Monsieur Pamplemousse Stands Firm

by Michael Bond

  To say that Monsieur Pamplemousse remembered Elsie was the understatement of the year. After their brief encounter he had lain awake for the rest of the week thinking of very little else. Freudian dreams involving Elsie had filled his sleep. Elsie dressed in the uniform of a water Inspector, Elsie dressed as a swimming Instructor, Elsie in oilskins rescuing him from drowning …

  The Director took a precautionary look into the garden. When he next spoke it was with a lowered voice.

  ‘Aristide, that girl is totally without scruples. Why she should suddenly evince a desire to become an Inspector heaven alone knows. But she is determined to get her way, and if she doesn’t my life here will not bear thinking about …’ With a wave of his hand which embraced that part of his estate which could be seen through the French windows he downed his second glass of Calvados.

  ‘She is threatening you, Monsieur?’

  ‘Not in so many words. She has simply intimated that if there is a problem in granting her request perhaps she should visit me here so that we can discuss the matter in more detail. Can you picture it?

  ‘You have no idea what life in a small village is like. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. In Paris you can be anonymous. In the country, traffic through the kitchen is often worse than the Champs Elysées on a Friday evening. Then there is the Curé to be considered. Monsieur le Curé is one of the old school, steeped in the ways of a bygone age. The world with its changing mores and behaviour patterns has passed him by.’

  The Director gave a shudder. ‘I can hear the sound of her high heels on the cobblestones as she goes to see him.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse had a sudden thought ‘Could you not return to Paris for a few days, Monsieur? You could deal with the matter there.’

  ‘And miss the start of the season? It is short enough as it is.’

  ‘There must be other beaches, Monsieur. Le Touquet …’

  The Director gave him a glassy stare. ‘One does not come to Deauville in order to disport oneself on the beach, Pamplemousse.’

  Although he didn’t actually physically recoil at the idea, clearly he was distancing himself from it as far as he possibly could.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse had spoken without thinking. On further consideration he doubted if the Director had ever been on a beach in his life. He certainly couldn’t picture him with his trousers rolled up to the knees making sand-castles. Paddling as a form of pleasure would have by-passed him. Nor would he take kindly to Pommes Frites shaking himself over all and sundry after returning from a swim. He decided to change the subject.

  ‘May I ask what happened with Elsie, Monsieur?’

  ‘Nothing, Aristide. I swear on my copy of Le Guide that nothing untoward took place. What was intended merely as an encouraging pat while she went about her work, an avuncular gesture as she applied her feather duster to the chandelier in the hall, was grossly misconstrued. Or, to put it in another way, I suspect Elsie chose, for her own good reasons, to misconstrue it, filing the incident away in her mind for future use should the occasion demand. That occasion has arrived. Elsie wishes to be an Inspector.’

  ‘But surely, Monsieur, if she brings the matter up, then it will simply be a matter of her word against yours.’

  ‘Exactly, Pamplemousse. There, in your inimitable way, you have put your finger on the nub of the problem.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse fell silent.

  ‘I have learned over the years, Aristide, that when it comes to a husband’s word against that of another woman – whatever her age or circumstances or disposition, then it is the latter’s word the wife invariably believes. When it involves a girl like Elsie, the dice are loaded from the very beginning. Nature has endowed her with qualities which give rise to immediate suspicion on the distaff side.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but be aware of a certain fellow feeling. ‘But why me, Monsieur? Why not someone else? Bernard – or Glandier. Either of them would probably jump at the chance. Glandier especially.’

  ‘Exactly, Aristide. And in so doing they would undoubtedly fall for Elsie hook line and sinker. Her little finger would be the least she would twist them around. They might even come up with a recommendation for her permanent employment. I agree that in normal circumstances pairing her with you would not be the happiest combination, but these are not normal circumstances.’

  ‘What shall I tell my wife, Monsieur?’ He couldn’t picture Doucette taking kindly to the news that he had a female attached to him, and if she ever discovered it was Elsie she would be down on him like a pile of bricks.

