Monsieur Pamplemousse Rests His Case

by Michael Bond

  On the other hand … he closed his eyes, allowing himself the luxury of drifting to sleep on thoughts which floated in and out of his mind like the waves of an incoming tide … on the other hand, there was one person in Vichy who might well have had a different answer had he still been alive to voice it.

  3

  TROUBLED WATERS

  Monsieur Pamplemousse woke to the sound of a road-cleaning machine making its early morning rounds outside the hotel. If the noise was anything to go by, the driver was a strong union man. One up the lot up.

  Pommes Frites opened one jaundiced eye and, when he saw the room was still in semi-darkness, closed it again. Monsieur Pamplemousse tried following suit for a while, but he had too much on his mind to go back to sleep and in the end he got out of bed and wound open the shutter covering the balcony window. Then he opened the door and went outside.

  The road below was still gleaming where it had been freshly sprayed with water; the locals must be expecting the early summer they had been enjoying to stay for a while. The temperature in Paris had been in the upper seventies; today looked as though it might be even hotter. Looking eastwards over the rooftops he could barely make out the foothills of the Monts de la Madeleine, some twenty kilometres away, for the intervening countryside was shrouded in a heat haze.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch. It was already nine o’clock. He hadn’t slept so late in years.

  While he was shaving he ran the bath. It was a giant of a thing, with taps and pipework to match; the product of a bygone age. Undoubtedly it would confirm Mrs Van Dorman’s worst suspicions about French plumbing. On the other hand, she couldn’t have grumbled about the water. It was what his old mother would have called ‘piping hot’. In its heyday the hotel must have needed a boiler the size of an ocean liner’s. At least it still worked, which was more than could be said for the row of bell-pushes alongside the bed; one marked Femme de Chambre, another Valet de Chambre and a third Sommelier. At some point in time the wires had been severed at the skirting board, the paint-covered ends still protruded from beneath the well-worn patterned carpet. As he lay back in the bath, Monsieur Pamplemousse reflected on how nice it must have been to stay in bed of a morning and summon help from all directions when you felt like it, instead of having to hang a breakfast order on a door knob outside the room the night before.

  One came across such places from time to time, mostly in old spa towns or once fashionable seaside resorts. Dinosaurs of the hotel trade, they were mostly staffed by old retainers who had nowhere else to go, and when they died the hotel would die too.

  Hearing the sound of splashing, Pommes Frites came into the room and rested his chin on the side of the bath. Even he looked a little taken aback by its size. Monsieur Pamplemousse hoped it wouldn’t occur to him that there was room for them both, or even essay an attempt to rescue his master.

  He was saved by a knock on the outer door, reminding him that he’d ordered his breakfast for nine-fifteen.

  ‘Entrez!’ Reaching for the flannel, he sank down into the water.

  The chambermaid was unperturbed. ‘Sur le balcon, Monsieur?’ She didn’t give him time to reply as she bustled past the open bathroom door carrying a tray. There was a rattle of crockery from somewhere outside and the sound of chairs being moved, then a ‘Bon appétit, Monsieur,’ and she was gone again.

  She was right, of course. It was no morning for sitting in one’s room eating croissants by electric light.

  Swathed in a voluminous towelling dressing-gown, courtesy of the hotel, Monsieur Pamplemousse found the town plan the Director had provided him with, then went out on to the balcony and poured himself a cup of café.

  He gazed across the town. Apart from a few desultory figures taking the air, the Parc des Sources was deserted. Dozens of white, wrought-iron chairs were scattered in small groups along the crisscrossing paths as though waiting for something to happen, their filigree backs casting photogenic shadows from the morning sun. Two workmen in blue overalls were busy attending to the steps in front of the Opera House, their besoms making long arcing motions as they swept all before them with the practised ease of those who performed the same task day in day out all through the year. A large billboard advertised a programme of opera music, but it was at too much of an angle for him to read the small print. A miniature white train appeared out of a side turning, crossed the street into the park and drew up on a path near the bandstand to await the first load of tourists for the day.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse decided that if he had any time to spare he might load up his camera and set out on a voyage of exploration later in the day.

