by Michael Bond
‘A Gruaud Larose soixante-six!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse repeated the words reverently, savouring each syllable – almost as if he was sipping the very wine itself. It evoked memories; one of the great wines of that year.
‘George always says, if you’re going to be a wino at least do it in style. He never was much of a one for plonk.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s opinion of the British and of Monsieur Cosgrove in particular went up by leaps and bounds.
‘Madame Cosgrove …’ he began.
‘Do call me Anne.’
‘Anne.’ He felt slightly embarrassed. It was a long time since he’d asked a woman to call him by his Christian name. In the Auvergne, where he was born, there were people he’d grown up with who still called him by his surname. To such people informality came very slowly. ‘You may call me Aristide.’
‘Aristide!’ There was a chuckle from the direction of the bathroom. ‘I thought only people in school text books were called Aristide. There used to be one in mine – he had lots of uncles and aunts and he was always wanting the window open. I grew up thinking French people had a thing about fresh air.’ Her voice became slightly muffled. There was a hiss of water from the shower.
‘You were saying?’ She came back into the room, lifted the frilly cover of a wickerwork basket and dropped the top half of her gym suit through the opening. There was a wriggle and the bottom half joined it. Monsieur Pamplemousse drew in his breath sharply. Mrs. Cosgrove was quite, quite naked. En tenue d’Adam, as the expression went.
‘I was saying …’ He groped in the dark recesses of his mind for some clue as to what he might possibly have been saying and came up with nothing. Sacré bleu! He must take a grip of himself. ‘I am sorry. It could not have been important.’
Legs wide apart, Mrs. Cosgrove stood in front of a full-length mirror for a moment or two pinning up her hair and then, catching sight of Pommes Frites watching her in the glass, she turned and hurried into the bathroom. The sound of the water changed.
‘Do forgive me,’ she called. ‘I shan’t be a moment.’
‘Please, take as long as you like.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gave his glasses a quick wipe and then settled back in his chair, contemplating the stream of water as it cascaded down, over and around Mrs. Cosgrove, finding valleys here, seeking out fresh pastures there, changing course rapidly as she bent down to pick up the soap, then surging forward anew, carrying a mountain of foam before it as she lathered herself all over with a series of sensual, sucking noises.
Any pangs of conscience he might have had about his deception were quickly quashed. Without taking his eyes off the scene for a second, he reached out for a cake.
‘That’s good. I’m glad you’ve made a start.’ Mrs. Cosgrove stood facing him in the doorway, rubbing her back briskly to and fro with a large towel.
‘It’s a bit of a bore doing gym, but George always says I must look after my best features.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered which features George put top of his list. It would make interesting reading. From where he was sitting there were a number of highly desirable contenders. Did he place great store on Mrs. Cosgrove’s firm but generous balcon, each poitrine topped by a nipple still erect from its final dousing in cold water? Or was he, perhaps, an homme addicted to the delights of the derrière? As Mrs. Cosgrove turned and bent down to dry her toes he had cause to find his own list of priorities wavering. It was undoubtedly a derrière of considerable distinction. An arrière-train to be reckoned with, and one, moreover, which was also extremely close. He could have reached out and touched it. By his side he sensed Pommes Frites, nose twitching, entertaining what were probably not dissimilar thoughts. Anticipating his possible intentions, he laid a restraining hand on his head.
Mon Dieu! He felt for his handkerchief. Mrs. Cosgrove would never know how close she had come to being defiled. For no particular reason he found himself wondering how Alphonse would have coped with the situation. By now he would probably have dissolved into a pool of melted wax.
‘I say, are you all right?’ He suddenly realised she was talking to him again. ‘You’ve gone quite pale. And your glasses are all steamed up. Not that that matters, of course!’ She covered her embarrassment with a nervous giggle as she realised what she had said. ‘Forgive me. I keep forgetting.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse pulled himself together. ‘It is nothing. Merely the steam from the shower.’ He wiped the lenses clean and then sat back, pretending as best he could to fasten his gaze on the bathroom wall behind Mrs. Cosgrove, but somehow the tiles refused to come into focus.
