Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation (16 page)

They hadn’t gone far when he sensed a sudden increase in acceleration.

Instinctively bracing himself as the hearse swerved to the right, he felt the blood rush to his head as it appeared to swoop downwards, probably into a tunnel. Then gradually the dizziness passed as they began to climb and the feeling of weight transferred itself to his feet. He could still feel the speed and guessed the changeover must have happened.
Probably the second car would have been waiting at the top ready to drop into place and take over at the head of the procession. With luck, no one would have noticed the slight glitch.

He wondered if he should test the system and try phoning Commandant Rossetti. Worming his arm up so that he could reach inside his jacket pocket he managed to retrieve the mobile and was about to reach for the button when he paused. The number he needed was written on a piece of paper and even if he found it there was no way he could possibly read it in the dark. That was something else that hadn’t been thought through. The need to bring a torch.

He was about to return the phone to his pocket when he nearly jumped out of his skin as it suddenly began to ring.

‘Bonjour, Monsieur.’

He didn’t recognise the voice.

‘Comment ça va?’

‘Ça va,’
said Monsieur Pamplemousse non-committally.

‘Bon.’
The voice went into what was clearly a much-rehearsed spiel, leaving no room for interruption.

Monsieur Pamplemousse stood it for as long as he could, then he took a deep breath.

‘I am attending a funeral,’ he barked.

It did the trick. ‘I hope it is not someone close,
Monsieur.’
The man sounded mortified.

‘Very close,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In fact,’ feeling for the off button, he spent the few moments before pressing it describing as succinctly as possible
how close it really was and why the man was wasting his time trying to sell him double glazing. It produced a very satisfactory silence.

Letting go of the phone, he gathered his strength and pushed upwards. To hell with Commandant Rossetti and his brainwaves.

Suddenly, despite the growing heat, he broke into a cold sweat. It felt as though someone had literally run an icy finger down the length of his spine. His stomach turned to water. For whatever reason, no matter how hard he pushed, the lid wouldn’t budge.

For a brief moment he wondered if by chance someone was sitting on it, then dismissed the idea. It was much heavier than that. Racking his brains, he tried to remember how coffin lids were normally fastened. The inescapable truth was that it felt as though it had been screwed into place.

Despite everything, a feeling of panic began to set in. There flashed before his eyes the memory of a story that had been going the rounds when he first joined the force.

It concerned a con-man who called himself the Marquis de Champaubert. As part of a scam he had dreamt up, armed with enough food and drink for the night, and with a breathing tube connecting his coffin to the outside world, he allowed himself to be buried in a wood just outside Paris. Sadly, when the police were called to his rescue the next morning, he was found to be dead; asphyxiated by the fumes from his own breath. He had struggled so much in trying to escape
from his living tomb his clothes were torn to shreds.

It had all happened in 1929, long before he had joined the force, and doubtless the story had been embroidered over the years, but he had no wish to put it to the test or to risk having history repeat itself.

The holes in his own coffin were minuscule by comparison and already the air was beginning to foul up.

In an effort to conserve what little of it remained, he lay very still, trying to concentrate on what was happening outside in the hope of getting his bearings. But apart from the fact that while for most of the time they appeared to be driving fast through level country, every now and then they slowed down or stopped altogether, suggesting they were in a built up area – it was a hopeless task. He could be anywhere.

Feeling around for the mobile, he regretted letting go of it. At some stage it must have slid out of reach. He had no idea where to look. Any thoughts of finding it and dialling 17 for the emergency services – which he could have done by feel – went by the board.

That something had gone dramatically wrong with Rossetti’s plan was patently obvious. It was too late for regrets. He was on his own.

Visions of being cremated … interred alive … or even buried at sea entered his mind; nightmare scenarios that didn’t bear dwelling on, except he couldn’t help himself. Cremation might be the quickest way to go. Being buried at sea would be the longest. He pictured
the remains of the man who had been washed up on their first night and immediately wished he hadn’t.

Gradually, through the dreamlike mist beginning to envelop him, he thought he detected the sound of running water …

As he regained consciousness Monsieur Pamplemousse realised that he was once again in a strange room, only this time it was almost completely bare. He resisted the temptation to pinch himself. It was as though he had been taking part in some kind of macabre time play; a drama in which he was forever moving on, his surroundings getting bleaker and bleaker with each change of scene. It was becoming too regular for his liking.

For a moment or two he lay where he was, trying to adjust to his new surroundings. The sense of relief that he was still alive was almost palpable. The only light came from a small window let into the ceiling, far too high to reach. From the angle at which it was set, he guessed he must be in a loft. There were pipes running up one wall and from somewhere overhead he could hear the steady sound of a tank filling.

Feeling overcome by the heat, he crawled across the bare floorboards towards the solitary door. Pulling himself up by the handle, it took less than a moment to confirm that it was locked. On the same side as the handle there was a small stainless steel panel let into the wall at shoulder height. It held a light switch and alongside that a calibrated knob.
He tried turning the knob in a clockwise direction. There was a creak from overhead as a
weather-proofing
seal round the window parted, then a welcoming draught of air. For a brief moment he thought he could hear music, but it stopped almost immediately.

Taking hold of the door handle again, he lowered himself gently to the floor. His legs still felt weak after the journey and it was marginally preferable to standing.

Hungry, thirsty, miserable; he sat where he was for a while contemplating his lot.

To say that he had been through the worst time of his life was putting it mildly. Not only had it been the worst, but also, however long it had taken in ‘real’ time, it had felt the longest. Whoever coined the proverb ‘as long as a day without bread’ had never been shut inside a coffin for five minutes, let alone however long it was that he had been incarcerated. His whole life seemed to have passed before him not once, but several times before he passed out.

