Monsieur Pamplemousse Stands Firm

by Michael Bond

  Looking at the scene through the view-finder it was hard to believe that only a short while before, and a bare kilometre or so away at that, those same waters had witnessed what had every appearance of being not one, but two particularly bloody murders. He wondered what the reaction would be if a leg or an arm suddenly floated into view, or if one of the fishermen hooked something unexpected. It would certainly put them off their dîner.

  Feeling at a loose end, he worked his way along the beach, pausing every so often in order to throw a stick for Pommes Frites. Reaching some concrete steps, he climbed them slowly and found himself standing on the outer wall of a vast marina. It was a forest of masts; packed with yachts and motor craft of every shape and kind – there must be two thousand at least. To his left, at the entrance to the harbour, a statue in the shape of a giant anchor was dedicated to those lost at sea; a warning to week-end sailors who must go past it in droves during the season, although if the speed at which most of the current ones were travelling was anything to go by he doubted if many of them gave it a second glance. Time and a desire to be first in the queue took priority.

  He was about to take another photograph when he heard his name being called. Panning quickly down he registered a familiar figure waving to him from the stern of a motor launch just leaving the marina.

  Elsie, her blonde hair streaming in the wind, had discarded her trousers and top in favour of a minuscule black bikini. It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that as she hadn’t been carrying a beach bag she must have come prepared. He clicked the shutter before returning her wave.

  As the boat swept past he recognised one of the Americans at the helm; the oldest of the three and the one who seemed to be the leader. The other two were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they were still in the casino.

  Daylight did nothing for him; sunlight even less. He would have been more at home on the lower slopes of Montmartre than here in Arcachon. Despite his expensive clothes and shoes you could see your face in, he was surprised Elsie didn’t see him for what he was – a voyou– a hoodlum. There was no accounting for tastes.

  Rapidly changing to a narrow angle lens, Monsieur Pamplemousse followed the boat’s progress as it passed through the harbour entrance and made a turn to port. It looked as though Elsie and her new-found escort were heading towards the furthest tip of the peninsula at the entrance to the bay.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s first impulse was to ignore the whole thing. Write it off as being all part of life’s rich, and sometimes most unsatisfactory pattern. What did it matter to him if Elsie had chosen to ignore his note? If she was prepared to risk chalking up a black mark that was her decision.

  All the same, he couldn’t help feeling intrigued.

  A moment later, acting on an impulse, he made his way quickly back along the beach in the direction of the pier. He was in luck’s way. The 11.30 ferry to Cap Ferret was about to leave. Signalling Pommes Frites to go first, he scrambled after him and made his way through the crowded cabin towards the open stern. They had the last two seats.

  Seconds later the boat slipped its moorings and edged out from the steps. As soon as it was clear of the pier, it swung round in a wide circle between two rows of marker buoys and then quickly gathered speed.

  Heading south, they hugged the coast for a while, past rows of small hotels and apartment blocks interspersed with occasional examples of baroque housing: a hotch-potch of sea-side architecture.

  Pyla-sur-Mer came into view and as soon as they were clear of the oyster beds the boat swung to starboard and headed west towards the far side of the bay.

  Looking back over his shoulder, Monsieur Pamplemousse had a clear view of the dune. At the Arcachon end a zig-zag vertical line of enormous old wartime pill-boxes lay at drunken angles. Was it his imagination working overtime, or did they have a certain doom-laden air about them? Although they had obviously shifted their position over the years, they were so solid, nothing short of an atom bomb would ever destroy them completely. They had been built to last for ever, part of an unfulfilled plan by the Germans during the war to transform the Basin into a haven for their fleet of warships. Making use of his camera lens again he made out a helicopter landing-pad on a jetty to the town side of the beach. To its right there was a First Aid station with a red cross painted on its roof. From the look of the water level the tide must be around the halfway mark. Panning up, he searched in vain for the hotel, but it was hidden by the trees.

