Monsieur Pamplemousse Rests His Case

by Michael Bond

Monsieur Pamplemousse broke off in mid-flight. She was right, of course. He mustn’t overdo it. There was nothing more incriminating than being over-enthusiastic. How often had he not witnessed the same thing in the old days when he was questioning a suspect; a sudden burst of eloquence over some trivial matter in the hope of diverting attention. Apart from which, now that the moment was so near, he could hardly wait to be released.

  ‘Hurry, Couscous.’

  He waited impatiently while his wife fiddled with the keys.

  ‘It is difficult with so many. The others get in the way.’

  A moment later his hands were free. The relief was indescribable. For a second or two his shoulders felt so stiff he could hardly move, let alone bring his arms round in front of him, but at last he managed it. Taking the bunch of keys from Doucette, he undid the second lock.

  ‘Your poor wrists. They are almost raw.’ She leant forward to embrace him. ‘I shall stay and look after you until they are better.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse stopped rubbing himself immediately. ‘That is not necessary, chèrie. In a matter of a few hours they will be as right as rain again. It is only a little redness …’ He broke off as he realised Doucette was hardly listening. Instead, she was staring in horror at something behind his left shoulder.

  ‘What is wrong, Couscous?’ he asked nervously.

  ‘Aristide! There is something on the other pillow. Something round and black.’

  Turning his head, Monsieur Pamplemousse followed the direction of his wife’s gaze. His heart nearly missed a beat. There, on the pillow, was Mrs Van Dorman’s beauty spot. It must have fallen off during the night. No wonder she had looked different in the morning.

  ‘Voilà!’

  Regardless of the pain in his wrists, he made as though to swat the object. As he did so he managed to scoop it up in his fingers. In desperation he handed it to Pommes Frites, who was also giving the matter his undivided attention. Pommes Frites’ gratitude at receiving his master’s benefaction was short lived. Pleasurable chomping noises gave way almost at once to violent choking. It sounded as though he might be having trouble with a tooth. Either that or the object had stuck to the back of his throat.

  ‘Poor thing,’ said Doucette. ‘What do you think it could have been?’

  ‘A bed bug of some kind.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse dismissed the matter as hardly worthy of discussion.

  ‘But it looked enormous. I have never seen such a big one.’

  ‘Doubtless it became bloated through feeding on me all through the night,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. He wriggled inside his costume. ‘This hotel is full of such creatures. It is disgraceful. I feel itchy all over.’

  Taking his cue, Pommes Frites, who had been listening to the conversation with growing concern, put two and two together on his master’s behalf. Pausing in his retching, he began scratching himself vigorously. He looked a sorry sight.

  Doucette reached for her handbag. ‘If that is the case, I am certainly not staying here a moment longer.’

  ‘Are you sure, Couscous? Is there nothing I can say to make you change your mind?’

  Madame Pamplemousse wriggled. ‘Indeed not.’ She cast a disapproving eye around the room. ‘I am surprised you even suggest it. And I shall tell them at the desk exactly why I am not staying.’

  ‘I would rather you didn’t, Couscous. Not before I make out a report to Headquarters.’

  ‘I think the sooner you get back to Paris and submit it the better.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a sigh. ‘I know you sometimes think life is all champagne and roses when I am away, Doucette, but as you see …’ He gave the pillow a thump and immediately wished he hadn’t. Apart from a searing pain which shot up his right arm, the blow released a fresh cloud of invisible esters, filling the room with perfume as they rose into the air.

  ‘As for the smell…’ Madame Pamplemousse’s sniff said it all. ‘It’s no wonder France had to suffer a revolution if that’s what men went about wearing.’

  ‘I think you will find there is a fast train at thirteen-thirty-eight.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced up from an plasticised information sheet on the bedside table. ‘It will get you to Paris just before five o’clock. There is a restaurant car, so you will be able to have lunch. I don’t wish to hurry you, but if you go now you should just catch it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Doucette hesitated. ‘I feel as though I am deserting you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I shall be all right. Besides, I have work to do.’ He raised his hands as far as the pain from the slowly returning circulation would allow, then let them fall again. There was no point in overdoing the protestations.

