by Michael Bond
‘Anyway, who are you and what do you want? I recognise your voice from last night, but who are the others?’
‘Furze here.’ Raising his voice in the way that people sometimes do when talking to the blind, as if they must suffer from deafness as well, the Doctor made it sound like a disease. ‘The others are Inspector Chambard and his two assistants.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. From his looks he judged Inspector Chambard to be from the Midi or the Rhône Valley; he had a short, stocky figure and a face weatherbeaten by years of exposure to the Mistral. Not someone to fool around with – his eyes were too shrewd.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
Doctor Furze gripped his clip-board a trifle nervously. ‘As you so rightly say, there was a little unpleasantness during the night.’
‘An important package has been stolen,’ Inspector Chambard cut in. ‘It is believed that the person responsible may well be a resident of the Château. In the circumstances we feel that for the sake of peace all round there will be no objection if we make a search of the entire building.’
‘Who knows where or when the thief may strike again?’ agreed Doctor Furze. ‘It is a necessary precaution.’
‘And if I object?’
‘Then we cannot, for the moment, insist.’ Inspector Chambard’s remark was accompanied by a shrug which said it all. Refuse and our suspicions will be aroused. And if our suspicions are aroused then we will be back with the necessary authority within the hour. Take it or leave it. There was a time when he would have reacted in exactly the same way.
‘Please.’ His gesture embraced the whole room. Somewhere outside a dog began to choke noisily. In a flash the window was open again and Inspector Chambard disappeared through it. He returned after a moment, climbing over the sill with an agility surprising for one of his bulk. He held up the half-eaten remains of something green and woollen.
‘It appears to be a sock.’
‘Tccchk!’ Doctor Furze looked at it impatiently. ‘Is that one of yours, Monsieur? If so, I have to tell you that the hanging of laundry outside the window is –’
‘I know. It is strictly forbidden. Many things seem to be strictly forbidden at Château Morgue.’
Ignoring the interruption, Doctor Furze looked round the room. ‘You have a dog.’
‘Pommes Frites. He is asleep. Or rather, he is trying to sleep.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse wished he’d thought to put the ‘Do Not Disturb’ notice on the bathroom door. ‘I take it that is not against the rules?’
‘There is also,’ continued Doctor Furze, ‘a list on your door of various activities for the day. You are required to report to the Doctor to whom you have been assigned for an analysis of the treatment you require. That was not done. May I ask why?’
‘You may,’ thundered Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You may indeed. I did not carry out the instructions for the very simple reason that I am unable to see them; a fact which seems to have totally escaped both you and your staff. I find your attitude totally intolerable. No one, I repeat, no one has been to see me since the evening I arrived. For all you know I might have starved to death.’
He groped for the back of the chair. Already he was beginning to feel a little better; more in command of the situation.
Doctor Furze was the first to speak following his outburst.
‘There is a cake crumb stuck to your moustache,’ he said coldly. ‘Also, there is a lump of something white adhering to your left ear. I trust it is shaving cream and not crème pâtissière. In which case, the patch of red on your right cheek will be blood where you cut yourself shaving rather than what it looks like – a lump of confiture.’
Instinctively Monsieur Pamplemousse reached up to his face, but before he had time to reply he felt himself being propelled towards the bathroom as Doctor Furze pressed home his temporary advantage.
‘We do not appear to have had our daily weight check.’
‘I am not getting undressed again,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Is there no privacy in this establishment? It is bad enough not being able to lock one’s door without having to expose oneself to all and sundry.’
‘There is no need. All that is necessary is to remove your shoes. I will make the appropriate allowance.’ He paused and gave a sniff. ‘For one who has been without food for over twenty-four hours, your breath is remarkably sweet. It is one of the first things one notices about people who are taking the régime – the breath.’
He helped Monsieur Pamplemousse onto the scales. ‘Ah, it is as I suspected.’ His voice grew even harder and colder as he glanced at the dial and then compared the figure with that on a sheet of paper attached to his clip-board. ‘At the very minimum your weight has increased by over two kilos since yesterday evening.’
