Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat (14 page)

The loss of the
escargots
reminded him of the envelope Fabrice Delamain had given him. He felt in his pocket. It was still there.

Ripping it open, he emptied the contents on to the dressing table.

Several bloodstained feathers fell out, along with a small air gun pellet. The pellet looked as though it had started off as a 0.22 hollow point. There was the familiar mushroom shape to the head where it had
expanded on impact, producing added shock effect, but the hollow was still visible. In its original form it would have been large enough to have been laced with a few grains of cyanide, or some other poisonous substance like Ricin, sealed in place by a dab of paraffin wax.

If that were so, what might have been intended simply as a warning shot, became a serious attempt at murder.

Murder would be hard to prove had either been used. Ricin was a natural toxin – one of the most powerful in the world. Extracted from the castor bean plant, it had double the toxicity of cobra venom, as the defecting Bulgarian agent Georgi Markov had found to his cost via a jab from an umbrella tip on the London underground. In India it was known as ‘mother-in-law’s poison’ because of its ability to kill without producing any obvious symptoms.

With cyanide the victim became unconscious almost immediately. Death could take place within one to fifteen minutes; the fastest ever recorded was ten seconds.

The classic symptoms were for the victim to turn reddish blue in the face, but who would ever know with a parrot?

Monsieur Pamplemousse placed the pellet and the feather carefully inside his wallet.

One thing was certain: Pommes Frites had had a lucky escape. A less well-trained hound might well
have treated Vert-Vert as manna from heaven and devoured it on the spot.

Signalling Pommes Frites to make room, he lay back on the bed in order to consider the matter. As he did so he felt a lump underneath the bedclothes.

It was the book Abeille had been reading. If the title
For the Love of Lilies
wasn’t exactly memorable, he recognised the dust jacket immediately and he was about to toss it to one side when something made him look inside.

To his surprise the contents bore little relation to the lurid cover, which showed the body of a scantily-clad girl floating face upwards in a pond. It was an English paperback edition of
Every Secret Thing
by Patty Hearst; the story of the Californian heiress’s kidnapping by an urban terrorist organisation who called themselves the Symbionese Liberation Army. According to the blurb there had been a film of the story with Natasha Richardson in the leading role, but he didn’t recall seeing it at the time.

It was a reversal of the normal turn of events; a relatively serious book being passed off as a pulp novel.

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at it. Riffling through the five hundred or so pages, he came across several slips of paper inserted at intervals along with an occasional pencilled exclamation mark in the margin, but the print was small and the effort of
translating the relevant passages was not something he felt in the mood to attempt until he’d had a chance to recover from his ordeal.

But why conceal the book with another dust jacket? It was hardly banned material. And who was she hiding it from? Only Abeille could answer that question, and for the moment at least, for all he knew she could be on the other side of the moon.

Monsieur Pamplemousse woke the next morning to find the sun streaming in through the porthole above his bed. Reaching out, he felt for his watch. It showed a few minutes past seven-thirty. He must have slept like the proverbial log. They both had. Curled up in the middle of the floor, Pommes Frites looked as though he hadn’t moved so much as a whisker all night.

It was a moment or two before Monsieur Pamplemousse could summon the energy to struggle into a sitting position. Muscles he had almost forgotten he possessed acted as an aching reminder of all that had taken place the previous day and eventually spurred him into action.

He took a look at the view outside. It was a glorious day. Overnight the clouds had completely
disappeared; almost as though a blanket had been rolled back. A thin layer of ground mist still covered pockets in the low-lying areas, but in another hour or so it would be gone.

The coach was parked near the lock. He’d heard it arrive back late the previous evening. Otherwise the only sign of life came from a little way beyond the bridge, where another barge was moored; a thin wisp of blue smoke rose from the chimney above its galley.

Having washed, shaved and sponged the worst of the mud from his suit, Monsieur Pamplemousse led the way up on deck, ready to face the world.

None of the crew were around and a notice on the board near the bar proclaimed a ‘free day’. The wording made it sound like an act of benevolence on the part of the tour company. Certainly the rest of the passengers seemed to be taking full advantage of it.

A flotilla of ducks zigzagged past the boat, heading towards the lock. Finding the gates at the far end closed, they turned and set off on the return journey. A line of multi-coloured statuary, gnomes, donkeys, and other fauna watched over them with dispassionate eyes. The windows of the lock-keeper’s cottage were still shuttered, a reminder, if one were needed, that it was Sunday.

The peace was short-lived. A grey van drew up, parked just short of the bridge, and an elderly
gendarme
climbed out. He went round the back to
open the doors, and six men in wetsuits emerged. They padded across to the lock and peered over the side. The leader flipped open a walkie-talkie and began a conversation with someone.

Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated, torn between wanting to see what was going on and taking
petit déjeuner
. Having gone without a meal the previous evening, breakfast won.

Returning Pommes Frites to the cabin, he bade him await his return and made his way up to the saloon.

