Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft

by Michael Bond

  ‘If you wanted to erect an artificial one, where would be the best place?’

  ‘If you went somewhere like Carnac you would have the advantage of it being one of many – it could be slipped into one of the great alignements – there is one which has over a thousand stones. On the other hand, Carnac is full of tourists – especially at this time of the year when the coach parties start to arrive. It would be much too public and the place is crawling with sightseers and guides and people who know the area like the back of their hand. Besides, we have already decided it has to be nearer than that.’

  He paused and gazed out of the window. On the other side of the narrow street a man in shirt sleeves was working at a desk. A woman came into the room carrying a piece of paper which she gave to the man before leaving the room again. He didn’t even bother looking up.

  ‘If you simply put it in a field you would be up against the fact that anything unusual would be noticed straight away.’

  ‘You are right.’ Mr. Pickering joined him. ‘It is always the same in the country. You can get away with murder in a big city, but in the country the slightest change is noticed. My guess would be in the marshes behind La Baule – the Grande Brière. It is still relatively uninhabited. An inhospitable part of the world; full of strange corners where no one goes; also the Briérons are fiercely independent. They keep themselves very much apart. It might be several days before anyone bothered to report something out of the ordinary.’

  The Director broke in. ‘If this Andreas person is in the Grande Brière you will have your work cut out finding him, let alone his plastic menhir. It is worse than the Camargue. Over six thousand hectares of marshland and not a restaurant in sight. Most of it can only be reached by flat-bottomed boat – and then only at those times in the year when the water is high. Have you been there? Poof! You will need a guide!’

  ‘Yes, I have been there on a number of occasions.’ Mr. Pickering crossed to the table and opened up the map again. ‘You are right about the restaurants, and by its very nature it is not noted for its menhirs either. There is one near Pontchâteau – at a place the English know as “Magdalen Moors”, and there is a dolmen – a burial chamber – near Kerbourg. As I recall, those are the only ones Michelin marks, but doubtless there are others less worthy of note. That is what we should be looking for.

  ‘Perhaps we shall have to deal with the Barbouze after all. If we get through to Washington it is possible we could get an up-to-date satellite picture of the area. The Americans are taking them all the time and they may well be monitoring this particular operation. A lot of people are interested in dirigibles these days: NASA, the US Navy, the Coastguards. Airships have a low radar profile on account of the lack of metal. We can get copies faxed over. At least we can eliminate the ones that are marked on the map and something odd may show itself.’

  ‘That will not be necessary.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse flipped through the rest of the photographs until he found the section he wanted. ‘I did my own aerial survey while I was up in the balloon.’

  He cleared a space on the pine-topped table and then spread the photographs out in sequence; six rows of six. In total they covered the entire Guérande Peninsula to the west, La Baule and the Côte d’Amour to the south and the Parc Régional de Brière to the north and east. Once again the combination of Leica optics and Trigaux’s wizardry had not let him down. The enlargements were needle sharp. In places the pictures overlapped more than he would have liked, but it was better that way. At least there were no great gaps.

  Mr. Pickering pointed to the second photograph in from the left. It included Port St. Augustin and the circus. ‘The menhir has already disappeared.’

  ‘So has the van. Andreas must have got the wind up when the police arrived and started asking questions about Yasmin. He can’t have been gone more than about half an hour when I took the picture. That being so …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse ran his finger over the photographs, following the main road out of Port St. Augustin to the point where it crossed the D774 north of Guérande and then entered the Grande Brière.

  They both saw it at the same time, the unmistakable shape of a van parked in a tiny lane leading towards the marshes. To one side there was a small wood and on the western side, facing towards the Baie de Quiberon, there was an area of scrubland dotted with white stones.

  Mr. Pickering began counting.

  ‘There are eight menhirs altogether. The question is, which is the odd one out?’

  ‘It may not be any of them. It could still be in the van. There’s no sign of anyone about. He may have only just arrived.’

  ‘True. Would you recognise the one we are looking for if you saw it again?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘I doubt it. There were some markings on the side, but most of them have those anyway. It depends how big the others are. It is impossible to tell from the photograph, but if they are anything like the same size – and presumably he thought of that – then the answer is no – not without getting close to it.’

  ‘That’s too risky. Andreas already knows what you look like, and if he’s inside already …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly remembered the feeling he’d had that first morning, the feeling of being watched. It was conceivable that Andreas had been inside the menhir even then. No wonder Pommes Frites had behaved the way he had.

  ‘Presumably any kind of spy-hole he has will be facing towards the airship. We might be able to come up from behind.’

  Mr. Pickering shook his head. ‘It’s still too risky. Unless …’ He crossed over to the window again and stood looking out. After a moment Monsieur Pamplemousse joined him. Nothing had changed. The man in the building opposite was still working away at his desk. He wondered how he would react if he knew what was happening on the other side of the street.

  ‘What springs to mind when you think of Bretagne, Aristide?’ said Mr. Pickering. ‘Apart from menhirs and dolmens, that is.’

