Monsieur Pamplemousse & the Secret Mission (Monsieur Pamplemousse Series)

by Michael Bond

  During his absence preparations for the holiday had already got under way in the village. The tricolor hung limply from a pole which had been erected in the centre of the square, bunting joining it to some of the sur­rounding balconies. Tables and chairs had been set out in the garden of the hotel, ready for the influx of visitors. A white van was parked nearby and a man in blue overalls was attaching some loudspeakers to a branch of the yew tree.

  As he turned into the hotel car park he took a quick glance to the right. The blue van was parked in its usual place, although the baker was nowhere to be seen, which perhaps wasn’t surprising. He was probably keeping out of the way. He wondered what he would think of the photographs.

  To his great relief Pommes Frites was there to greet him, bounding out from the stable, tail wagging, full of the joy of living and of seeing his master again. Quite recovered from his previous night’s adventure, he watched the boot being unloaded with interest, then led the way excitedly towards the hotel, dashing here, there and everywhere, investigating and sniffing, looking in the stable adjoining his own and drawing a blank, standing up with his paws on the window sill, peering into the kitchen.

  Tante Louise saw him and waved back.

  ‘I have a favour to ask.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse handed over his pile of shopping, wondering if in bringing his own food he would cause offence. ‘The prunes are to go with the lapin. It seemed to me yester­day that if I were to criticise it at all it would be for lack of prunes.’

  He needn’t have worried. The Director’s aunt seemed only too pleased. She followed him into the hall and stood at the foot of the stairs as Pommes Frites, nose to the carpet, hurried on ahead.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse took his key from her. ‘I have been thinking about tomorrow …’ he said. ‘I have some ideas.’

  ‘That’s very kind.’ For a moment it looked as if she was about to add something, then she changed her mind.

  Sensing her embarrassment, Monsieur Pample­mousse came to the rescue. ‘I have in mind a menu gastronomique,’ he said grandly. ‘A menu gastronomique surprise. If you will allow me the use of your kitchen then together we will prepare a meal fit for the President.’

  With a confidence that he was far from feeling, he climbed the stairs and made his way along the landing towards his room. Pommes Frites was waiting for him, scratching the bottom of the door, his excitement unabated. Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at him. There were signs, unmistakable signs.

  He reached down. ‘Qu’est-ce que c’est? What are you trying to tell me?’

  Pommes Frites lowered himself down on to his stomach and looked up soulfully. It was the kind of expression which implied that although in many res­pects the world was a wonderful place, certain aspects of it left a lot to be desired. In short, he had warning messages to convey which meant that all was not well.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse slipped the key into the lock, turned it as gently as possible and pushed the door open. The inside of the room was dark, the shutters closed to shield it from the hot sun. Pommes Frites stood up very slowly, remaining still for a fraction of a second while he took stock of the situation, then he relaxed and led the way in.

  Following on behind, Monsieur Pamplemousse crossed to the window, unhooked the shutters and threw them open, flooding the room with light. As he did so there was a crackling sound from just below the balcony. It was followed almost immediately by a bellowing amplified voice not far off the threshold of pain, then a raucous burst of music. His heart sank as the noise from the loudspeaker echoed round the square. Sleep would not come easily the following night. No doubt there would be dancing into the early hours.

  As he turned back into the room he caught sight of some flowers; a bowl of dahlias standing on a table near the other window. He suddenly felt guilty at having made the suggestion. It couldn’t be easy running an hotel almost single-handed, and with the level of custom he’d seen so far money must be tight. Perhaps the problem was self-solving. Perhaps if the Director could hold out long enough his aunt would have to close the hotel anyway.

  Aware that Pommes Frites was watching his every movement, he opened the drawers of the dressing table. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed. Pommes Frites didn’t even bother to put on his ‘you’re getting warm’ expression; it was all a bit of a let-down. Instead he was wearing his long-suffering, impassive look.

