Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint

by Michael Bond

  ‘About €50, Monsieur,’ said the concierge. ‘If you wish to order one for your wife the normal retail price is €350 for a gentleman’s, so hers would be around €400. I am sure special terms could be arranged.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. At that price Doucette would fear the worst.

  ‘But what’s the difference?’ hissed Amber, when he repeated it for her benefit. ‘Ask if it’s different material.’

  ‘It is because of the hood,’ said the concierge. ‘We have found ladies who wash their hair regularly prefer them. That is why I think it must be a present for …’ he allowed himself a discreet cough, ‘a lady friend.’

  ‘Pigs might fly,’ said Amber, as Monsieur Pamplemousse thanked the concierge once again and terminated the call.

  ‘I guess you were right the first time,’ she said. ‘He must have just made a grab for it out of force of habit. It’s second nature to him. I doubt if he’s ever paid for anything since he left nursery school in the Bronx and broke into the Principal’s petty cash box with a hatpin. They wanted him removed on the grounds of their being unable to handle him.

  ‘That night it got torched. Nobody knew whether it was Jay or his mother. She was the one who ended up doing time on account of her being older and should have known better.’

  ‘If he is everything you say he is,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I’m surprised you still want to find him.’

  There was another flurry of activity at the table as the dessert arrived.

  ‘It is my wife’s speciality,’ said the patron proudly, while replenishing their glasses. ‘Madame Morot’s Tarte aux Pommes Grand-Mère. The secret is in the pastry, which I am not allowed to divulge, but I can tell you that the apples – the first of the season’s Riene Rienettes, sliced as thin as a €1 coin – are covered with a glaze made from the sweetened peel, flavoured with cane sugar and Calvados.’

  ‘I’m not sure I really want to know,’ whispered Amber, when they were on their own. ‘Pommes Frites wouldn’t care to share mine, would he?’

  ‘I hate to tell you,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but he doesn’t do apples either.’

  ‘To take you up on what you said just now,’ said Amber, ‘I guess the answer is Jay engaged me to look after him, as it were, and I don’t give up that easily.’

  ‘Corby’s parents must have emigrated to the States when he was very small,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, reaching for his fork. ‘From what you said earlier, I assumed it must have been when he was much older.’

  ‘I guess it must have been around the period of the Cold War, when everyone was getting twitchy about the possibility of there being a Third World War,’ said Amber. ‘One thing’s for sure. It was before my time.’

  She hesitated. ‘So, any ideas on where we go from here?’

  ‘Having been born and brought up in the Auvergne,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I can’t claim to be an expert on this part of the world, but …’

  The conversation with the concierge had set his mind working. He was grateful for the offer of any sort of help. His only caveat was that by and large concierges were part and parcel of the upper echelons of the hotel world. If Corby had his wits about him, after his initial foray in Deauville he would give large establishments a wide berth.

  ‘You’ve gone quiet on me again,’ said Amber. ‘What’s going on in that mind yours?’

  ‘I was thinking of concierges,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I was thinking we need all the help we can get and they are not necessarily the best source in this case.’

  In the old days he had been able to draw on a whole network of informers; people who made it their business to keep their ears to the ground, gathering up information and selling it on to the highest bidder; usually, but by no means always, the police. They were the gossip columnists of the underworld and often worth their weight in gold. For the time being, he was on his own.

  ‘Perhaps the taxi driver will be back by now,’ said Amber. She reached for her handbag. ‘Meantime, before we do anything else, I must go in search of the bathroom.’

  ‘I should come right out with it and ask for the toilette,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘They won’t know what you are talking about otherwise.’

  He took advantage of being on his own for the moment to telephone Doucette.

  Drawing a blank, he left a message on the answering machine, then sat back to make a few more notes. It had been a delightful meal. Simple, but beyond reproach and certainly worthy of a Wrought-Iron Table and Chair symbol alongside its entry in Le Guide. Anyone following the ‘worth a detour’ sign would be amply rewarded.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Amber reappeared, her long black hair now gathered bouffant style on top of her head.

