Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives

by Michael Bond

  ‘Aren’t you coming back to bed then?’ asked Doucette.

  ‘Not just yet, I’m afraid, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I have a few phone calls of my own to make first.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘Tell me again,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘I like it.’ Weaving in and out of the traffic heading west out of Paris, Monsieur Pamplemousse did his best to oblige.

  ‘I like it,’ repeated Mr Pickering when he had finished. ‘The more I hear of stories like that the more I warm to the philosophy of Jansenism. If Pommes Frites hadn’t been taken short he might not be with us any more. It must have been meant.’

  It was a sobering thought.

  ‘Another thing. Here we are in the midst of a major security crisis. On the other side of the Atlantic they have this horrendous paper problem, leaving them hardly knowing which way to turn, whereas over here, things are on temporary hold because of a small pile of dog’s doings on the pavement. The only plus is that at least you Parisians have learned from past experience to look before you walk.’

  ‘I doubt if Monsieur Leclercq would call Pommes Frites’ motions “small”,’ objected Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘And he would certainly far rather you said “where Pommes Frites went to the bathroom” rather than use the phrase “dog’s doings”. He is deeply immersed in the part he is playing.’

  ‘Message read and understood,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘He is absolutely right, of course. Americans have a lively command of their language, but they invariably draw the line when it comes to talking about bodily functions. Characters in crime novels seem to spend a great deal of their time wallowing in blood and gore without batting so much as an eyelid, only to become surprisingly reticent when the call of nature intervenes. Not that we English can talk. We still ask to be excused so that we can “spend a penny”. We have never really wholeheartedly embraced decimalisation. As for “spending a euro”, it doesn’t have anywhere near the same satisfactory ring, I fear.’

  ‘Merde!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gave his steering wheel a thump as a car in front of him stopped without warning. ‘Soulard!’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Mr Pickering. ‘You French have a word for most things.’

  Turning right into the boulevard de Grenelle, Monsieur Pamplemousse crossed over the Seine by the Pont de bir-Hakeim and shortly afterwards pulled in to a side street near the Musée du Vin, where the Director’s secretary was waiting.

  Introductions completed, he set off again. Following Véronique’s instructions he entered the place de Costa Rica, turned up the rue de la Tour, took a left into the avenue Paul Doumer and headed in the general direction of the Bois de Boulogne and Monsieur Leclercq’s hotel.

  The streets in Passy were noticeably less crowded than usual. The continuing heatwave was affecting business everywhere.

  Pulling out to pass a stationary delivery van, he glanced across at Véronique. Clearly, she had been crying.

  ‘Onions,’ she said briefly. ‘I thought they might help. Not that a great many of the tears weren’t real when the time came. I must remember to disinfect the mouthpiece on Monsieur Leclercq’s telephone before he is next in.’

  ‘Mission accomplished?’

  ‘I hope so. I went into his office first thing this morning and did as you said.’

  ‘How about floral tributes?’

  ‘I made arrangements for those, too. The one from Monsieur Leclercq is in the shape of a bone. I didn’t specify what sort. I pretended the people at the other end were being a bit iffy about doing it in a hurry. I was quite pleased with myself over that. The other tribute from all the staff is in the shape of a kennel.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  ‘I asked for them to be billed to Le Guide. It’s a good job it isn’t for real. Madame Grante would have a fit if it landed on her desk.’

  ‘We must spare ourselves that at all costs,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘It seemed strange to think that someone else might be listening in. I hope I made all the right noises. You don’t think …?’

  ‘They are tapped into the office telephone line?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a shrug. ‘I know what you are saying. If they are, and they don’t hear the other end of the conversation, they will smell a rat immediately and it will have been a waste of time. But if they go quiet it will mean they have accepted your call at face value. In that case we shall need to look for alternatives. It has to be some kind of bug.’