‘You are being very quiet.’ She opened the wardrobe door and began searching inside. ‘Is anything wrong?’
‘The art of speech was given to us to conceal our true feelings,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse primly. It wasn’t entirely apposite. In fact the more he thought about it the more he wondered why he’d said it, but it bridged a gap.
‘I say, that’s very clever.’ Mrs. Cosgrove ran something black and lacy through her fingers, then discarded it.
Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if he should confess that Voltaire probably thought so too when he first coined the remark, then thought better of it. He had other matters on his mind; matters not entirely unconnected with his hostess’ present behaviour.
Mrs. Cosgrove’s liking for frills obviously extended beyond the decor of her room. One by one, undergarments made of silk, chiffon and nylon, in all possible shades of colour from lavender blue to the deepest of black, beribboned and lace-edged, came under her scrutiny and were rejected for one reason or another.
Monsieur Pamplemousse sat bemused. He wondered what the Director would have thought had he been there to see him. It was the kind of fashion show one read about in glossy magazines, but never in his wildest dreams had he pictured being present – in the very front row as it were – at such a display; a display which said as much about the workings of Mrs. Cosgrove’s mind as it did about the whims and mores of the world of fashion.
Having narrowed the choice down to two alternatives, and having weighed the relative merits of loose-layered black against whiteness and tightness and decided in favour of the latter, she sat on a stool, suspender-belt in place, and slowly and lingeringly drew on a pair of white stockings.
As she stepped into the briefest and flimsiest pair of matching culottes, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached automatically for yet another cake and found to his horror that there were only two left. He also noted a change of mind on Mrs. Cosgrove’s part. The wearing of culottes was patently not the order of the day; an unnecessary embellishment. She had stepped out of them again.
‘Poor Aristide.’ Mrs. Cosgrove’s voice cut across his thoughts. ‘I’ve been neglecting you.’
The blue of her dress matched the rest of the furnishings. A transformation had taken place. She could have been dressed for afternoon tea on a lawn in England. The knowledge he possessed produced a strange feeling of intimacy. Paradoxically, to take advantage of it, even to tell someone else, would seem like an act of betrayal.
‘Ça ne fait rien.’ He brushed aside her apologies as he adjusted to the change. ‘I have been very happy with my thoughts. And with your delicious pâtisseries too, I must confess.’
‘That’s good.’ She reached into a handbag and took out a lipstick. ‘You must have been starving. What with being on the régime and all that excitement this morning.’
‘Excitement?’ The morning seemed an age away.
‘That trouble in the lecture hall. I see she’s been whipped away already. You didn’t happen to notice her legs, did you?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head, wondering what snippet of information he was about to receive next.
‘I bet they were huge compared with the rest of her body. They’ve all had huge calves – like a ballet dancer’s. One of the attendants told me.
‘If you ask me, old Schmuck’s after their money. Either that, or he’s turning them into meat pies or sausages
or something.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly choked on the remains of his cake. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Oh, I was only joking. That would be a bit too much like Sweeney Todd. It’s only that they seem to run a charcuterie business on the side. Funny combination really.’ Satisfied with the state of her face, Mrs. Cosgrove turned away from the dressing-table mirror. ‘How about a cup of tea? Or a Beaumes de Venise?’
It didn’t take him long to decide. There was really no choice. Mrs. Cosgrove’s revelations had triggered off an urgent need for alcohol. He was also aware of a change in the atmosphere. If he wasn’t careful they would be into the area of making polite conversation.
Mrs. Cosgrove obviously felt it too as she began searching amongst a collection of cassettes in a case beside her bed. A moment later, as she went to the cupboard, the strains of ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ filled the room. Pommes Frites gave a deep sigh.
