Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation (15 page)

Settling down, he removed the egg from another trouser pocket and replaced it with the dictating machine. He gazed at the egg. More and more the ergonomics of the whole thing bothered him. If it was meant to be a present for Madame Leclercq from her Uncle Caputo, then why had his intermediary chosen to make the hand-over on what was virtually enemy territory? It not only didn’t make sense, it had clearly been a last-minute decision.

Monsieur Leclercq had very definitely stated the item was to be picked up in Nice. According to Doucette they had planned to do it themselves, but because of a delayed flight they had gone straight on
to Paris where Chantal had a hair appointment. That, at least, certainly rang true.

It was only at the last minute, when they arrived at the hotel, that they found the venue had been changed. The concierge had the tickets ready and waiting.

His order arrived in a large copper pan. The waiter served him a generous helping, left the pan on a stand to keep warm, then returned seconds later with grated parmesan cheese and tomato purée.

Monsieur Pamplemousse tried a mouthful of the rice before mixing in the rest of the ingredients, noting with approval that it had been first sweated in a hot pan with olive oil before the chicken stock had been added, allowing the grains to open and absorb it.

While the wine was being poured Pommes Frites busied himself under the table with his plate of veal, and with a
buon appetito,
the waiter left them to it.

Monsieur Pamplemousse returned to his thoughts. So far the Director had neither asked about the hand-over, nor had he mentioned the concert. Proof, if proof were needed, that he didn’t know about the change of plans. Nor, presumably, did he have any idea of the nature of the so-called ‘work of art’.

Was the whole thing an elaborate ploy on the part of the Russians to send a message in the strongest possible terms back to Uncle Caputo? A plot which had partially back-fired because Pommes Frites had come across the egg.

Heads turned as a young girl on rollerblades entered the precinct at speed pushing an elderly
lady in a wheelchair. Whatever next? He’d seen everything now. Zig-zagging in and out of the petrified pedestrians, narrowly missing an open manhole on the opposite side of the precinct where some workmen were busy erecting a protective barrier, she shot past the restaurant.

It was yet another classic Cartier-Bresson situation: the girl, young, blonde, shapely; the little old lady, her face partly covered by a shawl, a blanket draped over her lap despite the heat. If only he’d had his camera with him. But how many times had he heard that said? He hadn’t, and that was an end to it. The girl and her charge had disappeared as quickly as they had come.

Helping himself to some more wine, Monsieur Pamplemousse returned to his thoughts.

Was the fact that the Russian child had gone missing a swift retaliation on Uncle Caputo’s part? He wouldn’t put it past him.

The question was, where did he go from here? He didn’t know anyone in the Police Department at Nice. Blanchet had been moved elsewhere following one of the division’s periodic upheavals. Duhesme had taken early retirement and had opened a small bar in Cannes-sur-Mer, or so it was said. At a pinch he might call in and sound him out, although whether he would want to talk would be another matter. His livelihood might be on the line.

He was beginning to wonder what he was doing in Nice at all. Why not simply let things stay as they were? Part of him was feeling irked that he had been
drawn into a situation over which he seemed to have no control, for no better reason than having agreed to perform a favour. Perhaps other people were right. Perhaps it was a case of once a policeman – always a policeman. He’d always been a bit of a loner, but he suddenly missed the cameraderie of his time in the
Sûreté
; the feeling of working as part of a team.

He slipped the egg back into his trouser pocket. One thing was certain. Showing it to the local police would be tantamount to never seeing it again. In short, he was on his own.

For the second time in as many minutes he was aware of heads turning; people at other tables began pointing, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the girl again. She must have made a complete circuit of the block, following exactly the same route, only faster this time. It was like viewing a speeded-up tape loop.

This time the woman in the chair was staring straight at him. As they drew near, she threw back the blanket and it suddenly clicked home. Momentarily mesmerised, he gripped the front edge of the table. The last time he had seen her had been up on the hill, only this time, instead of pebble glasses, he found himself looking into the business end of a pistol.

To most of those present, everything from that moment on appeared to happen at once, although in fact it was Pommes Frites who reacted first. A split second before the gun went off, he leapt to his feet and gave the table an almighty heave. As it shot up into the air, scattering plates, food, glasses in all directions,
a stream of bullets ricocheted off the metal surface, leaving the menu sign hanging at a drunken angle.

Before any of the stunned onlookers had time to react, and in the brief moment of silence between landing on his back with a force that jarred every bone in his body and bedlam breaking out, Monsieur Pamplemousse clearly heard the sound of something rolling across the paving.

