Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines (16 page)

On the far side of the square, a police car came down the Avenue George V, its blue light flashing. Realising what was ahead of him, the driver did a quick U turn, turned on his siren, and hit the accelerator pedal. If they had been sent to sort out the traffic they’d clearly thought better of it.

Monsieur Pamplemousse looked in his rear view mirror. He had left it too late to do the same thing. The road behind him was jam-packed as far as the eye could see.

A Peugeot 207 ground to a halt alongside him and a
little
old lady got out. She began directing the traffic, leaving her husband at the wheel to cope as best he could with the situation. 

Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for the Kyocera. It was a golden photographic opportunity; a classic
Cartier-Bresson
moment. It might even make the cover of
Le Guide’s
staff magazine. If it did it would be his second this year.

Undoing two clips above the windscreen, he pushed back the canvas roll-top, climbed onto his seat in order to secure a better vantage point, zoomed out to the Kyocera’s fullest extent, and seized the moment.

While he was at it he swivelled round in order to take a reverse angle shot of the scene and immediately froze.

He saw the car first. It was some three lanes away, but he could hardly fail to recognise the marque for it was twice as long as most of the other cars around. The radio was on, playing a current booming pop record, and the windows were wide open, almost as though the owner wanted to announce his good fortune to the world at large.

Zooming in, he added the 2X digital zoom extension for good measure. Strictly speaking it wasn’t a zoom in the optical sense, but it effectively enlarged of the centre of the picture, which meant a loss of quality. All the same, even in the fading light, he managed to frame a decent close-up of the driver. He was hatless; hatless and bald. He also had a moustache. It had to be Pascal. Jumping the gun by the look of it, probably on the basis that possession was nine tenths of the law. Claudette was probably glad to get rid of such a car, but it would serve both of them right if
someone
else came along – a long forgotten relative – and
contested
the will.

Monsieur Pamplemousse toyed briefly with the idea of leaving Pommes Frites in charge of his own car for the moment, in the hope of having a quick word, but without warning, almost as though a cork had been pulled from a bottle, the traffic began to move. 

As he slid back down into the driving seat, he heard the full-throated roar of a 630bhp Police-tuned engine rising above the noise of the other traffic and he was just in time to see the driver accelerating away as to the manner born. Seconds later the Vega’s tail-lights disappeared from view in the general flow of traffic.

Putting his own car into gear, he found himself
wondering
why, if Pascal was that mobile, he hadn’t been at the funeral. It was possible, of course, that he hadn’t been invited, but that seemed unlikely after such a long and close association. He would have to check on that. Maybe he had something to hide, or he didn’t want to be seen by Madame Chavignol? Or
with
her?

Perhaps the simple explanation was that he had been worried about arriving at the cemetery only to suffer the indignity of finding the doors on his new car wouldn’t open? Perhaps. And then again, perhaps not.

‘Well?’ said Doucette when he arrived back. ‘I hope you got what you wanted.’

‘During the time we were at the cemetery,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I made half a euro, three English pennies and two American coins of some kind.

‘Pommes Frites did even better. He was given the remains of a hamburger and some popcorn. Oh, and we had our photograph taken by the American who left the coins. I don’t think he had ever seen a
clochard
using a mobile telephone before.’

He could have said a lot more, but he wasn’t sure where to start.

‘
Merde
!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse sat up in bed with a start. Groping for the light switch, he felt Doucette turn to face the other way.

‘Must you, Aristide?’ she groaned. ‘What time is it?’

Screwing up his eyes he peered at the digital clock until the green bits came into sharp focus. ‘03.23.25.’

‘But that’s nearly half-past three in the morning,’ said Doucette, after she’d had time to think it through.

‘It’s even worse now,’ grunted Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It’s 03.24.07.’ He lay back on his pillow. ‘I was in the middle of a dream.’

‘Whatever it was about,’ said Doucette, turning round to face him, ‘you seemed to be doing a lot of dithering. First you were shouting “
Oui, oui, oui
,” the next moment it was “
Non, non, non
”. I thought you were going to fall out of bed at one point you were struggling so.’

‘I think you must have miscounted, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse virtuously. ‘I am sure there were more “
nons
” than “
ouis
”.’

‘I know what I heard,’ said Doucette. ‘It sounded more like groans of pleasure.
And
,’ she added, ‘your pyjama jacket is half off.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse sat up again and began
struggling
to find a spare opening for his left arm. There seemed to be rather more options than he remembered there being when he went to bed.

‘I think,’ he said, ‘you will find it is half on. There is a big difference between the two, you know, Doucette. I have told you that before. It is like saying a bottle of wine 
is half empty when it would be equally true to say it is half full. The implications are very different.’

‘That,’ said Doucette, ‘depends on whether or not you feel guilty.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse was tempted to say she hadn’t been in his dream, but he decided discretion was the
better
part of valour. It was not the moment for scoring points.

