Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure (Monsieur Pamplemousse Series)

by Michael Bond

  ‘Excellent news!’ The Director rubbed his hands together with a pleasure which was so obviously false that he had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘It can be done while you are away,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I will make all the necessary arrangements. After two weeks at the Château Morgue you will be in no fit state to drive anyway. The good Herr Schmuck and his wife will see to that.’

  Sensing that he had inadvertently struck a wrong note, the Director hastily crossed to a filing cabinet and withdrew a green folder. Opening it up, he spread the contents across his desk. Recognising the detachable pages contained at the back of every copy of Le Guide, the ones on which readers were invited to make their own comments, Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered what was going to happen next.

  ‘It doesn’t sound so bad. Preliminary investigations have already been taking place.’ The Director sifted through the papers and after a moment or two found what he had been looking for. ‘Look, here is one taken at random. I will read it to you: “Just like a home from home. The food was plain but wholesome, avoiding the excessive use of cream common to so many establishments. The first time we encountered genuine smiles in all our travels through France. My wife and I particularly enjoyed the early morning tramps through the snow (obligatory without a medical certificate). Our only criticism concerned the beds, which could have been softer, and the lack of pillows. It would also help if the bicycle racks were provided with locks. In many ways it reminded us both of our days in the Forces (my wife was an AT).”’

  ‘An at!’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘What is an at?’

  The Director ran a hand round his collar and then glanced at the window, wondering if he should open it. The room was getting warm. ‘It was some kind of paramilitary female organisation operating from Grande Bretagne during the war.’ He tried to sound as casual as possible.

  ‘You mean the people who wrote that report were English?’ exclaimed Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  It figured. Memories of a week he’d once spent in Torquay during a particularly cold winter just after the war came flooding back to him. It had been his first visit to England and at the time he’d sworn it would be his last. An unheated bedroom. Everyone speaking in whispers at breakfast lest they incur the wrath of the landlady, a bizarre creature of uncertain temper who spoke some totally incomprehensible language and who wouldn’t let anyone back inside her house until after five-thirty in the afternoon. A depressing experience. Fourteen meals of soggy fish and chips – eaten out of a newspaper! He’d spent most of his time sitting in a shelter on the sea front trying to decipher the crossword.

  ‘It suffers a little in translation,’ began the Director.

  ‘May I see the others, Monsieur? The less random ones?’

  ‘They vary.’ The Director began to gather them up. ‘Some, perhaps, are not quite so enthusiastic.’

  ‘S’il vous plaît, Monsieur.’

  The Director sighed. It had been worth a try.

  ‘Not quite so favourable!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse could scarcely conceal his scorn as he glanced through the pile of reports. ‘Sacré bleu! They are like an over-ripe Camembert – they stink! I have never seen such reports, never. Not in the whole of my career. Look at them.

  ‘“The man should be arrested … his wife, too … Herr Schmuck is a …”’

  There the report ended in a series of blots, rather as though the emotional strain of putting pen to paper had proved so great the author had emptied the entire contents of an ink-well over the report rather than commit blasphemy in writing.

  ‘That settles it!’ He rose to his feet. ‘I am sorry, Monsieur.’

  The Director heaved another sigh; a deeper one this time. ‘I am sorry too, Aristide. I had hoped that your dedication to duty, the dedication we older hands at Le Guide have come to admire and respect, would have been sufficient motivation. Alas …’ With an air of one whose last illusion about his fellow man has just been irretrievably shattered, he played his trump card. ‘It leaves me with no alternative but to exercise the authority of my position. An authority, Pamplemousse, which I must remind you – although speaking, I hope, as a friend, it saddens me that I should have to do so – you were only too happy to accept when you first joined us. You will be leaving for Perpignan on the seven forty-one train tomorrow morning. Your tickets are with Madame Grante.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse sank back into his chair again. He knew when he was beaten. What the Director had just said was true. He owed Le Guide a great deal. The memory of that fatal day when, out of a sense of moral duty and against the advice of many of his colleagues, he had handed in his resignation at the Sûreté, was still very clear in his mind: the sudden cold feeling of being alone in the world when he’d walked out of the quai des Orfèvres for the last time, not knowing which way to turn – left or right. As it turned out, the Fates had been kind. Obeying a momentary impulse, he’d turned right and headed towards the seventh arrondissement. And as luck would have it, his wanderings had taken him past the offices of Le Guide. There he had bumped into the Director; a Director who had cause to be grateful for the satisfactory conclusion to a case which, had it been handled differently, could have brought scandal on France’s oldest and most respected gastronomic bible.