The long serving table was already prepared. A basket of bread, another of
pain d’épice
– the local spiced honeycake – bowls of
confiture, croissants, brioche
, ham, cheese, fruit. He helped himself to a selection, putting a generous portion of ham on another plate for Pommes Frites.

Monique’s face appeared behind a window let into the galley door.

Monsieur Pamplemousse mimed fruit juice and
café
at her. She waved acknowledgement of the order and disappeared.

Glancing at the books on the library shelves while he awaited their arrival, he spotted the missing book. Deprived of its jacket, it looked as anonymous as those on either side; the title made it sound like a volume on gardening.

It wasn’t until he sat down that it crossed Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind to wonder how
Abeille had got hold of her book in the first place. He was sure it hadn’t been in his cabin when he arrived, and equally certain she hadn’t been carrying it when she brought the tape to show him. She could hardly have been up to the saloon while the lecture was in progress. The obvious inference was that during the short time he’d been away she had returned to her own quarters to fetch it. But if that was so, what had happened to JayCee? Unless, of course, he had fallen asleep again. Pommes Frites probably knew the answer, but that was no help.

Café
and a large glass of freshly squeezed
jus d’orange
appeared at his table. There was also a message for him to telephone the Director as soon as he could.

‘When did this arrive?’

‘Yesterday evening. Boniface was given it at the hotel in Dijon where the party was being held. It was late when he got back and we thought it best not to disturb you.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. The Director must have thought the matter urgent if he had spent his Saturday evening tracking down
Le Creuset
’s comings and goings.

‘
Monsieur
is up early.’ Monique noticed the extra plate of ham and brought him a knife and fork.

Monsieur Pamplemousse pretended to toy with them. ‘It is the best part of the day.’

‘
Bien dormi?
’

‘
Oui, merci
. Where is everybody?’

Monique made a steeple of her hands. Resting her head on the side, she pulled a face. ‘Sleeping it off. There was a big tasting in Beaune last night.’

As the door to the galley shut behind her he heard footsteps on the stairs.

‘
Bonjour
.’ It was Colonel Massingham.

Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank. He was in no mood for an early morning lecture, whatever the subject.

But Colonel Massingham seemed unusually subdued. He browsed amongst the
croissants
for a while before returning.

‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Please.’ It would have sounded churlish not to say yes.

‘Didn’t see you at the do last night.’

‘I was catching up on my sleep.’

‘Can’t say I blame you. Guess what we had to eat?’

‘
Jambon persillé?
’

‘And
boeuf Bourgignon
,’ said the Colonel gloomily. ‘There were two other coachloads. They’d been at it all day. The “twelve hour special”. Ten wine tastings, followed by a “gourmet” dinner. There was a ghastly sing-song afterwards.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse reflected that Madame Ambert was right. Either you were a serious wine-maker or you were in the entertainment business. The two didn’t mix.

Colonel Massingham broke a
croissant
in half, eyeing the two ends with approval.

‘Can’t get them like this in England. Not the same. Not buttery enough. Give you indigestion.’

‘It is getting more difficult in France,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘True
croissants
belong to a more leisurely age. Making them requires time and dedication. Two factors which are in increasingly short supply.’

‘Same with the jam,’ said Colonel Massingham. ‘Only got to read the list of contents on the jar. “E” this, “E” that. Gelling agents, colouring agents, emulsion stabilisers, artificial sweeteners, preservatives – bit of a joke that, adding preservatives to preserves. Went round a jam factory once. Never again …’

‘Try this.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily pushed a bowl of
confiture
across the table before the other got into his stride. ‘Fruit, sugar, natural pectin …’

‘
Merci
.’ Colonel Massingham hesitated. ‘Changing the subject. Haven’t thanked you for letting me take over yesterday. It was most enjoyable.’

‘You did me a favour,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Not as big as the one you did me. Don’t know quite how to say this, old boy, but thanks. And thanks for the other, too …’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at Colonel Massingham for a moment, wondering what he was about to say.

‘Tell you the truth, Mrs Massingham can be a bit demandin’ at times. Thinks of nothing else.’

‘She has told you?’

‘She always tells me,’ said Colonel Massingham simply. ‘And shell go on telling me until the next one. It’s like a drippin’ tap.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse had a momentary picture of wasted lives. An arid desert inhabited by two people making the best of things, yet in one case at least, dreaming of an escape that would never happen; a voice crying out in the wilderness. Physically together, yet suffering the most dreadful poverty of all, that of loneliness. One never really knew what went on behind the closed shutters of other people’s lives.

‘I shall not tell anyone,’ he said.

‘Thanks, old boy. Do the same for you if I could.’

‘With respect,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dryly, ‘I like to think that Madame Pamplemousse would not necessarily thank you.’

‘Ha! Good point that!’ Colonel Massingham chuckled at the idea.

They ate in silence for a while. It seemed to Monsieur Pamplemousse that there was more to come, if that were possible.

