’t so much how forcefully you hit it as of knowing exactly where to apply the blow.
‘You have done it before?’
There was an answering grunt. ‘You are the third today.’ It sounded as though a fourth customer might be unlucky.
Monsieur Pamplemousse pointed the telescope in the direction of the mainland. Viewed from a distance towards the end of the day the Dune du Pilat had a vaguely menacing air about it. Despite the lateness of the hour there were still people to be seen. Magnified by the lens they appeared as so many ants, rushing hither and thither in an apparently aimless fashion. Lower down he spotted a few motor boats bobbing about in the water near the shore. He wondered if Elsie’s was one of them. They might have returned to the hotel that way. He panned up and to the left, but it was impossible to make out anything amongst the trees. He panned down again. The rescue station looked as though it was about to close for the night. He was in the act of following a water skier who shot past when there was a click and the screen went blank. Monsieur Pamplemousse decided not to incur the displeasure of the harbour master by risking another two francs. He wasn’t at all sure what he was looking for anyway. Elsie? Hardly. It was too far away to recognise anybody.
Elsie was a problem. It was hard to watch over someone as self-willed as she was.
And yet … his gaze softened … there was something very beguiling about her: a mixture of being street-wise and yet surprisingly innocent at the same time. It must be her blue eyes. He ought really to give her one more chance. This evening he would insist they get down to writing out a report. In the circumstances they could hardly include the hotel restaurant - or even the hotel itself. They would have to seek out a typical restaurant in the area and concentrate on that. Le Guide’s standard form covered every aspect of dining out – nothing was left to chance. All the same, completing it was still a daunting task requiring a good deal of effort. It would be interesting to see what Elsie made of it.
One thing was certain. The chief wouldn’t be too pleased if Monsieur Pamplemousse went back on what he’d said over the phone.
Monsieur Pamplemousse was still lost in thought as he clambered on board the ferry. They cast off almost immediately. Pommes Frites took up a position of honour in the bows. With the wind furrowing his brow as they gathered speed he looked for all the world like a carved figurehead, and almost as inscrutable.
Monsieur Pamplemousse bent down to remove his shoes. As he massaged his aching feet he felt a patch of soreness across his back and chest. If he wasn’t careful he would suffer for it over the next day or two. It was a long time since he had exposed himself quite so much to the elements.
Getting the shoes back on was a struggle. It took him all the way to Arcachon and the rest of the passengers had already disembarked by the time he and Pommes Frites scrambled on to the steps of the pier. There were still a few fishermen to be seen. It looked as though most of them would be eating out that night. As they reached the end of the line a man standing slightly apart from the rest half turned and caught Monsieur Pamplemousse’s eye.
‘The chief wants to see you in his office right away.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. Then, as the man bent down over his empty basket, he took the hint and went on his way.
‘D’accord.’
All the same, it was a case of first things first. A visit to a late-night chemist for some sun-burn oil was top priority.
His search took him through the town and along past the parking area in front of the gare. To their left most of the cafés and restaurants were already full. It reminded him once again that it was a long time since he had eaten anything. Averting his gaze, Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced across the road and to his surprise he caught sight of Elsie standing by his car. Clearly her mind had been running along parallel lines to Pommes Frites’.
Waiting until there was a gap in the traffic, he crossed over and headed towards her. She was dressed as he had seen her earlier in the day and she was carrying a large oblong-shaped parcel wrapped in brown paper.
He felt a surge of excitement as they drew near and she waved. Resolutions about reading the riot act went out the window.
‘Are you alright?’ Elsie looked genuinely concerned. ‘I was beginning to think the worst.’
‘I could say the same about you.’
Contriteness replaced concern. ‘Oh, dear. I’m sorry about this morning. It was a case of needs must.’
The translation eluded Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Did you have a good day in Bélisaire?’
‘Not so as you’d notice,’ said Elsie. ‘Pommes Frites chased us off the beach din ’e? Who’s a naughty boy then?’
Pommes Frites looked round, unsure whether he was being addressed or not.
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at the parcel. ‘But you were able to do some shopping?’
‘Yeah.’ Elsie’s eyes went glazed, as they always did when something came up she didn’t wish to discuss.
Having drawn a blank, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to try another tack. ‘Don’t you think it is time we had a little talk?’
‘I thought you might say that.’ If anything, Elsie looked relieved. ‘I was hoping you could give me a lift back to the hotel.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. He had no wish to incur the displeasure of the officer in charge. And it would mean waiting even longer for dinner. But on the other hand he didn’t fancy the thought of taking Elsie along to the gendarmerie with him. ‘I am afraid that is not possible,’ he said. ‘I have somewhere else to go before I return.’
