Monsieur Pamplemousse (Monsieur Pamplemousse Series)

by Michael Bond

  By that time Monsieur Pamplemousse’s problems with the bucket had become very real. All the same, in the brief moment between first hearing the voices and the slamming of the door, he could have sworn she’d winked at him. Moreover, it had been no ordinary wink, confined merely to the closing of one eye. It had been a full-blooded, no-holds-barred, voluptuous, uninhibited wink of a kind he’d only previously en­countered during his days on the beat in some of the seamier areas of the Paris underworld, when invitations to stray from the straight and narrow had been many and varied.

  And yet, even that was not a true analogy, for there had also been a certain childlike innocence about the whole thing which had totally removed all trace of lewdness.

  ‘Are you all right, Monsieur?’ He suddenly realised the waiter with the tisane was standing behind him.

  Reflecting that there was nothing in the world so strange as people, Monsieur Pamplemousse led the way upstairs. His note-book was waiting for him. Before dinner he had begun the painstaking task of carrying out some running repairs and he was anxious to complete them before the night was out.

  Thanking the waiter, he lifted the tiny pot from its charcoal burner and poured himself a cup, savouring the sweet smell as he did so.

  The more he examined his note-book the more he realised how lucky he was to have escaped so lightly. The pages looked as if they had been ravaged by some wood-boring beetle. He shuddered to think of the agony he would have had to endure had those same holes been in his leg. The few pieces of shot that had by-passed the leather cover of the book had only been peripheral, but had he caught the full blast … it didn’t bear thinking about.

  He became so absorbed in his task he soon forgot not only Madame Douard’s strange antics but his appoint­ment with Giampiero.

  It wasn’t until a sharp, metallic knock on the door brought him down to earth that he remembered it.

  ‘One moment.’ He hastily hid the pages under the bedcover. It wouldn’t do for them to be seen.

  But he needn’t have worried. Giampiero hardly glanced at the bed as he entered the room. After a brief exchange of greetings he crossed to the balcony and looked outside for a moment. The moon was already high and as he stood silhouetted against the sky Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly realised where he’d seen his face before. Or rather, to be more exact, where he’d seen a reasonable facsimile. It had been on his plate the previous evening. There was the same curly hair, the same Italian features.

  As if reading his thoughts, Giampiero turned back into the room.

  ‘You realise, of course, that it is me they are after, not you?’

  ‘They?’

  Giampiero gave a gesture of impatience. ‘They … him … it … what does it matter? Had Eva and I been sitting where you sat last night you would have been spared the experience. I’ve been thinking about it all day. That man in the bushes this morning. Had it not been for your dog, who knows where the blast would have landed?’ He glanced down at Monsieur Pamplemousse’s legs. ‘You are all right?’

  ‘A mere flesh wound. It is nothing.’

  ‘More like a bark wound, I should have thought.’ Giampiero laughed. It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that he sounded slightly drunk. Either that or he was nervous about something. He chose to ignore the re­mark, which he thought was slightly lacking in taste anyway.

  ‘But why should they … he … it … be after you?’

  Giampiero shrugged. ‘The money, I suppose.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘The only good thing about my accident … the insurance … a record sum. It took a long time, mind. At first there was a great deal of discussion. It was bad enough after the first accident, but later, when I had the second, there were all kinds of legal arguments. They even tried to say I only did it for the sake of the insurance.’ He gave a shrill laugh. ‘They should try putting themselves in my place. Fortunately I had a sympathetic judge. Now I am waiting for the note.’

  ‘The note?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse began to feel the conversation was getting a little one-sided. ‘What note?’

  ‘Don’t you see? These things that have happened. They are all warnings. I have thought about it. The plastic head last night … the shooting this morning. If they had really wanted to kill they would have used something more powerful than a shotgun.

  ‘Next, there will be a note saying, “Pay up, or else …” If you want my advice you will leave as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’m afraid that is not possible,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse firmly. ‘Anyway, if it is you they are after I see no point.’

