Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines (15 page)

It was shortly before 14.30 when Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites found themselves a suitable vantage point on the narrow flight of steps leading down from the Rue Caulaincourt to join the tiny Avenue Rachel at a point just outside the entrance to the Cimetière Montmartre.

Initially, the fact that animals were forbidden entry had been a bit of a setback, but on second thoughts it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that perhaps it was just as well. Apart from the fact that Pommes Frites was hard to
disguise
, the cemetery was a noted haven for stray cats, which wouldn’t go down well. In any case, from where they were sitting he had a clear view of any traffic
entering
or leaving.

Impervious to looks of disapproval from others using the passage as a short cut, Monsieur Pamplemousse unfolded a car rug and spread it out – the steps were in almost permanent shadow and he had enough problems 
as it was without getting piles. Placing his hat inside uppermost to mark the boundary of the rug, he carefully left room for Pommes Frites, set the Kyocera in readiness in case it was needed, and made himself comfortable.

They hadn’t long to wait. At 14.55 exactly the funeral
cortège
arrived; a black Citroen, presumably carrying the remains of the deceased, followed by a second with the lone figure of Madame Chavignol.

Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his camera. Despite everything, he couldn’t help feeling touched when he zoomed in and saw her dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief as the car went past.

A third car carried her servant, Yin, and another Asian he took to be the chef. Both looked suitably inscrutable. He swapped the camera for his mobile and dialled a number. It was answered almost immediately.

‘She’s arrived.’

While he was on the phone another car appeared; a large Renault, driven by Julian House. Next to him was the director of Chavignol’s programme. The studio
manager
was visible through the back window; probably still in his combat trousers if the top half was anything to go by. There was no sign of Pascal, which was surprising, but as the car disappeared through the arch he glimpsed a shock of red hair rising above the rear window. He
wandered
what pearls of wisdom Mademoiselle Katz was throwing up on the subject of funerals, or was she for once holding her counsel?

He would dearly love to know what had caused her to issue her word of warning. Perhaps, fate having dealt her a whole handful of losing cards, she viewed everything else in life with the utmost suspicion. And who could blame her?

The thought so occupied his mind he nearly missed
seeing
 
a coach enter Avenue Rachel from the Boulevard de Clichy and head towards the entrance to the cemetery. It was followed by three more. They came to a halt just below him as the driver of the leading one found his way barred by a portable HALT sign that had been put back into place.

The man slid open his window and called to the
gatekeeper
, clearly asking for the sign to be removed.

Equally clearly the gatekeeper was having none of it. An argument broke out.

One by one, Tour Leaders climbed out of the other three coaches and began remonstrating, but the man was adamant. He pointed to a closely printed list of rules and regulations pasted up outside his office. There was enough reading matter to last the rest of the afternoon if that was the way they wanted to play it.

Faced with such an impossible task, those in charge bowed to the inevitable.

In a matter of moments the end of the street was full to overflowing as some two hundred or more passengers alighted and fanned into separate groups.

Flags held high they set off, first of all laying siege to the lodge just inside the gate in order to claim their free maps. Honour satisfied, they then headed off into the cemetery itself, reassembling almost immediately opposite the first gravestone on their right. Tour Leaders launched into their respective spiels on the family Guitry. Cameras clicked.

Having recorded the scene for posterity, Monsieur Pamplemousse pocketed his own camera. At this rate it would take them all the afternoon to do the Grand Tour. The chances of anyone making a prompt getaway from the cemetery were minimal.

Pushing their way through the crowd of tourists would be difficult enough. Getting past the parked coaches near 
to impossible, and backing the four of them out into the busy Boulevard de Clichy could take forever, particularly as the police were conspicuous by their absence. Malfiltre would have more than his twenty minutes worth.

Jacques had done him proud. Once he got the bit between his teeth there was no holding him. Monsieur Pamplemousse could picture the moment when he phoned the tour company; smooth but implacable.

