by Michael Bond
‘But …’ began Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I have my wife to think of. Doucette and I drove down together …’
‘Doing nothing is not an option, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq firmly. ‘It is an “Estragon” situation and there is no time to be lost. Corby must be placated at all costs.’
The Director’s use of Le Guide’s code word denoting an emergency underlined the seriousness of the situation. It was not a word he used lightly.
A thought struck Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Perhaps the girl knows where he is?’
Monsieur Leclercq managed a beam. ‘There you are, Aristide,’ he said. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down. You have a clue already. Correct me if I am wrong, but in your previous occupation was it not known as a case of cherchez la femme?
‘Find Corby and you shall have a bottle of Margaux ’45. I think I have one left in my cellar.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt sorely tempted to ask if that could be confirmed in writing, but since it was clearly impossible he refrained. Anyway, it was hardly the moment.
‘As for Pommes Frites,’ continued the Director magnanimously, ‘I have every faith in his olfactory powers. To use a phrase one often hears bandied about these days … May the force go with him.
‘And Pamplemousse …’
‘Monsieur?’
‘In the meantime, never lose sight of Le Guide’s motto – the three As: Action, Accord, Anonymat.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stifled his response. Action was undoubtedly possible. Accord depended a great deal on matters outside his control. As for keeping the whole thing anonymous, he had his doubts.
‘You must convey to Pommes Frites that, should he prove successful in his endeavours, a visit to Boucherie Lamartine will not come amiss. I shall have great pleasure in making sure they afford him carte blanche.’
Pommes Frites’ tail began to wag at the mere mention of Paris’s premier purveyor of beef. He licked his lips. Clearly, when combined with other key words his brain had already registered, whatever it was he had done to upset his master’s boss was now a thing of the past.
In his book there was but one simple, time-honoured way to express his thanks.
The Director’s bellow of rage was still ringing in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s ears as he headed for the stage door with Pommes Frites at his heels.
At least it brought others running to Monsieur Leclercq’s aid, diverting attention from their sudden departure.
Rambaud was back at his post. For some reason best known to himself, he was looking unusually cheerful.
‘The American?’ He put two fingers to the side of his nose and gave Monsieur Pamplemousse a wink. ‘He had a car already waiting for ’im, but I’ve no idea where ’e went to. At least …’
‘Out with it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. Sensing a tongue-loosing situation, he reached for his wallet.
‘Well,’ said Rambaud, pocketing a €50 note. ‘Since you ask, Monsieur Pamplemousse, I did ’ave a chat with the driver and ’e mentioned the word Deauville at one point, but don’t say I said so.
‘As for the girl …’
‘The girl?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘The one that was sitting a few rows behind ’im before ’e made a break for it.’ Rambaud gave a cackle. ‘I reckon ’e’s in for a bad time when she catches up with him. If she ever does. It took me a while to find ’er a taxi on account of what you might call the American gentleman’s generosity, but she made it worth my while when she did.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at Rambaud. It was no wonder he was looking so cheerful.
A little voice reminded him of a quotation his English friend, Mr Pickering, was fond of using.
Success in his mission would be what the famous lexicographer Dr Johnson would have called ‘the triumph of optimism over experience.’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘I thought it was too good to last,’ said Doucette, as they drove into the vast parking area outside the gare in Deauville.
‘Don’t worry, Couscous. It won’t be for long.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse brought his Deux Chevaux to rest in a space opposite the main entrance. ‘The sooner I get started the sooner we will be together again.’
Leaving his wife in the car, he hurried into the booking hall, returning shortly afterwards armed with a ticket.
‘I’ve booked you first class on the 17.07. It’s due in at the Gare St Lazare just after 19.00.’
He waved aside her protests. ‘Have it on Le Guide and travel in comfort. It is the least Monsieur Leclercq can do.’
‘Why does it always have to be you?’ said Doucette. ‘Why can’t he go to the police like anyone else?’
‘Because …’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You know how he hates any kind of bad publicity, and in this case he has a point. Anyway, they wouldn’t be interested. It isn’t a matter of life and death. Corby isn’t on the missing persons list – yet.’
Doucette gave a sigh. ‘I know.’
‘The worst scenario would be if he heads back to Paris and catches a plane for home.’
‘How about Interpol? Don’t they deal with that kind of thing?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked dubious. ‘He hasn’t committed a crime. They have their hands full dealing with terrorists and known criminals. By all accounts, their annual budget isn’t a great deal bigger than the amount the New York Police Department spends in one week. Unless Corby is using a stolen passport or has a criminal record, they’re not going to lose any sleep over it. Besides, it would need a request from the appropriate body and that wouldn’t go down too well with the Director. For the time being, Pommes Frites and I are on our own.
‘I checked at the booking office and the last train out of here was at 16.42. He wouldn’t have made it in time to catch that, and he’s certainly nowhere to be seen.
‘I doubt if he is very far away. If he’s in Deauville, he shouldn’t have much trouble getting a room. The season hasn’t really started yet so it’s probably mostly Parisian wives and their offspring staking out the territory before their husbands join them for a long weekend.’