  ‘All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ Giampiero made as if to run a hand through his hair and then stopped just in time. ‘I suppose I shall get used to it one day. I don’t know what I would do without Eva. She has been marvellous. Despite everything, she married me. It is no life for a young girl.’

  ‘You were engaged when it happened?’

  ‘No … we didn’t even know each other. We met by accident some while later.’ Giampiero gave a wry smile. ‘One of my better accidents as things turned out. But just lately … things have been different. We are always on the move. I can’t seem to settle. I find myself skulking in corners … wanting to be alone. Sometimes I feel I would like to end it all …’

  ‘You mustn’t think such things.’ Monsieur Pample­mousse broke in as he felt a wave of sympathy come over him. Really, it was almost like father and son. He wished he could reach out and embrace Giampiero. ‘What has happened must make life very difficult, but not impossible. Think of Renoir … in his old age his hands were so gripped by rheumatics he had to have his brush tied to them in order to work … but such work. Take Van Gogh,’ he continued, warming to his theme. ‘He lost an ear, but he still carried on.’

  Giampiero shot him a strange look. ‘What difference did losing an ear make?’

  ‘Well, it couldn’t have been easy.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a trifle hurt.

  ‘I know. You are right.’ Giampiero went out on to the balcony again and gazed across the valley. ‘We share the same view, you and I. Our room is a little further along. Eva noticed it last night. We saw you just before you went to bed. Every evening we stand on our own balcony and every evening I think, despite everything, it is good to be alive.’ There was a metallic clunk as Giampiero suddenly leaned forward and gripped the railings. ‘If I were to paint, that is …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse opened his mouth to in­terrupt. His mind was suddenly full of questions, but for the time being at least they were destined to remain unasked. Instead, he found himself staring at the spot where a moment before Giampiero had been standing.

  He rushed to the balcony as the night air was rent by a loud howl; a howl which was a mixture of surprise, terror and almost total disbelief. Peering gingerly through the gap where a section of the rail had once been he saw Giampiero clambering unsteadily to his feet some ten or twelve feet below. He looked shaken but otherwise unharmed.

  Beside him, Pommes Frites, obviously in a state of considerable shock, gazed unhappily at the remains of his kennel as, to the accompaniment of a long drawn-out sigh of escaping air, it sank slowly to the ground beneath the weight of the section of railing. From the look of things Pommes Frites had been even luckier to escape injury than Giampiero.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse bent down and examined the balcony rail. Accident-prone though Giampiero undoubtedly was, and powerful though his mechanical hands must be, it was inconceivable that they could have cut through several centimetres of metal. A quick glance confirmed his suspicions. On either side of the gap, plainly visible in the light from his room, were two fresh saw-cuts, and on the stonework below there were traces of metal filings. As he stood up he felt rather than saw a movement from a balcony further along. But when he looked there was nothing to be seen. He looked over the edge of his own balcony again. The kitchens were in darkness, as was the rest of the hotel. Pommes Frites, having given voice to his feelings on the matter, was busy lick
ing his wounds. Giampiero was looking up.

  ‘Wait there,’ he called, somewhat unnecessarily in the circumstances. Neither Pommes Frites nor Giampiero looked as if they had any immediate plans to go anywhere. ‘I will be right down.’

  As he made his way along the corridor leading to the back stairs Monsieur Pamplemousse noticed a chink of light coming from beneath a door at the far end where the Douards had their quarters. Otherwise there was no sign of life. No voices. No doors opening to see what had happened.

  Incredibly, apart from the breaking of the metal and Pommes Frites’ howl, the whole episode had taken place in almost complete silence. Miraculously, the kennel must have broken Giampiero’s fall, otherwise it would undoubtedly have been far worse. Perhaps he had a lucky streak after all.