‘Please.’ Elsie snuggled up to him. It was a most disconcerting habit. ‘I don’t know as I want to go back there alone. Not now most of the others seem to ’ave left.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse wanted to ask what had happened to her American friend. He resisted the temptation.
‘All right, we’ll go back.’ He led the way towards his car.
‘I need a change of shoes fr
om my room,’ he said gruffly. ‘My feet are killing me. We can talk on the way. Pommes Frites had better stay with you at the hotel. He will make sure you come to no harm.’
Elsie settled herself in the front seat. ‘Are you cross with me?’
‘Me? Cross?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse turned and looked at her as they drove out of the car park and joined the stream of homeward-bound traffic at the roundabout. He used the moment to choose his words with care.
‘Perhaps disappointed would be a better word.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re jealous.’
‘I have no cause to be jealous.’ The words came out with rather more heat than Monsieur Pamplemousse intended. ‘It strikes me that you are not being particularly faithful towards your boy friend.’
‘Reginald? Oh, ’e’d understand. It was ’is idea. Anyway, ’e can’t be here on account of the fact that he’s otherwise engaged on ’er Majesty’s pleasure.’
‘He is with a government department?’
Elsie gave a hollow laugh. ‘Dead right. He’s doing bird.’
‘Oiseau?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked puzzled.
‘You know … bird-lime … time. It’s cockney rhyming slang for “in the nick”.’
‘Oh, dear. I am sorry. That is unfortunate.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse wasn’t sure what to say. It would certainly put paid to Elsie’s chances of getting a job with Le Guide. The Director would never countenance employing an Inspector whose credentials or those of their nearest and dearest were not entirely beyond reproach.
‘I shouldn’t waste any sleep,’ said Elsie cheerfully. ‘I told ’im that’s what comes of being a naughty boy. Besides, ’e knows how to look after number one, does Reginald. He’s in what they call an “open” prison. It’s ever so nice. You should see ’is cell. It’s like an ’otel room. Television. Cocktail cabinet. Fax machine. He reckons it’s more cost effective than an office. There are no overheads - ’cept for the odd ’andout here and there. They’re a greedy lot of bastards. But apart from not getting his oats as often as ’e would like, he’s doing all right. Mind you, it couldn’t ’ave ’appened at a worse time. That’s why I’m over ’ere.’
‘You mean you are doing it for Reginald rather than for yourself?’
‘That’s right.’ Elsie seemed relieved to have got it off her chest.
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his mind racing as he drew into the hotel car park. It certainly explained why Elsie’s mind wasn’t on her job.
‘But why does Reginald want you to be an Inspector? I thought you said he wasn’t interested in food.’
Elsie felt in her bag. ‘Look – ’e’d kill me if ’e knew I’d told you, but I’ll give you a clue.’ Unfolding a newspaper cutting, she handed it to him. It showed two men on sand tractors posing alongside a Sherman tank partly submerged in a sand dune.
‘Guess where that picture was taken.’
‘Here? In Arcachon?’
Elsie nodded. ‘It wasn’t on the beach at Brighton.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at the date. It was the spring of that year.
‘It must have happened during the big storms.’
‘Right again.’
‘So your Reginald is interested in government surplus?’ It was a shot in the dark.
‘Amongst other things,’ said Elsie. ‘You could say that Reginald’s interested in anything that’s surplus. That’s why ’e’s got where ’e ’as.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was still mulling over Elsie’s last remark as he finally entered the gendarmerie in Arcachon.
The officier was standing by the window in his room waiting for him. He glanced pointedly at his watch and then, waving aside Monsieur Pamplemousse’s apologies, motioned towards a chair opposite his desk. A lamp was half-angled towards it. It was the classic questioner with his back to the light situation.
It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse as he seated himself that the man looked a little older than when he had last seen him. He judged him to be in his early forties, but he could have been ten years older. Grey hair, close cropped: a face which had already seen better days.
It was tempting to say he knew the feeling. That he, too, in his job often had to work long hours: driving, eating rich meals – when all he wanted to do was get to bed with a glass of wine and a sandwich. But he knew what the response would be. It was almost universal whenever the subject came up. ‘I should be so lucky!’ The grass was always greener on the other side of the fence.
‘Well, Monsieur Pamplemousse … late of the Paris Sûreté …’
‘You know?’
‘I’m not sure that I ever thought otherwise, but I was prepared to respect the reasons behind your desire for anonymity. Although in the beginning I was a little unhappy that you might be muscling in on our territory.
