by Michael Bond
In Pommes Frites’ case he could have pointed to a recent habit he had developed, that of checking the ends of his master’s trouser legs before they went out in the morning.
But that was a secret between the two of them. No doubt it would come to an end once they were safely back home.
CHAPTER TEN
The phone call Monsieur Pamplemousse had been setting so much store by came through at just past two o’clock the following afternoon.
With several hours to fill before the departure of the train to Mont St Michel, and in between a series of heavy showers, they had gone their separate ways for a while; Amber to do some shopping, and after investing in a pac-a-mac and a notebook, he had set out with Pommes Frites to explore what was left of the old city.
‘Funny thing,’ said Truffert. ‘I have absolutely no idea where your man is at this moment in time, but I think I know where he’s been.
‘Traces have been found in one of the hotels right opposite the gare. Not one, but two empty Coca Cola cans in the waste basket. Brought in ones – nothing to do with the hotel. It doesn’t run to bedside fridges. Circumstantial evidence, I agree … but the description fits, so I had a chat with the management and they said they would hold back on doing the room until you get there. But I should hurry; they weren’t too sold on the idea.
‘The reason I got to hear about it is because apparently whoever stayed there left the bath in such a filthy state it’s the talk of the rue Jules … They have all been to see it.’
‘Are you saying he has checked out already?’
‘Early this morning. Nobody knows where he went to, but it could be worth following up. Have you got a pen handy? I’ll give you the details …
‘I guess from all you have said he is most likely still in Caen, but if you don’t manage to pick up the trail I still think it would be worth the drive to Mont St Michel.’
‘It would be if I had a car,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘You don’t have a car?’ repeated Truffert. ‘Don’t tell me it’s given up the ghost at long last!’
‘It is a sad story,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It might make you want to cry.’
‘Don’t spoil my day,’ said Truffert. ‘I’m on my way to Carantec—’
‘Patrick Jeffoy’s hotel?’
‘The very same. Just checking to make sure it rates two Stock Pots.’
‘I can still taste his Homard bleu …’
Truffert gave a mock yawn. ‘It’s all right, I suppose. If you like that kind of thing. I may go for the téte de veau rôtie myself …
‘Listen, I know a good place to stay in Mont St Michel. It’s laid back from the main ones, but there is a good view of the bay and its comings and goings. I can phone ahead if you like …
‘It will be one up on Corby. He’ll be lucky to get within sight of the Mont itself this time of the year. You need to book up months ahead in the Season, and come August he could have a major problem.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse thanked Truffert, double checked on the name of the hotel in Caen – the street opposite the gare was awash with them – wished him luck in the arduous work that lay ahead of him, then went in search of Amber.
He found her in the rainwear department of Galeries Lafayette, looking as near to a million dollars as it was possible to be in a raincoat. He decided the casual way the belt was fastened had a lot to do with it. Her time in France had not been wasted.
A short walk from the Galeries they picked up a tram heading south.
‘Another first,’ said Amber, as Monsieur Pamplemousse validated their tickets.
‘From the way Truffert was talking I should prepare yourself for yet more very shortly,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
The management of the hotel turned out to be a lady of uncertain years and even more uncertain temper. ‘He’s got big paws,’ she said accusingly, as Pommes Frites bounded up the stairs ahead of them, leaving a trail of wetness.
Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t rise to the bait. Any mention of carbon footprints would have fallen on deaf ears. Instead, he waited until they were shown into the room they had come to inspect.
Once inside it he removed one of the chewing gum wrappers from his wallet and offered it up for expert assessment.
Having sniffed his way round the room, Pommes Frites found several screwed-up wrappers under the bed, followed by two more alongside the Coca Cola cans in the waste bin.
‘It has to be Corby,’ murmured Monsieur Pamplemousse.
He and Amber both stood back and watched while Pommes Frites did several more circuits of the room before heading for the bathroom, where he concentrated first of all on the basin and then the bath. It was hard to say which of the two was in a worse state; they were both all-over black.
‘I don’t get it,’ said Amber, looking over Pommes Frites’ shoulder as he placed his paws on the edge of the bath and peered at it.
‘Jay may be a hundred per cent copper-plated shitsky, but he is spotlessly clean with it. Like with his clothes. It may look as though he wears the same outfit every day, but that’s because he buys them at wholesale rates.’
In retrospect she had to admit that asking the manageress if the bathroom had been clean in the first place was a big mistake. The torrent of abuse couldn’t have been worse had she cast aspersions on the woman’s personal hygiene.
‘Pardon me,’ said Amber. ‘But it looks like the inside of a coal mine. What could he possibly have been up to?’
As though in answer to her question, Pommes Frites made his way back to the waste bin and returned almost immediately with the remains of a cardboard packet.
‘Black dye,’ said Amber, examining what was left. ‘Industrial size by the look of it. I guess your theory must be right. If Jay used it all up on his hair it’s no wonder the bathroom is in such a mess.’