  But if the Director had cause to be grateful to Monsieur Pamplemousse, the reverse was certainly true. Hearing of the latter’s plight, he had, without a second’s hesitation, offered him a job on the spot. In the space of less than an hour, Monsieur Pamplemousse had moved from one office to another; from a job he had come to think of as his life’s blood, to one which was equally rewarding.

  He rose to his feet. It had been a generous act, a noble act. A gesture of friendship he could never hope to repay. He was left with no option but to accede to the Director’s wishes. To argue would be both churlish and unappreciative of his good fortune.

  ‘Come, come, Aristide,’ the Director allowed himself the luxury of putting an arm on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s shoulder as he pointed him in the direction of the door. ‘It is only for two weeks. Two weeks out of your life. It will all be over before you know where you are.’

  While he was talking the Director reached into an inner pocket of his jacket with his other hand and withdrew a long, white envelope. ‘These are a few notes which may help you in your task. There’s no need to read them now. I suggest you put them away and don’t look at them until you reach your destination. What is the saying? La corde ne peut être toujours tendue. All work and no play makes Jacques a dull boy? Who knows, they may help you to kill two oiseaux with one stone.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse blinked. For a moment he was mentally knocked off balance by the Director’s disconcerting habit of mixing his languages as well as his metaphors when the occasion demanded. Absentmindedly he slipped the envelope inside his jacket without so much as a second glance.

  ‘Oh, and another thing.’ As they reached the door the Director paused with one hand on the latch. ‘I think you should take Pommes Frites with you. He, too, has been looking overweight in recent weeks. I think he is still suffering from your visit to Les Cinq Parfaits. Besides, you may find him of help in your activities.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s spirits sank still further. It hadn’t occurred to him for one moment that he might not be taking Pommes Frites. Pommes Frites always went with him. He was glad he hadn’t thought of the possibility earlier, otherwise he might have said more than he had already and regretted it.

  ‘Dogs are not normally allowed at Établissements Ther­maux,’ said the Director, reading his thoughts, ‘not even with the payment of a supplement. It is a question of hygiène. Not,’ he raised his hands in mock horror at the thought, ‘not that one questions Pommes Frites’ personal habits for one moment. But the presence of dogs seems to be particularly frowned on at Château Morgue. Chiens are definitely not catered for. I had to resort to a subterfuge. I insisted on his presence on account of your unfortunate disability.’

  ‘My disability, Monsieur?�
�

  The Director clucked impatiently. Pamplemousse was being unusually difficult this morning. Difficult, or deliberately unhelpful; he strongly suspected the latter.

  ‘The trouble with your sight. I made a telephone call on your behalf late yesterday evening in order to explain the situation. I’m sure Pommes Frites will make an excellent guide dog. It’s the kind of thing bloodhounds ought to be good at. You can collect his special harness along with some dark glasses and a white stick at the same time as the tickets.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director as if he had suddenly taken leave of his senses. ‘Perhaps, Monsieur,’ he exclaimed, ‘you would like me to learn Braille on the journey down?’

  His sarcasm fell on deaf ears. ‘Such dedication, Aristide! I knew from the outset you were the right man for the job.’