  ‘My mobile is beginning to glow red-hot,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But apart from that …’

  ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ said Amber. ‘But guess what I heard while I was in the you-know-where?’

  ‘Try me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘There was a radio on in the kitchen. It must have been a local station because the announcer broke into the programme as though there was no tomorrow.

  ‘As far as I could make out, the police are hot on the trail of someone they think may be responsible for what he called “the recent bizarre events in Deauville”.

  ‘I didn’t manage to get all of it, but I heard the patron and his wife talking about it afterwards.’ She patted her hair. ‘So I lingered as long as I could. Apparently the police have been setting up roadblocks in the area and some guy drove straight through one of them without stopping. They gave chase and they had almost caught up with the other car when both of them hit a sharp bend at speed. The police car managed to negotiate it, but the other driver carried straight on down a narrow lane and ran foul of a herd of cattle. Before the police managed to reach the scene he had made off, last seen disappearing into the St Gatien forest. Isn’t that somewhere near the airport?’

  ‘It was probably some poor innocent on his way to catch a plane and he panicked,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He must be wondering what hit him.’

  ‘Poor innocent nothing,’ said Amber. ‘According to the radio the police have reason to believe he may be a terrorist.’

  ‘“Have reason to believe,”’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘is usually another way of saying they are pretty darned sure, but they are working on it to get as much proof as possible before making an arrest. Charging someone with committing an offence is one thing, making it stick is another matter entirely.’

  ‘They have to catch him first,’ said Amber. ‘There was no sign of the dog everyone’s been talking about. The police have issued a warning saying not to go anywhere near him if he is sighted. He could be suffering from separation anxiety and may be dangerous.’

  While Monsieur Pamplemousse took care of the bill, Amber folded her napkin neatly and began gathering her belongings.

  Amid a plethora of ‘bonnes promenades’ from the patron and his wife, they headed back the way they had come.

  ‘That was a very professional-looking Bishop’s Hat you made with your napkin,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I doubt if I could do as well.’

  ‘So speaks the ex-detective,’ said Amber lightly. ‘Perhaps I’ve found my true vocation at long last. Besides, it was the least I could do after such a lovely meal.’

  As they drew near the station, the driver of a parked car gave a toot and flung open his door. Leaving Amber to retrieve their cases, Monsieur Pamplemousse crossed over to the parking lot.

  ‘You were making some enquiries about one of my fares earlier today,’ said the driver. ‘I’m not sure as it’s right and proper to give information just like that …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his wallet.

  ‘I drove him to Caen,’ said the man. ‘He asked me to drop him in the centre. It struck me he didn’t really know where he was going, so I left him outside the tourist off
ice in the Hôtel d’Escoville.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse thanked him. It was progress of a sort.

  ‘He didn’t say where he was heading for next?’

  ‘Not so as you’d notice. He hardly spoke, and when he did it sounded like Dutch to me. Or German. Could have been German.’

  He slipped the note into an inside pocket. ‘Can I take you anywhere? If it’s local you can have it on me.’

  ‘We need to get to Lisieux,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Amber arriving back with their bags. ‘And I’m happy to pay.’

  This time Amber sat in the front. It was a long shot, but Monsieur Pamplemousse wanted Pommes Frites in the back with him. Corby would have been closeted in there for perhaps the best part of an hour. The chances were that he might have left some trace of his presence, enough to set an average bloodhound’s nose twitching. Their olfactory powers were legendary, far in excess of any human measuring device, and Pommes Frites was no ordinary bloodhound. The problem would be trying to separate one scent from the many others there might be.

  He pricked up his ears as he overheard something the driver was saying to Amber. ‘Chew, chew, chew … nothing but chewing all the way. Can’t stand the stuff myself.’

