by Michael Bond
‘I had an encounter with Madame Grante earlier today. It seems the thespians are causing trouble. Some of them are claiming extra payment for their performance at the banquet. They claim that when Monsieur Troon pretended he had been poisoned, they were unable to prevent themselves uttering cries of “Ooooh, la! la!” and “Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” Their union says it puts them in another category.
‘Madame Grante was in her element. I saw the light of battle in her eyes. All the same, I fear I had to intervene and persuade her to let it go through in return for the exercise of a certain amount of discretion on the other side.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered what life would be like if there were a union of food inspectors. Madame Grante wouldn’t know what had hit her if he submitted a claim asking to be recompensed for half the things that happened to him over and above the normal call of duty.
‘She is a good sort,’ said the Director. ‘However, there is one item on your P.39 she is querying. It seems that before you left for Vichy you purchased a large quantity of raisins …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse heaved a sigh. Now he knew he was back in earnest.
‘If it is of any consolation,’ said the Director, ‘I have received a very complimentary note from Mrs Van Dorman. I have a feeling she thinks well of you.’
‘That is nice to know, Monsieur.’
‘An attractive lady. I have to admit I fell for her when I was in New York. It is a good thing she is married, otherwise who knows? One evening over a drink she bared her soul to me. Apparently her husband, whom I never met, is of an extremely jealous disposition. He is also an expert in Karate. A Black Belt, I believe.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse had difficulty in keeping a straight face. He was beginning to see the advantages of Mrs Van Dorman’s invention.
‘Mind you, I would not like to upset her either. She is not a woman to be crossed. There is another side to her character – a hard streak. Not altogether surprising – even in this day and age a woman does not reach the top of her profession without it. I had evidence of it both in New York and again the other evening in Annecy.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse paused for a moment with his hand on the door knob. ‘Did you say Annecy, Monsieur?’
‘I did.’
‘You mean Mrs Van Dorman didn’t arrive straight from New York?’
The Director looked at him in some surprise. ‘Of course not,’ he said a trifle impatiently. ‘These matters don’t just happen, Pamplemousse, as you should know only too well. They require weeks of careful planning. Naturally, as it was her idea rather than Elliott’s to hold the event in Vichy, she wished to make absolutely certain everything was going according to plan. She flew into Annecy a couple of days early before coming on to Paris. I joined her there for the first evening to ensure she had all she needed.’
‘And did she, Monsieur? Have all she needed?’ Even as he posed the question, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his mind racing over the events of the past few days. It felt as though his whole world had suddenly been turned upside down. And yet … and yet all kinds of little things began to make sense. It was no wonder Pommes Frites had been giving Mrs Van Dorman some funny looks.
‘There was nothing she had not thought of. Everything had been meticulously planned down to the very last detail – I couldn’t have done a better job myself. Brochures, itineraries; she even presented each member of the party with his own tasting cup in an initialled carrying case. I need hardly have bothered. The idea for initiating a competition involving the plot for a perfect murder was merely icing on top of the cake …’
The Director broke off and looked at Monsieur Pamplemousse with some concern. ‘Is anything the matter, Aristide? You have gone quite pale.’
‘It is nothing, Monsieur. A momentary dizziness, that is all.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse pulled himself together. ‘You mentioned another side to Mrs Van Dorman’s character … something which happened in New York.’
The Director glanced uneasily at the door in order to make sure it was properly shut, then lowered his voice.
‘We were dining tête-à-tête at one of those restaurants one normally sees only in Hollywood films. The sort where they bring a telephone to your table.
‘Halfway through the meal Mrs Van Dorman received a call. It gave rise to the most extraordinary outburst. Not once did she raise her voice, but I tell you, Pamplemousse, my vocabulary that evening was considerable enhanced; my grasp of the American vernacular improved by leaps and bounds. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
‘After she put the receiver down she behaved as though nothing had happened, but it left me considerably shaken. I honestly believe that for the first time in my life I was in the presence of a genuine schizophrenic.
‘It was only later I discovered the caller was none other than our friend, the late Monsieur Ellis. He was waiting for her outside the restaurant. She passed it off by saying he had been seeking her advice as an expert on perfume for one of his books – Charnel No. 5 I think she said it was called. But I was left with the uneasy feeling that there was considerably more involved than that. I beat a hasty retreat.’
‘And in Annecy, Monsieur? What happened in Annecy?’
‘Ah, it was there, Pamplemousse, that I had my original suspicions confirmed in no uncertain manner. Feeling my presence was redundant, I went for a post-prandial stroll round the town. Imagine my surprise, when on the way back to my apartment I saw Mrs Van Dorman entering Ellis’s room. I think they planned a “night-cap” together. She was carrying a tasting glass.
‘An odd combination, don’t you think? One wonders what brought them together in the first place.’
‘Perhaps it was loneliness, Monsieur.’
‘Perhaps.’ The Director gave a shrug. ‘Now, of course, the question is academic.’
‘Oui, Monsieur. It is, as you say, académique.’
As he let himself in through the entrance door to his apartment block Monsieur Pamplemousse encountered yet another reminder that he was home.
He was about to enter the lift when the gardien came out of his office clutching an enormous white cardboard box. He glanced at Monsieur Pamplemousse’s luggage.
