by Michael Bond
‘The man on the left, drinking from a large glass containing something dark … would he have been here earlier this afternoon?’
The waiter peered at the picture. ‘In this job,’ he said, ‘everybody begins to look the same after a while. If I might borrow Monsieur’s binoculars …’
Reading the signs for the third time that day, Monsieur Pamplemousse removed a €50 note from his wallet and laid it casually on the table.
The waiter flicked the surface with his napkin. Clearly the disappearing note trick was one he had perfected over the years. In its way, it was poetry in motion.
‘If Monsieur will allow me to borrow the camera, I will ask around.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse passed it to him, took a long draught of cider, and set to work on his snack.
His normal modus operandi automatically kicked in.
The crevettes were a pale shade of pink, still glisteningly fresh from the morning’s catch – it was probably one up to Trouville, which boasted a thriving fish market. The finger bowl had a slice of lemon floating in the water; there was a generous helping of mayonnaise in another bowl, and the slices of baguette in a separate basket felt satisfyingly crisp to the touch; definitely the second baking of the day, perhaps even the third or fourth.
It was little wonder the sparrows were queuing up. A prime example of the true meaning of the phrase ‘pecking order’, the prizes went to the bold and the fleet of wing.
Glancing around, it was easy to spot their human equivalents.
It had to do with the way they were sitting. It wasn’t simply a case of the swinging leg syndrome; it also had to do with their position when at rest. His colleague Truffert would have had a field day. Having spent some time working on cruise ships when he was in the Merchant Navy, he was an expert on such matters, maintaining that the position of a person’s legs could speak volumes.
The butter was soft but not runny; it wasn’t Echiré, but … He spread a little on a portion of bread. It might lack the other’s nutty aroma, but it ran a close second.
Automatically reaching down for the concealed pocket in his right trouser leg, where he kept a notebook permanently at the ready, he remembered all too late he was wearing his best suit and converted the movement into adjusting the napkin.
In the beginning it was hard to gauge the reaction the waiter was getting. A cursory glance was clearly enough for most of the customers. Others simply looked the other way as though suspecting him of trying to sell them something.
Then, as he approached some tables in the far corner of the restaurant, there was a distinct change of mood. The first person he approached nudged her companion and together they took a closer look at the camera. Following a brief word with the waiter, they glanced towards Monsieur Pamplemousse.
It was encouraging to say the least. Proof, if proof were needed, that on the whole the fair sex were better than men at remembering faces. They picked up on the details. His spirits rose as the waiter moved on, and one after another others began acting in like manner.
Obviously the man had struck oil. It was like a chain reaction. Some even terminated a phone call they had been making in order to take a closer look, first at the picture, then at him. Others reached for their handbag.
What were the symptoms Truffert had described? According to him, if you came across a lady passenger on the sun deck sitting with her knees pressed tightly together and her feet splayed widely apart, you could bet your bottom dollar there was but one thing uppermost on her mind, and it wasn’t the distant horizon (which did not necessarily mean she would give you the number of her cabin just like that). On the other hand, those whose legs were double crossed, often misconstrued as indicating a no-go area, were generally speaking a dead cert, unless of course they belonged to someone so old they were stuck like it. The woman just across from him looked as though she came into that category.
His attention was momentarily diverted by the return of Pommes Frites. Fresh from his dip in the sea, to Monsieur Pamplemousse’s secret delight he shook himself dry over the child with the dark glasses, producing another bout of childish wrath.
For reasons best known to themselves, those at the far end of the café became even more excited.
Spurred on by their varied reactions and thinking to maximise the situation by making full use of his friend and mentor’s talents, Monsieur Pamplemousse removed Amber’s present from his trouser pocket, shook it in a circular fashion in order to remove the creases, and presented it to Pommes Frites for inspection.
Brief though the manoeuvre had been, it clearly hadn’t passed unnoticed. Truffert would have had a field day as legs and knees went into overdrive.
Once again it was a long shot, but Monsieur Pamplemousse had every faith in Pommes Frites’ powers. A few seconds of quality time with an object were usually more than sufficient to set all his faculties racing. Words such as chercher and trouver, spurring him on to seek and find the object’s owner, were entirely unnecessary. Indeed, he would have been mortally offended had his master given voice to them, for it would have demonstrated a total lack of confidence in his abilities; abilities honed to perfection over the years.
It was wonderful the way bloodhounds were able to pick up and follow a trail that was often several days old. It was on record that they could even pick up the scent after their quarry attempted to escape by swimming a river.
Not for a moment did it occur to Monsieur Pamplemousse that for once his own mind and that of Pommes Frites might be working at cross-purposes.
Consequently, he was all the more taken aback when the latter took hold of the object in his mouth and hurried off without so much as a by-your-leave.
It was an unprecedented departure from the norm and once again he found himself automatically reaching inside his trouser pocket, this time for the silent dog whistle he kept there for use in an emergency.