  ‘That’s Jay for you,’ said Amber over her shoulder. ‘The bigger the problem the faster he chews. It used to be cigars before the No Smoking laws came in. Now he’s God’s gift to Wrigley’s.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his feet and saw what he was looking for straight away. Not just one, but several discarded wrappers.

  He held one out for Pommes Frites to sniff, then carefully deposited the remaining ones in the lined inner section of his wallet.

  ‘You are a wonderful man,’ he said, handing the driver a note as he stopped outside Lisieux Station. ‘Keep the change.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone has ever said anything like that to him before,’ said Amber, as the driver shot off at high speed without so much as a backward glance. ‘I must say you have a talent for that kind of thing.’

  ‘Merde!’

  ‘Now what?’ she asked.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse pointed towards the car park.

  ‘My car isn’t where I left it,’ he said. ‘In fact …’ he scanned the rows of cars in vain.

  Reaching for his mobile, he dialled a number. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘as your friend Jay might say, it is high time we touched base.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Having drawn a blank with the first number he dialled, Monsieur Pamplemousse flipped through his diary and found an alternative under ‘Mobiles’. This time his call was answered almost immediately.

  ‘Who is that?’ asked an unfamiliar voice. ‘What is it you require?’

  ‘I was hoping to speak to a Monsieur Leclercq,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I’m afraid I must have the wrong number.’

  ‘Pamplemousse!’ exclaimed the Director. ‘Don’t tell me you are in Alsace-Lorraine already.’

  ‘No, Monsieur. I am in Lisieux!’

  ‘Lisieux?’ repeated Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Excellent! It could not be better.’

  Apart from the fact that it was hardly the response he had expected, there was definitely something odd about Monsieur Leclercq’s voice; what could only be termed a marked absence of its usual mellifluous tones in the lower register.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse paused for a moment and put a hand over his right ear to shield it from the noise of a train pulling into the station.

  ‘I am in Lisieux,’ he repeated. It came out rather louder than he had intended.

  ‘There is no need to shout, Pamplemousse,’ barked the Director. ‘I am not deaf.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily sought to pour oil on troubled waters. ‘If I may say so, Monsieur, I had difficulty in recognising your voice. It is amazing what a difference being in a darkened room can make to sounds. I suppose heavy curtaining absorbs the lower frequencies. That, and the thickness of one’s duvet, of course.’

  ‘Would that were the cause, Aristide,’ groaned the Director. ‘I am at my wits’ end.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to tread warily. Clearly, the change he detected wasn’t entirely due to the acoustics of Monsieur Leclercq’s bedroom. Perhaps it was simply a matter of his having climbed out of his four-poster bed on the wrong side that morning. It happened in the best of circles.

  ‘I must say, Monsieur,’ he continued, in an attempt to lighten the tone of the conversation, ‘I had no idea Madame Leclercq was fond of budgerigars.’

  ‘What are you on about, Pamplemousse?’ barked the Director.

  ‘I thought I heard chirruping in the background,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It reminded me of Madame Grante’s Jo-Jo. As I recall, when Jo-Jo is “on song” you can hardly hear yourself speak, especially on days when it has overdosed on its millet spray.’

  ‘And as I recall,’ said the Director grimly, ‘the operative word is when. It is an oiseau with a boundless lack of the basic social graces. Over the years it has acquired many of its mistress’s less endearing qualities. When I last essayed a friendly gesture and poked my finger through the bars of its cage to bid it bonjour, it tried to peck the end off.’

  ‘With great respect, Monsieur, I think it probably misread your intentions. If you remember, we were all on edge at the time because of the attempt to sabotage Le Guide. Animals and birds are very sensitive to undercurrents. They like everything to be in its proper place. The kidnapping of Madame Grante by that dreadful person who began by insinuating himself into her affections and then threatened to send parts of her anatomy through the mail unless his demands were met, must have been a traumatic experience for such a small creature, whose only major upsets until then had been the occasional late arrival of its iodised nibble.’