‘Armed with nannies to look after the children in the evening, leaving them free to follow other pursuits,’ said Doucette. ‘That’s what bothers me. I know you.’
‘Couscous! How could you?’
‘Easily,’ said Doucette.
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at his watch. ‘I think it’s time we made a move.’
Having validated Doucette’s ticket, he led her along the platform towards the first two coaches of the Paris train, keeping an eye out all the while for any sign of Corby, but it was almost entirely full of families homeward bound. He would have stood out like a sore thumb.
‘It’s been a wonderful day, Aristide,’ said Doucette, giving him a hug. ‘I’m very proud of you. Take care.’
‘We will catch up on everything when I get back,’ he promised. ‘After all the work I have put in I think we’ve earned the right to some time off together.’ He was about to add that if all went well they might be able to celebrate the occasion in a grand way, but no sooner had the notion entered his mind than he thought better of it.
For the time being, it was best to keep quiet about the Director’s promises and content himself with dreams of being home again with his own modest cellar.
Waving goodbye, he returned to the car in order to make certain he had all the things needed to tide him over the next day or two; he didn’t picture it being any longer than that.
Both Le Guide’s issue case and his own travel bag were still in place. He went through the latter quickly to make sure it still contained a change of clothing, along with various basic items of toiletry. Knowing Doucette, he felt sure everything would have been washed, ironed, and replenished during his unusually long spell at home, but it was better to be safe than sorry.
Opening up Le Guide’s case, he scanned the contents, marvelling as always at the Director’s attention to detail. From its early begi
nnings in the Founder’s day, when it contained little more than the bare necessities in the way of emergency rations, bandages and a bottle of iodine, all contained in the pannier bag of Monsieur Hippolyte Duval’s Michaux bone-shaker bicycle, it now boasted practically every possible item of equipment necessary to sustain life under the most adverse conditions.
To give him his due, Monsieur Leclercq wasn’t one to stint in such matters and he was forever updating it.
Removing a pair of Leitz Trinovid binoculars, Monsieur Pamplemousse closed the lid, then made sure Pommes Frites’ king-size inflatable kennel and cylinder of compressed air were also at the ready, along with a supply of biscuits well within their consume-by date. It was just as well. As far as he could recall, chiens were interdit in most of Deauville’s major hotels.
Suitably reassured, he locked the boot, attached an ATTENTION! CHIEN MÉCHANT. MAITRE FÉROCE card to the windscreen to guard against possible intruders and, with Pommes Frites at his side, set off to explore Deauville on foot.
More than anything else, he needed a strong dose of fresh sea air. So much had happened that day, his mind was still in a whirl. In current phraseology it needed a quantum leap to make the change from the land of make-believe to the real world outside.
It was several years since he had last been in Deauville, and then it had been on a routine visit for Le Guide, which hadn’t left much time for sightseeing. In any case, anonymity being an important element in the Director’s operation, it was against company policy to visit the same area too often or to linger overlong once the report had been completed.
Today was an exception, of course, but provided he kept clear of the last places he’d reported on, he should be reasonably safe. Single men dining alone were often objects of suspicion, a man and his dog usually passed muster.
He could see the Director’s problem; his own and that of his colleagues too, come to that. One way or another they were all affected. It would be a crying shame if Corby vented his spleen on Le Guide to such an extent that the day’s efforts came to naught.
If his quarry were spending the night anywhere near the Leclercqs’ summer home, his most likely choice would be either Deauville or Trouville. In that particular part of Normandy all roads led to the Côte Fleurie and its twin resorts on opposite banks of the River Touques. An added plus from his point of view was the fact that, being on the coast, unless Corby backtracked, his options for moving on elsewhere at that time of the day were strictly limited.
Deauville, with its Grand Hotels, its two racecourses – one for flat racing, the other for steeplechases, along with the world famous boardwalk – struck him as being the better bet of the two.
Trouville may have been the first on the scene, but it was on the wrong side of the track for many people; ideal for building sandcastles and other more plebeian seaside pursuits, but somehow he couldn’t picture it holding much appeal for Corby.
Apart from the vast marina, which was still growing if the row upon row of moored yachts was anything to go by, Deauville was much as Monsieur Pamplemousse remembered it.
Making use of the binoculars, he scanned the area beyond it, towards the casino and the Thalassotherapie. Perhaps not surprisingly given the time of day, the former looked deserted. As for the health centre, that was another area he couldn’t picture holding much appeal for Corby.
There again, having only observed him from afar, as it were, what did he know about his likes and dislikes? Apart from hearsay, what did anyone really know?
Sensing Pommes Frites prick up his ears, Monsieur Pamplemousse lowered the glasses and hastily moved to one side just in time to avoid being run down by a rubber-tyred tourist train doing a round of sights. Laden with small children, it was probably their last treat of the day.
Giving the tiny passengers a passing wave as they disappeared around a corner, Monsieur Pamplemousse resumed his walk. Lost in thought, he headed towards the beach area.