  ‘Your beard’, said Doucette, as she kissed him goodbye, ‘tastes of glue!’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse listened at the door for the lift gates to close and as soon as he heard a satisfactory clang he slid a security bolt into place and turned towards the cupboard.

  Opening the door, he put his head inside. The blue track suit was hanging in one corner. He recognised the outfit worn on the journey down. The dress for the banquet hung in an opposite corner. In between the two there were summer frocks and evening gowns galore.

  ‘DiAnn! It is safe. You can come out now.’

  Parting the hangers in the middle, he slid them to one side and began groping in the area behind, half expecting Mrs Van Dorman to jump out at him.

  Gradually faint irritation at playing games gave way to surprise, then a sense of shock. It was hard to take in for a moment, but a second and then a third search confirmed the simple truth. To all intents and purposes both Mrs Van Dorman and her suitcase had vanished into thin air.

  7

  PUTTING OUT THE CREAM

  Glandier would have been pleased; it would have appealed to his sense of humour.

  As a stage act, it might not have lived up to the high standards set by the great magicians of the past; illusionists of the calibre of Maskelyne and Devante, who were able to make elephants disappear before your very eyes. For a start they would have insisted on the inside of the cupboard being painted matt black, thus ensuring there would be no tell-tale reflections of light from an unpainted knob or hinge; gleams which would have revealed the existence of an old door built into the wall at the back.

  ‘I guess I must have noticed it when I got unpacked,’ said Mrs Van Dorman, ‘but it didn’t register. It wasn’t until I hid behind the things hanging up and felt something digging into me that I thought of trying the handle. Who’d have guessed it would open into the next room?’

  Who indeed? It was yet another echo from the past, a throwback to the days when whole families stayed in Vichy to take the cure.

  However, the simple question gave rise to a number of others. Why, for instance, had the door been unlocked in the first place? Had it always been left that way, or had someone unlocked it recently, perhaps when they entered Mrs Van Dorman’s looking for Ellis’s glass.

  ‘Your wife has gone back to Paris?’ Mrs Van Dorman broke into his thoughts.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive.’ Doucette had a horror of unclean sheets. She wouldn’t be happy until she was back home again.

  ‘I couldn’t help overhearing most of what was going on. I was petrified she might look inside the cupboard. All my clothes are still there. And what was all that about a bed bug?’

  ‘I’m afraid you will have to ask Pommes Frites. He has swallowed it.’

  Mrs Van Dorman took the hint.

  ‘So what happens now – aside from wanting me to keep quiet?’

  ‘First I shall get out of these clothes. Then I intend taking a long, leisurely bath. I need time to think. After that I shall get dressed again.’

  ‘The first two shouldn’t be a problem, but I can’t help much with the third. Unless you fancy using one of my track suits. You’re welcome. But without wishing to be rude, it could be a tight fit.’<
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  ‘There is another way round the problem,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You could go to my room and get a change of clothing for me.’

  Mrs Van Dorman looked dubious. ‘I don’t see how. If the guard is still in the corridor outside …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up his keys. ‘There are precedents. What has been done once can be done a second time. Especially if I show you how.’

  ‘If anyone had told me two days ago,’ said Mrs Van Dorman, ‘that I’d be taking a crash course in lock-picking, I’d have told them where to go.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Go ahead. I’m all yours. This whole thing is like a bad dream anyway.’

  ‘La première leçon,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Do not be put off by something which looks more complicated than it actually is. The point about locks is that although very often the key may look elaborate, the basic mechanism of the lock itself is really very simple. Much of the design centres on preventing any key other than the correct one from operating it. This is done by building in pieces of protruding metal called “wards” which will stop it turning unless there is a slot cut into the blank in exactly the right place.’