  It was a shame about Pommes Frites’ kennel. If the worst came to the worst he would have to come up­stairs and spend the night under the bed. Not an ideal solution—especially after the tian. Auguste hadn’t stinted himself with the beans.

  As he turned to go down the stairs, Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at the light again. He wondered if he should have knocked on the door in case he needed help, then decided against it. There would be tedious explanations.

  It was a decision which, had he but known it, spared him yet another shock—at least for the time being. The light, as it happened, came from beneath the door to Madame Sophie’s apartment, and despite the lateness of the hour, Madame Sophie was very definitely at home to callers. Not to put too fine a point on it, had Monsieur Pamplemousse entered her room at that moment the chances of him making the ground floor before daybreak would have been very remote indeed. As it was he went on his way, blissfully unaware of his narrow escape.

  Freshly bathed and powdered, Madame Sophie stood in the centre of her boudoir, contemplating her reflection in a massive carved giltwood framed mirror with an air of satisfaction.

  True, there were a few odd wrinkles here and there, a line or two etched in beneath her chin, but on the whole nature and the passing of the years had been more than kind to her.

  In the warm glow from the pink-shaded lamps which dotted the room, with its thick carpeting, its Louis Quatorze furnishings, its chintz curtainings, its silk hangings, and its massive four-poster bed, Madame Sophie bore a striking resemblance to her distant relative in the square outside. But there the likeness ended, for Hortense was made of stone; cold, hard and unyielding stone, and there was nothing cold, hard or unyielding about Madame Sophie at that particular moment.

  As she reached forward to open a drawer in her tulipwood table de toilette, her flesh vibrated like a pink blancmange. Allowing a moment or two for it to settle down again, she removed the golden head of Queen Alexandra from one of a pair of Stanley Hall of London silver perfume jars—a present from a past admirer, an English visitor whose stay at La Langoustine had been enriched by an unexpected bonus over and above those already mentioned in his travel brochure, one for which even Monsieur Michelin would have been hard put to find a suitable symbol. Adding a touch of scent here, another two or three there, Madame Sophie began putting the finishing touches to her toilette in places which might have made the figure depicted on the other half of the set raise one if not both of his royal eyebrows.

  Her fumigations complete, she addressed herself to an array of undergarments laid out on her bed, chose a black, silk porte-jarretelles and then, with a total dis­regard for the film of powder which every movement of her ample buttocks distributed around her, seated herself on a Falconnet giltwood canapé and proceeded to draw on a pair of black silk stockings with an air of loving care given only to those for whom work is also a pleasure and a joy.

  For a moment or two she considered the possibility of donning a matching pair of hand-embroidered knickers, then tossed them to one side as being an unnecessary gilding of the lily. If all went well she would only have to take them off again and she would need all her energy.

  Crossing to her dressing table, Madame Sophie pulled open another drawer and took out a small package purchased that very evening from the local bricolage. After first making sure it was folded inside out, she slipped it beneath the top of the jarretelles and stood for a moment running her hand sensuously up and down the polished surface of a carved mahogany standard lamp, savouring its every curve. A deep sigh escaped her lips. Already she could feel the blood coursing through her veins; blood that had been still for far too long, several weeks in fact.

  For what seemed like the hundredth time that evening, she picked up the note she had found lying on the floor outside her office where it had fallen and ran her eyes over the words—even though she knew them off by heart. ‘MUST SEE YOU. CAN’T WAIT. SUGGEST RENDEZ-VOUS. MY ROOM WHEN COAST CLEAR. P.’

  The writer had obviously been hard put to contain his excitement as he penned the billet doux, for towards the end the writing began to change. Letters that had started off firm and bold became almost spidery as the hand trembled.

  There was only one ‘P’ staying at the hotel. The ‘P’ who, on retiring to bed that evening had ordered a tisane verveine, which, as everyone knew, was noted for its aphrodisiacal effects. Who would have thought it? Still waters ran deep. All the times he had stayed at the hotel and never a word; hardly a glance even. That same ‘P’ who had become so over-excited earlier that evening he’d stepped in a bucket of whitewash.

