Monsieur Pamplemousse Investigates

by Michael Bond

  ‘I will throw in the sand, Monsieur.’

  ‘Merci.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse chose to ignore the contempt in the assistant’s voice. ‘Une fiche, s’il vous plaît.’

  Four hundred francs was four hundred francs; enough to keep Pommes Frites in food for a month. It was worth asking for a receipt. With luck he might be able to put it through before Madame Grante returned. Someone else must be holding the fort.

  Ignoring the expression of disbelief which came over Pommes Frites’ face when he saw his master coming out of the pet shop carrying his purchase, Monsieur Pamplemousse looked for a taxi. It was the wrong time of day and he was going in the wrong direction. He tried the rank by the Samaritaine store opposite the Pont Neuf and drew a blank. A small group of people were already waiting. The thought of going by Métro accompanied by Pommes Frites and a chattering budgerigar was not an appealing one. He wouldn’t for the world have suggested that in the circumstances Pommes Frites was something of a liability – perish the thought! – but he was beginning to wish he hadn’t taken his car in for a service. If he’d had an inkling of all that was going to happen he wouldn’t have told the garage to take their time.

  Hoping to avoid bumping into anyone he knew, Monsieur Pamplemousse crossed over the road and went down the first flight of steps leading to the river. The Seine was still brown and angry-looking. Branches of trees and other flotsam overtook him as he picked his way round puddles left by the retreating flood-waters. A tug pushing a quartet of heavily laden barges lashed tightly together overtook him. There was a car on its roof alongside a television aerial and he wondered if they would survive the next bridge. The pénichier at the wheel obviously thought they would, for he carried on at a remorseless seven knots, clearing the arch by inches. A small group of early-morning tourists braving the elements waved as they went past in the opposite direction. Monsieur Pamplemousse looked the other way and caught the curious gaze of a group of clochards sharing a bottle of methylated spirits. If staring could wear things out he wouldn’t have long to go. Pommes Frites hurried on ahead, pretending he was out for a walk on his own.

  What Monsieur Pamplemousse still didn’t know, of course, was where Madame Grante had gone and why. She must have intended returning home within a reasonable space of time, otherwise she would have made arrangements for her bird. He couldn’t believe she was so alone in the world there was no one she could have called on. A neighbour, perhaps. Or failing that, there must be places specialising in that sort of thing. No, she had left in a hurry intending to return, and so far had not done so. It was worrying.

  As they crossed the little footbridge opposite the Musée d’Orsay he felt the first spot of rain. There was a sudden flurry of umbrellas in the long queue outside the museum. Windscreen wipers went into action on passing cars and lorries.

  Looking back on it afterwards, Monsieur Pamplemousse had to admit that stopping for breakfast at a café in the Boulevard Saint-Germain in the hope that the weather would improve was a mistake, although at the time it had seemed like a good idea; a decision that Pommes Frites had heartily endorsed. He had consumed three croissants in the time it took the waiter to return with his master’s chocolat. Things, in his opinion, were looking up, and not a moment too soon.

  By the time the office came into view random spots had turned into a steady drizzle. The ladies of the la Varenne School of Cookery in the Rue Saint-Dominique looked up from their stoves and watched the entourage go past. It was all too clear where their sympathies lay.

  As they set out to cross the vast Esplanade des Invalides, Monsieur Pamplemousse began to curse the grandiose plans of the Emperor Napoleon. They may have looked very good on paper, but he hadn’t had to go out in the pouring rain – without an umbrella. Shelter was non-existent. Abandoning all attempts at keeping the cage on an even keel, he took the last fifty or so metres at a jog-trot, vying with Pommes Frites to be the first to arrive at the entrance to Le Guide. Pommes Frites beat him to it by a short head.

  The massive double doors were shut and he was about to enter through a smaller door marked Piétons when he realised that someone brandishing a clip-board was hovering just inside.

  ‘Ah, Pamplemousse!’ A familiar voice boomed his name.

  ‘Oui, Monsieur.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse skidded to a halt in order to avoid crashing into the figure barring his way.