‘I’m glad you’re happy,’ said the manageress. ‘All I know is this room has to be made up before the maid goes off. She’s over the time limit as it is already, and that costs. It’s going to take a lot of elbow grease. Who’s going to pay for it? That’s what I’d like to know.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his wallet, and having thanked the woman for her trouble, palmed a similar amount to the room maid as they passed her waiting impatiently behind a trolley in the corridor.
‘I think you’ve scored there,’ said Amber, as they took their leave. ‘Not once, but twice over! I’m jealous.’
‘I shan’t lie awake tossing coins,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Talking of which,’ he looked at his watch. ‘Since it is almost a quarter to three, why don’t we have a snack in the gare? It’s hardly worth going back to the hotel and we can check out the geography of it all.’
‘That’s another of your big words,’ said Amber, as they set off across the square.
‘It is a big gare,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘And there are only two of us.’
‘Two?’ She looked down at Pommes Frites.
‘I think this is one of those occasions when the second part of the phrase “C’est interdit! Mais toleré!” won’t necessarily apply. Pommes Frites and I had better keep together as much as possible, otherwise he may get seen off the premises.’
‘I feel contaminated,’ said Amber, as they entered the gare. ‘Do you happen to have a twenty cent piece?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse obliged, and while she was gone he took stock of the surroundings.
Although plate-glass windows and doors ran the entire length of the main building, most people seemed to be making use of the same double doors they had just entered by. It made sense, as they were the nearest ones to the bus and tram stops.
Just inside to his left, there was the entrance to a sit-down cafeteria. Further along, to his right and on the street side, there was a booth serving coffee, sandwiches and other light refreshments.
After the hotel manageress, the lady in charge of the booth was like a breath of fresh air, although clearly sh
e ran a tight ship. The coffee machine gleamed, and on the wall behind her, chocolate bars stood to attention alongside bottles of mineral water and fruit juice.
A marble-topped counter ran the length of it before disappearing round the far end, creating a small sit-down eating area.
He ordered two espresso coffees and a selection of pastries, before staking a claim on two stools. Relatively secluded, it afforded an ideal view of the area outside, covering the arrival and departure of trams, buses, taxis, and anyone on foot.
Securing the approval of the lady behind the counter, he left Pommes Frites in charge of the seating and set off on a quick voyage of discovery.
The entrance to the main waiting area was a little way along on the left. Immediately inside and again on the left there was a tabac with an impressive array of newspapers, magazines and souvenirs. Facing it was a sizeable seating area for waiting passengers, and beyond that again, past various vending machines and display boards, he could see the booking area and an open-plan enquiries counter.
The exit door for those boarding the trains was in the middle of a wall facing him in the waiting area. There was a large electronic display board high up on the wall listing arrival and departure times, and on either side of the door stood the usual ticket validating machines.
Through the opening he could see a vacant quai and, to the right, a downward flight of stairs, which presumably led to a tunnel serving the rest of the five or six quais. There was an empty set of carriages in the furthest one away. Given that Corby’s train started from Caen, it might well be his, although it wouldn’t be shown on the board until nearer the departure time.
So far, so good. Like everything else in present-day Caen, it was all very spacious, but there were precious few places in which to keep a low profile.
Having completed his tour of inspection, Monsieur Pamplemousse returned to the refreshment booth, arriving there at almost the same moment as Amber.
He couldn’t help noticing she was carrying what he had come to think of as her evening bag. Perhaps she was looking forward to a celebration? He had given up trying to read her mind.
‘What do you picture happening when we meet up with Jay?’ she asked, pulling up a stool next to his. ‘I mean, it would be nice to have first go if that’s OK with you?’
‘Feel free,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘All I need to know is what his intentions are regarding Le Guide. Is it good news? Or is it bad? If, due to a misunderstanding, it is the latter, I must try and talk him out of it.’
He gave her a brief rundown of his findings.
‘The train to Rennes starts from here, in fact, it may already be in place. When the time for boarding is announced I suggest you go straight to the quai. If it’s other than one that is immediately outside the door it will make things easier. You can wait in the tunnel and check all the passengers as they go by.
‘I don’t think there are any other ways he can use to give us the slip, but you never know. My guess is he will make a last-minute dash for it, so stay where you are until the train pulls out. The only downside is that he may not realise he needs to validate his ticket before boarding the train. That could be his downfall, and may be ours too.’
‘How come?’ said Amber, ‘Surely it isn’t the end of the world.’
‘When the ticket collector comes round on the train and sees it isn’t date-stamped, he will either have to pay a hefty fine on the spot, or if he can’t or he kicks up a fuss, he could find himself put off at the next station. Ignorance of the rules is no excuse.
‘Pommes Frites and I had better stay up here and keep an eye out for late arrivals.’
Amber glanced across at the waiting room. It was growing more crowded by the minute. ‘They can’t all be going to Mont St Michel, can they?’