‘It is addressed to you, Monsieur, but if you like I will give it to Madame Pamplemousse. She will be back at any moment. She is only out shopping.’
Instinct told Monsieur Pamplemousse to decline the offer. Instinct proved right, as he discovered when he arrived upstairs and opened the box. Anxious to lend a paw, Pommes Frites jumped back in alarm as his master lifted the lid. A large, gas-filled balloon in the shape of a heart floated out and attached itself to the ceiling.
There was card tied to the ribbon. It read ‘To my very own Musketeer’ and it was signed ‘Madame Joyeux’.
Monsieur Pamplemousse read the card a second time, then he detached it and slipped it into his wallet alongside the photograph of Mrs Van Dorman he’d collected from Trigaux. Taking hold of the ribbon, he crossed to the French windows and went out on to the balcony.
He stood for a while lost in thought as the balloon floated across the rue Girardon towards the little park opposite. As it passed over the boules area one of the players made a grab for it and missed. He heard the sound of laughter from the man’s companions. Further up the hill some children stopped playing for a moment and watched as it drifted higher and higher, gradually losing its heart shape until it was only a speck in the sky.
As it finally disappeared from view Pommes Frites gave vent to a brief but poignant howl and then followed his master back into the room.
With a heavy heart Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up the telephone and dialled a number. He shivered. After the warmth of the balcony the room felt cold and he had little taste for what was to come.
While he waited to be connected he took out his wallet and removed the photograph, laying it out on the table in front of him. It hardly seemed possible that only a few days before he had never set eyes on the face staring back at him. So much had happ
ened since.
‘Aristide! You are back!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse jumped. He had been so intent on looking at the photograph he hadn’t heard the door open.
‘Couscous! You startled me.’ Rising to his feet he replaced the receiver and held out his arms.
‘Who is that?’ Doucette glanced at the photograph as she bustled in and set down her shopping.
‘She is a colleague of Monsieur Le Directeur. I had dealings with her concerning the banquet.’ It was no good fabricating a yarn.
‘What a strange expression she has.’
‘Do you think so?’ He took another look. His judgement was clouded by a host of events, but now that Doucette mentioned it there was something odd about the way Mrs Van Dorman was looking. In snatching an unguarded moment he had managed to capture a slightly haunted look; a mixture of triumph and apprehension. And yet, underneath it all there were traces of the warmth he’d grown to know. As a picture it defied analysis.
‘If it wasn’t for the fact that she isn’t your type I would say she is a little in love.’
‘Really?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse held it up to the light.
‘I pity the man whoever he is. She would probably twist him around her little finger, then throw him on the rubbish dump when she’d finished with him.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed his wife curiously. It was the second time in less than an hour that he’d heard the same reservation voiced.
‘That is very perspicacious of you.’
As Madame Pamplemousse turned and picked up her shopping bag she spied the box. ‘What on earth do you want that for? We have enough cardboard boxes to last us a life-time.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse slipped the photograph into his pocket. ‘One can never have too many, Couscous,’ he said. ‘But if it pleases you I will throw it out when I take Pommes Frites for a walk. He has been cooped up in the car all day and he is a little restive.’
‘Don’t be too long,’ said Doucette. ‘I have prepared your favourite stew. It has been simmering all day.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave her a quick embrace. It was good to be back.
‘You look sad, Aristide. Is anything the matter?’
‘Sad?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the matter for a moment or two. ‘No, just a little disappointed, that is all. Also, I have a report to rewrite.’
‘Life is full of disappointments – you are always telling me that.’ Madame Pamplemousse pushed him away as she bustled about her work. ‘Aren’t you going to finish making your telephone call?’
‘It can wait,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I am not sure what I was going to say anyway.’ He signalled to Pommes Frites, and Pommes Frites, ever alive to moments when his master was in urgent need of a diversion, obliged with alacrity, making his way towards the outer door.
‘And Aristide …’
‘Oui?’ He turned in the doorway clutching the box in both arms.
‘While you are about it don’t you think you should get rid of the rest of your rubbish?’
Outside the apartment block, Monsieur Pamplemousse opened the box under the watchful eye of Pommes Frites and put the label inside. After a moment’s hesitation, he added the photograph, stirring the plastic packing with his fingers until both were lost from view. Then he closed the lid, pressing the ends of the sticky tape back into place so that it was safely sealed.
‘Allow me, Monsieur.’ The gardien came out of his room and took the carton from him. ‘Monsieur is having un grand nettoyage? A spring clean?’
‘Non,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse firmly. ‘It is Madame Pamplemousse who is having un grand nettoyage. Pommes Frites and I are going on a balloon hunt.’ He gazed up at the sky. ‘Entre nous, Monsieur, sometimes when you throw one up in the air you never know quite where it is going to land.’
Also by Michael Bond
Monsieur Pamplemousse
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Secret Mission
Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot
Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure
Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft
Monsieur Pamplemousse Investigates
Monsieur Pamplemousse Rests His Case
Monsieur Pamplemousse Stands Firm
Monsieur Pamplemousse on Location
Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Train
Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat
Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation
Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation
Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Tangled Web
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
12 Fitzroy Mews
London W1T 6DW
allisonandbusby.com
First published in 1991.
This ebook edition first published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2016.
Copyright © 1991 by MICHAEL BOND
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–1886–3
