by Michael Bond
‘Why?’
‘It affects the tides. The really high ones bring visitors pouring in by the coach load.’
‘Would Corby know all this?’
‘Any hotel brochure will mention it. I remember catching sight of him leaving after the show. He looked pretty cut-up about something. Is there anything else I should know about him?’
‘He drinks Coca Cola for medicinal purposes and he uses what’s called a swizzlestick to get rid of the bubbles.’
Truffert sounded dubious. ‘I guess they’ve tracked people down with less, but you should know. Is it important?’
‘Very,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘How about the police?’
‘It wouldn’t be a popular move,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Anonymat and all that.’
‘D’accord!’ said Truffert. ‘I’ll keep my ears to the ground and get in touch again if I hear anything.’
‘We shall most likely be in Caen by then …’
‘If you are,’ said Truffert, ‘I can give you the name of a good restaurant near the Marina. They do superb escalopes de veau. The chef uses a cupful of vermouth instead of the usual cider. It makes a change.
‘By the way, have you read the reviews of the play?’
‘I haven’t even seen a journal,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
Truffert gave a chuckle. ‘Just you wait!’
‘Jesus!’ said Amber, as they alighted outside the entrance to the Leclercqs’ summer residence and the taxi went on its way. ‘I was looking at the floor mat and counting up to ten most of the way. It didn’t exactly have WELCOME written on it, or if it ever did it wore away a long time ago.’
‘It only confirms what you said earlier,’ replied Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It takes all sorts. And one way or another, taxi drivers manage to embrace most of them.’
He took out his mobile. ‘Now for the moment of truth.’
‘Watch out!’ hissed Amber, as an unmarked police car came around the bend and headed towards them.
She was a split second too late. At almost precisely the same moment as Monsieur Pamplemousse pressed the button, the car drew up alongside them and two policemen climbed out.
In what he was later to consider one of his finer moments, he converted the dialling motion into holding the mobile up as though taking a photograph, then slipped it into an inner pocket and put a finger to his lips.
‘We’re looking for a man,’ began the older of the two. ‘Rough diamond. Like a gorilla. Stop at nothing …’ He glanced down at Pommes Frites. ‘Got some kind of giant mastiff with him. By all accounts it would make yours look like a Dandie Dinmont.’
‘Ssh!’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, as the sound of ringing came from some brambles on the other side of the road. ‘It might fly away.’
‘That’s a bird?’ said the younger of the two.
‘Sounds more like a telephone to me,’ agreed the older man.
‘Exactement,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘That is how the lesser spotted wurzel got its nickname – “the telephone bird”. Its call is music to an ornithologist’s ears. It is what distinguishes it from all other birds.’
‘I can’t wait to tell them back at the station,’ said the number two.
Monsieur Pamplemousse made a sucking noise between his teeth. ‘I would much rather you didn’t,’ he said, warming to the subject. ‘It is almost extinct. If word gets out the place will be swarming with people and we shall risk losing it altogether.
‘We are researching material for a possible television programme on its breeding habits. Unless we find a mate for it, that will be the end of the line.’
‘If you do, and they get together,’ said the number two, ‘will it make a noise like the engaged signal?’
‘I thought I’d seen you before,’ said the senior of the two, glaring at his assistant. ‘There used to be a lot of husband and wife teams on television. I remember Armand and Michaela Denis for a start. They were my favourites. That Michaela was something else again.’
‘Must have been before my time,’ said the younger of the two. ‘Never heard of them.’
‘Everything’s before your time,’ said the older one.
He turned to Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘If you have finished, Monsieur, we would be delighted to give you and your partner a lift back into Lisieux.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse did a repeat performance of his sucking through the teeth noise, only this time with more feeling. Any moment now and the Director would get impatient and start shouting.
‘I would be very grateful if you could take mademoiselle to the gare. I have a few things to tidy up …
‘I can phone for a taxi,’ he added, for Amber’s benefit.
Clearly the idea appealed to the younger of the two. He instantly rose to the bait. ‘I’ve never met an ornithologist before,’ he said to Amber. ‘You’re not at all how I pictured one.’
‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Amber, fluttering her eyelashes.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ said the policeman. He held the door open for her. ‘Hop in.’
‘I will be with you as soon as possible, chérie,’ called Monsieur Pamplemousse.
Amber blew him a kiss as she climbed into the back seat of the car.
Not to be outdone, Monsieur Pamplemousse executed a deep bow and reached for his handkerchief. He was about to use it to wave au revoir when something about the feel of it warned him against the idea. It was a narrow squeak and no mistake, but by then he had other matters on his mind.
As the car disappeared around the bend, a familiar voice rang out.
‘Pamplemousse! What on earth is going on? Where are you?’
‘How are your researches on the lesser spotted wurzel going?’ asked Amber when they eventually met up at the gare in Lisieux.
‘Alas!’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I fear the worst.’
‘And the object of the exercise?’
‘Mission accomplished,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The bird has been returned to his nest and is as well as can be expected. How about you?’