  Ignoring the incongruity of white upon black, Madame Sophie slipped into an embroidered silk nightdress, ran her tongue over lips already moist with anticipation and headed for the door.

  If Mohammed was too shy to come to the mountain, the mountain certainly had no inhibitions whatsoever about visiting Mohammed. She had never been to bed with a wooden-legs before. It was an opportunity too good to be missed.

  A moment later, like a galleon in full sail, she set off down the corridor carrying all before her with an air of regal splendour which would not have disgraced Madame de Pompadour herself.

  4

  TUESDAY NIGHT

  Pommes Frites stirred uneasily in his sleep as a creak­ing in the corridor outside Monsieur Pamplemousse’s room entered his subconscious and nudged him into wakefulness.

  One way and another he hadn’t been enjoying a very good night. When the bombshell in the shape of Giampiero landed on top of him he’d been in the middle of a particularly good dream—all about an inexhaustible supply of bones he’d discovered in a cave in the Dordogne. To have it broken into before he’d had a chance to take so much as one bite let alone hide any away for future use was bad enough, but then to see his kennel, his pride and joy, collapse before his very eyes—that was the end.

  He’d tried giving the nozzle at the back a few hopeful chews, as he’d seen his master do on the odd occasion when the supply of compressed air had given out, but blowing into it was quite beyond his powers and in the end he’d given it up as a bad job, resigning himself to having to spend the rest of the night indoors.

  Pommes Frites wasn’t too keen on sleeping indoors during the summer months. The winter was a different matter entirely. During the winter it was nice being able to snuggle up in a warm bedroom close to the radiator. But there was nothing to equal waking early on a summer’s morning and enjoying the freedom of a pre-breakfast stroll before anyone else was around. He would also miss the little titbits Monsieur Douard invariably brought him before he left for the market. The morsel of Boeuf en Croûte that morning had been especially nice; he almost preferred it cold. It had been one of the few good things about a day that had got steadily worse as it progressed.

  Apart from that, rooms were inclined to be stuffy; you couldn’t go to sleep with your head sticking out of the door as you could in a kennel. They were even more stuffy when you were expected to sleep under the bed; especially, it had to be said, when the bed belonged to someone like his master. Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t let little things like other people falling from balconies disturb his routine and he’d fallen asleep almost as soon as his head had touched
the pillow. And once asleep, Monsieur Pamplemousse was inclined to snore. Tonight was no exception.

  Then there was the question of the pain across his middle. Pommes Frites wasn’t sure whether it had to do with Giampiero landing on top of his kennel, or whether it was something he’d eaten. It might have been the tian. There had been rather a lot of that. Or it could have been the soufflé dish he’d been given to lick clean. Whoever ordered the soufflé obviously had eyes that were bigger than their stomach. There had been a lot left over. It was unlikely to have been the pâté—rich though that had been. Nor the Carré d’Agneau he’d had for lunch—he could have eaten two lots of that and then come back for more if his master hadn’t got there first. As for breakfast—that was much too long ago, and anyway breakfast didn’t really count as a meal.

  That was another thing about being outside. When you were outside and not feeling very well there were usually blades of grass to eat. Pommes Frites was a great believer in blades of grass as an antidote to all ills. Not that there was much in the way of green grass in St. Castille at that time of the year, but it was better than nothing.

  He pricked up his ears again. He could definitely hear creaks in the corridor; creaks and heavy breathing. They seemed to be coming from right outside the door. By now he was thoroughly awake.

  Normally Pommes Frites would have been on his feet and investigating the matter in a brace of shakes, but he suddenly realised that he was quite literally pinned to the floor. The pain in his stomach came not from its having been landed on earlier in the night, nor from an over-indulgence of the good things in life during the day. It came about because there was a large bulge in the mattress above him; a bulge in the shape of his master.