by Michael Bond
‘Oui, Monsieur. Most regrettable. My opposite number on duty during the day left a note for his colleague on the nightshift. As it happened, he didn’t realise the importance of the matter until a few minutes ago when he came across the photograph you allowed me to copy, and put two and two together …
‘I do agree, Monsieur … Words fail me too. I am desolé. But the gentleman concerned appears to be travelling under a different name … a Monsieur Jay …
‘Oui, Monsieur. Unfortunately, the weakest link in any chain is often the hardest one to spot.
‘I will certainly pass your message on to the person concerned at the earliest possible moment …
‘Oui, Monsieur … I will tell the man he is an idiot …
‘Oui, Monsieur, heads will undoubtedly roll …
‘In the meantime, to bring matters up to date, you may be interested to know that the gentleman you were enquiring about decided to take the 09.15 a.m. train to Lisieux …
‘He checked out about a half an hour ago and the hotel car took him to the station …
‘No, Monsieur, he didn’t say where he was heading for after that …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at his watch. It was past nine o’clock already … ‘Merde!’
‘Exactement, Monsieur … Most unfortunate. If I can be of any further assistance …’
Terminating the call, Monsieur Pamplemousse dashed across the room – it was no time to suggest that for a start a refund of his €50 would not come amiss; the question would almost certainly have triggered off an attack of amnesia.
Rapping as hard as he could on the wall adjoining Amber’s bedroom, he leapt into the air nursing his knuckles. The solid stone felt at least half a metre thick.
Hearing a second cry of ‘merde’ in almost as many seconds, Pommes Frites was about to hurry across the room in order to render first aid, when his master went into overdrive. Following a brief conversation on the house telephone, both bathroom taps were turned fully on, cupboard doors flung open …
Since all the signs pointed to a hasty departure, Pommes Frites sought shelter for the time being behind the far side of the bed in order to carry out his own ablutions in peace, whilst at same time keeping a low profile and watching points.
Following Monsieur Pamplemousse into the corridor some fifteen or so minutes later, he couldn’t help but notice the girl, who had been waiting outside their room with her bag already packed, bend down to adjust one of his master’s trouser legs, the end of which had become caught in a sock.
It was a task normally carried out most mornings when they were at home by Madame Pamplemousse, and there was no reason in the world why someone else shouldn’t do it. It was simply a matter of territories, an uninvited crossing of boundaries, so without making a song and dance about it, Pommes Frites kept his counsel, storing the information away for future reference.
He doubted if his master had even noticed. His mind was clearly on other things.
Once again it was a case of abject apologies being tendered to their hosts.
The first time it had been for leaving the evening meal unfinished; clearly an event beyond the realms of their understanding. Now came the even harder task of explaining their hasty departure rather than linger over a sumptuous breakfast laid out for their benefit on a table in the garden.
If the couple were at all put out by the array of patisseries, confiture and bowls of fruit going begging, they hid their feelings remarkably well, which was more than could be said for the ubiquitous sparrows hovering overhead; possibly the same ones that frequented the beach later in the day. Scarcely believing their good fortune, saliva all but dripped from their beaks.
With calls of ‘bonne journée’ still echoing round the courtyard, Monsieur Pamplemousse waited for the huge doors to swing shut behind them, then, following the signposts, made for the D677 heading inland to Pont-l’Evéque and beyond.
‘It’s a terrible shame,’ said Amber.
‘C’est la vie.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged his shoulders, concentrating on the drive ahead.
‘Do you think we shall make it?’
He glanced at his watch, then gave a groan as a garbage truck came to a halt in front of them, effectively blocking the narrow road. ‘At this rate we certainly won’t catch up with the train. Lisieux is only twenty minutes away by rail. It all depends on what connection Corby is aiming for once he gets there.’
Taking a hand off the steering wheel, he felt in his jacket pocket for a timetable he had picked up as a matter of course while getting Doucette’s ticket. Attempting to pass it over his shoulder as they rounded a bend, it cascaded open, enveloping Pommes Frites’ head.
‘Does he usually travel in the front seat?’ asked Amber, carefully unwinding the concertina-like folds.
‘It happens to have the only safety belt in the car that fits him,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply. ‘The last thing we need is to be stopped by the police before we hit the open road. Besides, he acts as a stabiliser. As you have no doubt noticed, he is a great help going round bends at speed. There are occasions when I don’t know what I would do without him.’
‘And there are some things I would rather not know!’ said Amber.
‘Perhaps you can find what trains the 09.15 might connect with,’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse.
Amber was silent for several minutes. ‘I’m glad I don’t work in a booking office,’ she said at last. ‘It’s no wonder they always have such long queues. All of them seem to have a different number tacked on. From number 1: “Every day except sam, dim et fêtes”, to number 34, which simply says: “le 11 nov.”’
‘In this part of the world,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that undoubtedly refers to an Armistice Day special for people visiting the D-Day landing beaches. I can’t help with the others.’
‘As far as I can tell,’ said Amber, ‘and don’t quote me in case I’m wrong, but there should be a semi-fast train to Paris leaving at 10.05.’