Neither was it all that easy to explain, for it had been more than just a dream. In much the same way that he found a change of scene could be conducive towards
solving
a problem, so it was with sleep. Instead of letting his subconscious remain idle, metaphorically gathering dust as it were, he was a great believer in having that part of his mind do some of the donkeywork for him while he was in the arms of Morpheus. The brain was a wonderful piece of machinery. Feed it with a number of disparate thoughts and ideas in the few moments before dropping off and it was amazing what it could come up with by the morning. In the past some of his most successful cases had been solved that way. It was like taking advantage of cheap rates on the telephone.

On the other hand, such ploys did have their down side. While it was working away on its own, concentrating on sorting out random bytes of information under cover of darkness, the brain rarely had time for such niceties as the conversion of reveries into the equivalent of a
three-dimensional
Technicolor movie with stereoscopic sound.

Going to sleep hoping to dream about something, or indeed someone in particular, rarely bore fruit. In his experience that was especially so if the thoughts happened to be of an erotic nature. When that was the case, they often involved the most unlikely people. He’d once had a particularly vivid dream involving his sister-in-law and a 
large piece of tripe. He had never told Doucette, of course, and anyway it hardly came under the heading of being erotic; more of a nightmare brought on by a bad attack of indigestion following one of her meals. All the same, it had taught him never again to have a second helping out of politeness!

Occasionally, though, there were exceptions to the rule, and his fantasy involving Claudette Chavignol was a prime example. He would have been the first to admit she had been on his mind when he retired to bed that night. The picture of her
boudoir
on Malfiltre’s monitor was vividly etched on his mind, and inevitably his thoughts had turned to their earlier encounter. Recalling the moment, he could still hear the rustle of silk, the sound of tearing fabric, the feel of the thick pile carpet beneath his feet, followed by the warmth of her urgent flesh against his as they collapsed into a heap on the floor, weighed down more by circumstances outside his control in the shape of Pommes Frites than from any pangs of
conscience
.

Much as he loved his friend and mentor, there were times when he wished he wasn’t quite so quick off the mark. There was no doubting that he meant well, but his enthusiasm occasionally got the better of him. In
retrospect
, leaving a couple of beats before putting in an appearance that afternoon wouldn’t have come amiss.

As he allowed himself to be embraced once more by the god of sleep, Monsieur Pamplemousse was filled with remorse. Pommes Frites was the best, the most loyal of companions. Had he not reacted with speed and accuracy outside their apartment only a day and a half ago, dreams of any kind might have been forfeited for ever.

In the beginning, apart from the running order being in reverse, his fantasy had more or less manifested itself in a 
repeat performance of the real thing. The main difference was that he had been in Claudette’s
boudoir
to start with – for some reason wearing a pair of pyjamas that had seen better days – and it was she who had entered the room, clad only in the briefest of diaphanous black silk
negligées
.

He had been caught red-handed trying to open her
suitcase
with a nail file. And it was that, more than anything else, that caused the rot to set in. From then on it had been downhill all the way; or uphill, depending on where you happened to be standing.

There had been a quality of inevitability about the whole thing. To be sure there had been the same familiar moments – another case of “something old, something new”; the same rustle of silk as Claudette slipped out of her garment, the very same luxurious feel of the carpet beneath his feet. Only the sound was different; a shivering glissade from the harps as her
negligée
fell to the floor,
followed
by heavenly music welling up from the full
orchestra
as she ran towards him, arms outstretched: André Kostelanetz’s interpretation of “Moon Love” rather than the Blue Danube sprang to mind.

It was when she realised what he was up to that she suddenly changed character.

Steam didn’t exactly issue from her nostrils, nor did she paw the ground, like a bull about to give chase having scented blood. But her nipples, never slow in coming
forward
during moments of stress, as he remembered only too well, seemed to grow into battering rams before his very eyes, reminding him irresistibly of Jane Fonda in
Barbarella
.

Not only had he nearly ruptured himself when he went to lift the case off the bed, but as he tried to run off with it, his feet had turned to lead.

By then she was on him. Biting, scratching, clawing; her 
tongue probing, searching for pastures new; her pelvic thrusts reminiscent of a pneumatic drill going full blast.

In retrospect, with only a small nail file to protect
himself
, that must have been the moment when Doucette heard his
ouis
turn to
nons
, for it was really quite painful and he had begun to fear for his life as she forced him backwards onto the bed.

That was something else he couldn’t possibly explain to Doucette. She would immediately want to know how it was that he had dreamt of Claudette’s bedroom if he had never been in it before. Women had a tendency to get diverted by such minor details and in so doing lose sight of the whole point of a story.

All he remembered as came up for air was having a brief glimpse in close-up of the picture in its silver frame; and there, in his dream, he had struck gold. The first time he’d seen it had been on the dressing table in Chavignol’s apartment at the studio.