‘There is another train scheduled before the 16.43,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘That ought to account for quite a few. As for the ones who are still waiting for the train to Rennes, there are a good few stops on the way.’
‘Who goes to Mont St Michel anyway – apart from people on the run like Jay?’
‘School children as part of their History lesson … Religious groups on a pilgrimage … The world and his wife …’
‘And their offspring, too, by the look of it,’ said Amber. ‘Although I don’t see any buckets and spades.’
‘French children don’t build sandcastles,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘They go shrimping. Sandcastles are the prerogative of the English. What do American children play at?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Amber. ‘Baseball, I guess.’
‘Vive la difference!’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘What draws people to Mont St Michel is its uniqueness … the sheer grandeur of it – especially when seen from a distance. Half of those going there don’t explore the cathedral itself, it is too daunting; they simply gaze at it in awe and try to do it justice with their digital cameras.
‘Others go there simply to witness the tremendous tides that roar in at the speed of a galloping horse, although even that isn’t what it was. The harbour has been gradually silting up over the centuries and there is a long building programme in place, diverting the waters of a river to try and clear it by natural means.’
‘Don’t they read the papers?’ asked Amber. ‘If they put it on hold for long enough, global warming should do it for them.’
Sensing a return of the chippiness he had experienced the previous evening, Monsieur Pamplemousse drained his coffee cup and brushed aside some cake crumbs. He was beginning to feel uneasy himself. It must be catching.
He looked at his watch. ‘As soon as the next train comes in I suggest you grab a seat as near to the exit as possible. If you want something to hide behind until the last minute, why don’t you buy a journal at the shop just inside?
‘In the meantime … bonne chance.’
Boarding for the Rennes train began twelve minutes before the departure time. He caught a brief glimpse of Amber making for the door ahead of the rush, before she disappeared down the stairs leading to the tunnel.
At 16.43, dead on time, the train left and quietness descended.
There was a long wait before she reappeared. Her face said it all.
Pommes Frites looked first of all at Amber, then at his master, and let out what was meant to be a comforting whimper, but somehow it was much louder than he had intended.
‘I hope it isn’t something he ate,’ said the lady in charge of the bar.
Amber held up a folded copy of an American newspaper she had been carrying. It was open at the leisure page. At the end of a restaurant review there was a short note: AJ CORBY IS CURRENTLY ON HOLIDAY.
‘The heavy type must be their way of saying they have no idea where he is either.’
‘What does the “A” stand for?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse out of curiosity.
‘Arsehole!’ said Amber.
‘Ooh la, la!’ came a voice from behind the counter.
‘So you think we should go through the whole Goddamn routine again for the 09.13 tomorrow morning?’ said Amber, over dinner that evening.
‘And, if necessary, the 14.13 and the 17.30 too,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Don’t forget it is a Saturday service.’
‘And if he isn’t on any of those?’
‘We do exactly the same thing on Sunday and keep our fingers crossed he doesn’t leave it until the 05.42 on Monday.’
‘Jesus!’ said Amber.
‘As someone once said in a different context regarding old age,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘it’s better than the alternative.’
‘I’m not even sure about that any more,’ said Amber.
‘The thing about the present situation,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘is that we don’t really have an alternative. Speaking personally, I have always believed in following my instincts. They have served me well over the years.’
‘I wish I could say the same about mine,’ said Amber.
‘I have a sneaking feeling Corby is still around,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘and I doubt if it is because he has fallen in love with Caen. It may even be a matter of instinct with him, too. Perhaps he is simply playing it safe for a couple of days in the hope of putting people off the scent. Who knows? I can’t think of any other reason.
‘In the meantime, I see the patron is waiting in the wings with pencil poised, so I suggest we take advantage of Truffert’s recommendation and order the escalopes of veal for the main course, and perhaps to start with, how about a lobster bisque? It will go with the weather.’
He looked out of the window. Despite the time of the year, it was already starting to get dark. Umbrellas were being unfurled yet again.
Amber glanced over her shoulder while he was placing the order. ‘Why are you always so right?’
‘In my last job,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘you didn’t win any medals for getting it wrong, and much the same goes for my present one. You develop a sense of smell …’
‘Since you are so obviously dying to ask,’ said Amber. ‘It’s Chanel No 19. “Fresh, light, adventurous, delightful” or so the adverts say.’
‘That depends a great deal on the person wearing it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘If I may say so, three out of four isn’t bad.’
She looked at him quizzically. ‘Now you’ve got me at it. Which particular one am I lacking?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was spared having to answer by a flurry of table-laying, followed almost immediately by the arrival of a soup tureen. As the patron removed the lid with a theatrical flourish, the smell that rose from the creamy rich contents enveloped them.
Their reaction didn’t pass unnoticed by a small group outside who had been studying the menu board. Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his glass to them as they trooped in.
‘Opting for a window table has its advantages,’ he said. ‘You get good service for a start. The patron’s performance wasn’t entirely for our benefit; it was timed to perfection and it did the trick.