‘Mine actually wanted to demonstrate his handcuffs on me!’ said Amber. ‘I doubt if he will try them out on anyone else for a while. Anyway, where to now?’
‘Caen,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The sooner we get out of here the better.’
Amber reached into her handbag and produced two tickets. ‘I was hoping you might say that.’
‘You have a receipt?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘I was rather hoping you might say that too,’ she said.
Shortly before their train arrived, the Chef de Gare appeared, clutching his clipboard and beaming instant recognition.
‘Monsieur, Madame,’ he said. ‘And how was Paris?’
‘It went like a dream,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘So much so, it feels as though we were never there.’
‘I trust you will find Caen to your liking, Monsieur.’
‘You don’t happen to know the trains to Mont St Michel, do you?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘From Caen, Monsieur?’
‘From Caen.’
‘It is trés difficile. The most direct route is to take the intercity train to Rennes and alight at Pontorson. That is the nearest stop for Mont St Michel.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse thanked him. ‘That shouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘Alas, Monsieur, they are few and far between. On Mondays there is one leaving at 05.42 and another at 07.13, but with that you have to pre-book a taxi between Coutances and Foligny. There are none midweek. Most of the traffic is geared for the weekend outings. On Fridays there is one at 16.43. On Saturdays, Sundays and fête days there is the 09.13, which stops at Pontorson, and another at 14.13. There is even one at 17.13.
‘When you get to Pontorson you can take a bus or a taxi to Mont St Michel. I strongly recommend you take a taxi … it is so much quicker. The company is called ’Allo Raymond and the number is 02-99-27-10-10 …’
>
‘What’s the betting Raymond is a cousin,’ said Amber, as they settled back in their seats and the train slid gently out of Lisieux station. ‘Twice removed, but never far away.’
‘In this part of the world,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘it is more than likely. Families are very close-knit.’
‘Anyway,’ said Amber, ‘I feel better now. If he says the timetable is très difficile it must be darned near impossible for ordinary mortals like me to work out. How he can reel out all those times is beyond me. The man is a walking encyclopaedia. He must eat, sleep and dream timetables.’
‘A true railwayman of the old school,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Besides, I suspect he has been asked the same question many times before.’
‘I don’t even know what day it is,’ said Amber.
‘By the look on Pommes Frites’ face,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse as he joined them, ‘you are not the only one. He is wearing his “where do we go from here?” expression.’
‘I guess he’s not into predestination,’ said Amber. ‘I mean, don’t you ever get the feeling that there are some things in life that are meant to happen, come what may?’
‘There are times,’ admitted Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘when everything seems to depend on being in a certain place at a certain time. In retrospect, you don’t even remember why you were there. Even simple things like the Director deciding to move my car, which in turn led me to phone Truffert, a call which gives me cause for hope …’
‘Isn’t that leaving too much to chance?’
‘I prefer the word “probability”,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Professional gamblers don’t believe in chance – that’s in the lap of the gods. If they hit a bad run they stop playing for a while, knowing that the law of averages will be on their side and in the meantime the odds in their favour are piling up.
‘Is it all pre-ordained? Who knows?’
‘Then again, there is the way we met,’ persisted Amber. ‘I mean, I doubt if I would be sitting on this train with you if it hadn’t been for Pommes Frites.’
‘That too …!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse’s voice sounded guarded even to himself. ‘We shall have to wait and see. Patience is the key word.’
‘There speaks your true ornithologist,’ sighed Amber.
CHAPTER NINE
Monsieur Pamplemousse made himself comfortable in a window seat opposite Amber.
‘It seems to me,’ he said, ‘that somewhere along the line Corby has either been ill-advised, or he has unwittingly boxed himself into a corner. Whichever it is, it could be to our advantage.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Assuming he is heading for Mont St Michel, the fewer ways there are of getting there the easier it will be for us to catch up with him, so unless he finds some method of transport other than the train—’
‘I can’t picture him taking a coach, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ said Amber. ‘There would be too much socialising. Comfort stops – that kind of thing. You know what they’re like these days. He wouldn’t go for that kind of thing.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t know, but he could guess.
‘Given that he doesn’t drive, and taking a taxi that distance would be too conspicuous a luxury, he is really left with no alternative … unless, of course, he gives up on the whole idea.’
‘Jay is a typical Scorpio,’ said Amber. ‘Once he has decided on a course of action he doesn’t give up easily.
‘He is also a New Yorker by adoption, and you know what the song says: “If you can make it there you can make it anywhere.” You don’t do that by sitting on your backside in Caen.’
‘Well, seeing as today is Thursday and there won’t be any more trains to Mont St Michel until tomorrow,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse mildly, ‘he doesn’t have much choice in the matter.’
‘Is that so bad?’
‘From his point of view it isn’t exactly ideal. If you thought the streets in Deauville were long and straight, wait until you see Caen. He was probably picturing an ancient city full of narrow alleyways and dark corners, whereas nowadays it is quite the opposite.’