  ‘I was wondering when you would honour us with your presence. You will be pleased to learn I have been holding a security check and things are going well. I trust they are with you. I shall look forward to receiving your first report.’

  ‘Oui, Monsieur.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse’s response was terse in the extreme. It was not time for prolonging the pleasantries. He made to push his way past the Director towards the shelter of the archway only to find his way barred.

  ‘Pardon, Monsieur. It is raining …’

  ‘I realise that, Pamplemousse, but have you not forgotten something?’

  ‘Monsieur?’

  ‘Your pass, Pamplemousse. May I see your pass?’

  ‘I am sorry, Monsieur, I have not had time to get one as yet.’

  ‘You have no pass, Pamplemousse?’ The Director made no attempt to keep the note of incredulity from his voice. ‘I can hardly believe my ears. If that is the case – and I say it with equal sorrow – you may not enter. As the person responsible for security in this establishment you must realise that no exception can be made. If one began making exceptions where would it stop?’

  ‘But, Monsieur …’

  ‘No “buts”, Pamplemousse. How do I know you are who you say you are? You stand in front of me, unshaven, bedraggled, clutching a caged oiseau …’

  ‘How do you know I am who I say I am?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse, groping for the right words. He suddenly felt as if he had entered a Kafka-like dream. ‘But everyone knows me.’

  He turned to the man on the gate for support. ‘Tell him, Rambaud.’

  Rambaud responded with an all-purpose shrug, one which allowed for whatever interpretation others might like to place on it. Monsieur Pamplemousse took it to mean. ‘You know you are right. I know you are right. But Monsieur le Directeur also knows he is right and he is the boss. I have my job to think of.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse turned back to the Director. ‘I was with you in your office only yesterday afternoon, Monsieur.’

  ‘That is what you say, Pamplemousse.’ The Director eyed him with a look of disfavour. ‘You could be an impostor. It is not unknown.’

  ‘How many impostors would have a dog like Pommes Frites, Monsieur?’

  ‘Statistically? I would need to consult the computer.’

  The Director dismissed the mathematical possibilities of such an event while he took a closer look at the bird cage. A heap of wet sand had ended up in one corner of the floor, a piece of cuttlefish lay like a stranded white whale in another. The millet spray had long since disintegrated and an iodised nibble was about to do likewise. The bird clung forlornly by one leg to a central perch, its remaining leg tucked under an adjacent wing for comfort. It looked as though it wished it had never left the pet shop.

  ‘That poor oiseau is soaking, Pamplemousse. It is a sorry sight.’

  ‘He is soaking, Monsieur! I am soaking. Pommes Frites is soaking. That is why we wish to enter.’

  ‘You do not have feathers, Pamplemousse.’

  ‘Neither do I have a raincoat. I am still in mourning.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse made it sound as though he wished he was mourning for the best of all reasons.

  ‘That will do, Pamplemousse. I shall expect to see you in my office forthwith.’

  ‘But, Monsieur …’

  The Director raised his hand. ‘No “buts”, Aristide. A rule is a rule.’

  ‘But if I am not allowed inside to get a pass and I am not allowed to enter without one, what am I to do? It is an impasse.’

  ‘You should have thought of that in the first place, Pamplemousse. Having confirmed your new posi
tion as our chief security officer, I must admit to a sense of disappointment. I had hoped for better things.’

  As the Director turned on his heels, Monsieur Pamplemousse played his first of two trump cards. ‘Cocks et Féret,’ he called.

  The effect was both immediate and electrifying. Had he been playing the part of Lot’s wife in a Hollywood extravaganza, the Director would have received rave reviews. The renewal of his contract would have been assured. He would have been typecast for ever more.

  Slowly he unfroze and turned to face the gate.

  ‘Say that again, Pamplemousse,’ he exclaimed. Then he raised his hands in horror at the thought. ‘No, no, please don’t. Walls have ears.’

  ‘I have not been idle, Monsieur. Now may I please come in.’

  ‘Of course. Of course.’ The Director dismissed the problem summarily. ‘Rambaud, escort Monsieur Pamplemousse to the photographic booth and make sure the formalities are completed with all possible speed.’

