Monsieur Pamplemousse & the Secret Mission (Monsieur Pamplemousse Series)

by Michael Bond

  ‘Pardon, Monsieur, did you say St. Georges-sur-Lie?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Aahaaah!’ The voice at the other end sounded relieved, as if that one single fact explained every­thing. ‘We have had a certain amount of trouble at St. Georges-sur-Lie.’

  ‘Trouble? What sort of trouble?’

  ‘Sabotage, Monsieur. Sabotage of the very worst kind. Vandalism is one thing. The units are designed to cope with that. They are constructed in architectural grade concrete with a fluted exterior design to pre­vent unauthorised bill-posting, the internal surfaces are protected by anti-stick paint, the metal parts sand-blasted, metallised and painted. Also, as part of the service, there is a periodical pressurised steam cleaning …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse suppressed a sigh and fed in his last five franc coin. Better not to interrupt the flow. It might cause further delays. A girl in a red and gold uniform went past carrying an instrument case. Heads turned, for she was wearing tights and the shortest of skirts, her bottom encapsulated in the brief­est of snow-white pants. He wondered idly how old she was. She looked in her early twenties but was probably about fifteen. No doubt she was taking part in the Grand Parade that afternoon. There was a poster on the wall opposite advertising the appearance of a local drum and fife band, led by Miss Sparkling Saumur. He turned his attention back to the phone.

  ‘… it was like it right from the beginning. One expects a certain amount of opposition. People are resistant to change. Even in the world of aménagements sanitaires there are those who would stand in the way of progress – they prefer the cracked porcelain bowl they know to one made of cast aluminium, enamelled to the highest standards. Others object to paying for some­thing which nature requires them to do at regular intervals whether they like it or not. But this is dif­ferent. Wires have been cut. Sand has been injected into the mechanism of the door leading to the technical area – we have had to change the lock three times. The sound tape has been tampered with – the music erased and replaced by a voice uttering threats and warnings to anyone using the services. The skydome has been interfered with …’

  ‘Who would do such a thing?’

  ‘Poof! That, Monsieur, is anyone’s guess. You may well ask. There is no accounting for some people’s behaviour. In my profession I could tell you some tales. These units are expensive and they require a minimum number of operational cycles each day to make them viable. This one has been standing idle for over six months.’

  ‘I mean, what sort of qualifications would he need?’

  ‘A knowledge of electricity. The ability to find his way round a circuit diagram. It is not difficult. Common sense – or the lack of it. We will look into the matter immediately, of course … although several of our engineers have refused to go there any more.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse saw the remains of his time ticking away on the meter. ‘I must go. Thank you for your help.’

  ‘Enchanté, Monsieur. Thank you for being so patient and understanding. It cannot have been a pleasant experience. And, Monsieur …’

  ‘Oui?’

  ‘I trust such a thing will never happen to you again, but should you be so unfortunate, should the impos­sible occur, you will find there is a telephone installed in the technical area …’ There was a click and the line went dead. It saved Monsieur Pamplemousse the trouble of explaining that the part of him nearest the technical area had not been the one he normally used for conversing with, although at the time it would have been more than capable of giving vent to his feelings. He replaced the receiver and left the kiosk, momentarily lost in thought as he gazed at the back of the hotel.

  Apart from the old woman still eternally peeling vegetables near the back door to the kitchen area, there was no one in sight. He’d been up even earlier than her that morning. It was a good thing he had too, for the car park was now full to capacity and his own car was totally hemmed in. He would never have got to the market.

  Pommes Frites was nowhere in sight; he was prob­ably still upstairs, keeping a low profile and catching up on lost sleep. One way and another he must have foregone quite a few hours over the past two nights. Perhaps, dog-like, he was instinctively following the doctor’s advice: a darkened room and plenty of water. Monsieur Pamplemousse made a mental note to make sure his bowl got filled up; in the prevailing weather he probably had need of it.

