Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution (8 page)

Carrying on down the steps, he reached rue Caulaincourt just in time to see the tail lights of an 80 bus disappearing up the road to his left.

Given it would be a good ten minutes or so before the next one arrived, he was on the point of crossing the road with a view to taking the Metro when he saw a taxi pulling away from the traffic lights.

Flagging it down, he was about to climb in when he heard the sound of a car engine starting up. Glancing across the small square he saw the headlights of what looked like a dark coloured Renault Megane come on.

‘Follow the 80 bus,’ he said to his driver. ‘
Vite
!’

The driver gave a grunt as they moved off.

Taking a closer look at the back of the man’s
head, Monsieur Pamplemousse realised he could be up against a language problem. It was a sign of the times. Taxi drivers not only acted as a barometer to the state of things generally, they also reflected what was happening in far-flung parts of the world. At the time of the Russian revolution Parisian cab drivers had mostly been aristocrats escaping the mob. Now it was refugees from Vietnam and Cambodia or some other war-torn remnant of the French Empire.

Reaching into a hip pocket, he withdrew his credit card wallet, flipped it open momentarily and held it up to the rearview mirror. ‘Police!’

The effect was instantaneous. He felt the kick in his back from the Merc’s engine as the driver put his foot down. By the time they reached the outskirts of Montmartre cemetery they had caught up with the bus and had to wait their turn at the traffic lights.

Wondering if he had done the right thing after all, he peered out through the back window and, seeing the Renault just breasting the top of the hill and coming up fast behind them, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to keep his options open for the time being.

The Place Clichy – busy as ever, bright lights, flashing neon signs, crowds queuing for the cinemas – was awash with traffic going in all directions. Fearing his driver might obey instructions to the letter and tuck the car in behind the bus, he instructed the man to carry on, rattling off the route from memory, making doubly sure the message had gone home.

‘When you get to the Avenue de la Motte-Picquet,
turn right,’ he said finally. ‘I will tell you when to stop …’

As the lights changed and they accelerated down the relative gloom of the rue de Léningrad, he sank back into his seat, content for the moment to leave matters to the man at the wheel and the good offices of Monsieur Fiacre, Irish hermit and patron saint of taxi-drivers. The big plus, of course, was the fact that by following the same path as the 80 they could make use of bus lanes for much of the way.

He found himself slipping out of one role and into another; from an inspector working for
Le Guide
, back in time to the days when he was an inspector in the Paris
Sûreté
. In truth, he was beginning to enjoy himself.

Gare St Lazare came and went. For once, traffic along both the Boulevard Haussmann and the Avenue Matignon was minimal, but Place de l’Alma was the usual sea of cars and buses entering it and leaving from every possible direction.

There was no sign of the Renault. Which didn’t mean it wasn’t there; cars were jockeying for position all around them. His driver wriggled through it with masterly aplomb and more than made up for the delay by once again making use of the bus lane operating against the normal flow of traffic in the rue Bosquet.

Two stops along the Avenue de la Motte-Picquet, past the vast École Militaire, they reached a junction where the bus turned left, and he signalled the driver to stop.

It was tempting to tell him to send the bill to the Quai des Orfèvres, which he would have done in the old days, but as the interior light came on, he caught sight of a photograph of two small children attached to the dashboard.

‘Yours?’

The driver nodded, his face full of pride. ‘They will be excited when I tell them about tonight.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily changed his mind, adding a handsome tip for good measure before he was asked for his autograph.

As the car sped off into the night, he crossed over to the Metro station, took the escalator up to the first level, then made his way up a flight of steps to await the next train to Étoile.

The platform was deserted and nobody else put in an appearance before one arrived. So far, so good.

It was a long time since he had travelled on the elevated line 6. It wasn’t simply another view of Paris; at night it was a series of glimpses into other people’s lives; a voyeuristic pleasure not unlike a series of disconnected soap operas. Shadowy figures flitted to and fro, or sat at table, sometimes singly, but mostly in pairs or small groups, eating and drinking, watching the ‘real thing’ on their television screens.