  ‘Monsieur Leclercq has always been very security minded,’ said Véronique. ‘He is practically paranoid about it, especially near publication time. He also had it done immediately this latest thing blew up. That’s how I came to know what was going on. Not that he told me, of course. I simply put two and two together.’

  ‘I should know, but who does he use?’

  ‘It is normally handled by Phoenix.’

  ‘They’re one of the best in the game,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The first thing they would check up on is the telephone system. If they didn’t find anything, nobody could.’

  Conscious that things had gone quiet in the back of the car, he brought Mr Pickering into the picture.

  ‘A little subterfuge,’ he said, over his shoulder. ‘Testing the system, as it were. As you know, somehow or other information has been leaking from the Director’s office. It is a little too regular, and they are too quick off the mark for it to be double guessing all the time. So this morning Véronique made arrangements over Monsieur Leclercq’s private line to have Pommes Frites’ “body” picked up from the hotel and taken to a funeral parlour for onward despatch to the dog cemetery at Asnières, just across the river from Clichy.

  ‘Hopefully, if they do bite, the news will also lay to rest those who would be only too pleased to see it happen for real. Time will tell, and they are not in the habit of keeping people waiting.’

  ‘I get the drift,’ said Mr Pickering.

  ‘In short, we shall have to look for something a bit more sophisticated than a telephone tap,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Or simpler,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘Remember the hidden microphone the Russians planted in the Great Seal of the United States at their embassy in Moscow during the Cold War? It may only have been a one-way device, but it was worth its weight in gold.’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. He wondered about the picture over the Director’s drinks cupboard. Did the portrait of Monsieur Hippolyte Duval, founder of Le Guide, conceal a similar device? Phoenix must have checked it. Anyway, to use the word ‘simple’ was stretching things a bit. In the case of the Great Seal, the microphone had been built into a giant dummy replacement. Such a thing wouldn’t be possible in Monsieur Duval’s case.

  ‘Let’s hope you are right,’ said Mr Pickering.

  ‘We must wait and see,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  Véronique gave an involuntary shiver. ‘The horror of it all came over me while I was making the call. It was like a tiny black cloud passing overhead.’

  ‘If they smell a rat,’ he said, ‘they will undoubtedly move quickly … if not …’

  ‘What then?’ asked Mr Pickering.

  ‘We will cross that bridge when we have to.’

  Slowing down as they approached the Director’s hotel he had to admit that despite Véronique’s qualms, for the first time in days he felt more cheerful about things. It was like being back in his old job again. At least they were initiating some kind of action rather than marking time, waiting for others to call the tune.

  Seeing two police cars parked directly outside the main entrance, he turned into the hotel’s car park. He had no wish to be recognised at this stage; there would be too much explaining to do. While he was finding a suitably discreet parking space under some trees, he found himself automatically looking around for some way of getting Pommes Frites out of the hotel unnoticed.

  That, too, was quite like old times.

  Perhaps the answer would be to slip out through a service e
ntrance at the back of the hotel after dark, get into his car and not come back. Often the simplest approach was best of all.

  The problem would be if the phone ploy hadn’t worked and the hotel was being watched. In the end he might have to risk it.

  Having suggested to the others they wait a few minutes before following him in – the staff were probably still a bit edgy and it might give cause for comment if they all went up to the Director’s room in a body – he left them his mobile, promising to ring when the time was right.

  ‘I understand it is the Presidential Suite,’ he said. ‘Top floor.’

  ‘I expected nothing less,’ said Mr Pickering.

  ‘If anyone stops you,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘say you are visiting a Monsieur Rosemburg. Hirem K. Rosemburg.’

  ‘Now that I wouldn’t have thought of,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘The plot thickens. Thanks for mentioning it,’ he added dryly.

  Apart from the police cars, there were no other outward signs of the previous night’s incursion as Monsieur Pamplemousse entered the hotel. Seeing an unattended lift with its doors open on the far side of the lobby, he made straight for it.