Leaving Monsieur Pamplemousse to his fate, he went back into the other room where Inspector Chambard and the two gendarmes were engaged in an inch by inch search of the furniture.
‘You need look no further, Inspector. I suggest you arrest this man immediately.’
‘With respect, Monsieur, you must allow me to be the best judge of that.’ Inspector Chambard sounded piqued. ‘We are not looking for someone who has over-indulged in pâtisseries. If that were the case then in an establishment such as this we would have cause to make many arrests were it a criminal matter. Lack of food makes people desperate. I have heard tales of excursions into the village after dark. If old Pertus who runs the boulangerie relied on sales to the local inhabitants for his living he would not be in a position to buy himself a new Citroën every year. No, Monsieur, we are looking for someone who stole a large quantity of charcuterie, not just sufficient to put on two kilos of weight overnight, but twenty kilos. That is a lot of charcuterie.’
Twenty kilos! Monsieur Pamplemousse barely suppressed a whistle as he came out of the bathroom to join the others. No wonder the sausages had looked like a small mountain when he had first tipped them out.
His heart sank as there was a muffled exclamation from somewhere behind him. Pommes Frites’ hideaway must have been discovered.
Pushing him to one side, the second gendarme went in search of his colleague. He heard their lowered voices coming from the bathroom.
‘Regardez!’
‘Merde!’
The appositeness of the remark triggered off a series of giggles. He could picture the nudges that went with it.
‘C’est formidable!’
‘Oui. Très, très formidable!’ There was a stream of admiring whistles and ‘poufs’.
‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’ Unable to stand the suspense a moment longer, Inspector Chambard flung open the door of the bathroom.
‘Sacré bleu! Nom d’un nom!’ His endorsement of their findings was short, sharp and positive. It was also accompanied by a series of warning growls. Pommes Frites enjoyed a game as much as the next dog, but he was beginning to get a bit restive with the present one.
Monsieur Pamplemousse turned. All three policemen were on their hands and knees in front of the kennel, eyeing the contents with disbelief and its occupant with a certain amount of reserve. One of the gendarmes, clearly under a misapprehension as to the nature of his find, held a handkerchief to his nose as he poked at a boudin lying on the floor near the entrance with his truncheon. He jumped back as a paw shot out. ‘Merde!’
‘What did I tell you?’ Doctor Furze bustled into the bathroom, anxious to declare the matter closed. For some reason best known to himself, he seemed to view the finding of the sausages as a mixed blessing, one which, while confirming his previous accusation, held other connotations of a less desirable nature.
Inspector Chambard rose from his knees and came out of the bathroom. Ignoring the doctor, he addressed himself to Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Will you call off your dog, Monsieur?’
‘May I ask why? He is doing no harm; merely protecting his temporary home.’
‘I wish to search it. I may need the contents as evidence. It will be sent for analys
is.’
‘Not without a warrant,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse firmly.
Inspector Chambard gave him a long, hard stare, then shrugged. ‘In that case …’ he turned back to the bathroom. ‘Paradou, since you appear to be an expert on matters to do with le petit coin, I suggest you put that knowledge to some purpose. Get to work.’
‘But, Chief …’
‘Wrap a towel round your arm. You know the drill.’
Paradou looked around for his colleague, but he had already beaten a hasty retreat and was busy looking through the pile of magazines on the table. If he was hoping for sympathy, he was disappointed.
‘Chief, come and have a look at this.’ As Inspector Chambard half closed the bathroom door, the other gendarme held up a photograph. Monsieur Pamplemousse stifled a curse. It was a diversion, but not a welcome one. He should have locked it away in his case.
‘Hey, Paradou, come here.’ The gendarme was having difficulty in hiding his excitement.
