Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation by Michael Bond Read Free Book Online Page A

encountering a strange culture often had to be absorbed in a matter of seconds.
    A small boy on rollerblades buzzing to and fro behind him interrupted his train of thought and, it being a day for spur of the moment decisions, rather than follow the noisy traffic-ridden boulevardPrincesse de Monaco round the peninsula, he set off up the hill leading to the Colline du Château, the huge mound overlooking the harbour on one side and the Baie des Anges on the other.
    It was where the Greeks had built their acropolis, only to have it demolished by the Savoyards, who replaced it with a citadel. That, too, had suffered a similar fate at the hands of the Sun King, Louis XIV.
    Halfway up the hill he entered the Christian cemetery and stopped to get his breath back. A woman in black armed with a bucket of water and a scrubbing brush went past, joining the rest of her family on what was clearly a regular cleaning operation. An attendant waved a warning finger at a small group of Japanese tourists posing nearby, directing them to a notice on the gate saying the taking of photographs was forbidden.
    Making his way to the outer wall, he looked out across the valley and was once again reminded of the bank robbery. Between where he was standing and the surrounding hills, the huge Palais des Expositions stood astride the entrance to the underground river where it had all started. A bare trickle now, but at certain times of the year, when the snows melted, it was probably a different matter.
    Led by one Albert Spaggiari, who had managed to acquire a plan showing the layout of the sewer system, the thieves made their way down the Paillon, located the foundations of the main branch of the Société Générale Bank at 8 Avenue Jean Médecin, thentunnelled their way into the vaults. Once inside, they welded the giant twenty-ton Fichet-Bauche door to its frame and spent the whole of one weekend quietly going through the strong boxes, the contents of which many owners had no wish to reveal.
    Where there is great wealth, crime is never far away, and Nice was certainly no exception. He was glad he hadn’t had to work on the case. By all accounts there had been too much pulling of strings behind the scenes for his liking; too many nameless high-ups who’d had good reason to soft pedal the whole affair.
    By contrast, the adjoining Jewish cemetery further up the hill was a sad affair; full of reminders of families torn apart by the Holocaust. It began just inside the entrance where there were two urns; one containing ashes from the victims of concentration camps and the other rendered down grease for making soap.
    The sole occupant, a small man in a dark lounge suit several sizes too big for him, disappeared behind a tomb as soon as he entered, almost as though still fleeing for his life. Monsieur Pamplemousse left him to it.
    Passing a cascade further down the hill a few minutes later, he automatically looked round for Pommes Frites. He would have revelled in its ice-cold water.
    There was a moment when he thought he was being followed, but then decided he was imaginingthings – it was only a mother and child in a pushchair. All three of them jumped at the sound of an explosion nearby and the child started to cry.
    ‘C’est normale.’ The woman gave the child a pat. ‘It is the noonday cannon,’ she added for Monsieur Pamplemousse’s benefit. ‘Or rather, it is the explosive device that has replaced it. It is not so nice.’
    ‘Nothing is for ever,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
    He remembered now. The firing of a canon had been instituted by an Englishman who liked to make sure his meals arrived on time no matter where he happened to be. Such an admirable device was not to be ignored. Following the signs to the ascenseur he quickened his pace and was just in time to catch one going down.
    Doucette was right, of course. They had no idea what size Monsieur Leclercq’s ‘work of art’ would be. The Director had been characteristically vague