Once again, he stopped short. In any case, by then Pommes Frites was already showing the garment to the lady across the way.
Monsieur Pamplemousse regretted having given up his camera. The look on her face as she eyed it was yet another Cartier-Bresson opportunity gone to waste.
Pommes Frites hurried on his way, following the route previously taken by the waiter. It had been a bad start, but instinct told him better things lay ahead, ready and waiting, and sure enough, not even Charles Aznavour at his peak could have wished for a better reception than the one that greeted him when he arrived at the far end.
Monsieur Pamplemousse waved in vain.
Misinterpreting his signal, the waiter materialised at his side. Clutching a handful of cards and pieces of paper, he gave an admiring wink as he spread them out across the table. ‘I think most of them got the message, Monsieur.
‘I wouldn’t mind a couple of prints myself some time,’ he added, returning the camera.
‘But …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to say he had no idea what the man was talking about when he caught sight of the screen. Someone must have been playing with the buttons for, instead of showing the group on the patio, the picture on display had reverted to the one he’d taken of the girl and Pommes Frites in the changing room.
His heart sank as he riffled through the small pile of papers. From a cursory glance they appeared to be covered in telephone numbers; mobiles, mostly. Some were written in pencil, others scribbled in ink. Kisses accompanied the vast majority of them.
He was on the point of asking the waiter to make out the bill as quickly as possible when he thought better of it. While his mind had been focused on more immediate matters, he had been vaguely aware of some kind of minor commotion on the far side of the restaurant, but it seemed to have died down. What did bother him was the fact that Pommes Frites was nowhere to be seen. There was a definite change in the atmosphere: a sense of expectancy intermingled with signs of growing impatience on the part of the other diners.
In order to gain time while awaiting developments, Monsieur Pamplemousse began toying with
the remaining crevettes, examining each and every one with the air of a connoisseur before dipping it into the bowl of mayonnaise.
After each mouthful he dabbed at his lips with the napkin for as long as was decently possible, and when he had milked that to the full, he tried telephoning Doucette. As he had surmised, he couldn’t get through, so he held a lengthy conversation with an imaginary voice at the other end, accompanying it with suitable gestures.
So engrossed was he in the ploy he totally failed to notice some new arrivals at his side.
‘I was walking along the boardwalk looking for a certain person,’ said a familiar voice, ‘when guess who I bumped into? Pommes Frites – up to his rearend in the sand. You should have seen the way he jumped when I gave his tail a tweak.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse mimed terminating his call. Never before had he been so relieved to see a familiar face.
‘It’s a pity I wasn’t there with my camera,’ he said. ‘I could have added it to my collection. It would have been a case of the biter bit.’
‘Perhaps this little lot will do instead,’ said Amber. ‘I managed to rescue them before they got covered up. I don’t know how far the tide comes in.’
Lifting the flap on her shoulder bag she withdrew a handful of lingerie. ‘I’m most impressed. Even in his heyday Charles Aznavour could hardly have struck a richer seam, and you haven’t even sung a note. Or have you?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head and pointed to the pile of messages on the table. ‘I have enough notes to last me.’
‘Does this kind of thing happen often?’ asked Amber, as he hastily concealed them as best he could under the menu, along with Pommes Frites’ haul.
‘My bottom drawer is full to overflowing,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dryly.
‘May you be forgiven,’ said Amber. ‘That’s a dreadful pun. It seems to me it’s a good thing I came along when I did.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked down at the face peering up at him. ‘I can’t understand what came over him.’
Pommes Frites started to wag his tail, then decided against it. He had been wearing his pleased expression; the one he kept in reserve for those occasions when he had completed what was in his opinion a job well done.
Still on cloud nine following his first taste of stardom and anxious to show his appreciation other than with a mere lick, which would dry off in no time at all, he had been racking his brain for a suitable gift; the human equivalent of a bone.
The answer had literally landed on the end of his nose.
Since his master was still carrying the object around in his pocket it must mean a great deal to him. And if he was prepared to hand it over, that could mean only one thing. He wanted others to see how lucky he was.
Speaking personally, he couldn’t understand the need for such items. It was yet another strange example of human behaviour. They were the first things they put on in the morning and on the whole the last things they took off at night. He had even seen them hanging up in shop windows.
Sensing sympathetic vibrations on the far side of the café, pulsations that had grown even more intense since he returned from his dip in the ocean, and presuming his master wanted them to be shown to all and sundry, that was where he eventually ended up.
Even so, he was ill-prepared for the reception that was granted him. With scarcely a discernible wriggle from the owners, who as a body carried on talking as though nothing untoward was happening, table after table yielded up its quota of spoils. They showered down on his head like leaves in an autumn gale.
Mission accomplished, he had gathered them up as quickly as possible and hurried off with them, intent on finding a safe hiding place before anyone had second thoughts.
Amber bent down to remove a strand of something black caught between two of his front teeth.
‘Someone’s token gesture,’ she said, holding it up for him to see. ‘Aren’t you the lucky one!’