‘If he’s aiming for that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gloomily, ‘we’re sunk. Our only hope is that it may have been delayed for some reason.’
Pont l’Evêque came and went, and it was 10.08 by the time they arrived outside Lisieux Station. Parking haphazardly in the first available space, Monsieur Pamplemousse led the rush inside.
But it was a wasted effort. The vast expanse of tarmac separating the arrival and the departure areas was deserted, as indeed were the quais themselves.
Seeing the look of disappointment on his master’s face and realising some kind of disaster had taken place, Pommes Frites let out a spectacular howl. Normally it would have been a conversation-stopper, but it produced quite the opposite effect.
Had an unannounced high-speed TGV roared through the station without stopping, it could hardly have been more effective. Uniformed figures appeared as if by magic from all directions.
At their head was the Chef de Gare, a magisterial figure with a waxed moustache and a clipboard, who had clearly drummed it into his subordinates that their main role in life was to shepherd flocks of idiot passengers across the wide expanse between the two quais in case they got lost en route while changing trains.
Summing up the situation at a glance, he dismissed the rest of the staff in order that he might deal effectively with the new arrivals.
It seemed that Corby had indeed caught the 10.05 to Paris, scheduled to arrive there at 11.46.
He pointed to a lamp standard further along the platform. ‘That is the very spot where the first class carriage stops. I helped him board the train myself. He seemed confused, almost as though he didn’t really want to get on it. His mind was clearly elsewhere.
‘Prior to that, he was making enquiries about trains to Alsace-Lorraine. I advised him that when he reaches Paris he takes a taxi to the Gare de l’Est and boards a TGV. He should be in plenty of time for the 12.24, which arrives in Strasbourg at 14.43.
‘The next train to Paris, Monsieur? There is one at
10.49.’
‘Just in time to miss the 12.24 to Strasbourg, I presume?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘It allows ample time to miss the 12.24 to Strasbourg, Monsieur,’ said the Chef de Gare dryly. ‘I am afraid it is a stopping train. It doesn’t arrive in Paris until 13.36, but there is a refreshment service on board.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse and Amber exchanged glances.
‘I’m starving,’ said Amber. ‘It was the sight of that breakfast going begging this morning as they waved us goodbye.’
‘First things first,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. Reaching for his mobile he pointed to a nearby bench. ‘I must telephone the Director.’
‘Donner und Blitzen!’ said Amber, as she sat down beside him.
Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed her curiously. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘What?’
‘Donner und Blitzen.’
‘Because I can hear Jay saying it. He uses it a lot. Half jokingly, of course … it sort of figures, seeing he was born in that part of the world.’
‘You think he might be making for home?’
‘With Jay, these things depend very much on whether you are buying or selling, but most of the time two and two make four.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse dialled the Leclercqs’ number.
The Director’s wife picked up on the second ring. It sounded as though she had been expecting his call.
‘Bad news all round, I’m afraid.
‘I spoke to Uncle Caputo after you phoned last night. He sends his regards, but said he was sorry he couldn’t interfere. I quote: “If this guy gave one of my restaurants a bad review, you think I would shake him by the hand?” I am sorry, Aristide, but …’
‘I understand,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is very disappointing, of course. However, I appreciate that in his situation the family must come first …
‘And Monsieur? How is he today?’
‘He is getting better, I’m afraid,’ said Chantal. ‘He is like a cat on hot bricks. Have you seen today’s journals?’
‘I haven’t even had breakfast yet,’ admitted Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Ah! Well, in that case before you speak to Henri, I recommend you have a small black coffee and a large Calvados standing by.’
‘I’m afraid neither is possible at this moment,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘If you like, I could ring back …’
But his words were wasted. The longish silence that followed was interspersed with the sound of rustling paper, during which Monsieur Pamplemousse heard his name being mentioned more than once.
‘Have you seen today’s journals, Pamplemousse?’ boomed Monsieur Leclercq, echoing his wife’s words when he at last came on the phone. ‘Have you seen them?’
‘No, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse patiently. ‘As I was telling Madame Leclercq, I haven’t even had breakfast.’ He nearly said ‘we’ but stopped himself just in time.
‘Just listen to this then …’
‘One moment, Monsieur.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse beckoned Amber nearer.
‘SEX ON THE SANDS …’ The Director’s voice came through loud and clear.
‘PANIC ON LA PLANCHE … DOG-TOTING VAMPIRE STRIKES AT VERY HEART OF DEAUVILLE.
‘Deauville of all places, Aristide. In all the years Chantal and I have been coming here nothing like it has ever happened before. I am at a loss for words.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt tempted to point out that it was more than could be said of the headline writers. To put it mildly, they had well and truly gone to town. But something in the Director’s voice, a certain hesitation, put him off the idea.
‘Tell me, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I take it you are using your mobile.’
‘Oui, Monsieur.’
‘Is it a new one?’
