by Michael Bond
‘I am not hiding, Pamplemousse,’ groaned the Director in response to his question. ‘I fell into it by accident while making a final dash for home. Until then I was not even aware of its existence.
‘It is a sorry tale, I fear. But to begin at the beginning, I am glad you have telephoned because you will have to be apprised of all the facts sooner or later.
‘It so happened Chantal was driving into Deauville to do some shopping this morning. Knowing how much your old 2CV means to you, and not wishing it to fall into the wrong hands – a passing collector of ancient artefacts seizing his chance, perhaps – she offered to go via Lisieux and drop me off at the gare, so that I could drive it back home and leave it in our garage for safe-keeping.
‘For that reason, and for that reason alone, Aristide, I rose from my sickbed. I felt it was the least I could do in return for all the hard work you put in on making the play such a success. Please be assured I shall not rest easy in my bed until it has been fully restored.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt himself growing more and more confused.
‘It is most kind of you, Monsieur, but I thought you said you were lying in a ditch.’
‘There you go again, Pamplemousse,’ barked Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Splitting hairs as usual!
‘I was speaking metaphorically, of course. The fact is …’ once again the Director seemed to be having difficulty in finding the right words. ‘The fact is, Aristide, and it grieves me beyond measure to tell you this, but it may take a while to restore your Deux Chevaux to its former glory.’
‘Someone has driven into it?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse uneasily. ‘It is getting harder and harder to find the parts.’
‘No, Aristide, nothing as simple as that. Very much the reverse, in fact. For the time being it is lying on its side in a ditch halfway between here and Lisieux.’
‘Lying on its side?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In a ditch!’
‘Half in, half out,’ Monsieur Leclercq hastily corrected himself. ‘I am told panel-beaters can do extraordinary things these days. In the meantime, I am sure it is perfectly safe. Given the circumstances, I imagine the area will have been cordoned off with that ghastly coloured tape they use for crime scenes, and doubtless someone will have been left on guard while photographers and fingerprint experts do whatever it is they have to do. You would know far more than I do about what goes on. I shudder to think what will happen if the media get hold of the story.’
‘I think, Monsieur, you may find they already have, always assuming it is the same car, that is. There was an item on the radio at lunchtime today.’
‘I doubt if there are many cars lying on their side in the area,’ said the Director.
‘I still don’t understand how it happened,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The 2CV was designed and built in the days when Citroën insisted on having a wheel at all four corners of their cars, consequently they are renowned for their stability. I have never heard of anyone managing to overturn one. It simply isn’t possible.’
‘It is if you are going at speed down a narrow country lane and you encounter a herd of cows going in the opposite direction,’ said the Director. ‘For such large animals they are remarkably slow on the uptake. As for your 2CV having a wheel at all four corners, I fear it is deficient in that respect. Its quota has been reduced to three. The offside front one collided with a tree and became detached. For some reason, when I attempted to apply the brakes my right foot found itself entangled with a pile of waste material under the seat.’
‘Did you discover what it was?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse nervously.
‘There was no time,’ said the Director. ‘As the car came to rest I climbed out of it and, despite the mooing coming from all around me, I detected the sound of an approaching siren. At which point, I must confess I panicked and made a run for it.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse breathed a sigh of relief; it was one less hurdle to clear.
‘If I may ask—’ he began.
‘Why was I travelling down a narrow country lane at speed in the first place?’ surmised the Director. ‘I had no other choice, Aristide. Until that moment I had been driving along the D279 in a civilised manner, familiarising myself with the vagaries of a strange car whilst at the same time manoeuvring it around the kind of obstructions one encounters more and more in this day and age. For example, I was scouring the dashboard for some means of controlling the air-conditioning, and as one of the knobs came away in my hand I only just managed to avoid a row of cones protruding halfway across the road.
‘Moments later, what I took to be a road hog of the very worst kind tried to overtake me. He kept flashing his lights and the more he flashed them, the faster I went. I didn’t realise until it was too late that it was a police car. Quite simply, we came to a sharp bend in the road. I carried straight on and they went round it.
‘I am very much afraid, Pamplemousse, there is something sadly amiss with your power assisted steering.’
‘That is not possible, Monsieur.’
‘Nonsense,’ said the Director. ‘Nothing is impossible in this day and age.’
‘It is if you don’t have it in the first place,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘I count myself lucky to be alive …’ continued the Director. He broke off. ‘Did I hear you say you don’t have power steering, Pamplemousse?’
‘That is correct, Monsieur. Nor, for that matter, do I have air conditioning, other than by opening one of the windows.’
‘Were they not listed as optional extras when you bought the car?’ asked the Director.
‘There were no optional extras on the 2CV, Monsieur. In those days what you saw was what you got. That was the whole point of it. The list of all the things it didn’t have was a major selling point. Besides, it was all I could afford at the time.’
‘When this sorry business is over and the police have completed their findings, I strongly recommend you have power steering installed,’ boomed Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Lack of it must make going round corners extremely hazardous.’