  He turned back to Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I will go on up, Aristide. Follow on as soon as you can. And please get rid of that oiseau on the way. I find things depressing enough as they are.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse had no wish to find himself closeted for the morning with the Director. He had other more important things to do. Sensing that he was on a winning streak, he seized the opportunity to play his second card.

  ‘Of course, Monsieur. I will leave the cage out here on the pavement. No doubt the garbage men will find a home for it when they do their rounds. Although what Madame Grante will say when she hears I really don’t know. It is probably her pride and joy. If she loses it she will have no one to talk to during the long winter evenings.

  ‘You see, Monsieur, I spent last night at Madame Grante’s apartment …’

  ‘What?’ The Director gazed at him as though thunderstruck. ‘You spent last night with Madame Grante. I can scarcely believe my ears. I know that over the years you have acquired a “certain” reputation, which you have always chosen to repudiate, and in the past I have always given you the benefit of the doubt. But this, Pamplemousse, this is beyond the pale. No wonder you are looking the worse for wear. Shaving must have been the very last thing on your mind. As for Madame Grante, the more I hear of her behaviour, the more worried I become. Clearly she has reached a dangerous age and something has snapped. If things carry on at the present rate none of us will be able to sleep safely in our beds.’

  ‘Monsieur, with respect …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse held up his free hand to stem the flow of words. Enough was enough.

  ‘Respect? Respect, Pamplemousse, seems to be a singularly ill-chosen word in the circumstances.’ The Director was not to be silenced that easily.

  ‘With respect, Monsieur, I did not say I spent the night with Madame Grante. I said I spent the night in her apartment. Madame Grante was not there. To be absolutely truthful I spent it with Pommes Frites. Were he endowed with the power of speech he would undoubtedly confirm the fact.’

  Briefly and succinctly Monsieur Pamplemousse outlined all that had happened since he’d left Le Guide’s headquarters the night before, omitting only that part which involved Pommes Frites’ lapse from the standards normally expected of a house guest.

  To his credit, the Director listened to every word. At the end of it he stared at the cage in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s hand.

  ‘Do I understand you to say that oiseau belongs to Madame Grante?’ he exclaimed. ‘And it has the power of speech? Why on earth didn’t you say so in the first place. No wonder you are carrying it around with you.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. He could hardly tell the Director that he suspected Pommes Frites of having eaten the original inhabitant of the cage.

  ‘Strictly speaking,’ he began, wondering if hairs could be sufficiently and delicately split to avoid on the one hand retracting or modifying what he had just said and on the other hand satisfying his audience. ‘When I awoke this morning and discovered Madame Grante still hadn’t returned …’

  But the Director wasn’t listening. His mind was clearly racing on ahead, enjoying some new flight of fancy.

  ‘It must be grilled.’

  ‘Grilled, Monsieur?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked suitably horrified at the thought. ‘Surely a small towel would be sufficient.’

  ‘No, no, no, Pamplemousse. I don’t mean in order to dry it. I mean we must question it before it is too late. Judging from its present state its days may well be numbered. Pneumonia could set in before nightfall. We must send for a vet. There is not a moment to be lost. With luck it may reveal, albeit parrot-fashion and unwittingly, some vital scrap of information.’

  ‘Monsieur, with the greatest respect, there are many things I have to do. You said yourself that time is of the essence.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse wanted to say he had better things to do with his day than spend it grilling a budgerigar – especially one which hadn’t as far as he knew learnt to talk.

  ‘Leave it with me, Pamplemousse. I will personally carry out the interrogation. It will help relieve the tedium of waiting.’

  The Director reached out and poked a forefinger through the bar.

  ‘Qui est un gentil oiseau?’

  Somewhat unjustly in the circumstances, his kindness was not rewarded in like vein.

  ‘Sacrebleu!’ He jumped back as if he had been shot.

  ‘Is anything the matter, Monsieur?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked suitably solicitous as the Director nursed an injured digit. ‘Would you care to borrow my handkerchief?’

  The Director forbore to answer. Instead, he took the cage and headed towards the steps leading to the main entrance. Monsieur Pamplemousse resisted the temptation to call out and ask if the bird ought to have a pass. It was not the right moment.