  He paused at the spot where he had left his case, the one belonging to Le Guide. Pommes Frites began to show more interest. Monsieur Pamplemousse picked it up and examined it more closely. Someone had been at one of the locks. There was a small, barely discernible scratch across the bottom of it. He could have sworn it hadn’t been there earlier on when he’d taken the camera out.

  Reaching for his keys he opened it and quickly ran through the contents. Leitz Trinovid glasses; the special compartment for the Leica R4 and its associated lenses and filters. Beneath the removable tray was the com­partment with all the other equipment; the folding stove and various items of cutlery and cooking equip­ment for use in an emergency. The report forms were intact inside the lid compartment.

  He snapped it shut again. Whoever had tried to open the case had failed. It was a tribute to Monsieur Hippolyte Duval and the high standards he had laid down in the very beginning. If a job was worth doing at all it was worth doing well.

  He turned his attention to the wardrobe. As he did so he felt a sudden movement behind him. Turning quickly he was in time to catch Pommes Frites rising to his feet. Tail wagging, a look of approval on his face, he came over to join his master. The signs were clear; he was getting warm at last.

  Opening the wardrobe door, he riffled through his pile of shirts and other clothing, then reached out for the single clothes-hanger, feeling as he did so for a tell-tale bulge, knowing at the same time that he would be looking in vain.

  His worst fears were realised. The trousers hung limply in his hand, the right side bereft not only of a leg to go inside it, but of any extra weight whatsoever. His notebook, his precious notebook, was no longer there.

  Sensing that something was expected of him, Pommes Frites responded. Lifting up his head, he closed his eyes and let out a loud howl. It was a howl which said it all. Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t have put it better even if he’d tried.

  6

  ALARMS AND EXCURSIONS

  Grasping an oyster shell firmly in his left hand, Monsieur Pamplemousse speared the contents neatly with a fork and twisted it away from its housing, holding it up to the light with the air of a gastronome bent on extracting the last milligram of gustatory pleasure out of the task in hand.

  Privately he was wishing he hadn’t bought quite so many. He couldn’t think what had possessed him. Four dozen! Thirty-seven down and eleven to go. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten more than a dozen. Two dozen was the most he’d ever consumed at one time.

  Pommes Frites, curled up beneath the table, was being no help whatsoever. He was pointedly ignoring the whole thing, although in fairness even if he had been ready and willing to lend a paw Monsieur Pample­mousse would have thought twice about letting him. For some reason best known to himself, Pommes Frites tended to chew oysters – unlike chunks of meat, biscuits and many other items of food, which often went down so fast they barely touched the side of his throat. In chewing them he usually managed to get the odd valve stuck between his teeth which resulted in a lot of noisy lip-smacking for upwards of several hours afterwards.

  He toyed with the idea of slipping some into his napkin while dabbing at his mouth, but decided against it. Madame Terminé was hovering by the bar keeping a purposeful eye on his progress. Nearer still a couple with their heads bent close together were watching his every mouthful with a look of awe. It was too risky.

  It was a shame really. There it was, sitting on the end of his fork, a survivor of a family of perhaps one hundred million offspring, the result of a chance encounter by its mother with some floating sperm, left to its own devices at an earl
y age, enjoying its one and only brief period of freedom until the vagaries of the currents off the Brittany coast had caused it to land eventually on one of the white tiles at Locmariaquer where it had spent its childhood until it became old enough and fat enough to be moved elsewhere, to Riec-sur-Belon perhaps, where it had passed the next five years or so, pumping water through itself at an inexorable rate of one litre per hour every hour of its life, surviving attacks on its person by crabs and star­fish, and on its already thick and heavy shell by the boring-sponge and the dog-whelk, fighting for the right to its share of food against the rival claims of barnacles, worms and mussels, and for what? To end up unwanted on the end of a fork in St. Georges-sur-Lie! It seemed a gross miscarriage of justice; an unfair return for so much hardship and labour.

  He opened his mouth and popped it in, savouring the taste of the sea as it slid down, helped on its way by a cool draught of Muscadet. It was the least he could do in the circumstances.