In all probability, behind other windows with closed shutters, all manner of minor dramas were being played out; couples making love, arguing, putting children to bed … or in some cases, coming to terms with old age and loneliness.

Most of the other passengers in his carriage, who probably did the journey every day of their lives, carried on reading their books.

An illuminated poster advertising someone’s latest single – ‘Every day I love you less and less’ came and went. Then the vast shape of the Eiffel Tower loomed into view as they crossed the river by the Pont de Bir Hakeim and, as luck would have it, came alight for its nightly on-the-hour display of pyrotechnics, like some giant firework throwing sparks in all directions.

Realising he had totally lost all track of time, he glanced down at his wrist, only to discover his watch was missing.

He could have sworn he had been wearing it when he left the taxi. Looking around the floor of the carriage, he drew a blank. It must have happened somewhere before boarding the train. If that were the case the chances of finding it would be zero.

Seeing the look of consternation on his face, a woman across the aisle volunteered the fact that it was ten o’clock.

Monsieur Pamplemousse thanked her, but he was inwardly shattered. It was like losing an old friend and he felt bereft, as though something irreplaceable had gone out of his life.

He alighted at the first stop on the far side of the Seine, before the train plunged into the Passy tunnel. Faced with a choice of exits: an escalator leading up to Passy itself, or down a long flight of steps leading to the rue de l’Alboni and the river, he chose the latter.
If people were interested in his movements, the last thing he wanted was for them to connect him with the Director’s secretary. Call it a belt and braces approach, but that was the way he had been taught, and old habits died hard.

Bernard would have been pleased. According to him, it was on the first floor of No. 1 rue de l’Alboni that Marlon Brando and Maria Schneider memorably discovered a novel use for margarine while filming
Last Tango in Paris
.

Below him, he could hear the endless roar of traffic alongside the river, but once again, there was hardly anyone around. Climbing a flight of stone steps, he made his way along a wide walkway immediately below the Metro line he had just travelled on.

Halfway across the bridge he waited for a gap in the traffic and made for yet another flight of steps, this time leading down to Allée des Cygnes, the man-made island linking it with the Pont de Grenelle further downstream.

During the summer months, when the trees lining either side of the central pathway were in full leaf, it made for a pleasant stroll on a sunny afternoon. On a dark winter’s night, with the wind blowing off the river, it felt as cold as charity. He was glad he’d heeded Doucette’s advice and worn a scarf.

The walk suited him, though. It helped clear his mind.

It wasn’t the first time he had found himself out of a job. The previous occasion had also been the
result of a set-up. Allegations regarding some girls at the Folies-Bergères at a time when the police were themselves being investigated had resulted in his taking early retirement from the
Sûreté
.

And yet … in life there are moments when things can seem unutterably bleak, then you turn a corner and suddenly all is sunshine again. It had been that way with
Le Guide
. Just when it seemed as though his life lay in ruins about his feet, a chance meeting with Monsieur Leclercq had provided a golden opportunity to start a new career. Because of his special knowledge and past experience with the food squad, the association had proved invaluable over the years, whenever either
Le Guide
, or the Director himself had been in trouble. The thought that it had now come to an end through no fault of his own was something he had yet to come to terms with.

But if it were another set-up – and he could think of no other word for it – who could have taken the picture? And why? Was there someone out there who had it in for him personally, or was it yet another way of getting at
Le Guide
? Whoever it was, they must have access to inside knowledge.

A Bâteau-Mouche crowded with diners swept past him at speed. From a distance it all looked very romantic; each of its many tables lit by a solitary red shaded lamp, the rest shrouded in a darkness broken only by white-jacketed waiters flitting to and fro. He hoped the food and wine lived up to the setting. For many it would be a night to remember.