  ‘But …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself clutching at straws, straws which were wrenched from his hand the moment his grip tightened. ‘Would it not be easier and infinitely more satisfactory if someone else went?’

  ‘Easier, Pamplemousse, oui.’ The Director’s voice cut across his own like a pistol shot. ‘More satisfactory … non! We need someone with your knowledge and experience, receptive to new ideas, able to collect and collate information. Someone totally incorruptible.

  ‘Oh, and one final thing,’ the Director’s voice, softer now, reached Monsieur Pamplemousse as if through a haze. ‘I am assuming that to all intents and purposes your régime has already begun. There is, I believe, a restaurant car on the Morning Capitole. However, I shall not expect to see any items from its menu appear on your expense sheet. It will be good practice for you and Pommes Frites, and it will put you both in the right frame of mind for all the optional extras at Château Morgue – such things as massages and needle baths. Make full use of everything. Do not stint yourselves. I will see things right with Madame Grante.

  ‘And now,’ the Director held out his hand, donning his official manner at the same time, ‘au revoir, Aristide, and … bonne chance.’

  Although the handshake was not without warmth, the message that went with it was icily clear, delivered in the manner of one who has said all there is to say on the subject and now wishes to call the meeting closed.

  The Director believed in running Le Guide with all the efficiency of a military operation, and clearly in his mind’s eye Monsieur Pamplemousse was already but a flag on the map of France which occupied one entire wall of the Operations Room in the basement; a magnetic flag which on the morrow would be moved steadily but inexorably southwards as the Morning Capitole gathered speed and headed towards Toulouse and the Pyrénées-Orientales.

  As Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way slowly back down the corridor towards the lift, he turned a corner and collided with a girl coming the other way. She was carrying a large tray on which reposed an earthenware pot, a plate, bread, cutlery, napkin and a bottle of wine: a Pommard ’72.

  ‘Zut!’ The girl neatly recovered her balance and then made great play of raising the tray in triumph as she recognised Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Alors! That was a near thing. Monsieur le Directeur would not have been pleased if his cassoulet had gone all over the floor. Nor would the chef – he made it specially. Monsieur le Directeur said to me when he phoned down a moment ago how much he was looking forward to it. I think he has had a bad morning.’

  ‘Cassoulet!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse repeated the word bitterly as the girl hurried on her way. ‘Cassoulet!’ He had a sudden mental picture of the Director clutching his apple sanctimoniously while he laid down the law. The mockery of it all! The hypocrisy!

  He hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he should snatch a quick bite to eat before visiting Madame Grante, and decided against it. His digestive tracts were in a parlous enough state as it was without adding to their problems.

  Besides, if he was to catch the early morning train there was work to be done. His desk would need to be cleared of outstanding papers, the contents of Le Guide’s issue suitcase would have to be checked. He had a feeling some of the items might come in very useful over the next two weeks – the portable cooking equipment for a start.

  The thought triggered off another. He might try and persuade old Rabiller in Stores to let him borrow a remote control attachment for his Leica while he was away. He’d heard there was one in stock awaiting field trials. With time on his hands he might try his hand at some wildlife photography. An eagle’s nest, perhaps? Or a mountain bear stirring after its long winter rest. He would take the precaution of stocking up on film.

  Then he would need to be home early in order to break the news to Madame Pamplemousse. She would not be pleased. He had promised faithfully to decorate the kitchen before the spring. That would have to wait now, and in his weakened state after ‘the cure’ who knew when he might be fit enough to start work on it?

  Pommes Frites, too. Pommes Frites liked his set routine. They would need to be on their way by half past six at the very latest, which would mean doing him out of his morning walk. There was also the little matter of getting him used to his new harness before they set out.

  Almost imperceptibly Monsieur Pamplemousse quickened his pace. One way and another there was a lot to be done and very little time left in which to do it.