Gathering his thoughts as they emerged from the long tree-lined cutting which made up the first part of the journey, he gazed out at the passing scene: thatched half-timbered houses and farm buildings dotted the landscape, mostly in splendid isolation from each other.
Occasionally he caught sight of a group of single-storey cottages in the distance, clustered round a larger building boasting a steeple.
Picket fences divided one piece of land from another, and here and there neatly stacked piles of wood stood in readiness for the coming winter. A Norman dovecote built of flint and stone, large enough to house a sizeable family, came and went. Groups of creamy-white dairy cattle lay basking in the afternoon sun.
‘I hate to say it,’ he said, ‘but I think it’s going to rain.’
‘Rain?’ repeated Amber unbelievingly.
‘The cows are all lying down,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘You believe in that kind of thing?’ Amber looked up at the cloudless sky. ‘If you ask me, they’re probably suffering from heat stroke, but what do I know?’
‘It is a matter of instinct,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Cows often sense things long before we do.’
‘Well, if they are right,’ said Amber, ‘it will mean a shopping expedition. I’m equipped for most things, but not rain in July.’
They sat in silence for a moment or two.
‘What can we expect when we get to Caen?’ asked Amber.
‘How long is a piece of string? Its main claim to fame is tripe: tripes à la mode de Caen.’
‘If you are looking for an excuse not to take me out tonight,’ said Amber, ‘carry on talking. The very thought puts me off.’
‘In the mid-west of America they get around the problem by calling it “Sonofabitch stew”,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It contains all the working parts from the inside of a calf: heart, liver, tongue, sweetbreads, brain, plus something called the “narrow gut” connecting it all with the fourth stomach.’
‘See what I mean?’ said Amber. ‘That kind of concept reminds me of another sonofabitch, name of Jay Corby. Anyway, aside from Caen’s main claim to fame resting on a ruminant’s basics, what else is there I should know?’
‘Being a lady of fashion,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘there is that well-known English dandy, Beau Brummel. Towards the end of his life, having gambled away all his fortune in the UK, he fled to France to escape his creditors and ended up in Caen, where he became British Consul. That lasted all of two years. He eventually died in a charitable asylum.’
‘I am beginning to wish I hadn’t asked,’ said Amber.
‘Along with Pommes Frites,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I am a picker-upper of unconsidered trifles. His occasionally stick in his gullet, whereas I store mine away for future reference. You never know when they might come in useful.’
Clearly, it wasn’t one of those occasions.
‘It can’t all be doom and gloom,’ said Amber. ‘There must be an upside to it all.’
‘Caen is lucky to be still there at all,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In 1944 more shells and bombs landed on it in the space of two months than Hamburg received in the entire war.
‘All of which is a bit ironic seeing that in 1074 King Henry the First and William the Conqueror signed a treaty called “The Truce of God”, specifying future wars could only be fought on certain days of the week and then only at certain seasons of the year.’
‘I guess nothing is for ever,’ said Amber. ‘But why? I mean, why Caen in particular?’
‘The Germans decided to defend it because it happened to be an important transport hub. Not only were there road and rail links in all directions, but in spite of it being a good twelve kilometres from the sea, there was a thriving dock area reached via a canal. It was a godsend to the Allies when it came to landing supplies.
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�The upside of it all is that having been left with three-quarters of their city razed to the ground, the inhabitants of Caen had to start all over again from scratch, and in so doing they created a blueprint for what many other cities all over the world are only now beginning to aspire to. It has a superb transport system including a network of trams that run every three minutes, wide pavements almost everywhere, a pedestrianised shopping centre, and plenty of off-street parking.
‘Here and there traces of the old city remain: William the Conqueror’s Chateau, which is practically indestructible; and by some miracle its two main abbayes: the Abbaye-aux-Hommes and the Abbaye-aux-Dames.’
‘His and Hers abbeys sound like something Nieman Marcus would have in their Christmas catalogue for the person who has everything,’ said Amber.
‘I wouldn’t let anyone in Caen hear you say that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You will see what I mean when we get there. It may have a race course in the middle of it, but places to hide away in are thin on the ground.
‘If he has any sense, Corby will keep a low profile. Since the end of the war it has become a Mecca for Anglo-American veterans visiting the Normandy landing beaches. Given the amount of publicity he enjoys back home, he will stand a good chance of being recognised by one of his fellow countrymen.’
‘Do you think we should start looking where the taxi driver dropped him off?’ asked Amber. ‘He may be holed up somewhere near there.’
‘Truffert reckons that if Corby is planning to move on, he would look for a small hotel near the gare,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘and I would go along with that. They are more likely to be geared to catering for the passing trade: reps and the like. It depends how much luggage he has.’
‘A carry-on bulging at the seams,’ said Amber. ‘I asked the driver while you were busy looking for gum wrappers in the back of his cab.’
‘What Corby wouldn’t have known,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘is that the gare is on the other side of the River Orne, to the south of the city.