Pommes Frites heard it too. Faced with the choice of seeing to his master, chasing after the wheelchair or finding the egg, he decided on the latter. He knew from the way Monsieur Pamplemousse kept playing with it that he set great store by the present, and from the way he was already berating a passer-by it was clear he was still in one piece.

‘No,’ came a bellow. ‘I am
not
all right! I am lying in the middle of the road because I am about to begin a one-man
manifestation
against rollerbladers, little old ladies in wheelchairs who carry sub-machine guns, and
imbéciles
who ask idiot questions.’

Looking over his shoulder, Pommes Frites was just in time to see his master struggling to sit up. His face dripping tomato purée,
risotto au saffron
covering his shirt front, he looked for all the world as though he had been left disembowelled following an unfortunate encounter with Attila the Hun. It was no wonder his would-be rescuer appeared to be in a state of shock.

Pomme Frites hurried on his way towards the open manhole. Clearly his master would live to see another day.

Hearing the sound of an approaching siren and suddenly aware of a violent pain in his right leg, Monsieur Pamplemousse sank back onto the pavement. Reaching down, he discovered it was a case of cause and effect, although he hardly had time to dwell on the matter, for moments later he felt expert hands lifting him onto a stretcher.

Although in the circumstances it was a comparatively minor problem, he found himself wondering how he would explain yet another case of damaged equipment. This time it would take more than a P37B to satisfy Madame Grante.

At least he had the consolation of knowing that not only had the laptop’s metal case saved him from serious injury – perhaps even the loss of a leg – but before leaving the hotel he’d had the foresight to download its contents to Headquarters via the built-in modem.

At which point, although he was hardly aware of it at the time, he passed out.

Monsieur Pamplemousse came round to find he was lying on a bed in a darkened room. As he slowly regained consciousness he was vaguely aware of a voice and a figure in white flitting between him and what little light there was entering through a slatted window blind. He tried calling out, but even as the words formed he heard the sound of a door being closed.

His right side was numb and he felt partially detached from the world around him. As the memory of all that had happened gradually returned he reached down in a sudden panic and was relieved to find his leg was still there; bruised, but intact. Further investigation revealed the laptop was missing, but then so were his trousers.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he tried focusing on his surroundings: a bedside table with a
carafe of water and a tumbler alongside it; a picture of a snow-clad mountain on the wall facing him; a television receiver. His jacket and trousers were hanging on a portable rail alongside an upright chair. He wondered whether anything else apart from his laptop had been removed.

Making a half-hearted attempt at sitting up, he realised he wasn’t alone. There was a man occupying an armchair in a recess near the window.

‘Where am I?’

A hand reached up and a light came on over his bedhead, leaving the other still in shadow. ‘The Hôpital St Roch. It was the nearest to the scene of the “accident”.’

‘And Pommes Frites? Where is he? Is he all right?’

‘Pommes Frites?’ His visitor looked puzzled.

‘My dog …’

‘Ah!’ A notebook materialised. ‘A bloodhound. Male. Black and tan. Traces of red here and there, some fawn. Hazel eyes. Large ears. 45–50 kilos.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded and immediately wished he hadn’t. His head was throbbing.

‘A dog answering to that description turned up soon after the ambulance took you away. He seemed upset about something. Possibly because he couldn’t find you.’

‘Where is he now?’

There was a shrug. ‘He was last seen heading towards Antibes. A call has gone out. He refuses to let anyone get near him. Not that they want to.’

The visitor held his nose between thumb and forefinger by way of explanation. ‘He had been down the sewers. Not only down, it seems, but up to his neck. Why? Nobody knows.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a question being directed at him, but he didn’t rise to the bait.

The man removed a small leather notecase from an inside pocket and flipped it open. ‘In case you are wondering, allow me to introduce myself. Commandant André Rossetti – Direction Général de la Sécurité Extérieure.’

The surname explained the man’s swarthy appearance, but as he absorbed the information Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered what a member of the French Intelligence was doing in his room. Come to that, why was he in a private room rather than a ward? He realised now why his visitor looked familiar. His face was beginning to haunt him. It belonged to the man he had first seen having breakfast with the Russian at the beach café, and later that same day when he had turned up outside the antique shop.

‘You are probably about to ask why I am here.’

‘I presume,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that since you have told me who you are, the rest will follow.’