  ‘I think I understand.’

  ‘Here, I will show you.’ Taking a sheet of paper and a Biro from the hotel folder on the bedside table he drew out the rough shape of a key. ‘The long tubular section fits over the “post” of the lock, that is to say the projection inside the round part of the opening on which the key turns. The flat piece is called the “blank” – until the required cuts are made in it – at which point it is known as the “bit”. In essence a skeleton key is an ordinary key with as much cut away from the blank as possible, leaving just enough “bit” to turn the mechanism.’

  ‘Can anybody buy one?’

  ‘If you know where to look. There are books and magazines on the subject. Any crime writer used to doing research would have no problem at all. Failing that, once you know what to do it is easy enough to make up a set yourself. All you need is some blanks, a vice, a hacksaw, some files and a little practice.

  ‘Now, I will show you how to use it.’

  Going into the cupboard, Monsieur Pamplemousse slid the dresses to one side and selected a key. He was right first time. A moment later there was a metallic rattle and the lock on the communicating door clicked shut.

  ‘Voilà!’

  ‘You’ve done it before.’

  ‘Now you have a go.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse stood back and let Mrs Van Dorman take his place, watching over her as she struggled with the key.

  ‘Take it gently. Not too much force. Try moving it in and out a little and from side to side until you feel something begin to move. Remember … I have just locked it. You are trying to unlock it again.’

  ‘Eureka! It works!’ Mrs Van Dorman looked as pleased as Punch as the mechanism slid open again. ‘How soon before we start lesson two? I see a whole new career ahead of me.’

  ‘Have another go while I run my bath. When you are sure you know how to do it without making too much noise, go downstairs and tell your friend the porter that you want to change rooms. Say you do not like the view from this one.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse crossed to the window and looked out. On the other side of the street immediately opposite him an elderly couple were sitting on a balcony playing cards. They were probably relaxing between treatments.

  ‘It would be a reasonable request. From here you look out on to another hotel. From my side of the hotel there is a view across the whole of Vichy. Ask if room 607 is free. I’m sure they will be understanding. There is almost certain to be a connecting door. It was common practice in the days when this hotel would have been built. There is an identical cupboard in my room.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Mrs Van Dorman. ‘Trying to ruin my reputation? Anyway, supposing 607 isn’t free?’

  ‘I didn’t hear anyone in there the first night. It is worth a try. The season proper hasn’t started, so most of the customers will be passing trade and won’t have arrived yet. If it is already occupied we will have to think again. If it is not, see if you can borrow the key to the outside door.’

  ‘If it’s that easy, why did someone go to the trouble of breaking into my room through the cupboard?’

  ‘It could simply have been fortuitous. A room-maid may have left the door of the room next to yours open.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t mention the other possibility – that whoever it was hadn’t entered via the room next door, but had gone straight to Mrs Van Dorman’s. Having discovered the connecting door, he would have opened it to provide an escape route. She could well have disturbed him while he was going through her things. That would explain why the door between the two rooms had been left unlocked. Whoever it was would have wanted to make as quick a getaway as possible. Or even come back in again when the coast was clear.

  ‘Assuming I do manage to get the key to 607, what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Open the connecting door and go into my room. Only make sure whoever is on duty outside doesn’t hear anything.

  ‘Apart from a change of clothing, there are things I need. There is a small case belonging to Le Guide which may be useful. And on the shelves you will see a set of encyclopaedias. If you can’t manage them all, then I would like the one which includes the letter “D”.’

  ‘If there is a new guard on duty in the corridor – which is almost certain to be the case – then I suggest that when you leave the room you bring my bags with you. He will assume you are checking out of the hotel.’

  Mrs Van Dorman tried the key in the communicating door several times before finally locking it.

  She stepped out of the cupboard. ‘Here goes. If I’m not back inside half an hour, send out a search party.’

  ‘If you are not back in half an hour,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I shall come myself.’