‘I usually rely on the camber of the road, Monsieur. In bad cases, when there isn’t one, I depend on Pommes Frites for help. The most recent example was when you needed me in a hurry and I had to drive all the way from Rodez in the Midi-Pyrénées to Paris before lunchtime – a distance of some six hundred kilometres. I put the car into many a four-wheel slide going round corners, and he came in extremely handy. Being unusually sensitive to changes in motion, he simply closes his eyes and uses his weight to good effect. He was in his element.’
This reference to the most recent near-disaster – the one which, in effect, brought Corby into the picture in the first place – did the trick, as he hoped it might. Monsieur Leclercq hastily changed the subject.
‘Did you say you heard the news on the radio at lunchtime, Aristide?’
‘It was a little before one o’clock, Monsieur. We were in Bernay.’
‘One must be thankful for small mercies, Aristide.’ The relief in the Director’s voice was palpable. ‘I have already spoken to the Regional Deputy, who happens to be an old friend of mine – we attended the same grand ècole together. He agrees that, since the police will have undoubtedly identified the ownership of the car on the National Computer by now, for your own sake as well as for the sake of all those concerned, Le Guide and myself included, the best course of action is to allow them to draw their own conclusions and assume it was stolen. That is provided, of course, I am able to reach home unseen.’
It took Monsieur Pamplemousse a finite amount of time to digest the information. It was no wonder the Director was unwilling to risk being spotted crossing the road. The whole area was probably alive with police by now.
‘Silence is golden, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq.
‘And withholding evidence is a serious offence, Monsieur,’ countered Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘But if you are not asked, Aristide …’ persisted the Director. ‘If you are
not asked and you produce proof you were in Bernay at the time, that should be sufficient.’
Now who is splitting hairs? thought Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘I have a receipt for the meal,’ he said. ‘We began with mussels – the local version of Mouclade. Then we had a superb cheese board, followed by a speciality of the maison; Tarte aux Pommes, as the patron’s step-grandmother made it. I strongly suspect the recipe must have been handed down over the years.’
‘Typically Norman,’ said the Director approvingly. ‘I trust you made notes, Aristide.’
‘I did indeed, Monsieur.’
Excellent!’ exclaimed Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Now, once I have managed to release myself, all I have to do is return home unseen and we have nothing to worry about.’
‘Can you not phone your wife, or a member of staff?’
‘Chantal’s mobile is switched off. If she has gone shopping for clothes I doubt if she will be back much before midnight. It is nearing the Season in Deauville, after all. In any case, ignorance is bliss and I would rather she remained ignorant of the facts – I shall be saved hearing of nothing else during the months to come.
‘As for the staff … they have been given the day off to recover from yesterday’s extravaganza. In any case, their being local means I cannot possibly involve them. Tongues will undoubtedly wag. It will be all round Deauville before you can say “tout suite”.’
‘Is there no one who can help you?’
‘Sister has returned to Paris,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I strongly suspect she overdid it on the refreshments. Her hand was extremely unsteady when she examined me for bruises. Rambaud has stayed on to do a few odd jobs, but he doesn’t have a mobile, so there is no way of contacting him. Even if there were, trying to explain matters to him would take forever. He would probably end up bringing me a prawn sandwich like he did in the theatre.
‘We must have someone working in Normandy but they are probably much too far away by now to be of any help.
‘The truth is, Aristide, other than your good self, there is no one I can turn to. That is why I said your still being in Lisieux, whatever the reason, is excellent news. I suggest you take a taxi and get the driver to drop you off at the front gates of my home. Tell him you think the walk to the house will do you the world of good, which I am sure it would. I did it myself once soon after we moved in. Most invigorating.’
‘How will I find you, Monsieur?’
‘Wait until the driver is out of sight, and then simply dial my number,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘You should hear it ringing somewhere amongst the brambles. I will leave it unanswered so that it will guide you to where I am lying.
‘And Aristide …’
‘Oui, Monsieur?’
‘Please try not to be too long about it.’
‘I suppose you can’t really blame the police for jumping to the wrong conclusion,’ said Amber, when Monsieur Pamplemousse relayed the news to her. ‘A notice on the windscreen saying “Beware of the dog”, along with what looks like a kit of parts for a secret agent in the boot, plus a pile of assorted unmentionables under the front seat …’
‘And the Director’s fingerprints over all the controls,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘How is he going to get out of that one?’
‘Don’t forget mine,’ said Amber. ‘I might have been a back-seat driver, or worse. If the police put all those things together they could be looking for a spy who is also a sex maniac operating a mobile brothel on the side.’
‘One way or another, we had better move quickly,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Free the Director and then get the hell out of it. If they once pull us in for questioning it could go on for days.’
‘I don’t see why we can’t leave him where he is,’ said Amber. ‘Tell him there wasn’t a taxi to be had. I’m game for most things, but I draw the line at brambles.’