‘I’m sorry it isn’t chilled. If I’d thought, I could have stood it outside on the window-sill. The thing is, in England we drink it at the end of a meal. Whereas in France …’
‘In France it is drunk more as an apéritif, something to stimulate the appetite.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to leap the first hurdle. ‘Unlike most other wines it is aged in concrete, not wood. It helps to retain the special flavour.’
The glass was large, the helping generous. He raised it to his nose; the perfume had opulence. He glanced at the label. It was a Domaine de Durban from Jacques Leydier.
As he felt the smooth lusciousness of the golden-amber liquid at the back of his throat he began to feel better again. He drank it rather too quickly, aware that Mrs. Cosgrove was only sipping hers as she gazed at him thoughtfully over the top of her glass. He was also aware once again of the swinging leg syndrome. He wondered what she was thinking. How hard it was to read a woman’s mind. Perhaps she was waiting for him to make the first move? He reached out a hand.
Mrs. Cosgrove pushed the plate of cakes towards him. ‘Do finish them up.’
‘Non, merci. It is for you.’
Pommes Frites cast a reproachful look in his direction as Mrs. Cosgrove took him at his word. Monsieur Pamplemousse pretended not to notice. In many ways he envied Pommes Frites his simple approach to life. He would have summed up the situation in a trice. Not for him the soft music, nor the Beaumes de Venise; suspender belts he would have regarded as an unnecessary hazard – something he might catch his claws in. If he saw what he fancied, that was it. The worst that could happen was a bucket of cold water – like that time in the rue Ordener.
Mrs. Cosgrove ran her tongue round the edge of the last remaining mille-feuille. She made it look like the dress rehearsal for some more lascivious activity to come. He felt his pulse quicken as she sank her teeth slowly into the pastry.
‘Scrumptious!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse waved his hand non-committally through the air. He was not familiar with the word. ‘Pastry is like mayonnaise. It is largely a matter of temperature. It needs a marble slab chilled with ice, the best butter, but most of all it is a question of tour de main, the “feeling in the hands”. It is something you either have or you do not have. The best chefs always do it in the early morning.’
‘George used to like doing it in the early morning,’ said Mrs. Cosgrove sadly.
‘He is a chef?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to picture Mrs. Cosgrove’s husband in the kitchen. It wasn’t easy. He seemed inseparable from his trench-coat.
Once again, for some reason, the spell seemed to be broken. Perhaps it was his own fault this time for getting involved in culinary matters. As if to underline the fact there was a click from the direction of the bedside cabinet and the tape came to an end. It must have been set at an appropriate spot, for it had only lasted the length of the song. In the silence that followed he heard a car door banging somewhere outside. Mrs. Cosgrove crossed to the window and parted the curtains slightly.
‘It’s the Police. They are back. Apparently there was a break-in during the night. Someone got into the kitchens and stole a lot of food. I heard on the grapevine that the Police think it was an inside job and they’re planning to make a room to room search.’
She let the curtain fall into place and then turned back into the room. ‘I say, are you really all right? You’re looking quite pale.’
‘It is nothing.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse struggled to his feet and reached for Pommes Frites’ harness. ‘I think perhaps I will go and lie down for a while.’
‘You are welcome to stay here.’ Mrs. Cosgrove tried hard to keep the disappointment from her voice.
‘Merci.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse reached out for her hand and gave it a quick squeeze. ‘It is better that I return to my own room. Perhaps … perhaps you would like to visit me later when it is quiet?’ He lowered his voice. ‘I will let you sample my andouillette. En suite, we can drink the wine you have so kindly put out. If you open it now it will give it time to breathe.’
‘Would you like that?’ As she spoke he felt her hand tighten on his.
‘It would give me very great pleasure,’ he said simply.
She led him to the door and planted the lightest of kisses on his right cheek. It was like the touch of a papillon’s wings.
‘Au revoir, Aristide. Until … later.’
‘Au revoir… Anne.’ He found it hard to make the change-over to her Christian name.
