Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives

by Michael Bond

  He was reminded of the time he’d had cause to investigate the Director’s family plot in the Père Lachaise cemetery.

  Monsieur Leclercq’s family name was Leclerc. He must have decided at some point there were too many listed, so he’d added a ‘q’ to set himself apart. Knowing it was probably a sensitive point, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided not to mention the fact. It would create too much of a diversion.

  His spirits sank still further as the conversation returned to the subject in hand: the future of Le Guide. Clearly, things were even worse than he had anticipated. He wondered if he should mention the summons he had received to return to headquarters, but decided to hold back for the time being, at least until he knew more about what was going on.

  Leafing through the small pile of papers that had accumulated in his tray while he was away, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his pen …

  ‘Zut alors!’ He could have sworn he had it with him when they checked out of the hotel that morning.

  ‘Here … use this.’ Glandier tossed a Biro across the table.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed the object. Compared to his Cross writing instrument it didn’t have the right feel at all, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  Initialing the first few papers, he made his excuses and continued on his way up to the Director’s office on the 7th floor.

  Hoping to catch Monsieur Leclercq’s secretary for long enough to get the low-down, he was disappointed to find Véronique emerging from the inner sanctum just as he entered the outer office.

  She looked as though she had been crying, and her whispered ‘bonne chance’ as she squeezed past struck him as being not so much a casual pleasantry as a heartfelt expression of some inner anguish.

  Expecting to find the Director seated in the usual chair behind his desk, he was surprised to see it was empty.

  Glancing round the room, he noted a small workstation in one corner; a laptop, mobile phone and desk-lamp neatly arranged on top, a plush office chair pushed into the kneehole. He assumed it must belong to the new advisor. It all looked very efficient.

  A pair of sliding glass doors in the vast picture window were open, and despite the chill air, the Director was outside on the balcony encircling the whole of the mansard floor.

  He appeared to be gazing into the middle distance, and it wasn’t until Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites drew near that he became aware of their presence and turned to face them.

  It was several weeks since Monsieur Pamplemousse had last seen him, but during that time he appeared to have lost weight, visibly ageing in the process. He was also wearing dark glasses. It must be catching. No wonder Véronique looked worried.

  ‘Ah, Pamplemousse!’ he exclaimed. ‘At long last. I have been looking out for you.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse resisted the temptation to say they would have arrived a quarter of an hour ago if they hadn’t been locked out.

  ‘We came as speedily as we could, monsieur.’

  ‘I suppose the traffic was bad?’ said Monsieur Leclercq.

  ‘Not when we left,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘There wasn’t a car to be seen on the road at 5.30 this morning.’

  ‘And you drove straight here?’

  ‘We had a brief break stop at the Aire la Briganderie south of Orleans for Pommes Frites’ benefit …’

  ‘So that he could stretch his legs, I presume?’

  ‘It was more urgent than that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse loyally. ‘He was badly in need of a pipi. As it was he only just made the silver birches in time. I also wanted to see if they had any string …’

  ‘String!’ boomed the Director.

  ‘The passenger door had developed a rattle,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I was worried in case Pommes Frites fell out when we were cornering at speed.’

  Monsieur Leclercq emitted a sigh. ‘Ah, Aristide, I do wish you would pension off that old 2CV of yours and use a company car instead. Although, in the circumstances …’ He broke off, dismissing whatever it was he had been about to say and instead glanced nervously at his watch.

  Waving towards the visitor’s chair, he followed them back into the room.

  Pressing a button to trigger off the automatic closing of the sliding doors, there was a faint, but luxurious hiss of escaping air from his black leather armchair as he seated himself.

  Leaning forward, he placed his elbows on the desk in front of him, forming a steeple with his hands as he gathered his thoughts.

  It may have been the result of wearing dark glasses, but it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that the overall effect was more suggestive of the Leaning Tower of Pisa than the upright spire of Sainte-Chapelle.

  Happening to glance to his left during the pause that followed, he saw the door to the drinks cupboard was open. A bottle of Monsieur Leclercq’s favourite cognac, Roullet Très Hors d’Age, was standing alongside an empty glass, and he couldn’t help wondering if it were a case of cause and effect.

  Also, it might have been his imagination or simply a trick of the light, but the heavily framed portrait above the cupboard appeared to show the sitter looking even more forbidding than usual. On second thoughts ‘strained’ might be a better description.

  Perhaps Glandier was right and even now Le Guide’s founder, Monsieur Hippolyte Duval, was in the process of turning over in his grave.

  In much the same way that the subject’s eyes in many portraits had a disconcerting habit of appearing to follow the viewer round a room, so the founder’s portrait never failed to reflect the prevailing mood; his steely eyes acting like the mercury in a barometer as they moved up and down according to the prevailing temperature.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but glance surreptitiously at his own watch. The hands showed 13.45.

  Following whatever was on the menu for the main course at Michel Bras, poached fois gras with beetroot perhaps, or his renowned filet of Aubrac beef, they might have been rounding things off with a chocolate coolant: another ‘signature’ dish, inspired, so it was said, by a family skiing holiday. The warmth of a hollowed-out sponge, sometimes filled with fruit, at other times with chocolate or caramel, the whole capped with a scoop of frozen double cream, was intended to give the effect of a snow-covered mountain peak.