‘Touché!
As you are no doubt aware, there is considerable interest in the activities of our recent visitors from across the Russian border.’

‘They don’t exactly hide their light under a bushel.’

‘True. And while they spend their money freely nobody complains too much. But when it comes to murder in broad daylight in the centre of Nice, that is a different matter.’

‘There has been a murder?’

The Commandant looked at him.

‘Correction. An attempted murder. But it could well have been successful.’

‘I know the gun that was used,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply. ‘I should do. I was looking straight down the barrel. It was a 9mm Stechkin Machine pistol. Set to fully automatic, at 750 rounds a minute it is barely controllable. I was probably the safest person there. The old lady firing it – if she was an old lady – may well have done herself a mischief. It is obsolete – a relic of the East German army.’

‘Another time they will choose their weapon with greater care,’ said Rossetti. ‘What bothers me is the cold-blooded audacity of it all. Any later in the day and it would have caused mayhem. I put it to you that your life is in great danger.’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘But it could be the last.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the matter. ‘Why are you telling me something I already know?’

‘Because …’ The Commandant rose from his seat and crossed to the window. Parting the blinds with his fingers, he looked out through the gap as though carefully weighing his words.

‘As you will have gathered, things are not entirely as they seem.’

‘In my experience,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dryly, ‘they seldom are.’

The slats rattled back into place as his visitor turned to face him. ‘What I am about to say must never be repeated outside these walls. If it is, not only will my own life be worth less than a fig, which you may well feel is of small moment, but all my work will be rendered worthless too, and that I do care about.’ He paused again.

‘I would like to float a balloon into the air. A balloon containing the germ of an idea which I must tell you has received approval from on high. It will serve two purposes. First, it will ensure your safe-keeping. Secondly, it will bring those who have been gunning for you out into the open. However, putting the idea into practice is another matter. It will require your co-operation.

‘In fact,’ there was another, longer pause. ‘A certain person has been informed, and I would go so far as to say he expects it of you.’

‘Never is a very long time,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But you have my word that for the time being at least I shall keep silent.’

‘Good!’ The Commandant sat down again.

‘Suppose, just suppose, the attempt on your life had been successful … I will paint a picture for you.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse lay back, closed his eyes and listened. Much of what he heard was as he had
begun to suspect, although the balloon, as such, was far from what he’d had in mind.

At the end of it all he lay deep in thought, weighing the pros and cons.

‘I will agree,’ he said at last. ‘But on one condition. My wife must be told the full story.’

Rossetti considered his response for all of five seconds. ‘I can live with that,’ he said.

In the circumstances, considering what he was being asked to do, and given the fact that his own life was being placed in considerable danger, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help thinking the response could have been better phrased.

It was after one o’clock in the morning before Pommes Frites made it back to the Hôtel au Soleil d’Or. It had taken him much longer than he had expected on account of the time he’d had to spend dodging people in uniform who were clearly out to catch him.

The illuminated sign over the entrance had long since been switched off and the front of the building was in darkness, so he made his way round to the back via a short cut he knew.

Having deposited his booty in the kennel, he then helped himself liberally from the water bowl, partly because the long trek had left him feeling thirsty, but also because he needed something to take away the taste. Climbing the concrete steps leading up to the terrace, he hurried past the bar where the light was still on and searched around until he found a half open
service door leading into the hotel. Once inside he quickly found his way through to the reception area.

Almost immediately the sound of a gong rang out, echoing round the corridors of the hotel. Lights began to come on. The assistant concierge appeared, gave a double take, headed towards Pommes Frites, then thought better of it. Retreating behind the counter, he contented himself with a few desultory claps and some half-hearted shooing. A dog had to do what a dog had to do, and Pommes Frites clearly didn’t intend leaving his post until he had received satisfaction.

Four floors up, recognising the unmistakably rhythm of a tail being used to great effect, a repeat of the sound he had heard the evening of the Pamplemousses’ arrival, Mr Pickering reached for the bedside telephone and dialled a number. A light came on in the Airstream trailer further along the road and after a brief conversation he started to dress.

‘Don’t forget your umbrella, dear,’ said Mrs Pickering sleepily, as he made for the door.

Monsieur Pamplemousse pushed against the lid of the coffin and peered out through the gap. A long line of black limousines stretched out as far as he could see. Not for the first time he regretted the loss of his laptop. It would have made a unique composition. Rossetti was right about one thing. It was a no-expense-spared operation.

He hoped he was right about some of the other things he’d said too.