  There was a small queue outside the boulangerie, but no sign of the owner. He was probably snatching some sleep before his second baking. He’d already been hard at work that morning when Monsieur Pamplemousse went past; smoke rising from the wood-fired oven.

  The old woman picked up a bowl and went into the kitchen. Taking advantage of her absence he slipped through the car park, in and out of the cars, and took a quick look inside the stable next to the one Pommes Frites had occupied. It was empty. At the far end, under a window, there was a work bench with a vice, and to one side of it a board with a selection of tools fixed to the wall; a file or two, several screwdrivers of various sizes, some pliers. The bench had been brushed down. A drawer beneath it was fastened by a padlock. It looked very workmanlike, neat and tidy.

  Catching sight of something light-coloured on the darkened surface of the floor, he bent down and picked it up. It was a small piece of crust from a loaf. Under the bench was a wire hair grip.

  Hearing the sound of voices, he slipped both into his wallet and hurried outside. Pausing for a moment by his car, he pretended to check the wheels before leaving the car park.

  Resisting the temptation to buy an old typewriter on the first stall he came to, he hovered over a pair of kitchen scales at the next, wondering if he should get them for Doucette. He had no use whatsoever for the first – it would be sheer self-indulgence; the second would be too late for her birthday, too soon for Christmas, and presents in between were usually regarded with suspicion. He settled instead for a pocket corkscrew. It had the name of a négociant from Burgundy engraved on the side and must have been a give-away at some time.

  The finding of the crumb had set him thinking. The hair pin too. There was probably a simple explanation for both, and yet …

  He continued on his circuit, past displays of clothes, past tables clearly belonging to professional antique dealers from neighbouring towns – their owners organised and impassively getting on with their knit­ting or reading a paper, past other tables littered with open cardboard boxes and trays full of oddments and bric-à-brac; hinges, locks, old keys, cotton-reels – the more useless the item the more hopeful the owner. He stopped by a stall selling old postcards and riffled through them. There might even be one of the hotel. He wondered if Doucette had kept all his cards over the years. If she had there would be enough for her to open a stall of her own by now.

  Glancing towards the front of the hotel he saw Tante Louise standing on a pair of steps hitching a row of coloured lights to a branch of the tree. Below her Madame Terminé was bustling to and fro laying the tables for déjeuner. He hobbled over towards them, conscious of a certain stiffness setting in.

  ‘May I help?’

  Tante Louise looked down. ‘Non, merci. I know where they go. Armand should be doing it. He knows about these things – but he has disappeared.’

  Madame Terminé gave a loud sniff as she went past, glancing skywards. He had a feeling that part of her reaction was meant for him; a reproof for what hadn’t happened the night before. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. He hoped it wouldn’t affect her work that day. A lot depended on Madame Terminé’s ability to stick to the seating plan he’d drawn up.

  ‘What did she mean by that?’

  ‘Justine? Oh, nothing. It’s simply that Armand is a little strange sometimes. It is always worse when the moon is full.’ He held the steps while she came down. ‘It is very sad. He could have been many things, but no one wants to employ him any more. I only do so because of family ties. He is the son of old Madame Camille who you’ve seen outside, and if she went I don’t know where I’d be. Her
mother worked for my grandfather, but as for her husband … who knows? There was a lot of family inter-marrying in those days and sometimes it backfired. Armand is harmless enough, but he mixes with strange people.’ She picked up the cable. ‘I think she is also a little put out over your helping so much in the kitchen.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked even more thoughtful as he climbed the stairs to his room. It was like doing a jigsaw. You did the edges first and then started on the middle. Suddenly, from being on the point of writing to the manufacturers complaining that there must be pieces missing, they came to light and a picture began to take shape.

  As he’d suspected, Pommes Frites was fast asleep, effectively blocking the doorway to the bathroom. For some reason best known to himself, Pommes Frites had become obsessed with the bathroom. He opened one eye and watched while his master pottered around the bedroom, picking up a piece of paper here, consult­ing a chart there.

