Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft (19 page)

She looked up at him again and moved a little closer. ‘You nuns have been so good to me, and so generous.’

‘We have?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his voice going again.

The girl nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, all of you. Ever since you arrived. There is not one of you this past week who has not listened to me with patience and understanding, often far into the night. Some of you kept coming back for more. But now that most of you have left I don’t know where to turn.’

‘My child, my poor child,’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked towards the port. He reached out, intending to point her in that direction, then thought better of it. Allard was right. He always maintained there was one in every class. And he should know – he’d once been a teacher. Some of his tales about sixth-formers asking to stay on after school because they were having trouble with their biology homework were spellbinding.

‘Will you listen to me, Sister? There are many more things I can tell you. Your time won’t be wasted.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath. He sensed Pommes Frites concentrating on their every word, looking from one to the other as he waited for them to catch up.

Hearing footsteps he glanced across the road. They were heading towards the
Sanisette.
He hesitated, but only for a second. It was too good an opportunity to miss.

‘I think,’ he pointed towards the approaching figure. ‘I think it is really a case for the Mother Superior. She is very wise in such matters. I’m sure she will listen to you.’

‘Thank you, Sister. Oh, thank you.’ For a moment he thought the girl was going to kiss him, then he realised she had her hand out. He reached automatically into an inside pocket and withdrew a fifty franc note.

A moment later she was gone. It was just as well. It could have been an expensive evening.

Pommes Frites registered his approval with a wag of the tail as he followed his master towards the Quai Général de Gaulle. He wasn’t at all sure what had been going on, but he sensed that all was now well again. The crisis had passed.

Apart from a few lights coming from the Hôtel and from some of the yachts at their moorings, the Port was in darkness. Somewhere, far out at sea, there was a flashing beacon.
A fishing boat chugged its way out through the harbour entrance. The men on deck were busy coiling ropes, getting ready for their night’s work.

Monsieur Pamplemousse stayed until the light at the masthead was a barely visible speck on the horizon, then he turned and made his way slowly back towards the town. At long last he posted Doucette’s card at the P. T. T. – with luck it might even reach Paris before he did. It felt almost like an act of absolution.

He glanced along the narrow street towards the
Gendar
merie.
All the lights on the upper floors were on. The
Barbouze
must still be at it. He could picture the inquests being held. They were likely to be at it all through the night. He was glad to be out of it.

‘Pamplemousse! Pamplemousse!’ He heard a pounding of feet and a figure suddenly loomed out of the darkness behind them. It was the Director. He was clutching his wallet. It crossed Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind that perhaps he wanted change for a 200 franc note, then he dismissed the idea as being unworthy. The Director looked as if he was in need of help of a different kind. His habit was not at its best. At a passing-out parade in the Vatican he would not have been in line for the golden sceptre as the best turned out Mother Superior of his year. He was also patently short of breath.

‘Thank goodness you’re still here. You will never believe what I have to tell you.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at the Director. He thought of the time that he and Pommes Frites had spent in Port St. Augustin; he thought of Mr. Pickering, the dirigible, and those who had travelled in it; he thought of the circus, of Madame Caoutchouc and of Andreas; he thought of Yasmin and the fact that tomorrow he would be able to stop off at the hospital and see her again. Then he looked up. The sky was inky-black. He could see the Milky Way and the Plough and beyond that the North Star. Glinting faintly above him were the Great Bear and a host of other heavenly bodies of greater
and lesser magnitude.

‘
Monsieur
,’ he said innocently, ‘on such a night as this anything is possible. Tell me the worst.’

M
ICHAEL
B
OND
was born in Newbury, Berkshire in 1926 and started writing whilst serving in the army during the Second World War. In 1958 the first book featuring his most famous creation, Paddington Bear, was published and many stories of his adventures followed. In 1983 he turned his hand to adult fiction and the detective cum gastronome par excellence Monsieur Pamplemousse was born.

Michael Bond was awarded the OBE in 1997 and in 2007 was made an Honorary Doctor of Letters by Reading University. He is married, with two grown-up children, and lives in London.

Monsieur Pamplemousse

Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Secret Mission

Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot

Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure

Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft

Monsieur Pamplemousse Investigates

Monsieur Pamplemousse Rests His Case

Monsieur Pamplemousse Stands Firm

Monsieur Pamplemousse on Location

Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Train

Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat

Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation

Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation

Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines

Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives

Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution

Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint

Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Tangled Web