  Rambaud gave another shrug, maintaining his reputation of being a man of few words. At home he probably carried out entire conversations with Madame Rambaud that way.

  His photograph duly taken, a pass issued, Monsieur Pamplemousse checked in his office tray to see if there were any messages. There was one from Doucette asking him to phone, but apart from that it was empty. He tried dialling her sister’s number but it was engaged.

  While he was holding on he glanced out of the window. It had stopped raining. There was even a patch of lighter sky on the horizon where the sun was trying to break through. Steam was already starting to rise from his jacket which he’d draped over a nearby radiator. He reached out and felt the shoulders. It was drying remarkably well. Picking up the contents of his pockets which were strewn over the desk, he went through them one by one. He paused at the sight of the map of Père-Lachaise. Perhaps it was time for another excursion? The thought triggered off another. Opening his wallet, he removed the photograph he had found under Madame Grante’s pillow, then dialled another number.

  ‘Administration?

  ‘Pamplemousse here.

  ‘Pamplemousse. Chef de Sécurité. May I have the home address of the porter who was on duty yesterday evening?’

  He wasn’t altogether sure he liked his new title, but he might as well make use of it while he could. One thing was certain: as soon as the present fracas was over he would hand over to someone else. He couldn’t wait to be out on the road again.

  ‘Merci.’ It was within walking distance.

  Opening a desk drawer Monsieur Pamplemousse took out a pack of disposable razors. It was high time he looked respectable again. He glanced at his watch. It would help fill in time before lunch.

  Washed and shaved, Monsieur Pamplemousse had one more call to make before he left the office.

  The Occupé light was on over the darkroom door when he reached the art department, so he left the remains of Madame Grante’s chocolates on the floor outside with a note outlining what he needed. Given a light dusting of powder, there were several which ought to yield quite usable thumb-prints. Blown up, they could be of value. It was a long shot, but it was worth a try, and it was the kind of job Trigaux revelled in �
�� a welcome change from his normal routine of processing pictures of hotels and restaurants and shots of the surrounding countryside brought back by Le Guide’s Inspectors after their travels.

  No doubt the time was not far distant when they, too, would be committed to an electronic memory, available at the touch of a computer button.

  A few minutes later, with Pommes Frites at his heels, he left the building.

  They had gone only a little way along the Rue Fabert when he heard the sound of someone running and his name being called out. He turned and saw the Director coming towards him. It had to be something urgent for he had left his jacket behind; an unheard-of occurrence. He wondered if something was wrong with the budgerigar.

  As the other drew near he saw he was clutching a piece of paper. He looked as if he had received yet another shock.

  ‘Thank Heaven I caught you!’ The Director handed him the paper. ‘Read this.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse ran his eyes over the note. It was written in block capitals in a mixture of different styles and it was brief and to the point. MADAME GRANTE IS BEING HELD PRISONER. YOU WILL NOT FIND HER. DO NOT CONTACT THE POLICE. EITHER PUBLICATION OF LE GUIDE IS SUSPENDED OR YOU WILL RECEIVE PARTS OF HER THROUGH THE POST. THE CHOICE IS YOURS. YOU HAVE UNTIL FRIDAY. THERE WILL BE NO FURTHER COMMUNICATION.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse whistled. ‘When did this arrive, Monsieur?’

  ‘A few minutes ago. It was pushed under Rambaud’s office door while his back was turned.’

  ‘So he didn’t see who did it?’

  ‘No. I have already delivered a severe reprimand. It won’t happen again in a hurry.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse fell silent. Friday! Matters were even more serious than he’d thought. It was Wednesday already.

  ‘What does it mean, Aristide? Parts? What parts?’

  ‘I shudder to think, Monsieur. An ear, perhaps. A finger. That is where such people usually start. Something easily detachable.’

  ‘A finger!’ The Director clutched at a lamp-post for support. ‘Would anyone dare do such a thing? If it is from her right hand, think of the problems she will have when it comes to operating the computer. Keyboards can be modified, but there are limits. The whole system will suffer.’