  All was equally peaceful on the top floor. Setting off along the corridor, he passed an open door leading to a utility room. An elderly maid sorting through some piles of linen looked up and gave him a smile.

  A little further along he stopped at a door marked ‘Presidential Suite’ and pressed the bell-push.

  A sound remarkably like that of a large dinner gong came from somewhere within and a moment later the door opened a crack.

  ‘Pamplemousse! Come in …’ Monsieur Leclercq stood back to allow him entry.

  If Pommes Frites had been feeling aggrieved at being abandoned, he didn’t show it. Pure unalloyed joy was the order of the day as he bounded across the room. Forcing the Director to one side, he leapt up to greet his master.

  ‘How has he been, Monsieur?’

  ‘Lugubre,’ said the Director. ‘Until now that is.’

  ‘He often looks lugubrious,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is nothing to worry about. One way or another I think he has good cause.’

  Monsieur Leclercq gave a quick glance up and down the corridor before closing the door. ‘You are alone?’

  ‘The others are waiting outside,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I thought I would make sure first of all that the coast is clear and you are ready to receive them. I take it the funeral people will have been?’

  ‘Over half an hour ago,’ said the Director. ‘I am not particularly superstitious, Pamplemousse, but seeing the coffin come and go did strike me as an unhappy omen. Pommes Frites clearly shared my misgivings, especially when they began measuring him to make sure they had brought the right size should they be stopped. I hope you know what you are doing.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse fervently hoped so too, but he kept his feelings to himself. He would leave the problem of getting Pommes Frites out of the hotel on hold for the time being.

  ‘I am surprised you haven’t been asked to leave after what happened last night, Monsieur,’ he said, changing the subject.

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I have been upgraded. The powers that be seem only too anxious for me to stay on.

  ‘Such a thing, they say, has never happened before. A bit of an understatement, one hopes, but there you are. Assuming American nationality has its advantages. They are convinced I shall be suing them for damages. I have to admit, I didn’t disabuse them. Americans are, by nature, given to litigation. I said I was awaiting a phone call from my lawyer.

  ‘I have also demanded a written apology.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked around the room. Some people went through life falling on their feet. If the main room was anything to go by, it was even more palatial than Claye Beardmore’s suite at the Pommes d’Or. The only jarring note was a large wickerwork hamper on a table near the window.

  ‘I thought we would have a cold collage for our déjeuner,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, following his glance. ‘I trust there will be sufficient to go round.

  ‘Mrs Beardmore telephoned to say she has been unexpectedly detained and may not be here on time, so we may have to begin without her. On the other hand, I have taken the liberty of inviting “a certain person” along later.’

  ‘Someone I know, Monsieur?’

  ‘You will see,’ said the Director mysteriously.

  ‘All this secrecy and skulking in hotels is getting me down. Normally I would be by the sea by now, away from all this heat. Already Chantal’s suspicions are aroused. She is beginning to suspect the worst.’

  ‘You haven’t told your wife what is happening?’

  ‘I daren’t reveal the truth. I doubt if she would be able to resist telling her hairdresser – in strictest confidence, of course. It would circulate the salons of Paris like wildfire; a good deal faster than announcing it on the web.’

  Opening the lid of the hamper he began rummaging around. ‘I must say La Grande Epicerie at Bon Marché have done us proud. There is a half leg of ham on the bone from the Ardennes – there is no doubt all those acorns the pigs devour while roaming the forests do impart a wonderful flavour – a selection of pâté en croûte, foie gras, cold roast chicken from Bresse, quiche, a 1990 Hermitage rouge from Chave, fresh crab and lobster from Brittany for those who prefer fish – the champagne is in the refrigerator, along with some Puligny Montrachet.

  ‘Fromage, fruits de saisons – Belrubi strawberries, Charentais melon from the Loire and white peaches from the Bouches-du-Rhône; butter from Echiré, homemade mayonnaise … perhaps I had better put some of the latter items to chill for the time being. In short, all the usual things one takes on a picnic …’

  They may be usual to you, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse, but he couldn’t wait to see the look on the faces of the others when they discovered what was in store.