  ‘Weather,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Crêperies, cider, shellfish, rocky coasts, Muscadet, granite walls, blue roof tiles, narrow streets, fields of artichokes, thatched cottages, onion-sellers from Finistère, lace head-dresses, Tristan and Isolde, Abélard and Héloïse.’ He glanced along the street. ‘Churches …’

  ‘Carry on. You’re getting warm.’

  ‘Saints, festivals, calvaries, pardons …’

  ‘Exactly.’ Mr. Pickering rubbed his hands with pleasure. ‘Pardons. I think it is high time we held one of our own. My chaps are dying for a spot of action.’

  ‘Now look here,’ the Director, who had remained silent for longer than Monsieur Pamplemousse could remember, was unable to contain himself a moment longer. He rose to his feet. ‘Enough is enough. If, as you suggest, this terrorist is concealed inside a menhir – and listening to the various arguments you have put forward, bizarre though the thought might appear to be at first sight, it does seem to be a distinct possibility – then we cannot keep the facts to ourselves. The responsibility must be shared.’

  ‘And what decisions will those we share it with come to?’ asked Mr. Pickering mildly. ‘Bring in the tanks? Drop a bomb on it? Either will run the risk of triggering off a panic action which will be self-defeating. Our only hope is to use the weapon of surprise. A procession of nuns walking across a field is not an unusual sight in Brittany. There is a religious festival of one kind or another going on practically every day at this time of the year. My chaps have been in the area for a week now and no one has so much as raised an eyebrow. If Andreas does see them it will scarcely register, giving us time enough to move in on him before he has a chance to do anything.’

  ‘And how will we know which menhir he is in?’ The Director remained unconvinced. ‘Are you going to rush each and every one in turn? What happens to your weapon of surprise if he happens to be in the last one?’

  ‘There are such things as thermal imagers,’ said Mr. Pickering. ‘They are used for detecting body heat. We can probably arra
nge to get one through the local fire-brigade.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse sighed. Thermal imagers; fax machines; satellites; dirigibles with low radar profile and hover capability; he sometimes felt as if one day the whole world would collapse under the weight of its own technology. Speaking for himself, he much preferred to entrust his fate and those of others to old-fashioned, tried and tested methods. In his experience they rarely let you down.

  Opening up Le Guide’s case once again, Monsieur Pamplemousse removed a small tube of ointment. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘I can suggest an even simpler solution to the problem.’

  As he caught sight of the object in his master’s hand, Pommes Frites rose to his feet, stretched himself, and stood waiting patiently for the next command. The smell of the ointment was one he was unlikely to forget in a hurry. An instinct, born not only out of many hours of unselfish devotion to the cause of duty, but also from encounters too numerous to mention and largely unrecorded save in the stark prose reserved for the annals of the Paris Sûreté, told him that his moment of glory was nigh.

  Working on the principle that some achieve greatness through sheer hard work and perseverance, whilst others have it thrust upon them, he sensed that after a long period when his talents had gone unappreciated, he was now onto a winning streak. It was only a matter of time before he received his just rewards.

  ‘Will he be all right, Aristide?’ The Director peered anxiously through a gap in the trees.

  ‘Pommes Frites?’

  ‘It would be terrible if anything happened. Things would never be the same. His flag is always alongside yours in the operations room.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start. The operations room at Le Guide’s headquarters was a holy of holies. Entry without prior permission was strictly Interdite. The position of each and every Inspector at any given moment was marked by a flag on a large map, and kept under constant review by a team of uniformed girls working in shifts. It had never occurred to him that Pommes Frites had his own flag too.

  ‘He is well able to look after himself.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse spoke with rather more confidence than he felt. Privately, he was beginning to wish he’d let Mr. Pickering stick to his original plan of using a thermal imager. It was always the same when it came down to it. Total obedience also meant total trust. You trained an animal to obey your every command and then took advantage of it. He would sooner have gone out there himself than let anything happen to Pommes Frites. He would have loved to have told him so before they set off, but then perhaps he knew.

  He watched as Pommes Frites reached the first menhir on the far side of the field, crawling on his stomach and taking advantage of every patch of heather and gorse. He sniffed it and having immediately rejected it, set off towards the next one.

  It must have been the same way with Yasmin. Despite everything, when she climbed up onto the trapeze that night she must still have had total trust in her partner, otherwise she couldn’t have done it. And yet, on the other side of the coin, it could be argued that she had been about to betray Andreas. Morally, she would have been right to do so, but in terms of human relationships she must have gone through agonies of doubt. The difference between her and Pommes Frites was that in no way would it have crossed his mind to betray his master. The thought didn’t make Monsieur Pamplemousse feel any better.

  Another menhir, nestling amongst a mass of hollyhocks, was tested and found wanting. Monsieur Pamplemousse instinctively drew back as Pommes Frites moved nearer to his hiding place in the bushes.

  He looked around. If anyone had said to him a few days earlier that the following week would find both him and the Director crouched in a Bretagne wood dressed as nuns, he would have laughed his head off. Life had strange and unexpected twists. Doucette would be appalled if she could see him. She was probably worried enough as it was, for he still hadn’t sent his postcard.