  It was hard to picture the possibility that somewhere in that vast mass of sand lay the grizzly remains of the hotel patron. If it were true, then they might never be found. It was no wonder the police had given up; it was a thankless task.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave an involuntary shiver. He couldn’t have put it into words, but neither could he escape the feeling that somehow the forces of fate were beginning to take over. It was the age-old question of what made you be in a certain place at a certain time. Was it pure chance that led him to be sitting where he was at that particular moment? If he had waited until the next ferry, or spent time writing his card to Doucette, would everything from that moment on be different? He would never know the answer.

  It was hard to raise any feelings for someone he hadn’t met; he didn’t even have the remotest idea what Monsieur Bouet had looked like. All the same, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help wondering what he had done to end up the way he had. If he’d upset someone then he must have done it in a big way. Perhaps, if he had a guilty secret, he’d carried it with him to his sandy grave. And what about his assistant? Had he been a party to the same secret, or had he accidentally stumbled across something he shouldn’t have?

  Madame Bouet was obviously taking it badly, as well she might. Nevertheless, someone would have to run the hotel. If the first night’s performance was anything to go by they would need a new chef for a start.

  Not for the first time he found himself toying with the idea of looking elsewhere. The German couple had already left. Perhaps even now they were having another row in a shower further along the coast. But Elsie seemed dead set on staying put and at least his room was reasonably comfortable.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse scanned the water for any sign of her boat, but the bay was busy with craft of all shapes and sizes – a mixture of yachts and motor launches, with here and there a larger boat carrying a party out for a day’s fishing.

  To be totally truthful he had to admit to more than a faint twinge of jealousy that Elsie had left him in the lurch, totally ignoring his note. He couldn’t even console himself that it was for a younger man; that he could have well understood. It was simply someone with the means to hire a boat. And why not? Perhaps because for all Elsie’s faults he’d thought better of her. She didn’t have to say yes to the first man who came along. Clearly she had made a play for more than a turn of the wheel at the casino last night. He wondered what Reginald would have to say if he got to hear of it.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse felt more and more aggrieved. Elsie wasn’t exactly proving to be a dedicated representative of Le Guide. There had been no question of her asking if she could have the day off. Normally she would have been expected to explore the area, checking on other entries in Le Guide, making notes on any changes which might have taken place. It all had to go down.

  Pulling his hat down over his face to shield it from the sun, he settled back to make himself comfortable. He should have known better. It was a signal for the boatman to throttle back. Yet more oyster beds came into view and a moment later they slid alongside the pier at Bélisaire. It was almost mid-day. The journey had taken just over twenty minutes.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated outside a café at the end of the pier, but it was too early for lunch. A narrow-gauge railway track ran along the side of the road. It disappeared invitingly round a corner and into some woods, but the tiny platform by the terminus was deserted. He consulted a timetable on the wall of the booking office. The first train wasn’t due to leave until the afternoon so, with Pommes Frites at
his heels, he set off to explore the area on foot.

  Large private houses built at a time when the area was the summer haunt of wealthy burghers from Bordeaux rubbed shoulders with modern apartment blocks now occupied by lesser mortals. Cars with boat trailers proliferated.

  Their walk took them back down a pedestrian precinct lined with identical eating places displaying carbon-copy menus. There was a smell of cheap cooking oil in the air. Elsie was nowhere to be seen.

  Lost in thought, Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a jump as there was a sudden sharp crack from behind him. He ducked instinctively, only to see a small boy on a skateboard shoot past, weaving his way in and out of the other pedestrians before executing some complicated airborne manoeuvre which doubtless had some esoteric name – like a banana or a porcupine. There was another, louder crack as he landed heavily on the paving stones. A strange variation – half skateboard, half uni-cycle – came out of a side street. It was propelled with great aplomb by its owner. A moment later both boys disappeared down the precinct without a word being exchanged.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse envied their style and self-confidence. In his time it had been roller skates – not very good ones at that – and he’d had to run the gauntlet of running comments from his contemporaries. Nowadays, communication other than by means of monosyllabic grunts seemed almost a sign of weakness.