  2

  THE DOPPELGÄNGER

  With his suitcase stowed away in the compartment at the end of the carriage, his overcoat and white stick on the luggage rack above his head, Monsieur Pamplemousse removed his dark glasses, gathered the little that was left of his breath, and gazed gloomily out of the window of the Morning Capitole as it slid gently out of the deserted quais of the Gare d’Austerlitz and then rapidly gathered speed.

  The day had got off to a bad start. Trouble had set in almost as soon as they left home, a fact which Pommes Frites, already curled up on the floor as he addressed himself to the task of catching up on some lost sleep, would have been only too happy to confirm had he been asked.

  Any fond hopes Monsieur Pamplemousse might have cherished about his ‘condition’ conferring little extra privileges en route had been quickly dashed. The cup containing the milk of human kindness ran dry very early in the day on the Paris Métro, as he discovered when he tried to board an already crowded train at Lamarck-Caulaincourt. The ‘poufs’ and snorts and cluckings which rose from all sides as he attempted to push his way through to the seats normally reserved for les mutilés de guerre, les femmes enceintes and other deserving travellers in descending order of priority, had to be heard to be believed. In no time at all he found himself back on the platform, glasses askew and suitcase threatening to burst at the seams. Had he not managed to get in some quick and effective jabs with his stick, Pommes Frites might well have suffered a bruised tail – or worse – as the doors slid shut behind them and the train went on its way.

  Seeing him standing there and misinterpreting the reason, a more helpful morning commuter who arrived on the platform just in time to see them alight, came to the rescue and escorted him back to the waiting lift. Monsieur Pamplemousse was too kindly a person to throw this act of friendship back into the face of his unknown benefactor, so he allowed himself to be ushered into the lift, hearing as he did so the arrival and departure of the next train.

  Then, on emerging at the top, he’d collided with an ex-colleague from the Sûreté. The look on the man’s face as he caught Monsieur Pamplemousse in the act of removing his dark glasses in order to get his bearings, plainly mirrored his embarrassment and contempt. The news would be round all the Stations by now; probably even the quai des Orfèvres itself. ‘Old Pamplemousse has really hit rock bottom. He’s trying the “blind man on the Métro” routine now. Things must be bad. First the Follies and now this. No doubt about it, an oeuf mauvais.’

  The prospect through the window as he took his seat on the Morning Capitole was grey. The Seine, from the few glimpses he managed to catch, looked dark and uninviting. Ahead of them lights from anonymous office blocks twinkled through the mist, b
eckoning to the trickle of early arrivals hurrying to beat the morning rush.

  Suddenly, as the Seine joined up with the Marne and then disappeared from view, he felt glad to be heading south and away from it all. He was conscious of a warm glow which owed as much to the thought of going somewhere fresh as it did to the unaccustomed flurry of exercise. It was a feeling that was almost immediately enhanced by an announcement over the loudspeakers that breakfast was about to be served. To the devil with the Director and his instructions.

  Giving Pommes Frites a warning nudge, he rose to his feet. If the other passengers on the train felt as he did there would be a rush for tables.

  If only Ananas had not been on the same train; worse still, he occupied the same carriage. That was the unkindest cut of all – really rubbing salt into the wound, the kind of bizarre coincidence he could well have done without. Experience in the Force had taught him that most people have a double somewhere in the world, but more often than not their paths never cross, or if they do, they pass each other by in the street without recognising the fact, aware only of experiencing something slightly odd – a feeling of déjà vu.

  It was his particular misfortune to have a double whose face was constantly in the public eye, made larger than life by being plastered on hoardings the length and breadth of France, and consequently in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s opinion – despite the element of self-criticism it implied – made ten times less inviting.

  As he led the way along the corridor towards the restaurant car, he glanced into the compartment where Ananas was holding court. Adopting a pose which ensured that his profile was clearly visible to anyone passing, he was deep in conversa­tion with a somewhat vicious-looking individual. Monsieur Pamplemousse reflected that Ananas’ companion looked as if he might have even stranger proclivities than his master, which would be saying something.