  Vichy looked as though it had changed very little since his last visit; or even since he had been there as a small child. In those days it had been an annual treat, but that was before its name had gone down in history as the seat of wartime capitulation. He doubted if his parents had ever gone there again, such was their shame. The centre of the town was uniquely pre-war. Seedy in places, but still with a certain dignity.

  True, it now had its modern side – the area by the river – the Bassin International D’Aviron-Voile-Motonautisme-Ski as it was grandly marked on the map; but the old part, the arcaded walks around the park, the antique shops, the kiosks selling ‘Vichy Pastilles’ and the facilities for ‘taking the cure’ were still there. Before the war visits to the spa had been the prerogative of the rich and well to do. Now it was mostly on the National Health.

  He sat up and concentrated his attention on the far side of the park as a familiar figure came into view. It was Mrs Van Dorman, weaving her way in and out of the chairs as she returned from a jog.

  She was wearing a dark blue towelling track suit, with a matching blue sweat-band round her forehead. She looked undeniably healthy. Healthy and chic. Central Park’s loss was undoubtedly Vichy’s gain. She was keeping up a fast pace – running rather than jogging. He wondered idly how she would look without her suit. In shorts perhaps? Would bare muscles ripple in the morning sun? It was one of life’s little mysteries which would probably never be revealed.

  Fancy asking if it was safe to drink the water! He couldn’t wait to tell his colleagues back in the office. If it had been anyone else he might have suspected an ulterior motive behind the call, but as it was he felt on safe ground.

  As Mrs Van Dorman drew near, Monsieur Pamplemousse saw she was carrying a tiny plaited straw case by its handle. It was similar in size to the one the Director had given him – de rigueur for anyone ‘taking the cure’. Six times a day the Parc des Sources would be full of people carrying identical cases as they made their way to and fro between their hotel and the Hall at the far end. In between times the park would be almost empty again. Perhaps Mrs Van Dorman had bought a drinking glass as a souvenir for her husband, or she might even have decided to take the waters herself.

  As she crossed the road and disappeared from view somewhere below him, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned back into his room. Seeing him go, a waiting sparrow fluttered down on to the table. Keeping one beady eye on Pommes Frites, it lost no time in pecking up the crumbs. Pommes Frites, for his part, eyed the bird with the air of one who couldn’t be bothered with such trifles.

  The maid had left a copy of La Montagne on a table in the room. Monsieur Pamplemousse picked it up and glanced at the headlines. Sport and agriculture seemed to be the dominant topics. It wasn’t until he reached the back page that he came across the item he was looking for. It was under the headline VICHY TRAGÉDIE – LE MYSTÈRE. There followed a non-committal statement from the local police to the effect that they were pursuing their inquiries, but it told him nothing new; rather less in fact, for there was no mention of the man’s last request. Perhaps that bit of it was a joke on someone’s part. It did sound highly unlikely. The whole thing was a journalistic exercise in filling up the maximum amount of space with the minimum number of facts. By tomorrow it probably wouldn’t even get a mention.

  Remembering that in his haste to ha
ve breakfast he hadn’t emptied the bath Monsieur Pamplemousse went into the other room and turned a large wheel between the two taps. The water made an interesting noise as it ran away; a series of rhythmic bangs and thumps reminiscent of a blacksmith hard at work.

  It was only after the last of the water had disappeared with an extra loud ‘glug’ that he realised the knocking was being augmented by someone outside. Cursing the maid under his breath for not leaving him in peace – she probably wanted the tray back so that she could get away early – he went into the bedroom and opened the door.

  To his surprise it was Mrs Van Dorman. Her face was devoid of make-up and he realised for the first time how blue her eyes were; they matched her track suit. Holding the door open he was also very aware of the warmth from her body as she squeezed past him.