‘Tell you what, though.’ Colonel Massingham was the first to speak. ‘One good turn deserves another. You know that gal you’ve been knocking about with. Miss Gridlock I call her.

‘Thought you two were up to no good at one time, until Mabel told me what she told me. Anyway, the thing is, she’s not what she seems. Neither is he for that matter. For a start, the newspaper he says he owns doesn’t exist. I got that from one of the other Americans. They were all talking about it the other evening. Couple of phonies if you ask me. Thought I ought to warn you.’

It came as no great surprise, but Monsieur Pamplemousse thanked him all the same. He wondered what the Colonel would think if he knew about the tape. It would confirm his worst suspicions.

‘Not that it matters much. Don’t suppose we shall ever see them again.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse sat up, suddenly alert.

‘I do not understand. How is that?’

‘They left yesterday afternoon. Gone to stay in Beaune according to Boniface. Hôtel le Cep. Good place. Stayed there once myself.’

Catching sight of a figure hovering on the other side of the galley door, Monsieur Pamplemousse dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and rose from the table. It looked as though Monique was about to bring in the Colonel’s coffee. If he wasn’t careful she would clear the table of Pommes Frites’ breakfast as well. He picked up the plate.

‘Please forgive me,
Monsieur
.’

Colonel Massingham stood and held out his hand.
‘Of course. Glad to have had the opportunity of a chat. Clear the air a bit.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse shook hands absent-mindedly. He had just remembered something about Patty Hearst and the Symbionese Liberation Army.

Back in his cabin, and Pommes Frites’ immediate needs catered for, he returned to the first of several marked paragraphs in Abeille’s book. It contained a detailed description of how the gang had made up special shells – 00 buckshot laced with ‘Ajax’ – their code name for cyanide – for use in sawn-off shot guns. For 00 buckshot read air gun slug. Another paragraph dealt with the drilling out of lead bullets. He wondered who had done the marking, JayCee or Abeille?

Leaving Pommes Frites to carry on with his breakfast, Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way off the boat in search of a telephone. His cabin had yet to be made up, but he would have to take a chance on it happening. Being a Sunday he was probably safe for a while.

A television crew had arrived and were busy setting up their cameras. A girl in a zip-fronted red nylon wind-cheater and designer jeans took a quick look at herself in a mirror and began rehearsing her lines into a microphone. The lock-keeper and his wife had emerged from their cottage to keep a watchful eye on their territory.

Monsieur Pamplemousse approached the
gendarme
he had seen earlier.

‘
M’sieur
.’ He nodded towards the lock. ‘You have problems?’

‘
Oui!
’ The man saluted, then turned away.

Sensing that he wasn’t going to get very far by the direct route, Monsieur Pamplemousse tried another tack.

‘Is Lobinière still with you?’ He mentioned a colleague from long ago who had since risen to dizzy heights in the area. It had the desired effect.

‘Lobinière? You know him?’

‘Knew,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘We worked together for many years.’

The man shook his head sadly. ‘He retired last year. His replacement is from the cradle!’ Raising his eyes to heaven, he held his right hand out, palm down, to indicate extreme youth. ‘Wet behind the ears.’

‘
Alors!
’ Monsieur Pamplemousse made sympathetic noises. ‘He will get over it. It is the same in Paris. The
Sûreté
is not what it was. They get younger every day.’

He was home and dry. A bond had been established. It was time for the big one.

‘I am in need of a telephone,’ he said casually. ‘I have an urgent call to make.’

The
gendarme
looked around to make sure the others were all busy, then he beckoned Monsieur Pamplemousse to follow him back to the van.

‘It is all yours …’ He pointed to a receiver under the dashboard. ‘Make sure you put it back properly or I shall be in trouble.’

He hovered for a moment while Monsieur Pamplemousse made himself comfortable. ‘Have we met before?’

‘I think not,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is possible you may have seen my photograph.’ There had been a time when never a week went by without his picture appearing in one
journal
or another. It still followed him around.

The Director must have been either waiting by the phone or still in bed, for he lost no time in coming to the point.

‘Where are you, Pamplemousse? I tried in vain to call you last night. No one knew where you were.’

‘I am in a police van,
Monsieur
.’

‘Not bad news I trust?’

‘No,
Monsieur
. Expediency.’

‘Good. Good.
Excellent
, in fact.’ The Director sounded genuinely relieved. ‘Things always seem worse at night, but yesterday evening when we were going to bed Chantal and I had sudden fears for your safety. We pictured you being taken unaware on some lonely towpath whilst walking off the effects of one of those
gourmet
meals depicted in the brochure … unable to call on Pommes Frites for assistance owing to his being in a weakened condition as a result of the strict
régime
…’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the telephone, trying hard to picture Monsieur Leclercq and his wife discussing his possible plight while they were retiring for the night. It was yet another example of not knowing what went on behind the closed doors of people one thought one knew; what flights of fancy they indulged in.