It was then, just at the
moment critique
, when both music and emotions were reaching a crescendo, that the door burst open and Pommes Frites rushed in, tongue hanging out and all systems at go. It was very much like the arrival of the cavalry in an old-time Western movie, but without the benefit of their bugles.

Coming to with a start, he realised Doucette was still talking to him.

‘You’ve got your trousers off as well!’ she said
accusingly
. ‘Are you sure you are all right?’ Placing a hand on his forehead, she then compared it with her own. ‘It feels as though you have a temperature. Perhaps I ought to
telephone
the doctor?’

‘I think a cold shower might be more efficacious,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. After such a dream it was no wonder he had woken up covered in perspiration. 

‘In October?’ Reaching forward to help him with his pyjamas, Doucette gave a start.

‘Aristide!’ she exclaimed. ‘What
have
you done to your back? It’s covered in scratches…’

Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank. It was fatal to lower your guard for a second. Having spent time
judiciously
practising some difficult sideways manoeuvres before climbing into bed, movements he had honed to
perfection
in front of the bathroom mirror, he could have kicked himself.

‘I think they must be old ones, Couscous,’ he said lamely.

‘
Old
ones?’ repeated Doucette. ‘They don’t look very old to me. They are still bright red!’

‘Relatively speaking, of course…’

‘Relative to what?’ demanded Doucette. ‘Or to
whom
?’

Seeking refuge in the light switch, Monsieur Pamplemousse gave up the struggle and lay back.

‘Just relative,’ he murmured, adding a gentle snore for good measure.

Luckily there was no need to keep up the pretence for more than a moment or so. Doucette invariably went straight back to sleep as soon as her head touched the
pillow
, and much to his relief that night was no exception. He had other pressing matters on his mind.

Although he still couldn’t put his finger on it, as with the image on Malfiltre’s screen, so it had been in his dream. Apart from the silver picture frame, which had contained a photograph of Chavignol’s assistant, Pascal – without his hat as bald as a coot, there was something else not quite right about Claudette’s
boudoir
. Another detail that kept eluding him. An ornament not in the right place, perhaps, or something missing…

In the no-man’s land halfway between being awake and 
falling asleep the answer came to him and the realisation set his mind racing.

‘
Sacré bleu
!
’

Doucette groaned as the light came on again. ‘What is it now, Aristide?’

‘Tell me something, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Where does a wise man hide a pebble?’

‘Must you start asking riddles at this time in the
morning
?’ demanded Doucette.

‘You
should
know the answer,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It was you who gave me the clue in the first place… showing me those old photographs.’

‘You mean the ones taken in Nice? I suppose the answer is where there are a lot of other pebbles – like the beach near where we were staying. If you remember I found one shaped just like a cat, then I put it down for safe keeping and we never found it again.’

‘
Exactement
!’

That was it. The parallel had been staring him the face all along. Where was the simplest to place to hide a
photograph
? In an album of course! And what was different about Claudette’s bedroom as seen on Malfiltre’s screen? The shelf in the glass-fronted cabinet between the two beds had been empty. The books were missing. Except, of course, he would be willing to bet they hadn’t been books as such! He could have kicked himself for not having thought of it sooner.

If that theory were correct, the most likely answer to their present whereabouts, given its weight, was inside the suitcase.

And if Claudette was about to set off for goodness knows where taking the case with her, they would have to move quickly. To lose track of her at this stage would be like letting go of a cannon at the top of a steep hill and 
watching it gather speed. Who knew where it would end up, and at what cost on the way?

‘
Now
where are you off to?’ asked Doucette sleepily, as he reached for his dressing gown.

‘I have a telephone call to make, Couscous…. I shan’t be long.’

‘At 03.40 in the morning?’

He looked at the clock. ‘03.42.’

‘There are times,’ said Doucette, burying her head under the duvet, ‘when I wish I had never married a Capricorn!’

Much to his surprise, Jacques picked up his call on the second ring.

‘What kept you?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘It took me that long to get dressed and rush
downstairs
,’ said Jacques. ‘I’ll tell you something else for free. Half the household is not amused. And that’s just me. The other half is livid. Yours is the second call I’ve had since we went to bed. I tell my wife; if she values her sleep so much she shouldn’t have married a policeman. What’s the problem? It had better be good.’

Jacques listened while Monsieur Pamplemousse told him.

‘That’s pretty good,’ he said. ‘Not perfect, but will do for the time being. Now, since you are on the blower I have news for you. I haven’t exactly been idle.

‘Claudette Chavignol is booked on Friday’s 12.35 Air France flight from Charles de Gaulle to Marseille. I even have her seat number – it’s 1A in the business section, so she should be among the first off the plane when it arrives…’

‘Are you sure?’

‘As sure as I am that it’s a quarter to four in the
morning
. And how do I know that? Because my wife has just 
reminded me of the fact. I would have but I didn’t want to disturb you.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse ignored the last bit. The word Marseille rang a faint bell in the back of his head.

‘Friday!’ he repeated. ‘But that’s today…’