  He wondered for a moment about its sex life. Oysters were reputed to change sex many times; their mating habits were haphazard in the extreme. What, if it ever felt the need, which by all accounts was doubtful, would an oyster use as an aphrodisiac?

  The thought produced another. Apart from a feeling of fullness, unwelcome at such an early stage in the meal which, to say the least, was extravagantly con­ceived, what other effect were the oysters having on him? He gazed across the room at the figure hovering behind the bar. Was it his imagination or was her gaze a soupçon more thoughtful than he remembered it? Did not her eyes appear a little darker, her lips a deeper shade of red? Had not thirty-seven, no, thirty-eight oysters made her breasts appear to rise and fall a little faster as if trying to escape whatever man-made device it was that held them in place? No one could deny that she was well endowed. Nature had not been unkind.

  The answer came swiftly. Glancing impatiently at her watch, she was practically on top of him before he had time to gather himself together. Her acceleration from a standing start was impressive.

  ‘Terminé?’

  ‘Non, merci.’ He managed to reach the dish a fraction of a second before her. Picking up a piece of quartered lemon he squeezed it over the remaining oysters before she had time to whisk them away. He must not weaken now.

  As if to punish him the salmon trout came on a cold plate, the lapin aux pruneaux on an even colder one. It must have been put in the fridge. He found himself reaching automatically for his notebook and then remembered it was no longer there. The thought depressed him.

  The arrival of the main course caused a stirring beneath the table cloth, a reminder that Pommes Frites preferred flesh to fish; fish was for cats. As far as Monsieur Pamplemousse was concerned he was more than welcome to his share.

  The tarte was even worse than he’d feared. To use the word millefeuille was a debasement of a language rich in other words which might have been used to describe the pastry. In a pâtisserie contest it would have been a non-starter. Unefeuille would have been a better description. Unefeuille which had set rock hard and stuck to the plate. Manfully he struggled on.

  ‘Would you like a tisane?’ With probably the nearest she’d ever come to registering any kind of emotion other than impatience that evening, Madame Terminé removed the plate and ran a portable cleaner briskly over the cloth. He hoped the crumbs wouldn’t jam up the works. There were rather a lot of them. She skirted with practised ease round a lump of cream. ‘I could bring it to your room.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse considered both the sug­gestion and the manner in which it had been made. Was it his imagination working overtime again or was there some deeper meaning in the words. Looked at in a certain light it sounded more like an invitation than a suggestion. Tisane and Madame Terminé. The one a sop to the indigestion he felt coming on, the other a definite additive. It could be fatal.

  ‘Un café, s’il vous plaît. Here, at the table.’

  Unmistakably he had blotted his copy book. Serving coffee at table was not what was uppermost in Madame Terminé’s mind at that moment. He glanced round the room. The couple had gone. The only other occupants, a man and a woman in the far corner, were nearing the end of their meal. He’d seen them arrive in a BMW bearing an Orléans registration. He was elderly, florid and overdressed. She was young and plump with a perpetual pout. What his old mother would have classed as ‘no better than she should be’. If the amount of champagne they had drunk that night was anything to go by her headache on the way home would be perfectly genuine. Perhaps her escort had heard rumours about the hotel too.

  The coffee arrived. It was strong and hot and acrid. He broke a lump of sugar in half and stirred it in, holding the spoon upright for a while to take away the heat. He was anxious for something, anything to take away the taste of the pastry.

  It had not been a good meal. Apart from the oysters, which had been as near as possible in their natural state anyway, it had been a thoroughly bad meal. The wine was a different matter. The wine would have been accorded a mention in any guide book. For content, although not for presentation. Presentation was not something the Hôtel du Paradis would ever be noted for. The Bonnes Mares had been delivered and opened without any showing of the label. Madame Terminé had passed the cork briefly past the end of her nose as usual and that was that. Woe betide any man who queried her findings. All the same, had he been there for Le Guide he would certainly have made a recommenda­tion for the award of a Tasting Cup, possibly two.