‘There is only one thing the Mafia love better than a good murder – that is a good funeral. They will be out in force.’

In vain had he pointed out that they were dealing with the Russian Mafiya, who might have a different attitude to such things. Rossetti was not to be deflected.

‘It will be like the great gathering of the La Cosa Nostra in the US all over again.

‘Remember the 1957 meeting of top brass in Apalachin, upstate New York? Everyone turned up, from Vito Genovese and Carlo Gambino downwards. There were fifty-eight arrests. The only one who escaped capture was Sam Giancano. But this time, instead of making arrests we will simply have our men everywhere taking pictures.’

If Monsieur Pamplemousse remembered correctly, there had been talk afterwards about the whole thing being a great betrayal. The finger of suspicion had pointed towards those members of the hierarchy, the Godfathers and the Dons, who hadn’t turned up at the conference; people like Meyer Lansky, Frank Costello and Lucky Luciano.

He had to admit that so far everything had gone according to plan. When it came to funerals, Nice, with its annual death rate of nearly six thousand retirees, was a favourite catchment area for the industry. It was big business. When a person died a lot of palm-greasing went on for custody of the body.

The ergonomics of transferring his own ‘body’, first to the morgue and from there to the funeral parlour, couldn’t have been easy to arrange. A good deal of money must have changed hands to make certain people kept their mouths shut. Money, or perhaps threats – if there were handsome profits to be made there was every likelihood the Mafia would be involved somewhere along the line. That was without counting the cost of the funeral cortege itself. Presumably the coffin would be reusable – the holes bored in the side to permit the passage of air could be plugged, but there were the bearers, not to mention the hearse and all the other trappings, the flowers …

That was another thing that irked him! At the back of the funeral parlour, before he had been placed in the coffin, he had caught sight of the flowers on display, among them some from
Le Guide
.

He couldn’t help feeling that a bunch of mixed blooms wrapped in cellophane and labelled Produce of Holland was, to say the least, minimal.

And in Nice of all places! A city famous for its flower market and its annual festival. He couldn’t read the inscription on the card, but since it clearly had
Le Guide
’s logo at the top, he detected the iron hand of Madame Grante at work.

Alongside them, by contrast – and it was rubbing salt into the wound – there was a boxing ring complete with gloves made entirely out of flowers for a pugilist he had never even heard of. Someone else – presumably a
local tippler of note – had an arrangement depicting a bottle of Hermitage vin rouge awaiting his departure. It was the size of a nebuchadnezzar!

The least he might have expected from
Le Guide
was something in the shape of its logo – two escargots rampant. A couple of snails laid out on their sides would have been better than nothing and certainly wouldn’t have stretched the imagination of the florist.

Raising the lid a fraction more he saw Doucette arriving. Dressed in black, she looked pale and drawn as she was helped into the first of the cars. He wanted to call out, or at least extend a finger or two, but clearly she had her mind on other things. She was accompanied by Mr and Mrs Pickering. The former, looking suitably funereal, was carrying the inevitable Baedeker and rolled umbrella. Pommes Frites appeared wearing a black bow round his left foreleg. That must have been Doucette’s idea. He looked ill at ease, and by what was clearly popular consent he was given a car to himself. The driver was the only one who looked less than happy as he held the door open for him. There was no sign of Commandant Rossetti, but then he was probably keeping a low profile, overseeing things at the cemetery.

Catching sight of a uniformed attendant heading his way, Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily lowered the lid. The man was carrying a bucket filled with rose petals, presumably to sprinkle over his coffin, as was the custom. It was yet another of the optional extras.

Hearing voices and feeling a slight movement of the hearse as others began climbing aboard, he made himself as comfortable as possible. One half of him was beginning to wish he’d accepted the offer of a mild sedative for the journey. When he’d been asked how he was in confined spaces, he hadn’t realised the interior of a coffin would be quite so claustrophobic once the lid was on. At least there was no need to keep quiet. The soft lining absorbed any sound.

Apart from the flowers, it hadn’t been a bad send-off. So far …

They set off at a slow, but steady rate. The plan was that soon after the start the hearse carrying Monsieur Pamplemousse would peel off, to be replaced almost immediately by another carrying an identical, suitably weighted coffin. After which he would be whisked away to an unspecified rendezvous where he could ‘disappear’ for the time being.

At least he had his mobile with him, switched on at all times in case anything went wrong and he needed to be contacted – or vice versa if it came to that.