‘I know where you normally park is a designated area. Certainly you may continue parking there. There is
nothing
whatsoever to stop you. You will get a ticket, of course…

‘I know there are signs up, but you shouldn’t believe all you read…it is only for the one day…

‘Now, for the sake of peace all round, I have a
suggestion
to make…’

It wouldn’t surprise him to find Jacques had managed to persuade the Montmartre train to follow in the wake of the coaches as well. That would really set the seal on things; all those old age pensioners swarming everywhere in search of free kicks among the gravestones.

Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t wait to find out. Gathering his belongings, he made himself scarce. A few minutes later, ignoring the surprised glances of passers by, he climbed into his car which he had left parked on the central reservation of the Boulevard de Clichy, waited until Pommes Frites had settled himself in the passenger seat, then headed for home.

He had barely travelled a hundred metres when his phone rang. It was Malfiltre. The message was short and to the point.

‘Complications. I think you should come. You will find me in a white van just around the corner from the house.’

Clearly, since he was avoiding specifics, Malfiltre wasn’t 
running the risk of being overheard; an admirable
precaution
in the circumstances. Monsieur Pamplemousse responded in like fashion.

‘
D’accord
. I’m on my way.’

The van was where he had been told it would be; parked alongside an area of pavement where there was an open man-hole surrounded by a portable barrier.

Having first peered down the hole, Monsieur Pamplemousse tapped on the rear door of the van. A moment or two passed before it opened a crack.

Malfiltre’s working clothes were considerably nattier than his own. Dark blue cotton overalls, soft soled shoes, baseball cap, and thin cotton gloves.

It occurred to Monsieur Pamplemousse that he was like an actor who was blessed with the sort of face that could play a thousand parts. Being able to submerge himself into the surroundings whatever they happened to be was part of Malfiltre’s stock in trade.

He gazed around the inside of the van. There was
hardly
a square inch that wasn’t covered by racks of
equipment
.

‘Tell me the worst.’

‘I drew a blank on the safe.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse’s face fell. ‘You are sure?’

Malfiltre looked pained. ‘It is so full of jewellery there isn’t room for anything else. So… I put plan B into action.

‘As you probably know, the place is alive with video cameras. That being so, I substituted one of my own in the hope that I would be able to keep watch.

‘Like the rest of them, it is movement operated, but unlike the others it isn’t closed circuit. It can be switched on remotely when required, like so…’

Pointing to a small VDU above a console, Malfiltre pressed a button. A picture of Claudette’s bedroom came 
up on the screen. The camera must have been situated near the bathroom for it took in most of the wall opposite, along with the better part of the two beds.

Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help feeling that Oscar would have given a lot for such facilities in the V for
Voyeurisme
section of his shop.

‘Anyway,’ continued Malfiltre, ‘I came back here to test it. It was lucky I did, because I nearly got copped!

‘I had hardly settled down when it came on of its own accord. Someone else must have arrived home. Even more fortunate was the fact that I had taken the precaution of putting everything back to normal. Apart from the camera itself there is nothing to show anyone has been in. Unless whoever it is has any reason to look, I doubt if they will spot it.’

‘Did you see who it was?’

Malfiltre shook his head. ‘Not yet. The point is, the range of the transmitter is fairly minimal. If you want to make use of it I may have parking problems. If it arouses interest in the wrong quarters I could be for it…’

He left the rest to the imagination. Monsieur Pamplemousse could picture what would happen if
anyone
from the local
gendarmerie
saw what was inside the van. Given current security problems, putting two and two together and making five would be inevitable.

Reaching for his mobile he dialled Jacques’ number. ‘Can you talk?’

‘Hold on a minute.’ He heard the sound of a door being shut.

‘Not good news.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gave him a brief run down on the situation.

‘Leave it with me.’ Jacques paused. ‘By the way, while you are on, and totally nothing to do with what we’ve been talking about, but the analyst’s report on the oyster 
shell has just landed on my desk. Guess what?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse wasn’t in a guessing mood.

