Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives

by Michael Bond

  ‘There is one thing you can be sure of,’ snorted the Director, ‘if last night’s carry-on is anything to go by, he won’t have need to go for a walk in order to assuage any urgent demands of nature for some time to come.

  ‘I suggest we put the whole thing on the back burner for the time being while we have lunch. Mrs Beardmore can take pot luck. A little Ardennes ham may put him in a more receptive mood for new ideas.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse wasn’t entirely sure about that, but he wasn’t going to argue, particularly when he heard the murmurs of approval from around the table.

  ‘For the time being,’ he said, ‘until we can find some way of smuggling him out of the hotel, I wonder if he should have any food at all? The one may well compound the other.’

  ‘Do you really think we shall get away with it?’ asked the Director, softening his tone a little.

  ‘A little misreporting in the press about the principal casualty wouldn’t go amiss, Monsieur.’

  ‘That can be arranged,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Remind me to get on to the editor of Le Monde immediately after we have had lunch, Véronique.’

  Véronique reached for her notebook again.

  ‘Perhaps we can create some kind of diversion,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘We could leave an unattended item of luggage in the foyer. Having it blown up would be a small price to pay.’

  Aware of enquiring eyes turning in his direction, the Director abruptly moved on. ‘Even if we do spirit him away, where will you send him? A so-called safe house?’

  ‘A safe kennel, perhaps?’ suggested Mr Pickering, then sank back into his chair as he received the full benefit of Monsieur Leclercq’s steely gaze.

  ‘I think I know a good place,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, hastily. ‘One where he will be happy. But first things first.’

  While the others were busy helping themselves, his eyes kept alighting on the Director’s picnic hamper.

  He wondered if the funeral men had left their measurements with the Director.

  Pommes Frites wouldn’t like it very much, but if he curled himself up and they sat on the lid it might be possible.

  What was the name of the film that had been all the rage a while back? Honey, I Shrunk the Kids! He should be so lucky. The sooner the hamper was empty, the sooner he could try it out.

  They would have to remove the microphone first of course, or make sure it wasn’t switched on. Left in place there was no knowing what Pommes Frites might come out with, given the latest additions to his vocabulary.

  ‘Would anyone like a second helping?’ he asked hopefully, helping himself liberally to a cold collage.

  ‘We must leave some for Mrs Beardmore,’ said the Director reprovingly. ‘Not to mention my other guest when she arrives.’

  Suitably rebuffed, Monsieur Pamplemousse joined Pommes Frites in a corner of the room.

  His friend and mentor appeared to be lost in thought.

  The reason was simple. All too well aware of the fact that everyone else in the room was eating, Pommes Frites was also conscious of the fact that his master was acting very strangely, one moment giving him long, calculating glances, the next eyeing the basket of food. At one point he even took out his pen, holding it first this way and then that as he squinted at it. Clearly he was trying to tell him something.

  That apart, Pommes Frites found the object fastened to his collar was beginning to irritate him. As far as he had been able to make out from the little he’d seen, it was bone-shaped.

  Not a real bone, of course, or even one of those biscuity ones humans sometimes paid extra for, thinking they were a treat. It certainly didn’t help matters; rather the reverse in fact, for it made him feel even more hungry.

  A few swipes with his paw soon dislodged it, and not before time.

  Looking round the room to make sure no one was watching, he picked it up in his mouth. There was a crunching sound and several wires and a battery landed on the floor beside him, along with sundry pieces of plastic.

  He eyed them with disgust. Batteries he knew about. They made things light up, but as for being food, they were definitely a ‘no go’ area. He’d once known a Pekinese who had swallowed something called an AA battery with dire results. He certainly hadn’t shown a glimmer of light.

  Pommes Frites pondered the matter for a long time, eyeing his master’s fast disappearing helping of food as he did so. The problem was he had no idea what was going on in his mind.