  He glanced out into the square. Although he couldn’t see it, the moon must be full, for it was almost like daylight. The loudspeaker van had long since dis­appeared. The Sanisette glowed in a state of readiness. The only other lights came from the pharmacie window and what looked like a police car parked outside. Perhaps it was some kind of an emergency. A nudge from below reminded him of his obligations. It was time for a stroll. Undeniably a good idea, but there was a world of difference between thought and execution. He was having difficulty enough rising from the table let alone walking anywhere. Had Madame Terminé’s implied offer been genuine and had he taken her up on it the encounter would have been disappointing in the extreme. She would probably have got impatient and cried ‘terminé’ before he’d got his trousers even halfway off. As an exercise the meal was a dismal failure. Perhaps Monsieur Duval had gone for a spin in the moonlight afterwards on his bicycle and in so doing had set the various elements in motion so that they merged one with the other to produce a potent and active whole.

  As he made his way slowly down the steps of the hotel Monsieur Pamplemousse had to admit to himself that there was very little possibility of that happening in his case. He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt so bloated. He now knew what a goose, force-fed to enlarge its liver, must feel like – every day of its life. Slowly he made his way down one side of the square. Pommes Frites would have to make do with one circuit that night, but then one circuit to Pommes Frites was worth more than ten of anyone else’s. Nose to the ground he ran hither and thither, pausing every now and then to leave his mark, stopping occasionally to register something more important than the rest. Who knew what plans he was hatching? His nose was work­ing so much overtime it would need more than its weekly dose of vaseline at this rate.

  As he drew near the police car a figure detached itself from the shadowy side. ‘Bonsoir, Monsieur Pamplemousse.’

  ‘Bonsoir.’ He tried to keep the note of surprise from his voice.

  ‘We heard you were staying in the village.’ The remark came matter-of-factly as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps the information had come from the card he’d filled in when he regis­tered. He didn’t think anyone bothered to read them any more, unless there was a very good reason.

  He nodded towards the pharmacie. ‘Trouble?’

  The man nodded. ‘A break-in. A store-room at the back. It must have happened earlier today but it was only discovered this evening.’

  ‘Did they take much?’

  ‘A few dru
gs. The usual.’ There was a shrug and a brief smile. ‘Not a case for the Sûreté.’

  ‘C’est la vie.’ He returned the shrug. It was the kind of thing that was common enough in Paris, but sad to encounter it in a small village in the Loire. The world was not improving.

  ‘Monsieur has had an accident?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start, then remem­bered his bandage. No wonder the young couple in the restaurant had been talking about him.

  ‘It is nothing. It looks much worse than it really is.’

  ‘All the same, Monsieur should be careful.’

  Responding automatically to the other’s salute, he went on his way, wondering if the remark had been merely a pleasantry or whether it had contained some kind of warning. What with one thing and another St. Georges-sur-Lie was beginning to reveal as many undercurrents and tourbillons as the Loire itself.

  His feeling of unease lasted all the way back to the hotel. There he paused for a moment at the bottom of the steps, tossing a mental coin, wondering whether or not he would be able to summon up enough breath to inflate Pommes Frites’ kennel. He decided against it. In his present condition it would not be a good idea. More than ever he wished he’d remembered to renew the cylinder of compressed air while he was in Tours. His room was hot enough as it was without risking Pommes Frites waking up in the night and climbing on to his bed. Once there he was like a dead weight. On the other hand, another night in the straw might not be a good idea either. Straw harboured insects.

  In the end Pommes Frites decided matters for him by bounding on ahead up the steps. It was only too clear where his preferences lay.

  As they entered the hotel he heard the sound of an argument coming from the entrance to the dining-room. The man from Orléans was complaining about his meal. From the look on his companion’s face he would not be receiving value for money in return for his investment that particular evening. Not even Joan of Arc on her way to the stake could have worn a more heavily martyred expression, nor have had her mind more obviously set on a policy of non-co­operation.