  Unable to wait for the bath to fill, he added a generous helping of oil, then climbed in and lay wallowing in the running water, adjusting the taps from time to time with his big toe as the bubbles rose higher and higher until they were level with his chin. He hoped the perfume wouldn’t linger for days and days. Doucette would have something to say if he arrived back smelling of sandalwood. It must be Mrs Van Dorman’s flavour of the day.

  As he luxuriated in the water he allowed his mind to wander over the events of the past two days. But for once the warmth, which he had hoped would be conducive to thought, failed to work. He realised all too clearly that apart from Mrs Van Dorman’s briefing on the way down and the encounter over dinner, he hardly knew anything about the people involved. Elliott Garner he had spoken to most. Spencer Troon he’d listened to. Harvey Wentworth had struck him as being the most interesting of the five, but that was probably because his leading character was a chef. Sandwiched between two non-speaking actors, Harman Lock and Paul Robard had spent most of the dinner talking to each other.

  He tried to remember what Mrs Van Dorman had said about them all on the way down, but he’d been kept so busy the first day – getting dressed for the part of d’Artagnan, trying to picture life in Dumas’ time, and if the truth be known suffering ‘first night’ nerves – and so much had happened since, it was almost impossible.

  There was something else hovering tantalisingly in the back of his mind, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Each time he tried to concentrate his thoughts it disappeared again.

  He focused on his watch which he had left lying on its side by the wash-basin. It showed nearly one-thirty. Mrs Van Dorman had been gone nearly twenty minutes. He hoped she was all right. At least he had Pommes Frites to keep guard over him.

  Putting thoughts of a leisurely bath to one side, he climbed out, half dried himself, and took one of the hotel dressing-gowns from a rack near the door.

  Partly as a means of passing the time, he put through a call to Paris and got the number for the Poison Control Centre. In turn they gave him a contact at th
e Information Centre in Lyons; a specialist in cyanide.

  ‘You have a pen?’

  ‘Oui. Go ahead.’

  Once he had established his credentials the information flowed thick and fast.

  Most of it only really confirmed what he already knew in a hazy kind of way, and he began to wish he’d waited for Mrs Van Dorman to get back. His Cross pen would have coped better than the hotel Biro, which had seen better days.

  Lucrezia Borgia responsible for popular belief that poisoning largely prerogative of women murderers. Medical profession thrown up quite a few in its time … on account of easy access, specialised knowledge, etc.

  In response to his specific question: cyanide exceptionally quick acting; one of the fastest known poisons. For that reason had been favourite with Nazi criminals and undercover agents … cyanide gas used in American gas chambers … fatal dose can be as little as 50 milligrams … about the same weight as postage stamp … that amount gave it ten times more molecules than the total number in human body – whatever that might mean.

  He was out of his depth trying to picture it and his wrist was starting to ache. Already he could feel the pain beginning to creep up his right arm.

  Paralysis of respiratory centre of the brain causing loss of oxygen. Pulse weakens … rapid loss of consciousness. Signs: convulsions … coldness of extremities … pupils dilated and don’t react to light … sometimes traces of froth at mouth. Death usually within a few minutes – five at most. When crystals combined with water to produce prussic acid fumes can cause death in as little as ten seconds. Few visible signs … skin and body may show irregular pink patches … characteristic odour of bitter almonds at mouth. Cyanides quickly altered by metabolic activity once in body, and converted into sulphocyanides which are normally present. Presents problem if no reason to suspect foul play and post mortem not quickly carried out.

  Spelling sulphocyanides gave Monsieur Pamplemousse problems of his own and he missed a large chunk to do with ancient Egyptians having distilled cyanide from peach stones, and the fact that Leonardo da Vinci experimented with it until he became an expert poisoner. In his time Leonardo da Vinci had experimented with most things. There were even those who maintained he’d perfected a method of introducing it beneath the bark of trees and then used the fruit to poison one Giangaleazzo Sforza at a banquet in the house of Lodovico il Moro.