  It was time he called them up. Leaving Monsieur Leclercq to carry on with his work, he picked up a house phone and punched in his mobile number.

  ‘The problem as I see it,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, when they were all gathered together, ‘lies with Pommes Frites.’

  He held up a box. ‘According to the wording on the outside, it should simply be a matter of attaching a small bone-shaped device containing a microphone to the subject’s collar, then reading off the translations of its barks from a handheld display unit.’

  While he was talking, the Director followed the instructions, switching on a device not unlike a mobile phone.

  ‘Testing … testing … testing,’ he said, putting his mouth close to Pommes Frites’ ear. Pommes Frites gave him an odd look in return.

  ‘So far,’ explained Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I have not had a great deal of success in getting him to bark. Heavy breathing, yes … but by the time that reaches the screen it manifests itself as a row of asterisks.

  ‘I have tried everything I can think of … crawling around the floor shouting “Wuff! Wuff!” … making meowing noises like cat … but he treats it all as though it were some kind of game. He insists on licking me.’

  ‘Pommes Frites isn’t in the habit of saying “Wuff! Wuff!”,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, rising to his defence. ‘And the licks are nothing to go by. He was probably feeling sorry for you.’

  ‘Hmmph!’ The Director handed over the display unit. ‘If that is so, Pamplemousse, I suggest you disabuse him before we go any further.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed the object doubtfully. ‘I should point out, Monsieur, he is the strong silent type. He never barks except in the case of an extreme emergency. It is all part of his training.’

  ‘Well, you must untrain him then,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Impress upon him the fact that this is an emergency, and it is very extreme. Tell him the fate of an entire nation may hang on his “Wuffs”.’

  ‘With respect, Monsieur, I doubt if “Wuff” has any meaning to a dog. To Pommes Frites’ ears it is probably simply a noise rather than
a word.’

  ‘We shan’t know for certain until he barks,’ said the Director crossly. ‘Here we are on the cutting edge of what appears to be a breakthrough situation and all we get is a negative response from the chief participant. It really is most frustrating.’

  ‘If I may make a suggestion.’ Mr Pickering looked up from another sheet of instructions he’d found in the box. ‘Pommes Frites is probably used to people speaking to him in French, whereas most of the sample translations they list are American orientated. For example: “I know I’m cute, so what do I say?”, “Go ahead, make my day!”

  ‘Or, taking another at random: “Are you my friend or my enemy?”. None of them are particularly germane to the problem in hand.’

  ‘Are you saying,’ asked Monsieur Leclercq, ‘that if and when Pommes Frites barks, anything he says will be in French and therefore untranslatable by the machine? If that is the case I shall add it to my growing list of complaints to the hotel. In the meantime it is possible I could get Véronique to have a French version flown over.’

  ‘Of course, Monsieur Leclercq.’ Véronique reached for her notebook.

  ‘With respect,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘I doubt if that will help. I think animals get to understand the language of whatever country they happened to be born in, but when it comes to answering back they speak in a universal tongue.

  ‘If it were otherwise, imagine what it would be like being a German dachshund and wanting to change your mind. The poor thing would probably choke to death on words like Gesinnungswandel.’

  ‘Mr Pickering is right,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Pommes Frites has a larger than average vocabulary when it comes to understanding what is going on around him and obeying commands …’

  ‘In that case,’ growled the Director, ‘why can’t you order him to bark?’

  ‘Because, as I said earlier, Monsieur, it goes against his training. It will need time, and time is precious.’

  Monsieur Leclercq stared down at Pommes Frites. ‘Would that we had some idea of what is uppermost in his mind.’

  ‘I think,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, sensing the beginnings of a tail wag, ‘what is uppermost in his mind at the moment is the thought of going for a walk in the Bois de Boulogne. Either that, or he is hungry.’