  ‘Have you heard the news?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘That man who died yesterday. The one in the spa. It was Norm Ellis.’

  ‘Norm Ellis? Morbleu!’ No wonder Mrs Van Dorman had been in a hurry. ‘Is he not the short one with glasses who writes under several different names?’

  ‘Right … Ed Morgan … Jed Powers and others he was trying hard to forget. Apparently he was tasting the waters in the Parc des Sources yesterday afternoon when he collapsed in a heap. It was all over before anyone could do anything. They called for an ambulance, but by the time it arrived he was dead.’ Mrs Van Dorman swallowed hard. ‘You’re not going to believe the next bit.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t resist it. ‘Before he died he asked for a bottle of Bâtard Montrachet and some fish.’

  Mrs Van Dorman stared at him. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘No matter. What I didn’t know was that it was Monsieur Ellis. There was no mention of it in the journal.’

  ‘But do you know something even stranger? According to the others Norm Ellis not only doesn’t know one wine from another, but if you gave him a bottle and a corkscrew he wouldn’t know which end to open without looking up the instructions. Budweiser is more his line.’

  ‘Extraordinaire!’

  ‘Is that all you can say? We’re talking about Norm Ellis. The same Norm Ellis who’s been on the best-seller lists for over six months. Someone’s going to have to break the news to his publishers, and you know who that’s going to be.’

  ‘How about his wife?’

  ‘He doesn’t have a wife. He lives with his mother.’

  ‘His mother, then.’

  ‘I guess you’re right. I’d better phone his agent.’ Mrs Van Dorman looked at her watch. ‘Anyway, I can leave it for a while. It’ll be three o’clock in the morning there. I’m sorry …’ she perched herself on the edge of the bed, ‘but I still can’t believe it. I feel responsible in a way. If only I’d been here earlier.’

  ‘Death comes to us all in the end,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Even to those who spend their life writing about it.’ It sounded too sanctimonious for words, but it was all he could think of on the spur of the moment.

  ‘But Norm of all people. He never goes outside the door without a medical. What a way to go – in a French spa!’

  ‘Are you certain it was him?’

  ‘It’s Norm all right. It has to be. He checked in at his hotel yesterday lunchtime along with the others. Then he said he was off to take the waters and explore the town, so he might not be back until late. They all agreed to meet up for an early breakfast. It was only when he didn’t put in an appearance that they started to get worried. When they checked his room they found the bed hadn’t been slept in. All the others are convinced it’s him. Spencer Troon is off to identify the body. Trust him. Offer Spencer a trip to the morgue and he’s there like a shot.’

  ‘You have seen the others already?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse began to wish he’d asked for an early morning call. Everyone else seemed to have been up for hours.

  ‘They’re staying just down the road from here. I called in to see how they were doing. That’s how I found out about Norm. They’d been trying to phone me.’

  ‘How are they taking it?’

  Mrs Van Dorman shrugged. ‘OK, I guess. It’s hard to say. It doesn’t seem to have hit them yet. Harvey had gone back to his room by the time I got there, and Elliott was already round at the Villa André. It hasn’t put the rest of them off their breakfast, that’s for sure. They were tucking in like there was no tomorrow when I saw them. You know what Harman Lock said?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. It was too early for guessing games.

  ‘“Trust Norm to pull a fast one!” Anyone would think he’d done it on purpose.’

  She held up the case she’d been carrying. ‘Do you realise that’s all we have left of him – apart from his luggage! Jesus – that’s another thing. I guess I’ll have to do something about that.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the case. ‘You mean that was his? Where did you get it?’

  ‘One of the attendants at the spa gave it to me. As soon as I said I was a personal friend she went to a cupboard and fished it out. They came across it yesterday after he had been taken away. Apparently some little old lady went off with it to see if she could get some wine for him and by the time she got back Norm had been taken away, so she handed it in.’

  ‘May I see it?’