‘Anyway, it wasn’t difficult. Earlier today I had a strange man on the telephone who professed to know your twin brother well. Afterwards, I had only to check with your records.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse could picture it. The Director going out of his way to be circumspect, but at the same time overdoing the embroidery. He would have aroused the suspicions of the girl on the switchboard let alone a police inspector.
‘Alors …’ The officier accompanied his raised hands with a shrug. ‘Let us forget the past,’ his gesture said. ‘Now to business.’
He went straight in.
‘Have you noticed anything odd about the Hôtel des Dunes?’
‘Are you asking me in my capacity as an ex-member of the Sûreté?’
‘I am asking you as someone probably over-averagely observant.’
‘It is bizarre. The whole place is a disaster area. The service is practically non-existent. The food is not fit to be fed to the seagulls …’
The officier tried another tack.
‘What do you know about the last war? More specifically, what do you know about looting?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt bewildered. He had expected to be questioned about murder in the recent past, not things that had happened in his childhood.
‘I was brought up in the Auvergne and in the beginning it didn’t affect us as much as it did those who lived in the big cities. We were part of the unoccupied zone. Those of us who lived there were more concerned with helping our parents look after their few cows and sheep.’
‘And the looting of works of art? What do you know of that?’
‘On a personal level, very little at all. Mostly it is what I have heard and read since. I know that in many countries it was systematic, ruthless and on a vast scale. Not just private collections, but whole museums – national treasures. Hitler had dreams of establishing a cultural centre in Linz where he was born – it was to be the Mecca of the art world – so vast it would make the Louvre look like a small town museum. The Nazis took into “protective custody” everything they could lay their hands on.’
The officier opened a drawer of his desk and removed a bulky manilla folder. He opened it up and laid it out facing away from him.
‘Take a look at this.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse skimmed through the first few pages. It was a familiar story. The systematic rape of Europe by Hitler. He had read it all before. It went far beyond the taking of livestock, food, arms, ammunition, rolling stock, ships, copper, zinc, lead, and raw materials of every kind. The entire gold reserves of Czechoslovakia had been annexed; the Hungarian Crown Jewels removed for ‘safe keeping’.
The further east the Germans had gone the more ruthless they had become – Hitler had no great regard for their culture; the whole of Poland was plundered in less than six months; churches, museums, private collections, nothing was sacred. Later on it was the turn of Russia. Leningrad was pillaged, then Kiev and Kharkov. Nearer home, France, Holland and finally even their old allies, Italy, had been forced to yield up their treasures. One way and another the Third Reich ended up with the largest single collection of accumulated wealth in the world.
The only good thing about Hitler
’s ambition was that at least much that might have been destroyed for ever was saved for posterity. In just one mine near his hideaway in Berchtesgaden nearly seven thousand canvases were found; paintings by Fragonard, Watteau, Bellini, Titian, Canaletto, Rubens, Van Dyke. They were worth a fortune then; by today’s prices the value would have been astronomical.
Monsieur Pamplemousse leaned back. ‘A very thorough review of what went on, I’d say. I must congratulate you. Clearly, had he won the war, Hitler would have been the possessor of undreamed-of wealth.’
The officier rose from his desk and crossed to the window. ‘Fortunately he didn’t. He lost. And at the end of the war came the total collapse of Germany. During the final weeks when it became clear which way things were going, a great panic set in. Everything had to be shifted, and shifted quickly. Not just the loot, but the entire contents of German museums were packed away in crates in order to keep them safe from the Allied bombers.
‘As you may know, the Bavarian salt mines became a favourite destination. In many ways they were ideal; the perfect hiding place. They were nearly always in sparsely populated areas. They had a constant temperature of between 45 and 65 degrees, and most of them contained some kind of rail system which made movement easy. The scale of it all was astronomical. In the Merkers Mine alone there was a hoard with an estimated value at that time of over $300,000,000. Any attempt at keeping a record of what came in soon went by the board. The hills, as they say, were alive to the sound of music, only it was the music of the cash register.
‘There it all was – an unbelievable amount of wealth lying about in caves and tunnels – crates of books here, objets d’art there, tapestries, Greek sculptures, Egyptian and Roman busts, coins, gold and silver bars; currency – U.S. dollars, Swiss francs, French francs, suits of armour alongside some of the great masterpieces of the world, much of it stolen from the great Jewish family collections whose owners had long-since perished in the gas chambers.’
‘So …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse asked the question he’d been dying to ask ever since the other had begun his dissertation. ‘What has all this to do with the murder of an inn-keeper in Arcachon?’