  Over the years it hadn’t escaped his notice that when it came down to verbal communication, dogs had the rough end of the stick. It was, in many respects, a very one-sided affair. If he wanted to say something, no matter how important it was, as soon as he opened his mouth to give voice, he was told to stop it at once, and he had to resort to sign language; licking, or rolling over on his back with his legs in the air. It was really a very demeaning way of going about things, particularly in company. He’d often wondered what the world would be like if humans had to communicate with each other that way, although come to think of it, from time to time he’d seen some of them doing just that.

  He had never added up the number of French words he knew, but over and above those, he was expected to understand several other languages as well. People often came up to him in the street, patted him on the head and said something totally strange, expecting him to know what they were talking about.

  On one occasion his master had explained to him the man was someone called a Serbo Croat and he hadn’t understood what he was saying either.

  All the same, he always tried his best. Par exemple: take the French words alors on a compris. He knew from listening to Mr Pickering and others who spoke ‘English’ that in their country it had to do with something called ‘a penny’ falling, which meant ‘now I understand’.

  At that moment Pommes Frites had a sudden attack of alors on a compris himself.

  It dawned on him that the others in the room actually wanted him to bark. Not only did they want him to bark, but they weren’t going to allow him any food until he did.

  Having decided what the problem was, Pommes Frites lost no time in setting matters straight. Taking a deep breath, he filled lungs to bursting point, then let rip with a whole stream of barks.

  The result was both immediate and extremely satisfactory.

  Most of Monsieur Leclercq’s pâté en croute landed on the floor as he leapt out of his seat shouting ‘Eureka! Eureka!’

  His master let go of his plate shouting ‘Sacrebleu!’ followed by ‘Nom d’un nom!’

  Véronique gave a shriek, and Mr Pickering so far forgot himself as to make the sign of the cross and say something unrecognisable in English.

  Fired with his undoubted success, Pommes Frites closed his eyes and carried on barking for all he was worth. He couldn’t remember having enjoyed himself quite so much in a long time. It was like being left alone in a butcher’s shop while the owner was away for the day.

  Gradually his barks were echoed in other parts of the hotel. First from what sounded like an Alsatian further along the corridor. Then came an assortment of other, lesser breeds as his call was taken up by more dogs on the floor below.

  Meanwhile, the Director made a grab for the handset, peered at the screen for a moment or two, then began shaking it as though mixing a cocktail.

  ‘What has happened, Aristide?’ he cried, giving the object a whack with his free hand. ‘Where are all the messages? Why aren’t they coming through?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse pointed to the carpet. ‘I am afraid they are not leaving base, Monsieur.’

  ‘What’s that? What did you say?’ Monsieur Leclercq gazed at the remains of Pommes Frites’ ‘bone’ as though hardly able to believe his eyes.

  ‘Don’t tell me you have trodden on it, Pamplemousse!’ he boomed in a voice that reduced even its erstwhile wearer to momentarily silence.

  As Pommes Frites’ barking died away, Monsieur Pamplemousse became aware of the sound of banging coming from the direct
ion of the corridor.

  ‘I’ll go!’ he called, clutching at straws.

  Fearing the worst, he rushed to open the door and found the room maid standing outside. Pulling it shut behind him as she tried to peer over his shoulder, he noticed her trolley and as he did so his expression changed.

  There was a large laundry basket on top. It had to be meant.

  ‘Would you,’ he asked, ‘mind very much leaving the cleaning until later?’ He took out his wallet. ‘You can leave your trolley here. In the meantime, we are very much in need of a basket. I will make sure you get it back.’

  ‘That is not necessary,’ said the lady, nevertheless performing a disappearing trick with the proffered note. ‘We have many more. Just as long as you don’t complain about the state of the room, that’s all. I’m off home now. I have my own work to do.’

  ‘I will still make sure you get it back,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  Somehow he couldn’t picture the recipient he had in mind taking kindly to a basket of that size cluttering up the apartment. Closing the door after her, he returned to the main room.

  ‘What is the worst thing that can happen in a hotel?’ he asked.