  She hesitated for a moment before passing him the case. ‘I guess maybe I ought to hand it over to the police, although it’s hardly “exhibit A”.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse turned it over in his hand. The initials N. E. were stamped on the leather fastener. Further proof of the identity of the corpse, if proof were needed.

  ‘Would you like me to see them? I may be able to find out more.’

  ‘Would you? That’d be great. If I go there could be a communication problem. There’s just so far you can get with sign language. Besides, I’ve got so much to do today what with the banquet and now this.’

  ‘You are still going ahead with it?’

  ‘I guess so. It would be crazy not to after all the work that’s gone into it. I tell myself Norm would have wanted it that way. Maybe he had it on his mind when he collapsed – that’s why he said what he did.’

  ‘Where will I see you?’

  ‘I shall be at the Villa André most of the time. I have to make sure they have all the food and that the chefs are happy … then I have to go for a costume fitting.’ She paused at the door. ‘Is what the Director told me true – you’re going as d’Artagnan?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded dolefully. He had almost forgotten about that side of the affair.

  ‘And I am your mistress?’

  ‘That also is true.’

  Mrs Van Dorman gave a giggle. ‘I was reading up about Alexandre Dumas last night. His last affair was with a stage horseback rider called Adah Menkin. He was sixty-five at the time would you believe?’

  ‘It is no age,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse firmly. ‘Dumas had a reputation for being very active in all his pursuits. They say in many respects he had the strength of ten men.’

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  While he finished dressing, Monsieur Pamplemousse began exploring the room, pondering over Mrs Van Dorman’s last remark as he did so. There was a row of books on a shelf let into one of the alcoves: Memoires de Guerre by someone called Lloyd George; Simenon’s Le Testament Donadieu, and a set of encyclopaedias.

  A picture of a sailing ship caught in a storm at sea adorned the wall above the huge brass bedstead.

  The built-in wardrobe was vast – like another small room. On the inside of the door there was a yellowing inventory of fixtures and fittings. It read like a wedding list and was comprehensive enough to have furnished many a small household.

  The only concessions to modernity were a remotely controlled television standing in a corner near the balcony and a large refrigerator which he came across in yet another cupboard. It accounted for the faint hum he’d heard during the night. Hoping it might be stocked with goodies, he opened t
he door. It was completely bare.

  He tried out the television. It was a children’s panel game. He was about to switch channels when the phone rang. It was the Director. With the briefest of bonjours he waded straight in.

  ‘This is bad news, Pamplemousse.’

  Unsure as to exactly how much the Director knew, Monsieur Pamplemousse essayed a non-committal ‘Oui, Monsieur’ in reply.

  ‘I heard about the death on television yesterday evening, but I had no idea it was one of Madame Van Dorman’s party.’ Already the Director was distancing himself from the affair.

  ‘It is very sad, Monsieur. I gather he was only in his early forties. It is no age.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Très triste. Très triste.’ There followed a short, but nicely judged pause of respect for the departed during which Monsieur Pamplemousse could almost feel the appropriate number of seconds being counted off. ‘However, I was really thinking of how it might affect Le Guide. I have already taken the precaution of speaking to an old friend of mine – a Deputy. We were at school together. He has promised to do his best to hush matters up. You know what the journaux are like when they get a sniff of something.’

  ‘You have been told what his last words were, Monsieur?’

  ‘Extraordinaire, Pamplemousse, do you not think? And why a Bâtard Montrachet. Why not a Montrachet itself. That would have had the twin merits of being less of a mouthful to say and being a marginally better wine.’

  ‘May I ask how you got to know, Monsieur?’

  ‘You may well indeed. I was woken in the early hours of this morning by a telephone call from the police. It seems that for some strange reason the man’s pockets were devoid of anything which might provide a clue as to his identity. The only thing the police could find was the address of Le Guide written on a scrap of paper. The night staff at the office put them through to me. I managed to stall on the true reason for his being in Vichy, and in particular our own association with the event …’