Automatically glancing down at his wrist, he realised his watch was missing. A brief search through his jacket pockets revealed his Cross pen was no longer there, nor was his wallet. The dictating machine hidden in the inside pocket had also been taken.

He turned his trouser pockets inside out and again drew a blank.

He had been stripped of all the things he normally took for granted: credit cards, the keys to his
apartment, his diary with all the phone numbers and addresses.

More than anything, he was angry with himself for allowing the whole thing to happen. Getting involved with the DGSE at all had been a mistake. It was typical of all such organisations. The left hand often didn’t know what the right hand was doing, or didn’t want to know. Like their abortive attempts to assassinate President Nasser, whilst at the same time he was being supported by the CIA. It was all very well for Rossetti. He could simply sit back and see what happened.

As for the unfairness of it all … it was ironic. How many times in the heady days when he had first been made an inspector in the Paris
Sûreté
had he told his subordinates not to grumble? How many times had he not warned them that when they went out patrolling the streets of Paris they would see ample proof that life was unfair? Not just from the time you were born, but from the moment of conception, and that you had to make the best of it. How many times had he not lectured them on the impossibility of lifting the mass of ‘have-nots’ to the level of the ‘haves’; that in a world which was growing steadily more crowded by the second, one shouldn’t assume the privileged few are necessarily happier than the so-called underprivileged. On the contrary; ulcers was a complaint mostly suffered by the former.

Looking at his current surroundings; Monsieur Pamplemousse decided he had definitely entered the
realm of the have-nots. The possibility that the room he was in might end up being the last place he saw was one he didn’t care to dwell on.

And all for what? All for the sake of an egg, which he had lost down a drain.

He couldn’t even seek solace in the dog-eared, faded photograph of Doucette he kept inside his wallet. Taken in the early days of their courtship as she was boarding a Vedette off the Place de Pont Neuf, he only looked at it once in a blue moon, but he suddenly felt lost without it. It was like being deprived of a security blanket.

He wondered about Doucette. She must be worried sick by now. Pommes Frites, too. It was a good job the Pickerings were around.

Suddenly aware of an urgent need to relieve himself, Monsieur Pamplemousse clambered unsteadily to his feet. He had no wish to end up in a pool of his own urine. It would be an ignominious end to his career. The thought galvanised him into action.

Banging on the door with both fists, he didn’t really expect to get a response, nor was he disappointed at first. But when he tried again, this time using his right foot as well, he was pleasantly surprised to hear footsteps approaching up some stairs and the sound of voices. There was the rattle of a key in the lock and the door opened to reveal two men.

He stared at them. It was hard to tell what nationality they were. Mid-European? Refugees from some Balkan state? They weren’t French, that
was for sure. The shorter of the two could have been a prize fighter. He had cauliflower ears and a toothpick between his teeth. It looked permanently attached. Both were dressed in a uniform of sorts; dark-blue tee shirts, jeans and well-worn gym shoes. They didn’t look particularly unfriendly; simply indifferent. Any interest in him was purely academic. He wondered if they had come from the fairground.

He tried writhing on the spot holding on to his crotch.

The taller of the two took in the mime at a glance.

‘He wants to use his pecker.’ He spoke reasonable English, but with a strong American accent.

The short one removed his toothpick. ‘While he’s still got one.’ The thought seemed to strike him as funny.

The tall one nodded. ‘That’ll be the first thing to go when the time comes.’

It was hard to tell if they were speaking English because they assumed he wouldn’t understand, or because they knew he would and it was part of a none-too-subtle softening up process.

It might, of course, be yet another example of the third alternative. English might be their only common language. You never knew who spoke what tongue when it came to the Balkans.

Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to play dumb, hoping he might hear something useful in the process. He soon wished he hadn’t.

There was a brief technical discussion in minute detail as to the order in which he might lose various parts of his body, how it would be done and what would happen to them once they had been removed. Comparisons were made with similar situations in the not too distant past. The consensus of opinion was that neither of them would fancy being in his shoes; especially if he turned out to be stupid and didn’t talk. In which case he was certain to lose his legs anyway. Ho! Ho! Ho! He felt the shorter of the two eyeing his shoes for size.

At least he now knew why he was being held, but that was small comfort. That he was dealing with the Mafiya was also obvious. But if it had to do with the missing child they would be unlucky; he couldn’t tell them what he didn’t know. Not that such a minor detail would stop them trying. And in between? Being safely dead and buried might well be a luxury he would find himself crying out for.

In normal circumstances he was confident he could face the prospect of meeting his maker without feeling too hard done by. But while he was hale and hearty, he had no desire to see a lingering death staring him in the face through no fault of his own, and he had no intention of going down without a fight.

He wondered if his present minders had a price. Even if they did, he was in no position to offer any guarantees. Besides, they would know which side their bread was buttered on, and it would be a case of the devil you knew.

He tried another mime, this time genuinely more urgent, adding a heartfelt groan for good measure. The message went home.

As they left the room the shorter of the two men stationed himself at the top of a flight of stairs ready to block any attempt at escape, while his partner hastily led the way along a short corridor.

Opening a door, he took a brief look inside. At least there was no room for more than one person at a time. Monsieur Pamplemousse waited until the man emerged, then entered, firmly pushing the door shut behind him. Apart from obeying the call of nature he was no better off. There was no bolt on the inside and the only window was a tiny one, high up and virtually out of reach without standing on the toilet. Once again, it was remotely controlled, but it was far too small to squeeze through, even if he’d felt inclined to risk it without knowing what floor he was on. All the same he tried opening it for luck.

Then, just as he was about to flush the toilet he paused. Somewhere, far below him he could hear the sound of children at play. Suddenly everything fell into place and he realised where he was.