  ‘Have no fear, Aristide, I have thought of that.’ Sensing victory at last the Director reached for his wallet, opened it, and withdrew a somewhat dog-eared photograph. ‘This is a picture of the daughter of a cousin of mine. As you can see she was not exactly in the front row when looks were given out. You can take it as an insurance policy. Should any enquiries be made chez Pamplemousse you can say this is your attachment.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse examined the picture. The Director was right. ‘Barrels must have been scraped, Monsieur.’

  ‘Exactement. If you must tell Madame Pamplemousse, then I suggest you choose a suitable moment and then arrange for her to come across the photograph by “accident”. I’m sure I need hardly tell an old hand like yourself how to play your cards.’

  While the Director was talking, Monsieur Pamplemousse took out his pen. The photograph was printed on matt paper and it was a simple matter to add a few spots in strategic places. In a matter of moments what had been merely unattractive became positively repellent. Trigaux in the art department would have been proud of him. He felt sorely tempted to add the beginnings of a moustache, but decided it might be overdoing things.

  The Director rubbed his hands together briskly. ‘Excellent, Pamplemousse. Excellent You have missed your vocation.

  ‘I can’t tell you how relieved I am. I knew you wouldn’t let me down. I must say that in some ways I envy you the task.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse brightened. ‘You are welcome to go in my place, Monsieur,’ he said, clutching at straws. ‘In fact, it might be a very good idea. Then no one can accuse you of partiality.’

  ‘Impossible, Aristide. Impossible! It is the first of the season’s important race meetings tomorrow. Elsie arrives at Bordeaux airport on the afternoon flight. You will need to be there by sixteen-thirty and as you know it is a long drive from Paris.’

  ‘Bordeaux!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t remember when he had last visited the west coast of France. ‘It is a long time since I tasted the delights of Michel Guérard at Eugénie les Bains, Monsieur. They say he has gone from strength to strength.’

  The Director gave a grunt. ‘I am afraid, Pamplemousse, you will have to rely on the opinion of others for the time being. Les Prés d’Eugénie is not on your itinerary.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to conceal his disappointment. ‘Ah, perhaps Monsieur is thinking of Au Bon Coin at Mimizan. Mimizan itself is like an abandoned film set, but the lake beside which the restaurant stands is very beautiful and I am told that the small island which adjoins the hotel has now been laid out as a garden … as for the food …’

  ‘No, Pamplemousse, I do not have Au Bon Coin in mind either. Or rather, Elsie does not. Her initial demands, I have to say, are surprisingly modest.

  ‘She has expressed a desire to explore the coastal area around Arcachon. Quite why she wishes to go there I do not know, I suspect an ulterior motive, but who am I to deny her wish? It has the advantage of being relatively unspoiled.’

  ‘It has the corresponding disadvantage, Monsieur, of being relatively unencumbered with restaurants of note. As I recall, Stock Pots are minimal.’

  ‘All the more reason to go there, Pamplemousse. It will be a challenge for you; something to get your teeth into.’

  It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that in the circumstances the last phrase was singularly inappropriate. Offhand, he could think of many other places he wou
ld stand more chance of finding something worth while to sink his teeth into.

  ‘Elsie has even given me the name of an hotel near Arcachon where she wishes to stay – the Hôtel des Dunes. Unfortunately it doesn’t appear to be listed in our records, or in any other guide come to that, so I am unable to tell you much about it. However, accommodation has been arranged. You can use it as a base for a week while you explore the area. I told Elsie she could have that amount of time in which to prove herself and she seemed reasonably satisfied. The rest is in your hands.’

  Recognising defeat, Monsieur Pamplemousse rose from his chair. ‘I will do my best, Monsieur, insofar as my conscience will allow. I cannot guarantee the result, but in the meantime I will of course report back to you on a regular basis.’