‘There isn’t a trace of cyanide. It is common or garden almond essence. Or rather, correction, common or garden is exactly what it isn’t. The boys in forensic have really gone to town – that’s why it took so long. It’s a brand called Sainte Lucie, which isn’t easy to come by. They drew a blank in Fauchon and Hediard, but struck gold in the
Grande épicerie
at Bon Marché in the 7th.
Arôme Amande Amère
it’s called. 1.68 euros for 20 millilitres, no less.’

Switching off his mobile, Monsieur Pamplemousse bent down and patted Pommes Frites. It was no wonder he had been turning up his nose at all the other brands he had been trying. To think that he could ever have doubted his abilities! Seeing the look of affection on his master’s face, Pommes Frites responded. His lick, warm, moist, and
lingering
said it all.

‘Before you go,’ said Malfiltre. ‘There’s something else you should know. I think Madame Chavignol is about to take off. You can’t see it in the picture, but on the
right-hand
bed, just out of picture, there is a large suitcase…’

‘When you say large…’

‘It’s no over-night bag, that’s for sure. One of Louis Vuitton’s biggest and best. It’s expandable and comes with built in straps on the outside. It must be a special order because it has combination locks. I didn’t have time to look inside because of them, but it weighs a ton.’

‘Just the one case?’

‘It’s the only one that’s out, but there are plenty more in a store-room leading off the bedroom. And leading off of that again – which I nearly missed – there’s a room full of recording equipment linked to all the cameras. It’s a
regular
little studio set-up; editing machines, digital print-out facilities for stills…’ 

‘But no pictures as such?’

‘None so far as I could see.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse asked for a print-out of the picture on the monitor, thanked Malfiltre for his help, and having promised to keep in touch, left him to it.

Quite why he chose to drive home the way he did – along the Rue de Grenelle, taking a right into the Avenue Bosquet and crossing the Seine via the Pont de l’Alma – he would never know. It wasn’t the most direct route by a long way, but he felt in need of thinking time and thinking time would have been in short supply had he taken a more direct route through the centre of Paris. Or so he reasoned at the time.

It had been much the same in the old days. If ever he had been stuck with what seemed like an insoluble
problem
he had taken himself for a walk round the block; even the simplest change of scene could throw up a fresh slant on things and help put them in a new perspective.

Although he hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, not even to Jacques, the attempt on his life bothered him more than he admitted. He wondered if there had been someone above Chavignol; someone else protecting their interests,
perhaps
even in league with Claudette.

Finding out the pictures weren’t in the safe after all was little short of a disaster. He had been so sure that was where they would be. Too sure, as things had turned out. He toyed with the notion that Malfiltre, having seen what they contained, was holding out in the hope of cleaning up himself, then dismissed the idea. He had too much to lose to indulge in funny business like that.

If Claudette planned to leave town they would need to move fast. Stopping at some traffic lights he took a quick look at the print-out of the bedroom scene. There was something not quite right about it. For a start there was a 
silver framed picture on top of the unit between the two beds. It had caught his eye because he was almost sure it hadn’t been there before. But there was something else
different
about the room…

The lights changed to green and he pocketed the
picture
.

As for the business with the oyster shell; that was
something
else to think about.

In the event, the contrast between his peaceful strolls along the Seine and the present route could hardly have been greater, and yet, once again, it was almost as though it had been meant, for if he hadn’t taken it he would never have seen what he did see.

Coming off the bridge he found traffic in the vast Place de l’Alma had ground to a halt. It was the hour of
affluence
; cars and
autobuses
were nose to tail pointing in all
directions
. He had forgotten it was the third week in October when the Fashion Shows were in full swing. Barriers would be up in the Avenue Montaigne away to his right. Home to all the big names in the world of haute couture, it looked chock-a-block with traffic.