Talking of which … he quickened his step. If the Director’s secretary was sending out a call for help – and that’s what it sounded like – it must be something serious.

In all the years he had been with
Le Guide
he had never known Véronique lose her cool. In many ways she reminded him of Miss Moneypenny in the James Bond films; efficient, imperturbable, tantalisingly
self-contained
, and sexy with it; almost too good to be true, one might say.

Boulet, ex-wine journal correspondent and
Le Guide
’s most recent recruit, had made a bee-line for her on his arrival, and having been rebuffed in no uncertain manner, spread the rumour that she must be a lesbian. But that was only pique, and no one really believed it anyway.

He glanced across the river. The vast apartment blocks adjacent to the Radio France complex looked too snooty for words. He was glad she didn’t live there. The older ones he was heading for looked much more inviting.

The fact that Véronique lived in the chic 16
^th
arrondissement
of Paris at all must have appealed to the Director when she first joined him. Monsieur Leclercq set great store by such things.

He had to admit to feeling slightly envious himself. There was something about living near water that appealed to him. After Montmartre, it was like being in the middle of the country. Ignored by guide books, the 16
^th
tended to be patronised by the more intellectual tourists.

If it wasn’t film buffs looking for the site of
Last
Tango in Paris
, it would be others searching for Balzac’s old house. Poor old Balzac, up to his eyes in debt, living there under the assumed name of M. de Brugnal as he worked on
La Comédie Humaine
. Nowadays people were more interested in seeing his coffee pot and photographs of his
amour
, the Comtesse Hanska, than they were reading the novels he had slaved over.

The thought reminded him of the last time he had spent any time in the area.

Curiously enough, it was when
Le Guide
had been under a previous attack. On that occasion, the crime had involved someone hacking into their brand new computer, reprogramming its selection for the Restaurant of the Year and the supreme accolade of a Golden Stock Pot Lid.

He could still remember the look on the Director’s face when he ceremonially pressed the button and the words Wun Pooh appeared on the printout; although that was nothing compared to the moment when research revealed it was a Chinese takeaway in Dieppe.

Monsieur Leclercq had inveigled him into assuming the temporary title Head of Security, and since his knowledge of computers at the time could have been written on the back of a postage stamp he had sought the aid of an expert in the field.

He wondered if Martine Borel still lived in her flat overlooking the ivy-covered walls of the rue Berton,
Balzac’s escape route from his many creditors. He somehow doubted it. She was a high flier and the computer industry changed more rapidly than most.

A second Bâteau-Mouche overtook him; this time it was armed with a battery of floodlights, illuminating the passing scene on both sides of the river. For a mercifully brief moment he was bathed in light as it swept past. So much for keeping a low profile. It left him feeling as naked as the day he was born.

Cameras belonging to a few hardy souls on the top deck flashed as it approached Auguste Bartholdi’s original model for the American Statue of Liberty, on the furthermost tip of the Allée.

One last set of steps, this time leading up to the Pont de Grenelle, and he was heading back for the Right bank. He knew he must be getting close because Véronique often spoke of the view of the statue she had from her top floor apartment on the Quai Louis Blèriot.

He wondered what it would be like. Tidy? Almost certainly, if her office was anything to go by. But would it reveal many clues to her life outside the office? Somehow, he doubted it.

For all he knew she might be married, or have a live-in lover. Perhaps even an elderly mother she was looking after. For no particular reason he could put his finger on, none of them seemed to fit the bill.

There was one sure way of finding out. Arriving outside her block a few minutes later, he programmed in the entry code, entered a small hallway, pressed
another button for her apartment, and waited for a response. It came almost immediately.

One question was answered soon after the lift arrived at the top floor. Chic as ever in a beige cashmere roll-neck sweater and matching skirt, Véronique volunteered the information almost in the way of an apology as she helped him off with his coat. He couldn’t help thinking that when her parents died they must not only have left her the apartment, but the means to carry on living in a style to which she had clearly become accustomed.