  The fact of the matter was, with zero hour approaching Monsieur Pamplemousse was anxious to set the wheels in motion. He looked at his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning. It was barely twelve o’clock. Hard to believe that he’d been up and about and working for close on eight hours. Hard to believe in one sense, easy in another. He suddenly felt inordinately tired as he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes while he took stock of the situation. The idea of serving a menu surprise gastronomique had been something of an inspiration; the planning and the execution had taken it out of him. At least it had cured him for the time being of the ambition he’d once had, and still had from time to time, of one day retiring and opening his own small hotel. Like many such ambitions the dream was better than the realisation, but without such dreams what would life be all about? Working for Le Guide was probably as good a compromise as any.

  All now depended on Madame Terminé following his instructions to the letter; serving the right dishes to the right tables according to a pre-determined plan so that he could note the effect if any, putting ticks in little boxes. He opened his eyes again and picked up one of the charts. Monsieur le Directeur would have been proud of him. He wondered if anyone since Roman times had organised a menu with so many aphrodisiac variations and possibilities. Bernard would appreciate it. It might even jog his memory. There must be something he’d forgotten.

  The apéritif had been his first stroke of genius; the potage noisette his second. In one fell swoop he would eliminate many possibilities. He went over the in­gredients of both again in his mind, making sure nothing had been forgotten.

  The apéritif he’d prepared early that morning, boiling it up first before leaving it in the refrigerator to cool. Red Bourgueil from Touraine, cinnamon – he wondered if perhaps he’d been a little over-generous with the cinnamon, almost two large spoonfuls had gone in – ginger, vanilla, honey, cloves. It should set their red corpuscles going, getting them in the right mood for the potage: pounded almonds mixed with the yolks of hard-boiled eggs and chicken stock, then more honey. The cream was a bit of a problem. Strictly speaking he should have mixed it in while he was making it, but according to the researches he’d done while writing his article, the appearance of a bowl of cream on the table was often a great attraction to the female of the species. Ideally, too, he should have added a few pine kernels, perhaps even standing some cones on end; one opposite each place setting. The more phallic symbols there were around the better. Symbols and symbolism ran right through the litera­ture of aphrodisiacs and played almost as large a part as did the ingredients themselves. What was interesting, and what none of his researches had ever told him for sure, was whether, like hypnotism, you could only persuade people to do things they had a deep desire to do anyway, never the other way round.

  In the end timing had been one of the chief factors which eliminated many possibilities; timing and avail­ability coupled with intent and the danger involved. The latter had included all the drugs with known side-effects, like mescaline, cannabis, Spanish fly and ginseng, which in any case was too slow-acting to have been the cause of Bernard’s problem. For similar reasons he rejected avocado laced with nutmeg – awarded special mention in his article because it was one of the least dangerous. Its preparation required time, implying malice aforethought, and when it acted it was reputed to be a case of lighting the blue touch paper and retiring immediately. Cucumber stuffed with truffles was too exotic.

  Whatever it was it had to be as anonymous and taken for granted as the arrival of the facteur with the morning mail, as accepted a part of the daily scene in the Founder’s time as it was today, innocuous on the sur­face and yet powerful and long lasting. The length of the fuse was less important than staying power. Bernard must have driven for more than an hour before he finally succumbed; Pommes Frites’ staying powers the other night were not open to question.

  Uncooked celery stalks – if stories were to be believed – fulfilled most of the requirements. Rich in methaqualone, they were highly prized in some northern countries like Greenland and Norway. Rabbits thrived on them. But it would be unusual to find them eaten raw in large quantities in the English fashion. They would be much more likely to find their way into a salad or be cooked in some way.

  It was a problem and no mistake.