  He returned to the harbour feeling hungry after the walk. The café by the pier was beginning to fill up. He studied the menu outside, comparing it with what was on the plates of those already eating. Taste buds signalled their approval.

  Finding himself one of the few remaining tables near the water’s edge, he sat back to admire the view. It was easy to see why it was so popular with the purveyors of postcards.

  The little harbour was surrounded by oyster beds, misshapen branches sticking vertically from the water to mark the perimeter gave them a kind of rustic charm. The layers of flat plastic mesh baskets containing the oysters in the second stage of their development piled up in long rows. When the tide came in they would disappear again. Nature, according to the guide book, ensured that their water was changed twice a day; 400 million cubic metres of it. The annual oyster production in the bay of Arcachon was between ten and twelve thousand tonnes; 37,000 acres out of a total area of 4,320,000 was given over to it.

  In the face of such statistics Monsieur Pamplemousse had no choice but to order a sea-food platter and a demi Muscadet. Detecting a certain restiveness below the table, he asked for a steak frites and a picket of vin rouge to follow.

  Beyond the oyster beds he could see a few motor launches at anchor in the water, but it was impossible to tell which, if any, might be the one Elsie had been in. From a distance they all looked the same. It was quite possible her escort had tied up in one of the little harbours further along the coast at the far end of the Cap. If, indeed, they had come to that end of the peninsula at all. There were plenty of alternative places dotted along the coast.

  The sea-food platter came and went, and while the paraphernalia of plate stand, dishes and other impedimenta were being removed, Monsieur Pamplemousse dipped his fingers in a bowl of water, wiped them dry with his napkin, then poured himself some more wine and settled back to await the arrival of the steak. He was beginning to feel more at peace with the world. The only cloud on an otherwise spotless horizon came in the form of a warning growl from somewhere near his feet.

  Looking around, Monsieur Pamplemousse realised why. It was a question of territories. Pommes Frites was having to compete with the regulars; a motley selection of resident freelancers who obviously put in a daily appearance. In a brief survey of the surrounding tables he counted no less than nine other dogs. Apart from a Dandie Dinmont and what in a poor light might have passed for a Dogue de Bordeaux, they were a raggle-taggle selection of ambiguous pedigree and even more uncertain ancestry.

  Doubtless encouraged by residents with an eye to saving on biscuits during the holiday season, they patrolled the restaurant with an expert air, sizing up the clientèle before homing in on likely looking subjects. Once a decision had been made they settled down as close as possible to their chosen target, watching every mouthful. A mangy-looking Wolfhound with unusually yellow teeth appeared to be the ring-leader. Definitely not a dog to be trifled with. Not that it appeared to bother Pommes Frites. A visiting Chihuahua belonging to a woman at the next table looked suitably grateful as yet another growl sent the animal packing.

  As his second course arrived, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for the mustard and resolutely turned his back on the scene.

  The steak, lightly seared under the grill, was covered in melted butter. The frites arrived seconds later, piping hot on a separate platter. He tested one in his fingers. It was as he liked them, crisp and golden on the outside, yet soft and yielding within. In the end it was the simple dishes he enjoyed the most, although they were often the hardest to do. Pommes Frites stirred expectantly as he heard his master call for a green salad. It was a good sign.

  It was as Monsieur Pamplemousse cut and speared the first mouthful of his steak that he happened to catch sight of another ferry arriving. He glanced at his watch. It must be the 14.30 from Arcachon. The light was perfect. Only the waves from the wake of the boat as it swung round to tie up below the end of the pier disturbed the reflections in the water. Reaching for his camera, he quickly composed a picture of the jetty with the oyster beds in the background. Foreground interest was provided by a potted shrub, one of a row standing outside the restaurant.