Paradou, his arm partly swathed in a towel, came out of the bathroom with alacrity. He stared at the picture. ‘Tante Hyacinthe!’
Slowly rotating the picture as he held it up to the light, he reeled off more names. ‘That one is Clothilde and there is Desirée – at least, I think it is Desirée, and that must be little Josephine and …’ He peered at the head in the centre, then at Monsieur Pamplemousse, comparing the two to make sure he’d seen aright.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve been with that lot?’
‘Who? Where? What are we talking about?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse was becoming increasingly irritated by the way things were going. The sooner his visitors left the happier he would be.
But there was no stopping Paradou. ‘When I was in the army we used to have lectures about steering clear of the local girls. Why? Because they were always poxed up to the eyebrows. Well, in the last war Tante Hyacinthe’s mother was a “local girl”, and in the war before that so was her grandmother. And if there’s ever another war, that’s where Tante Hyacinthe will be – up front with the troops. She, and all her family.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse began to feel profoundly relieved he hadn’t taken advantage of Doctor Furze’s offer the night before. He wondered if he should pass on the news to Ananas or keep it in reserve.
Doctor Furze himself had been keeping very quiet during the whole of the conversation. He was deep in thought.
‘May I ask how this photograph came to be in your possession, Monsieur Pamplemousse?’
‘Photograph? There is a photograph?’ Aware of a sudden change in the atmosphere, Monsieur Pamplemousse played for time. At the mention of his name the two gendarmes exchanged glances, then stiffened as they caught the eye of their superior. He studiously avoided looking at Paradou. ‘Perhaps it was among the magazines. I heard you rustling them. Really, it is very hard to answer such questions when I cannot even see what you are discussing.’
Inspector Chambard came to his rescue. ‘Paradou, you get back in that bathroom.’
‘Perhaps, Monsieur Pamplemousse,’ he continued, ‘you would like to accompany me to the Gendarmerie?’ Both his name and the invitation were underlined by a wink. A brief, but very definite wink.
‘Am I to understand that you are placing me under arrest?’
‘No, but there are things you may wish to discuss.’
‘In that case, the answer is no.’
Inspector Chambard looked disappointed. ‘If you change your mind … If you see the folie of your ways, you have only to telephone.’
It was an allusion to his past. His fame must have travelled further than he’d ever realised. No doubt the photograph had clinched matters in Chambard’s mind. It would be in character.
‘Merci. Perhaps later.’ He had no wish to get involved with the local Police for the time being, but there was no sense in putting their backs up.
A thought struck him. ‘In the meantime, perhaps you could do me a favour?’ He felt in his pocket and took out the postcard to Doucette. ‘It is to my wife. If you would be kind enough to post it for me.’
‘Of course.’ The wink as Chambard pocketed the card was even more meaningful. Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to reciprocate when he realised the other couldn’t see it, so he removed his glasses and under the pretence of rubbing his eyes used his hand as a shield.
Doctor Furze hovered at the door. ‘I find all this most unsatisfactory, Inspector. I shall report back to Herr Schmuck and no doubt you will hear further.’
Inspector Chambard looked unmoved by the implied threat. He picked up the photograph. ‘If you don’t mind, I will keep this for the time being.’
The bathroom door opened and Paradou emerged carrying a plastic bag. Pommes Frites must have relented. ‘I’ll tell you something funny, Chief –’
‘Later.’ Inspector Chambard waved his subordinates on their way. He suddenly seemed anxious to leave. Looking aggrieved, Paradou followed his colleague out of the room.
Chambard looked at his watch. ‘Au revoir, Monsieur Pamplemousse.’
‘Au revoir, Inspector.’ A moment later they were gone. He heard their voices disappearing down the corridor. Doctor Furze was still holding forth. He looked at his own watch. It said five-thirty five. There would be time to kill before Mrs. Cosgrove put in an appearance. Time to marshal his thoughts.