  Getting up from the bed, he went out on to the balcony. By leaning over the rail he was able to see along to the garden. Already there was a sprinkling of early arrivals. One man was holding his apéritif up to the light, discussing the contents of the glass with his companion. Draining it, he signalled to Madame Terminé for a refill. That was something he hadn’t bargained for. He wondered if he’d made enough. More than ever he regretted the loss of his notebook. With its neatly ruled and divided pages it was ideal for keeping records under cover of the table cloth.

  Slightly to his relief, Pommes Frites ignored an invi­tation to accompany him downstairs. He would have his work cut out keeping track of things as it was without any other distraction. Apart from which, after last night’s meal it wouldn’t do Pommes Frites any harm to go without for a day.

  By the time he arrived in the garden more than half the tables were occupied and Madame Terminé was waving some new arrivals in, uttering cries of ‘avancez’, whipping the serviette off the table and into their laps as they sat down. His own table, arranged towards the back of the garden close to some steps leading down to the cellars, had the double advantage of being in the shade and yet affording a view through a gap in the others so that he would be able to see the parade when it took place.

  Putting his Leica and a writing pad on a chair beside him he settled down and looked around. To his right a party of four were already into their soup, rewarding his efforts with a great deal of lip-smacking and com­ments and wiping of bowls with their bread. He won­dered what they would say if they knew why he’d made it. To his right a local was protesting about there being a fixed menu with no choice – demanding that he be told in advance so that he could choose his wine. He received short shrift from Madame Terminé. Madame Terminé was, in fact, in her element. He could see now how she had acquired her brusque manner; it must have been ingrained in her from the days when the Hôtel du Paradis was always full. With over forty people to serve there was no time for pleasantries; the pace never slackened for a moment. His own apéritif was poured in passing without a drop being spilled nor a hint of anything other than exactly the right measure. Not too little, not too much. His ‘merci’ was registered and acknowledged with the barest of nods.

  Some more girls went past, walking self-consciously and awkwardly on their high heels, aware that they were being watched by all the people at table and taking comfort in the safety of numbers. They were a motley selection, some barely into their teens, others twice their age. Bottoms of various shapes, sizes and denominations, pert or full, tight or wobbly, turned and faced the hotel as they made their way across the square. Most of them would probably automatically pull their skirts down over their knees if they caught you looking at them in a restaura
nt or an autobus, and yet there they were, as bold as brass, generously dis­playing thighs and bosoms for all the world to see, their faces lobster red from the combined effects of over-tight uniforms, the hot sun and the comments from the crowd.

  ‘Poor things.’ Tante Louise joined him for a moment. ‘Fancy having to wear those uniforms in this heat. I must give them something to drink.’

  She disappeared into the hotel again and a few minutes later came out with a jug and a pile of paper cups. He watched as she followed after them like a mother hen.

  On the far side of the square he recognised the gendarme he’d spoken to the previous evening, on traffic duty now, directing cars away from the area where the band would be performing. People were already starting to form small groups in front of the stalls on either side. Despite the heat, the hot-dog stand was doing a roaring trade.

  Above the sound of the Fair, which had been building up all the morning – the steady rumble of a roundabout and the cracking of rifle fire – he could hear a staccato roar like the high-pitched buzzing of a swarm of angry bees. It came from a tarmac area just beyond the fair­ground where later that afternoon there would be miniature car racing. It was the latest craze; radio-controlled toy cars treated with all the solemnity of the real thing. Marshals with their flags. Pit stops. Mechanics in overalls wielding tiny screwdrivers and bottles of benzine, and all the usual hangers-on. From the tree above his head the loudspeaker crackled into life as someone blew into a microphone, then it went quiet again.

  Madame Terminé bustled past with the first of the entrées. He made a quick note on his pad. Table four was getting a selection of open tartlets; eels, moules, asperges, accompanied by spinach; table seven was get­ting frogs’ legs, brains, jambon with ananas and turnip. It was hard to picture turnip being an aphrodisiac. On the other hand Scotsmen ate it with their haggis. They probably had need of it, wearing kilts in all the cold weather they had to endure.