  Having waited patiently for the moment critique when the passengers were halfway through disembarking, Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to press the shutter release button when he froze. To his horror, slap bang in the middle of the picture he saw Monsieur and Madame Blanche advancing down the pier. There was no possibility of escape. They were heading straight towards him. Recognition on their part was but a few short steps away.

  Afterwards Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t remember exactly what came over him. Perhaps it was simply a case of desperate situations demanding desperate but not necessarily considered measures. Whatever the reasoning, or lack of reasoning behind it, having issued a peremptory order to Pommes Frites to make himself scarce with all possible speed, he made a grab for the Chihuahua at the next table and with his other hand reached out towards his plate. The blissful expression on the creature’s face as it caught sight of an approaching meal faded rapidly as its tongue, wet with anticipation, made contact with the steak.

  All major events need some train of events to set them going. The atomic bomb requires its minor explosion to trigger off the horrifying chain reaction; earthquakes come about because of movement within the bowels of the earth which eventually cause them to erupt in protest. In the case of the Chihuahua it was the unexpected advent of moutarde de Dijon against tongue which provided the necessary catalyst.

  Although he had never been lucky enough to witness a performance at the Comédie française, let alone the Théâtre nationale (even at matinée performances neither establishment exactly went out of its way to encourage the presence of chiens), Pommes Frites considered himself something of a connoisseur when it came to the raw material of life from which writers of plays gained their ideas.

  Having stationed himself behind a convenient tree at what he judged to be a suitably safe distance from both Monsieur Pamplemousse and the restaurant, he watched in silent awe as the drama before him unfolded with alarming speed. The aggrieved expression on his face at having been banished from the table changed to one of wonder. Everywhere he looked there was something fresh to be seen.

  Waiters, who until that moment had resolutely refused to catch the eye of diners impatient for their l’addition, appeared as if by magic. The chef materialised brandishing a carving knife. He was followed by a bevy of lesser hands, each clutching an implement of their particular calling; oyster knives vied with glass decanters, meat pounders with butcher’s cleavers. The sound effects were deafening. It was t
heatre in the round and no mistake.

  In the centre of it all the Chihuahua, foaming at the mouth, its eyes as large as saucers and as red as the proverbial beetroot, took one terrified look at what was going on around it, then made a dive inside Monsieur Pamplemousse’s jacket where it proceeded to part company with the steak, noisily and with all possible speed.

  Taking full advantage of the diversion, and emboldened by the absence of Pommes Frites, the Wolfhound rallied his troops with a brief but pointed howl, then led them in clearing unwatched plates of their contents. Bellows of rage and feminine shrieks rose from all sides. In a matter of seconds the restaurant became a seething mass of snarling fur.

  The owner of the Chihuahua, distraught at seeing the state its loved one was in as it emerged gasping for air from the confines of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s jacket, climbed on to a chair and began crossing herself as though her own end was also nigh. Downing the last of his wine, a priest at an adjoining table hastened to provide comfort. He looked all set to perform the final rites.

  If the object of the exercise had been to divert Monsieur and Madame Blanche’s attention from any possible relationship between himself and Pommes Frites, Monsieur Pamplemousse had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.

  Even from a distance of some fifty paces it needed no expert in lip-reading to perceive Madame Blanche’s views on the matter. The oval shape formed by her lips said it all. It was a ‘poof’ to end all ‘poofs’. The look of scorn on her face as she went on her way dragging Monsieur Blanche behind her was something to behold. Pommes Frites shrank back behind the tree, holding his breath until they were safely past.

  When he next looked out he saw to his disappointment that the pageant was nearing its end. He was just in time to see his master disappearing down the road with the Wolfhound loping along behind. If Monsieur Pamplemousse had every appearance of making a bid for the next Olympics, the dog was behaving as though it had all the time in the world. It even paused for a moment in order to take a quick snatch from a clump of grass. Only the sight of its bared teeth and the sound of a scarcely suppressed snarl pointed to the fact that, far from being a vegetarian, it was merely working up an appetite before going in for the kill.