Pommes Frites gave an impatient tug and a moment later they were on their way. Once round the corner leading to the adjoining block Monsieur Pamplemousse quickened his pace. There was not a moment to be lost.
Sensing that all was not well, Pommes Frites entered into the spirit of things and by the time they reached their own corridor there was no holding him. As it was, they reached the safety of their room only just in time. As Monsieur Pamplemousse closed the door behind them he heard voices coming from the next room; voices coupled with the opening and closing of cupboard doors.
Merde! There wasn’t a second to lose. By the sound of it they were making a thorough job of things.
Jamming his stick under the door handle, he rushed to his own cupboard, removed the parcel of sausages from his coat and tipped them out on to the table. As he looked around the room his heart sank. He would have done better to have made a clean breast of things with Mrs. Cosgrove and left them with her for safe keeping. It was too late now.
Grabbing a knife, he sliced a Saucisson de Bourgogne in half and placed the two pieces in a pair of socks. They would do service as a draught excluder along the bottom of the door. He tried slipping some Saucisses de Bordeaux into the hem of the curtains, but in his haste they stuck halfway. Ever anxious to help, Pommes Frites pulled them out again. Then, flushed with success, he made a dive for one of the socks.
In desperation, as he heard au revoirs and apologies being voiced in the corridor outside, Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up the remaining sausages and hurled them through the opening of Pommes Frites’ kennel. Hardly able to believe his good fortune, Pommes Frites bounded in after them.
‘Non!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse rapped out the single word of command in a voice which left no room for argument. ‘Asseyez-vous. Gardez les saucissons!’
He was tempted to add ‘gardez les andouillettes avec un soin particulier’, but he decided against it. At such moments beggars could hardly be choosers and Pommes Frites looked confused enough already. As his jaw dropped open with surprise at his master’s sudden change of mood, a half-eaten boudin fell out. Honesty, precision and simplicity of phrasing were necessary in issuing orders of the day, and Monsieur Pamplemousse knew that given those three factors his wishes would be respected without question.
Covering the front of Pommes Frites’ kennel with a large towel, he closed the bathroom door, hurriedly pushed the socks back into position under the main door, then sank back into his chair. As he did so there was a peremptory knock from outside.
Adjusting his glasses, Monsieur Pamplemousse focused his
gaze on a point somewhere beyond the Hautes Pyrénées and prepared himself for the worst.
‘Entrez, s’il vous plaît.’ Much to his surprise, his voice sounded almost normal.
6
THE LEADING ROLE
There was a scuffling noise outside the door, followed by a muttered imprecation from the person on the other side, then another knock, this time even louder and more peremptory than the first.
‘Ouvrez la porte, s’il vous plaît.’ It was a command rather than a request.
Monsieur Pamplemousse jumped to his feet. Sapristi! He had forgotten the stick. The door had been pushed with such force it had momentarily risen sufficiently to trap one of the socks containing the Saucisson de Bourgogne when it came down again. Already meat was showing through a weak patch in the toe, threatening to burst through the seams at any moment. He should have used a Mortadella, it would have been harder.
‘Un moment!’ The stick bent as he used it as a lever in order to force the door up. There was an ominous crack. A second later the socks were free. Two more and the window was open. He hurled the offending items out into the night. Almost immediately there was a loud bark followed by the sound of snarling as they landed near some unseen target. The Police must have brought their dogs with them. Mercifully they had not yet penetrated the building.
Closing the window, he took advantage of the momentary lull to put his own weight against the door, removed his stick, and then stood back waiting for the storm to break.
The door opened and four people entered the room. Doctor Furze, a Police Inspector and two gendarmes. Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at them in surprise. From the rumpus outside he’d expected a whole army.
Doctor Furze eyed him suspiciously. ‘Do you make a habit of barricading your door in this manner?’ he demanded. ‘The locking of doors is strictly forbidden at Château Morgue.’