  ‘Being a room maid and finding a suite full of people when you want to make the beds?’ suggested Véronique.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head.

  ‘Pastry crumbs all over the carpet?’ said Monsieur Leclercq, eyeing his floor space guiltily.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head a second time.

  ‘Clients who check out without paying the bill?’ suggested Mr Pickering.

  ‘You are getting warm,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  Returning to the trolley, he removed the empty basket and placed it in the middle of the floor.

  ‘The well-being and good health of the guests is, of course, top priority with all good hotels. Not because they necessarily care two hoots about the individuals, but because if anything untoward happens to them while they are staying, it can rebound out of all proportion. The worst thing of all is to have a guest die on them. It is bad for business. They will go to any lengths to hush it up; discretion becomes their middle name.

  ‘In a hotel that specialises in looking after pets, the loss of a dog could spell disaster. Having a bomb is bad enough, but to have a pet die on them …’

  Having first detached a piece of ham from the bone, Monsieur Pamplemousse lifted up the lid of the basket and signalled Pommes Frites to jump inside. His command was obeyed on the instant.

  ‘Assieds-toi, s’il te plaît.’

  Pommes Frites’ rear end disappeared from view.

  ‘Mort!’ His head followed suit.

  ‘Bon chien!

  ‘Communication is all a matter of using the right words at the right time,’ he said, turning to the others as he closed the lid. ‘Now, if you will excuse me I must put through a call to the management.’

  Picking up the nearest phone, he consulted a list beside it and pressed a button. It was answered almost immediately.

  ‘I am speaking on behalf of Monsieur Rosemburg,’ he said. ‘Mr Hirem K. Rosemburg.

  ‘Yes … the Presidential Suite. I have something very sad to report …

  ‘Oui. That is what all the barking was about …

  ‘Oui. The Great Kennel in the sky …

  ‘Oui. I know it is the second one today …’

  ‘Monsieur Rosemburg is of the opinion it is Legionnaire’s disease … a fault in the air conditioning, perhaps? … The whole system may need replacing …

  ‘D’accord. That will not be necessary. We already have a basket …

  ‘The goods entrance … I will give you the address it needs to be delivered to …

  ‘Place Marcel Aymé … that is correct, Marcel Aymé … the 18th arrondissement … an apartment block by the statue to Monsieur Aymé … the seventh floor …

  ‘Oui, I think Monsieur Rosemburg will also be leaving soon …

  ‘Merci beaucoup, Monsieur.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, replacing the phone, ‘someone will give me a hand carrying the basket to the door. There are times when Pommes Frites can feel like a dead weight and this has to be one of them.’

  ‘But that is your own address, is it not …’ began the Director.

  ‘It is where he is happiest,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply. ‘And even if all else has failed and they are still searching for him, I think at this stage, home is the last place they will think of looking.’

  He had to admit he could hardly fault the hotel on their speed and efficiency once the matter was in hand. They had hardly reached the door when the bell rang. Opening it revealed two burly security men waiting outside. Bidding the others in the room a temporary goodbye, he accompanied the men down to the ground floor by the service lift.

  It was good to know that Pommes Frites was in safe hands. Monosyllabic they might be, perhaps out of a sense of occasion, but they were clearly good at their job. Taking the périphérique and coming off at Porte de St Ouen, it wouldn’t be long before Pommes Frites was safely home.

  Arriving back upstairs he relieved Véronique of his mobile.

  ‘Now, if you will forgive me, I must telephone my wife and warn her … please carry on with your déjeuner. If I may, Monsieur, I will make the call in the other room so that I won’t disturb you.’

  ‘Don’t be too long, Aristide,’ said the Director. ‘Something tells me we should eat all we can while we can.’

  Monsieur Leclercq’s words, half spoken in jest, were to turn out more prophetic than even he anticipated before the day was out.