  Behind him some twenty or so robed figures crouched in the undergrowth, their tense faces buried between the huge wings of their coiffes. He wondered what they had concealed beneath their habits – stun grenades, Browning 9mm pistols, Heckler and Koch 9mm sub-machine guns probably. They were the favourite weapons. Anyone stumbling across them unexpectedly while on a nature ramble would be in for a rude surprise.

  High above on the far side of the scrubland off to his right he could see the stationary airship, a speck in the distant sky. He wondered if those aboard had enjoyed their lunch. Enjoyed wouldn’t be exactly the right word in the circumstances, but it would be a pity if they had let it go to waste and it would have helped pass an hour or so. Time must be hanging very heavily by now. At least the weather was good. He didn’t care to dwell on how they would have felt if it had been as bad as on the day he had gone up.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse felt someone nudge him on his other side. ‘Third time lucky!’ Mr. Pickering pointed towards a menhir some halfway across the scrub. Pommes Frites was lying alongside it wagging his tail. He was too well trained to look their way. Instead, he slithered backwards along the ground, never for a second taking his eyes off his quarry until he reached the safety of a patch of taller shrubs.

  ‘Here we go!’ Mr. Pickering moved away and held a brief conversation with one of the nuns. In response to a hand signal the rest of them rose quietly to their feet and formed themselves into a line two abreast. A moment later, as they set off along a path through the wood which took them to a point somewhere behind the menhir, something which had been bothering Monsieur Pamplemousse ever since they had arrived on the scene crystallised in his mind. There was no sign of a vehicle parked anywhere nearby; neither the blue van nor Yasmin’s car. If Andreas was planning a quick getaway it didn’t make sense. He could have kicked himself for not thinking of it before, but it was too late to do anything about it. The crocodile of nuns was already emerging through a gap in the trees. Heads bowed, hands clasped in front of them, they made their way slowly but inexorably across the scrubland in a direction which would take them past the menhir. Another ten or twelve paces and the leaders would be level with it.

  There was a movement in the undergrowth and Pommes Frites was back. Without taking his eyes off the scene, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached out and gave him a congratulatory pat. The hair on his neck felt stiff. He was still tense, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

  In the event it wasn’t needed. It was all over in a matter of seconds. Although seeing it all unfold before him it felt almost as though he was watching a carefully rehearsed television drama being replayed in slow motion.

  Without a word being uttered, the whole column suddenly threw themselves on the ground. A moment later the menhir rocked under a hail of fire. As the echo of the shots died away two of the nuns jumped to their feet and rushed to either side of it, machine guns at the ready. A door swung open and hung drunkenly on its hinges.

  For a brief moment no one moved, then there came the sound of a distant explosion. Instinctively everyone turned and looked towards the sea.

  ‘Jesus!’ Mr. Pickering crossed himself. ‘I don’t believe it!’

  9

  DINNER WITH THE DIRECTOR

  Mr. Pickering removed a bottle of white wine from a large silver bucket alongside the table and poured a little of the contents into his glass. He swirled it round deftly and expertly, then held the glass to his nose. ‘I think we’ll dispense with the services of the waitress,’ he said. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m dying for a drink.’

  After displaying the label for Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Director to inspect, he filled the rest of the glasses and replaced the bottle alongside its twin in the ice-bucket.

  ‘A Coulée-de-Serrant. It is from the estate of a certain Madame Joly. They’re not easy to find. Even in a good year only a small quantity is made and most are drunk far too young. I happened to come across three bottles in a little wine shop in Nantes soon after I arrived. I’m afraid these are the last two.’

  ‘In that case,’ said the
Director, ‘we are very privileged.’

  Mr. Pickering looked pleased. ‘It is a wine with an interesting history. The first vines in Anjou were planted by monks in the twelfth century.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse tested the bouquet. There was a familiar scent of honeysuckle. ‘I remember your first bottle,’ he said. ‘It was discarded by an old sorcière outside the Hôtel du Port.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Mr. Pickering didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘The harridan. You resisted her attentions manfully.’ Madame Pamplemousse would have been proud of you, I’m sure.

  ‘I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you coming towards me that first night. Having had reports from Interpol of Andreas being somewhere in the area, the last thing I wanted was to be seen talking to an ex-member of the Sûreté. He might not have known who you were, but I couldn’t afford to take the risk. We didn’t know at the time that he was with the circus.’

  ‘You chose a good disguise,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I doubt if anyone would have come within a mile of you.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, but you’d be surprised,’ said Mr. Pickering cryptically. He shrugged the matter off. ‘I fear I am a frustrated actor at heart and like all actors I get the occasional kick out of being someone else. At school I was known for a while as “The Scarlet Pimple”.

  ‘Wine happens to be my other weakness. That’s why I could never have become an Olivier. Olivier would have drunk methylated spirits if it enabled him to get inside the character of the old woman.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse was tempted to say Olivier would have chosen a cheaper after-shave as well, but that would have sounded too much like a put-down. Instead, he lifted his glass and smelt the bouquet. Then he sipped a little of the wine and let it flow over his palate. It was flinty-dry and aromatic with the taste of wild flowers. An exceptional wine by any standards. He raised his glass.

  ‘A votre santé, Mr. Pickering!’