Pommes Frites eyed her gratefully.
‘I would rather not know,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘There’s a first time for everything,’ said Amber. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t become a habit. ‘I’m sure he meant well,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Pommes Frites never does anything without a good reason, but it isn’t always easy to read his mind.
‘If I may?’ Raising the menu, he plucked the cause of the misunderstanding from the pile and slipped it back into his pocket.
‘Actions speak louder than words,’ said Amber. ‘I am very touched.’
‘And I have a feeling,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘you should return the rest to your bag as quickly as possible. They are attracting rather a lot of attention.’
‘Aren’t you going to try returning them to their rightful owners?’ asked Amber.
‘Would you?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Half of them are covered in sand anyway and I doubt if they have any name tags. There isn’t room on most of them.’
Following Monsieur Pamplemousse’s advice, Amber did as he suggested, then withdrew a small compact, flipped it open, and held the mirror up to her face.
‘I see what you mean. I thought I could feel a tingling sensation all down my spine. If looks could kill …’
‘Winged daggers aimed with intent,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Hell hath no fury …’ said Amber.
‘And we are considerably outnumbered,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
Amber snapped her compact shut, then reached over and speared the last of the crevettes with a fork.
‘May I? I’m starving. Do you have any ideas for Plan B? Like, how do we get out of here in one piece?’
‘An early dinner for three?’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse.
Pommes Frites’ tail began to wag, distributing a certain amount of dried sand as it did.
Having waited patiently while his master paid the bill, and giving the table on the other side of the entrance a wide berth – a totally unnecessary manoeuvre, as the occupant had long since departed – he joined in the dash for the boardwalk, pausing for a moment to look back when they reached it, as though daring anyone to follow in their wake.
For the time being at least there were no takers.
CHAPTER FIVE
As a precautionary measure, Monsieur Pamplemousse chose a more direct, but considerably less populated, route back to his car; inland along rue Raspail, then left into the Avenue de la République. He had no wish to be stalked by some female harbouring a supposed grievance and out for revenge; still less a whole horde of them.
They were not out of the woods yet. No doubt mobiles were already being put to good use; descriptions issued. If the look of hatred in their eyes was anything to go by and they connected him to his Deux Chevaux, there was no knowing what damage they might inflict. It would be slashed tyres after dark at the very least, and then he really would be in the soup. He decided to keep his eyes peeled ready to take evasive action if need be.
‘This part of Deauville is very un-French,’ Amber broke into his thoughts. ‘More like Main Street USA. Somewhere in the US Bible Belt, I guess … like … I don’t know …’
‘Phoenix, Arizona?’ hazarded Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘I have never been there,’ she said, ‘but I can imagine. Except the streets would be even wider, four or five lanes in each direction probably, but they couldn’t be any straighter than these.’
‘It was ahead of its time.’
‘I tell you one difference for sure – all those generals you name your streets after: de Gaulle, Leclerc, Hoche … they’re much more romantic. Better than E14th or whatever any time.
‘And the quaint architecture too …’
‘Seaside Norman,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Belle Epoque with a touch of Alsace-Lorraine thrown in for good measure. Deauville didn’t evolve; most of it was put together from a kit of parts over a period of three years in the late eighteen hundreds when the Duc de Morny began developing it as a weekend retreat for r
ich Parisians.
‘Being Napoleon III’s half-brother was a big help. It enabled him to persuade the railway company to open a branch line, making it only four cigars distance away from Paris, for those who timed their journeys that way.
‘In time, Deauville acquired the nickname of being Paris’s 21st arrondissement, which gave it a head start over the South of France, and having miraculously survived two world wars more or less intact, it hasn’t lost its air of faded grandeur.’
‘You sound just like a guidebook,’ said Amber.
‘I happen to work for one,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Ask me another.’
‘Apart from fleeing all those predatory ladies and our having dinner together, what else do you have in mind?’
‘I’m trying to track down our guest of honour …’
‘Jay?’ She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘That makes two of us. What do you reckon are the chances of finding him?’
‘If he is in Deauville, it shouldn’t be too difficult, but we need to work quickly in case he moves on.’
‘What then?’
‘France may not be as vast as America,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But it’s still a big country by European standards: 550,000 square kilometres, a population of 60 million plus, and nearly 40,000 towns and villages in which to hide away. It really depends on how serious he is about wanting to be alone.’
‘He’s serious,’ said Amber. ‘Garbo had nothing on him.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave her a sidelong glance. She sounded as though she meant it.
‘You know what he said the last time I asked him what his plans were?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. He was in no mood for conundrums.
‘Read the tea-leaves, honey.’
They walked along in silence for a moment or two, each busy with their own thoughts.
‘What we need,’ said Amber, ‘is some kind of road map.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse put the ‘we’ on hold for the time being. ‘You’re welcome to borrow any of mine,’ he said. ‘I have a whole stack of them in the car.’