‘We can’t just leave him,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He’s probably stuck in a storm ditch. There might be a sudden downpour. There often is in these parts.’
‘That should free him if nothing else does,’ said Amber unfeelingly.
‘Suppose it doesn’t?’
‘Someone in the village is bound to go past at some point. By the sound of it he can’t be very far from the road.’
‘That is the last thing he wants. I know how his mind works. The news will spread like wild-fire. Apart from anything else, bang goes his chance of being mayor.’
‘What’s so special about being a mayor?’
‘In France they represent the last vestiges of local power,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, rising to the Director’s defence. ‘They are all things to all men; ombudsman, righter of wrongs, guardians of their local realm, rolled into one. They bring about a sense of community that would otherwise be lacking. Besides, they have all manner of perks. For a start they get to sit at the head of the table wherever they go.’
‘And that matters?’
‘It does to the Director. It means a great deal to him. It is second in importance only to avoiding loss of face, and as things stand he is in great danger of losing out on both counts.’
‘Silly me,’ sighed Amber. ‘I guess it takes all sorts. We had better look for a taxi.’
‘While you do that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I must make another call.’
Something the Director said had set his mind working. It was such an obvious move he could have kicked himself for not thinking of it before.
His call was answered on the first ring.
‘Congratulations on your performance, Véronique,’ he said. ‘I trust your stage husband is not giving you too much trouble.’
‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ said Véronique. ‘Anyway, I’m thinking of giving up treading the boards and retiring while I am at my peak. Parts like that are not likely to come my way again in a hurry. What really decided me is I am running out of garlic.’
‘Who do we have in the North at the moment? I am thinking of Normandy in particular.’
There was a moment’s pause.
‘Truffert?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Couldn’t be better. Any idea where he is?’
‘His last report came from the Caen area. He went straight there after the party. Now he’s on his way to Bayeux. Can I help at all?’
‘Would you be kind enough to ask him to ring me as soon as possible?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I’m not sure where I shall be, so if you give him my mobile number he can get me on that.’
‘Your carriage awaits, Monsieur,’ said Amber, as he terminated the call.
‘I thought you all went on holiday at this time of the year,’ she continued, as he brought her up to date on their way to the waiting taxi. ‘It felt like it at the end of the play. Everybody seemed to be heading off in different directions.’
‘So they were,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Half were going off on holiday, the other half were going back to work. Le Guide has to strike while the iron is hot. Most of the coastal regions, the Channel and the Atlantic ones in particular, virtually close down during the winter months. Hotel owners seize the opportunity to take a holiday themselves, or more often than not these days they have a second hotel in one of the ski resorts.
‘Truffert was brought up in this part of the world, so he’ll have as good an idea as anyone where Corby might end up. And he is on the spot.’
‘Let’s hope,’ said Amber, accepting the taxi driver’s offer of a front seat.
Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites were very firmly relegated to the back of the car. Clearly a man of few words, but with deep-seated likes and dislikes, the driver, feeling the latter breathing heavily down the back of his neck, turned up the volume of his radio, rendering the exchange of any pleasantries out of the question for the time being.
Monsieur Pamplemousse concentrated instead on the back of Amber’s neck, reflecting how often in life relationships blossomed and bore fruit while those involved were more than content to see only a fraction
of the whole. Both sides of any partnership, marital or otherwise, tended to show their best side at the beginning of a courtship, and it was in the nature of things for people to zoom in on what had attracted them in the first place.
Amber was a case in point. Seen at close quarters, the back of her neck was eminently kissable. You could understand anyone falling for it. But it was only a minute part of the whole. He wondered what she would be like when roused. Quite a fireball, most likely.
Following the direction of his master’s gaze, Pommes Frites was having similar thoughts. Although, in his case the idea of a good lick was as far as it went. Highly regarded in many areas as a token of love and a panacea for all ills, his recent singular lack of success with Monsieur Leclercq put him off the idea.
The object of their thoughts, on the other hand, remained inscrutable. Head down, lost in thought, fingers in her ears, Amber looked as though she was content to while away the journey in contemplation of her naval.
En route they passed, and were themselves passed, by a several police cars, but otherwise the road was remarkably clear of traffic. News spread fast.
Halfway to their destination, his telephone rang and he did his best to answer it.
Truffert sounded out of breath. ‘I got your message,’ he said. ‘Trouble?’
‘Nothing life-threatening,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘What the boss would call an Estragon situation,’ he added.
‘One of those!’ groaned Truffert. ‘Tell me the worst – if you can make yourself heard above the noise. It sounds as though you’re in a night club …’
‘It is not an ideal moment,’ agreed Monsieur Pamplemousse. Shielding the mouthpiece of the phone, he responded as quickly and as succinctly as possible.
‘My bet would be on Mont St Michel,’ said Truffert, without any hesitation. ‘Apart from Paris, it has a higher number of visitors per annum than anywhere else in France. Around 3.5 million. That’s aside from its normal quota of pilgrims. I’ll look in my diary and check on the state of the moon.’