  ‘Must you keep reminding me of these things, Pamplemousse,’ groaned Monsieur Leclercq. ‘It is an annoying habit of yours. Listening to you talk, anyone would think working for Le Guide was one disaster after another.’

  ‘You must agree there have been rather a lot of narrow squeaks over the years,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse defensively. ‘And we happen to be in the middle of one now, which is why I am phoning you.’

  ‘Be that as it may, Pamplemousse, the sound you can hear is not that of a budgerigar, caged or otherwise. It is a rouge-gorge, and its beak is but a hairsbreadth away from my right ear. It keeps peering into the orifice to see what it can find. You would think it had never seen inside one before.’

  ‘It probably hasn’t,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, relieved to be on common ground at long last. ‘Robin Redbreasts are renowned for their inquisitiveness. They show no fear when it comes to investigating anything new. It is one of the problems inherent in leaving one’s bedroom window open at night.’

  His sense of euphoria was short-lived.

  For some reason best known to himself, it sounded as though Monsieur Leclercq might be counting up to ten. Either that or he was temporarily short of breath. It was beginning to sound extremely laboured, like a steam engine nearing the summit of a steep incline.

  ‘If you must know, Pamplemousse,’ he said at last, ‘the oiseau in question is hanging upside down from the branch of a bush, and the reason why my voice may sound odd is because at this moment in time I am lying in a ditch immediately below it. A ditch, moreover, which is not only full of thistles, but is within striking distance of my own home. I have only to cross the road—’

  ‘It may be a silly question,’ broke in Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but if that is the case—’

  ‘Why do I not climb out of the ditch and do just that? Is that what you are saying, Pamplemousse?’ responded Monsieur Leclercq. ‘For a start, you never know who you might meet on the way, but over and above that I happen to be well and truly wedged. I fear it is the trapdoor syndrome in your play all over again, exacerbated by the fact my muscles are not yet fully recovered from yesterday’s debacle. There are parts of my anatomy that have been lyi
ng idle for a good many years and they are currently a matter of considerable concern to me.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse felt tempted to suggest it was no wonder the rouge-gorge was having a ball. It was to be hoped its excited tweets did not reach the ears of other redbreasts in the surrounding area, many of whom would probably welcome any kind of diversion in their otherwise humdrum daily routine.

  ‘There are those, like my wife’s sister, Agathe, who believe the body is full of poisonous sacs,’ he said, by way of comfort. ‘Little containers brimful of noxious substances. Left to their own devices, they pose no threat. However, if she, or in this case he, meaning your good self, indulges in too much unaccustomed exercise, jumping up and down, par exemple, or even lying in a ditch, they are liable to spill over into one another’s territory with dire results.’

  ‘There are some things I would rather not know, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I have enough problems as it is.’

  ‘Can you not telephone for help, Monsieur? You need only dial 17 and I am sure the police will be with you in no time at all.’

  ‘That is the very last thing I wish to do,’ groaned Monsieur Leclercq. ‘It would be akin to stepping into a lion’s den at feeding time without so much as a can of spray-on instant sedative at my disposal.’

  ‘But, Monsieur, you must take my word for it. The police may have their faults – no one is perfect – but at such times—’

  ‘The truth of the matter is—’ the Director broke off for a moment and took a deep breath. ‘I have a confession to make, Aristide. One which is for your ears only. To put it bluntly and not to mince words … I am on the run.’

  ‘On the run, Monsieur? From a rouge-gorge?’

  ‘Worse, Aristide, far worse. From the local gendarmerie, no less.’

  ‘But—’

  If the Director was experiencing difficulty in clarifying his situation, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt totally at a loss for words. To put it mildly, he was momentarily stunned. For all his faults, Monsieur Leclercq had a strong sense of right and wrong. He was normally a paragon of virtue, an upright citizen of the very first echelon. It was hard to imagine anyone less likely to be on the run from the police. He racked his brains to think what could possibly be serious enough to warrant his hiding in a ditch.