Pommes Frites had clearly been trying to marshal his thoughts during the time he’d spent in his kennel. Without a great deal of success, if the furrows on his brow as he came out of the bathroom were anything to go by. The game he had played with the policeman had been enjoyable up to a point, like playing cat and mouse. Several times when he’d laid his paw gently on the man’s hand it had produced a satisfactory muffled scream; but it was definitely a spectator sport. It was nothing without an audience and he was glad he’d managed to conceal the bulk of the sausages at the back of his kennel. Now he was ready for action and patently, action was something which for the time being had a very low priority on his master’s agenda. Monsieur Pamplemousse, his brow equally furrowed, was sitting at the table, a pile of forms set neatly in front of him, sucking the end of his Cross pen, torn between two items of work on his immediate agenda.
On the one hand there was his duty to Le Guide. So far, apart from one or two desultory scrawlings on his pad, he hadn’t made a single note. On the other hand lay the secondary, or for all he knew perhaps even the primary, reason for his being at Château Morgue; and short of paying a visit to the local vet and ordering him to carry out an immediate search for the letter, those reasons would remain entombed in Pommes Frites’ stomach – if they hadn’t already passed through. He was in a quandary and no mistake.
Not, he reflected, as he gazed at the pile of papers in front of him, that there was anything blank about Le Guide’s report forms. Quite the reverse.
They were based on the simple premise that all things are capable of being analysed provided they are broken down into their basic component parts, like the myriad tiny dots making up the picture on the television screen, each equating its particular shade of colour into an equivalent voltage.
Although there was a large section at the end for a written report, the main bulk of the form was taken up by over five hundred basic questions to which the answer was a simple ‘oui’ or ‘non’, thus ensuring that despite differences of temperament and taste, all Inspectors spoke the same language. Tastes might vary, but standards never. It also provided an insurance against any kind of bribery or corruption, for in the end its findings were unassailable and unarguable, covering everything from parking facilities to the design of the cutlery; from the quality of the ingredients to the size of the portions and the way in which they were served.
Was the dish of classic origins? If so, had it been prepared in the right manner? Was the accompanying sauce too hot? Too cold? Too salty? Was it served separately? Was the waiter able to describe the dish? If not, did he find out the answer quickly and accurately?
There was an equally large
section devoted to the serving of wine. Did the waiter simply sniff the cork and pour it straight away, or did he allow you to taste it first? If it was a Beaujolais was it served slightly chilled? If it was an old wine did he offer to decant it? If so, did he do it at the table? Did he use a candle? Did he take it away to do it? If so, did he bring the empty bottle back to show? Did he bring the cork too? When he offered you some to taste was he really seeking your opinion or merely going through the motions?
The list seemed endless. In his wisdom, Monsieur Hippolyte Duval had provided for almost every eventuality. The one situation he hadn’t foreseen, was that of being incarcerated in an establishment where the sole form of nourishment appeared to be a glass of dirty water, and not even that much if the guest happened to arrive late.
After staring at it for something like a quarter of an hour, Monsieur Pamplemousse laid it down again. If Le Guide was to enter the world of Établissements Thermaux they would need a totally new form and a very truncated one at that.
One of his options disposed of, at least for the time being, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned his attention to the second item on the agenda. Taking a leaf out of Le Guide’s book, or rather, borrowing from its report forms, he began analysing his findings to date, reducing everything to its simplest terms.
Was there something odd about Château Morgue? Most definitely ‘oui’.
Was there a Château Morgue which showed one face to the outside world and another which kept itself very much to itself? From his experience the first evening, ‘oui’.
Were the ‘extra facilities’ he’d been offered available to all and sundry? If the answer to the previous question was in the affirmative, then it had to be ‘non’.
Was the mortality rate at Château Morgue higher than at other, similar establishments? For the moment at least, he had no means of checking.
Was there any significance to be attached to the sex of those who had passed away? Instinct told him there was; logic failed to come up with an immediate reason.
Was there any significance in the size of their calves? An impossible question.