  In fact, Monsieur Pamplemousse made more than one call and it wasn’t until he was about to hang up on the last that he heard a familiar voice coming from the other room. Opening the communicating door, he went back into the main room just in time to see the Director embracing a new arrival.

  ‘Elsie …’ boomed Monsieur Leclercq. ‘You haven’t changed a bit. You feel exactly as you always did.’

  ‘Saucebox!’ said Elsie. ‘I could say the same about you.’

  Seeing Monsieur Pamplemousse emerge from the other room, she detached herself from the Director’s clutches.

  ‘You ’aven’t rung Ron yet, ’ave you?’ she said accusingly.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse admitted he hadn’t.

  ‘He’s been on at me to give ’im your number, but I didn’t ’ave it, so I rang Monsieur Leclercq on account of Ron said to tell you in person. He says it’s urgent.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘He thought you might like to know the real Mrs Beardmore is alive and well and living in Seattle.’

  Had Elsie announced that another bomb had been planted in the very room in which they were gathered and that it was about to go off at any moment, it could hardly have had greater effect.

  ‘Is he sure?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Sure as ’e’s doing five years for being careless.’

  It was Monsieur Leclercq who asked the obvious question.

  ‘He left ’is dabs on some Sellotape din ’e,’ said Elsie. ‘You know what? Never press your mitts down on a bit of Sellotape if you’ve got dust on your fingers. It’s a dead giveaway.’

  ‘Has he any idea who this Mrs Beardmore might be?’ broke in Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  Reaching into her handbag, Elsie produced a mobile and dialled a number.

  ‘You can ask ’im yourself,’ she said.

  Preliminary pleasantries aside, the conversation was brief and to the point. Monsieur Pamplemousse had the feeling that Ron may have had his own reasons for keeping it so. Prison walls tended to have bigger ears than most.

  ‘It appears,’ he said, as he hung up at the end of the conversation, ‘that he once shared a cell with a chef who had a crush on the real Claye Beardmore.’

  ‘’E was doing time for demanding money with menaces off one of the female customers using an offensive weapon,’ said Elsie. ‘To wit, a p
otato peeler!’

  ‘That doesn’t sound very offensive,’ said the Director.

  ‘It depends where you put it,’ said Elsie darkly. ‘’Er wallet wasn’t the only thing ’e was after!’

  ‘You must let me know the name of the restaurant,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I shall make sure it doesn’t appear, if and when we issue a guide to the United Kingdom.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘the man Ron shared a cell with was so obsessed with Mrs Beardmore, he not only had her pin-up on the wall, he used to sleep with it under his pillow at night. Ron says it was nothing remotely like the person staying at the Pommes d’Or.’

  ‘Satisfied?’ asked Elsie.

  The others hardly had time to absorb the latest bit of news before Monsieur Pamplemousse’s own phone rang. It was Doucette, confirming Pommes Frites’ safe arrival.

  ‘He wasn’t too upset by the journey?’ he asked. ‘I made sure he had some clean sheets to lie on.’

  ‘He seems to have picked up a cold somewhere,’ said Doucette. ‘He hasn’t stopped sneezing since he got here. Either that or it’s the chocolates you sent me. You know what he’s like …’

  ‘Chocolates?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t send them,’ said Doucette. ‘They arrived by special courier about an hour ago. I haven’t tried one yet – they look very expensive.’

  It was yet another case of alors on a compris.

  ‘Don’t!’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Whatever you do, Couscous, don’t touch them until I get back.’

  Pressing the OFF button, he turned to the others. ‘Hold everything,’ he said grimly. ‘It is all systems go. The worst is about to happen!’

  CHAPTER TEN

  By the time Monsieur Pamplemousse reached the Pommes d’Or a warning had already gone out over the France Info radio news channel. Carefully worded so as not to alarm the public at large, but strong enough to deter anyone from touching any unsolicited chocolates delivered by hand as part of an introductory offer; it simply said there had been a production fault and to take the box to the nearest police station as soon as possible in case the contents got into the hands of small children.