  ‘No, no! Pamplemousse.’ The Director looked agitated. ‘I have gone to great pains to make certain Chantal knows nothing whatsoever about my plans. As far as she is concerned Elsie went back to la Grande Bretagne for good. It must remain that way. Absolute secrecy is the order of the day.’

  ‘But, Monsieur …’

  The Director held up his hand. ‘Discrétion absolue, Pamplemousse!’

  ‘I understand what you are saying, Monsieur, but supposing … just supposing something goes wrong. I may need to telephone for further instructions.’

  ‘Things must not go wrong, Pamplemousse. As for telephoning me here, that is out of the question. It is quite within the bounds of possibility that either by accident or design Chantal could pick up an extension receiver and overhear our conversation, then where would I be? Her suspicions would be aroused on the instant.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the matter for a moment or two. The Director was right in his last remark. He wouldn’t normally have any reason for telephoning. The Director’s wife would smell a rat straight away if she caught them talking.

  ‘In that case, Monsieur,’ he said, tapping his teeth with the pen, ‘we must think up a reason. Perhaps I could leave something behind when we go today. Something precious …’

  The Director clapped his hands together. ‘Good thinking, Aristide. You have it right there in your hand!’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start. ‘But that is my favourite Cross pen, Monsieur. I shall be lost without it. Besides, it will be a bad omen I am sure.’

  ‘Nonsense, Aristide. In a week’s time you shall have it back. If all goes well you can have a dozen pens.’

  Now that the idea had been suggested, the Director entered into the scheme of things with all his old enthusiasm. Without waiting for a reply he took the pen from Monsieur Pamplemousse and stuffed it down the side of the chair.

  ‘No one will find it there unless they are looking specially.

  ‘We must find a code-word. What is the English word for stylo? Ballpoint; we will call the whole thing Operation Ballpoint. Should you run into trouble all you need do is say the word and I shall be on the qui-vive immediately.’

  Without further ado the Director picked up a small antique hand-bell. ‘I will ring for some tea. No doubt you and your wife will be wanting to get back to Paris and have a reasonably early night in view of your journey tomorrow. After tea I will arrange for a car to take you to the train.’

  ‘It’s a lovely evening,’ said Doucette, as they disembarked outside the gare in Deauville. ‘Why don’t we go for a walk and catch a later train?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his wife in surprise. It was a long time since she had suggested such a thing. Normally, she would have been only too anxious to get home.

  Pommes Frites decided matters for them. Pommes Frites could smell the sea, and in Pommes Frites’ opinion anyone who went to the sea-side and didn’t go on the beach needed their head examined. Without further ado he set off in the general direction of the harbour.

  The tide was in when they reached the yacht basin. On the Trouville side of the Touques estuary they could see boats of the fishing fleet being made ready for the night’s work. In less than twelve hours’ time they would be back again and the little fish market alongside the quai would be bustling with activity.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse wished he’d thought to bring his camera with him. It was easy to see why the light had attracted the early Impressionists, although what they would have made of the hideous new high-rise apartments which blocked the view of the sea on the Deauville side was anybody’s guess.

  Crossing the little pedestrian walkway which spanned the harbour entrance gates, they skirted the port until they reached the Promenade des Planches – the boardwalk made famous in the film Un Homme et une Femme.

  Pommes Frites galloped on ahead, blissfully unaware of notices reminding owners of dogs that anything untoward must happen below that area which would be covered by the incoming tide. It didn’t leave him much room for manoeuvre.

  ‘Aristide, is there anything going on between you and Monsieur le Directeur?’

  Lost in his own thoughts, Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start. ‘Why do you ask, chérie?’

  ‘Apparently he has been acting very strangely over the past few days. Besides, he made it perfectly obvious he wanted to get together with you on his own. Chantal knows even less about dovecots than I do.’ The fact that Doucette was suddenly on Christian-name terms with the Director’s wife did not escape Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘I gather it has to do with a letter which arrived from England, earlier in the week. Chantal found bits of it down the waste disposal the next morning. There was a picture of the queen on one of the stamps.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave his wife a side-long glance. ‘What else did Madame Leclercq have to talk about?’