Something about the whole affair didn’t quite gel. Why, for instance, was Corby so insistent about doing his own thing? He didn’t strike Monsieur Pamplemousse as being a shrinking violet; by all accounts, he was very much the reverse. Presumably, he would also forfeit any claim he might have on his extraneous expenses being taken care of by Le Guide, which again seemed out of character. Perhaps he had a secret assignation, which would explain his behaviour when the girl turned up out of the blue …
Although he kept catching tantalising glimpses of the sea, it was further away than he had bargained for, and in the end they had to follow a zigzag route past a pony club and a miniature clock golf course before the Planche came into view.
Running the entire length of what in most seaside towns would have been a paved esplanade, the boardwalk was lined on the inland side with white huts, each with a sign outside commemorating a visit by a member of the film industry to the festival held each September; film stars, producers, directors …
Not only was it a unique way of helping visitors remember where they had left their belongings, it was also a tourist attraction in its own right; as famous in its way as the terrace of the Café de la Paix in Paris.
Who was it that said if you stopped by the latter for a leisurely coffee someone you knew would eventually pass by? Perhaps one of its famous habitués – there had been so many over the years – Victor Hugo, Conan Doyle, Oscar Wilde … it was hard to remember.
It would save a lot of time if the same held true of Deauville’s boardwalk and Corby just happened to stroll past.
Raising the binoculars, he scanned the serried ranks of red and blue sunshades erected in military fashion across the vast sandy bay. Despite the sunshine, the majority remained unopened. In a few weeks’ time, when the season began in earnest, it would be a different story.
A few hardy kite flyers had made it as far as the water’s edge, but that was all.
Visitors to Deauville’s boardwalk were mostly people who went there to see and be seen; the minority were those with memories of Claude Lelouch’s film Un Homme et Une Femme, and were simply enjoying a nostalgic day out seeing the setting for real. On the whole, neither category believed in total immersion.
Pommes Frites had no such qualms. At a nod from his master he headed off down the beach as fast as he could go.
Monsieur Pamplemousse watched him enter the sea without a second’s hesitation and, given the fact that he had no desire to follow suit, focused his mind instead on more mundane matters. Having missed out on the barbecue, and with his stomach reminding him that it was a long time since he had last eaten, he opted for an open-air café nearby.
Glass panels ran along the front of the main eating area, presumably for the benefit of the older clientele, many of whom looked as though they had spent the morning in a beauty parlour and needed protection from any prevailing wind.
Ensconced along the top of it, a row of sparrows were on the lookout for anything that was going, prepared to pounce on tables as soon as there was the slightest sign of them being vacated. He didn’t fancy their chances very much. Most of the occupants looked as though they had been there for ever.
The nearest one in particular gave him a very unfriendly look when she saw him hovering in the entrance. She was clutching what appeared to be a very small dog. At first sight it looked like a Chihuahua wearing a diamond encrusted collar and matching jacket embroidered with the words ‘Phoenix, Arizona’. A closer look revealed it was a hand muff. Presumably what felt like a warm summer’s day in Deauville seemed like winter to someone from that part of the world.
Opting for a small table just inside the entrance, where he could keep an eye on both Pommes Frites and the passers-by, Monsieur Pamplemousse sought shelter from his neighbour’s icy gaze behind a large menu.
Taking stock of his surroundings as best he could, he realised Doucette’s summing up was not far short of the truth.
There was hardly another man in sight. Everywhere he looked the customers were predominantly female, either alone or wit
h their children and their minders. Most of the latter looked as though they were busy packing up for the day.
At a nearby table, one of them, obviously running late, was hastily dissecting a steak on behalf of a small figure kicking up a fuss at the sight of some spinach on the side of its plate.
It was hard to tell what sex the child was behind its Karl Lagerfeld sunglasses, and its mother was far too busy talking to a friend at the next table to care one way or the other.
All the action appeared to be concentrated at the far end of the restaurant. Mobile phones were very much in evidence, and from the way they were being held, lips close to the business end, the air was thick with intrigue. Thoughts of an early bedtime clearly weren’t confined to those mewling and puking in their nurses’ arms.
Ordering a plate of crevettes grises and a glass of the local draught cider, Monsieur Pamplemousse sat back to make the most of what was left of the sunshine. Half of him regretted Doucette wasn’t there to enjoy it with him, the other half – and privately he had to admit it was the greater of the two – felt relieved because he needed space to think.
For a brief moment he toyed with the idea of putting through a call to the train, but she so rarely had her own mobile switched on it would have been a pointless exercise.
The Director’s words came back to him: ‘Cherchez la femme.’ He had a point. Find the lady and she might lead him to the man.
Perhaps it was something he could set Pommes Frites to work on when he returned from his swim. The girl must be somewhere around; probably not far away if the truth be known, and he still had the garment she had given him. It would be a good exercise for Pommes Frites’ talents.
His musings were interrupted by the arrival of his order and, on the spur of the moment, he took out his camera, switched it to PLAY, and set it to the shot he had taken of the group on the Leclercqs’ patio.
Holding it up, he shaded the screen with his other hand so that the waiter could see the picture clearly. It was a wild card, but he might as well play it; anything was worth a try.
