Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft (2 page)

‘It is a birthday present for your nephew,
Monsieur
? I’m sure he will be delighted.’

The Director made a clucking noise. ‘No, Pamplemousse, it is not a birthday present for my nephew.’

Rather than risk further displeasure, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided not to essay another reply to the question, but in the event it was followed almost immediately by a second.

‘Picture this dirigible inflated to several thousand times its present size,’ continued the Director. ‘What would you see?’

Suspecting a trick question, Monsieur Pamplemousse took his time. ‘I see a lot of small pieces,
Monsieur
,’ he said innocently. ‘Surely it would explode?’

The Director gazed at him in silence. He had the look on his face of a man wondering whether or not he had made the right decision over some important matter. His lips moved, but nothing came out. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, he waved Pamplemousse towards the armchair opposite his desk and began pacing the room while gathering his thoughts.

‘No doubt,’ he said at last, ‘you have read in the
journaux
about the inauguration of a new airship service between Brittany and
Grande-Bretagne
?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. ‘I have seen pictures of it,
Monsieur.
’ The newspapers had been full of them lately.

‘Good.’ The Director looked better pleased. ‘It is an outward manifestation of the
entente
cordiale
agreement signed in 1904, the reaffirmation of which our respective Governments have been working towards in recent months. It is only a small step, especially when compared with the tunnel which is at this very moment being constructed beneath
La Manche
to link our two countries by rail, but an important one nevertheless.

‘The dirigible, Pamplemousse, is the transportation of the future; an elegant solution to powered flight. Word has gone out from the Elysée Palace itself that it must not fail. We are entering a new era of graciousness. It combines the best of the old with that of the new; on the one hand embracing all that we have grown up with and love and cherish, whilst at the same time reaching out towards new frontiers. Above all, it is safe. The hazardous days of the old
Graf Zeppelin
have gone forever.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse remained silent. It was hard to see where the Director’s flights of rhetoric were leading him. Romantic though the possibility might be of transporting up to a dozen people in comparative luxury, it hardly compared with a direct rail link in terms of either numbers or value for money. Clearly there was more to come.

‘Besides which,’ continued the Director, ‘it will help quieten the vociferous minority who feel Brittany is neglected and would dearly like to see it become a separate state. With an election on the horizon that is not unimportant. No doubt the scheme appeals to the British government because they will be manufacturing the dirigibles. If successful, it could well be the first of many.

‘Be that as it may, both governments have their own reasons for attaching great importance to the affair. So much so that the respective heads of state have agreed to take part in the inaugural flight four days from now.’

The Director paused by his desk and then lowered his voice. ‘All I have told you so far, Pamplemousse, is common knowledge. I come now to my reason for asking you here at
such short notice. We are at present in a crisis situation.’

Carefully moving the airship and its mooring tower to one side, he picked up the map. ‘The inaugural flight commences at eleven hundred hours on Friday. The dirigible will take off from a small airfield north of La Baule and will touch down just over six hours later on a similar landing strip south of London – a distance of some five hundred kilometres. What, Pamplemousse, will those aboard be most in need of during the time they are aloft? I ask, because even though I have repeated the same question to myself countless times, I still cannot believe no one thought of it.’

‘You mean … there are no facilities on board?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked suitably staggered. ‘That is indeed a grave oversight.’

‘No, Pamplemousse, that is not what I mean. In the current situation “facilities” of the kind you doubtless have in mind are low on the agenda.’

‘But
Monsieur,
with respect, six hours is a long time. After all that food and drink …’

‘As things stand at the moment, Pamplemousse, there will be no food and drink. There will be no food and drink for the very simple reason that no one has thought to provide any. For weeks people have been planning. Schedules have been drawn up, security arrangements tested. Everything that could possibly go wrong has been thought of. Every aspect of the programme has been covered, not once but time and time again. All except the one vital factor, sustenance.’

The Director paused to let his words sink in before resuming.

‘Imagine the atmosphere aloft if thirteen hundred hours came and went and there was no sign of
déjeuner.
It would be icy in the extreme.
Entente
would be far from
cordiale.
Had the arrangements been made in
Angleterre
one might have understood. They would probably have been happy to make do with sandwiches and a thermos of hot tea – although to give them their due, even that would be better than nothing – but for
La Belle France
to make such a cardinal error – poof!
It is hard to credit. We shall be the laughing-stock of Europe. Heads will roll, of course, but that doesn’t solve the immediate problem. Which is where, Aristide, we come in. Or rather,
you
do.’