‘No, Monsieur. It is the same old one. I find the latest models far from my liking. For a start they are much too light. Try making a film with one of them and it is like watching someone using a hosepipe to spray their roses.’
‘How very strange,’ said the Director. ‘It sounds for all the world as though it has built-in translation facilities. One gets used to the many things one can use them for these days, but I have never come across that before. It is an interesting development, Aristide; one we might make use of as part of our basic equipment for those on the road.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered whether he should let the Director know he was simply providing Amber with an English version of the headlines before the worst happened and he got carried away by issuing a bulk order. He decided against it. Explanations would be tedious beyond belief.
‘I was merely practising my English, Monsieur,’ he said, clutching at straws. ‘I may need it when we catch up with Corby.’
‘Positive thinking, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director. ‘That is what I like to hear. There are times when I don’t know what I would do without you.
‘CANINE CAPERS HIT NEW LOW,’ he continued. Having got the bit between his teeth there was no stopping him.
‘It appears there is a hound of extraordinarily vast proportions involved. By all accounts it is somewhat reminiscent of the Hound of the Baskervilles, only much bigger. Apparently it mesmerises everyone it comes into contact with. There is a graphic description given by a child in one of the journals.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse waited while there was yet another rustling of paper.
‘Anita Duval-Marchant (5), described in no uncertain terms her narrow escape. “I felt its hot breath all over my dinner,” she said. “I didn’t dare touch the plate afterwards. I shall never, ever, eat spinach again. It has put me off it for life!”’
‘A typical journalese flight of fancy,’ broke in Monsieur Pamplemousse, unable to contain himself a moment longer. ‘They should check their facts. The nearest Pommes Frites got to her was when he returned from a dip in the ocean. While shaking himself dry, he happened to splash her. Besides, she didn’t like spinach in the first place.’
‘Pommes Frites?’ repeated the Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Where were you last night, Pamplemousse, may I ask? Perhaps your recent response to my questionnaire was not so wide of the mark after all.’
‘We spent the evening with a friend,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse virtuously. ‘We had Poulet Vallée d’Auge—’
‘Made with cider and crème fraîche from Isigny-sur-Mer?’
‘Of course, Monsieur.’
‘Ah, how I envy you, Aristide. After my release, I was forbidden to eat a thing until I received the all-clear from a member of the medical profession and by then it was too late in the day.’
‘He hasn’t lost his sense of priorities,’ whispered Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘We didn’t budge from our table until it was time for bed, Monsieur …’ he continued for fear the Director might question him further, but he needn’t have worried.
‘It seems that not only has someone been distributing obscene pictures along the boardwalk,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘but the local police have unearthed a cache of ladies undergarments hidden in the sand. What I believe are commonly referred to as panties in America. How they got there, and for what nefarious reason, goodness only knows. If the story reaches the other side of the Atlantic and our name becomes associated with it, Zagat won’t let it rest. It will be yet another nail in our coffin.’
‘I brought you all the ones that were there,’ hissed Amber.
‘Someone with malice aforethought must have topped it up,’ whispered Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘They are anxious to interview anyone who can lay claim to ownership,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘But so far no one has come forward.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ murmured Amber. ‘I certainly wouldn’t.’
‘You already have,’ whispered Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Remember?’
‘What was that?’ barked the Director. ‘It sounds as though there is someone else on the line. I keep hearing extraneous voices.’
Monsieur Pam
plemousse covered the mouthpiece as best he could and suppressed a sigh.
‘I’m sorry about this.’
‘Normally,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I would have hazarded a guess that these things, occurring in quick succession as they have, bear all the hallmarks of past escapades, Pamplemousse.
‘However, the police have issued a description of the man they are looking for. It is only an artist’s impression, of course, based on information gleaned from questioning on-the-spot witnesses, but fortunately it leaves you totally in the clear. The person they are seeking looks remarkably like a cross between Clark Gable and Errol Flynn.
‘I know comparisons are odious, Aristide, but the thought of your being mistaken for either one of them is quite laughable; an amalgam of the two beggars belief.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was rapidly revising his opinion of women’s ability to remember faces.
‘The truth is, Monsieur,’ he said stiffly, ‘people often see what they want to see. It is a well-known fact that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Over and above that, there are many ladies who prefer an older, more mature man.’
‘Not that old, Pamplemousse, surely?’
‘It takes all sorts,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Each to his or her own. On the other side of the coin, I am told there are those who, when they reach a certain age, hanker after the thought of an urgent young body lying beside them. In their mind’s eye they picture their dream man arriving on a white horse and, as the sun sets on the distant horizon, riding off with them lashed to the pommel of his saddle.’
‘Well, that certainly lets you out, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘You would only have to turn up in your Deux Chevaux and such ideas would go flying out through the bedroom window, especially if the passenger door came off its hinges and fell into the gutter, as I am told happened on one occasion. You would need to make certain they were tightly lashed to the bonnet in case that fell off too!’
‘At least it would keep them warm,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
The Director ignored the interruption. ‘Just think, Aristide,’ he mused. ‘Had things been different there might have been a hut on the boardwalk bearing your name.’