  As he remembered it, the latter truly was the icing on the cake; much imitated, but never surpassed. It was no wonder the restaurant boasted three Stock Pots in Le Guide.

  The thought reminded him of how hungry he felt, and he knew someone else who would be even more upset if he knew what was passing through his mind.

  Except the ‘someone else’ in question, blissfully unaware of his master’s thought processes, was making full use of the lull in order to look for the water bowl that was invariably made ready for him whenever he visited the Director’s office. He peered round the desk and behind the waste bin, but he couldn’t see it anywhere. Such a thing had never happened before, bringing home to him, as nothing else could, the full seriousness of the situation.

  Having drawn a blank, he gave vent to a deep sigh and settled down at his master’s feet to await developments.

  The Director gave a start and came back down to earth from wherever he had been.

  ‘No doubt, Pamplemousse,’ he said, ‘you are wondering why I sent for you.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse sat back in his chair. He couldn’t have put it better if he tried.

  ‘As you may know,’ continued Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I have recently returned from a visit to New York. While I was there, I paid a courtesy call on a company not dissimilar in size to our own.

  ‘One of the things I discovered was that they have what they call a “vibe” manager; a person whose sole function it is to report back to the management on matters concerning staff satisfaction.

  ‘In my position, Aristide, it is all too easy to lose touch with the rank and file.’

  You’re telling me, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. Getting in touch with them from the beginning and staying t
hat way might be the answer.

  ‘Tell me, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘you are a man of the world, and I place great value on your powers of observation. How would you rate the vibes within our own organisation?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse hardly knew where to begin. ‘I, too, have been away,’ he said, slowly gathering his thoughts. ‘But in the short time I have been back I have noticed a number of things. There is a feeling of unhappiness in the air. Rumours are rife, and since they are spreading in all directions, much as tiny waves are set in motion when you throw a stone into the waters of a lake, they are hard to evaluate.

  ‘To put it bluntly, monsieur, I would say our own vibes indicate that matters have possibly reached an all-time low.’

  ‘Ah!’ Monsieur Leclercq shrank back in his seat. As he did so, there was another hiss of escaping air; almost as though he was being engulfed by the weight of some vast, overpowering tidal wave and had given up the fight. ‘I feared as much.’

  ‘Can I get you anything, monsieur?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse voiced his fears as he jumped to his feet. ‘A glass of cognac, perhaps?’

  ‘You are a good man, Pamplemousse.’ The Director reached for a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. ‘Perhaps you would care to join me? I think you may be in need of one too when you hear what I have to tell you.’

  An innocent enough remark: it seemed like a good idea to Monsieur Pamplemousse at the time.

  Afterwards he was to realise that even a spider’s web has to start somewhere.

  If you enjoyed

  Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives,

  read on to find out about other books

  by Michael Bond …

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  MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE

  AND THE CARBON FOOTPRINT

  Le Guide, France’s premier gastronomic guide, is failing to whet the appetite of its audience in America. Bribed by the Director with offers of some time off, Monsieur Pamplemousse agrees to flex his literary muscles in a bid to address the problem.

  The result is the ex-detective’s directorial debut, complete with walk-on part for faithful bloodhound, Pommes Frites. Everything rests on special guest, Jay Corby, acclaimed American food-critic, whose good opinion could change their transatlantic fortunes. But disaster strikes on opening night when a manoeuvre with a trapdoor causes Corby to storm out in a rage.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse must find him before he ruins everything for Le Guide. Once again he can rely on star sniffer dog, Pommes Frites, who is hot on the trail of their only lead, but also the flimsy undergarments of an exotic dancer they’d happened upon in a state of undress earlier that day.

  MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE

  AND THE FRENCH SOLUTION

  When Monsieur Pamplemousse got an urgent summons from the Director of Le Guide, he knew that there was trouble at the top. His faithful canine companion, Pommes Frites, noticed it too.

  But neither of them expected that the trouble would involve a nun who was in the habit of joining the Mile High Club or a full-scale smear campaign targeting Le Guide’s credibility as France’s première restaurant and hotel guide. Someone has been spreading worrying rumours among the staff and infiltrating the company files – awarding hotels prizes for bedbugs and praising egg and chips signature dishes. Even Pommes Frites has become a victim of the assault.

  It could all spell the ruin for Le Guide, but

  Pamplemousse is on the case …

  About the Author

  MICHAEL BOND was born in Newbury, Berkshire in 1926 and started writing whilst serving in the army during the Second World War. In 1958 the first book featuring his most famous creation, Paddington Bear, was published and many stories of his adventures followed. In 1983 he turned his hand to adult fiction and the detective cum gastronome par excellence Monsieur Pamplemousse was born.

  Michael Bond was awarded the OBE in 1997 and in 2007 was made an Honorary Doctor of Letters by Reading University. He is married, with two grown-up children, and lives in London.

  By Michael Bond

  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

  Copyright

  Allison & Busby Limited

  13 Charlotte Mews

  London W1T 4EJ

  www.allisonandbusby.com

  First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2006.

  This ebook edition published by Allison & Busby in 2012.

  Copyright © 2006 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 978–0–7490–1196–3