  ‘Oh, this and that.’

  They strolled along the boardwalk in silence for a while. A burst of screeching from a flock of sea-gulls wheeling in the sky above the harbour marked the passage of a fishing boat. Pommes Frites found a large stick on the sand and brought it for his master, wagging his tail in anticipation. Monsieur Pamplemousse absentmindedly obliged and had it returned to him in a flash.

  ‘There have been phone calls,’ said Doucette. ‘And once, when Chantal pressed the re-dial button, she got an English number.’

  ‘Did she find out who it was?’

  ‘No. The person hung up immediately they heard her voice.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse breathed an inward sigh of relief.

  Cars were starting to draw up outside the Casino, disgorging occupants in evening dress. From where they were walking he could see the lighted chandeliers within. The gaming-room itself would be closed to the outside world. There would be a room full of one-armed bandits of course – a sign of the times – but, apart from the cars and posters heralding a visit by Lionel Hampton and Dave Brubeck, he doubted if the scene was very different to the days when Marcel Proust used to go there regularly in order to gamble and dance the night away.

  As they drew near, without either of them saying a word, they turned off the boardwalk and away from the sea.

  ‘The fact is …’ began Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I have been entrusted with a very delicate mission. The Director told me in strictest confidence, but I know you won’t say anything.’

  As they headed back towards the town he gave Doucette a brief run-down of the Director’s plans, omitting both Elsie’s name and his own instructions; neither of which would go down well – it was hard to say which would be worse. Of the two, he infinitely preferred to argue his way out of the latter.

  ‘If that’s all there is, then if you ask me he’s making a mountain out of a molehill. Anyway, I don’t see why it has to be an English girl. There must be plenty of French girls more than capable of doing the job.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a shrug as much as to say who am I to comment?

  Halfway back to the station they stopped at a café. He suddenly felt unusually dry and in need of a long glass of something cold and thirst-quenching. He decided to stay with cider. Doucette chose a citron pressé.

  When they had finis
hed, Monsieur Pamplemousse called for l’addition and in opening his wallet, allowed the Director’s photograph to fall on the table.

  ‘It is so that I shall recognise her at the airport,’ he said carelessly.

  Doucette glanced at it. ‘She doesn’t look at all as one might expect. She looks in need of care and protection. Perhaps I should come with you for once?’

  ‘Now, now, Couscous. You know how I feel about mixing work with pleasure.’ It was hard to tell whether the question had been asked in innocence or not.

  ‘Poor thing. Just look at her face. I’ve never seen so many spots.’ Holding the photograph up to the light, Madame Pamplemousse subjected it to a closer inspection.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart missed a beat. Stamped across the back in large letters was the name of a well-known French processing company. But he needn’t have worried. His wife had other things on her mind.

  ‘How very strange.’ She dipped her ringer in a glass of water and applied it to the surface. ‘Someone must have been defacing it. Look – the ink comes away. What can it mean?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘I think you have been married too long to an ex-detective, chérie. It has made you suspicious.’

  ‘But don’t you think it is strange?’ Doucette wasn’t to be diverted that easily. ‘Why should anyone wish to do that? It isn’t even well done.’

  ‘I really don’t know, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse testily. ‘People do the oddest things. I’m sure there is a simple explanation.

  ‘All I know is it couldn’t have been me.’ He opened his jacket and pointed to the inside pocket. ‘I have lost my pen. The one you gave me years ago. When we get to the gare I must telephone the Director in case I left it there.’

  ‘Ah! That reminds me. I can save you the trouble.’ Doucette reached for her handbag. ‘I have some good news for you. Chantal found it tucked away in the side of a chair. She gave it to me just before we left. You must have dropped it when you and the Director were having your chat. I told her how upset you would have been.’