‘I,
Monsieur
?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse sat bolt upright. Had the Director suddenly let off a shotgun at close range he could hardly have been more startled.

The Director assumed his ‘all has been decided, yours is not to reason why’ tones. ‘
Le Guide
has been charged with making good the omission. We have been given
carte blanche
.
Of course, Michelin will be piqued and Gault–Millau will be seething. Both will probably take umbrage, but that cannot be helped. If all goes well it will be a considerable
plume
in our
chapeau
.’

The interior of a cupboard became illuminated as he opened it to reach inside for a bottle of champagne. ‘I think this calls for a celebration, although I must admit the whole thing came about by sheer chance.

‘It so happened that last night I was dining with a group of friends, some of whom are highly placed, and the subject of the conversation turned to that of the dirigible.

‘Purely out of professional interest I enquired as to the nature of the catering arrangements. Aristide, you could have sliced the silence which followed my remark with a
couteau à
beurre.

‘I won’t bore you with all that followed. Someone, whose name I cannot disclose, left the table to make a telephone call. When he returned, looking, I may say, a trifle pale, names were bandied around. One by one they were abandoned. Bocuse is in Japan on one of his tours. Vergé is in America. We went through the list, and to cut a long story short, suddenly they all turned and looked in my direction.’

The cork was removed with the discreetest of pops and the Director held up two glasses to the light to check their cleanliness before pouring. ‘The honour of France is in your hands, Aristide. I need hardly say that not a word of this must be breathed to anyone. That is one of the main reasons
why you have been selected. Your vast experience in matters of security coupled with your extraordinary palate and your natural sense of discretion make you an ideal choice.

‘I can think of no better person for the job, Pamplemousse.’ The Director raised his glass. ‘Your very good health, and here’s to the success of your mission. I have already drawn up some preliminary notes for a possible menu, but naturally I leave the final choice to you.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse sipped his champagne reflectively. It was his favourite – Gosset. He judged it to be a ’62. There was a distinct flavour of hazelnuts. The Director must have got it in specially. All part of the softening up process, no doubt. Not that it was necessary; the whole idea sounded intriguing. He would willingly postpone his holiday. This would be a challenge.

‘You say the airfield is north of La Baule,
Monsieur
?’

‘It is just outside a little place called Port St. Augustin. You may know it. An ideal location for those wishing to arrive in style at what is probably the best beach in Europe.’

Port St. Augustin. Monsieur Pamplemousse remembered it well, although it was many years since he’d last been in the area.

‘Madame Pamplemousse and I went there soon after we got married,
Monsieur.
We stayed at the Hôtel du Port. It is perched on the rocks overlooking the harbour …’

‘Ah, yes.’ The Director looked less than enthusiastic. ‘The Hôtel du Port is full, I’m afraid.’

‘There was one other. The Hôtel du Centre, I believe it was called.’

‘That too, is fully booked.’ For some reason Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he detected a note of unease creeping into the other’s voice. ‘It is always the same in Brittany. The season is short and the same people go there year after year.

‘However, a reservation has been made for you from tomorrow evening onwards at a small hotel just outside the village – the Ty Coz. I am told some of the rooms have a view of the sea, although the view inland is said to be equally good.
The choice is yours.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse was tempted to ask why, if everywhere else was so crowded, he could get into the Ty Coz with a choice of rooms, but the Director was in full flight.

‘The Hôtel has been recommended to me in the strongest possible terms. It seems the owner has invented a whole new cuisine,
La Cuisine Régionale Naturelle
.
And in southern Brittany, Aristide, we all know what that means. Luscious lobsters, fresh from their pots. Tunny fish from Concarneau, sardines from La Turballe, mussels and oysters from the Morbihan … It will be an ideal opportunity to carry out an investigation.

‘Ah, Aristide,’ the Director crossed to his desk and gazed lovingly at the airship. ‘All that and a ride in a dirigible to boot. I wish I could come too, but alas, I am on a diet.’

He picked up the small black object which Monsieur Pamplemousse had seen him holding in his hand earlier, and which he now realised was a radio-control module. ‘Would you care for a go, Aristide?’

‘May I,
Monsieur
?’

The Director detached the airship carefully from its mooring and gathered it tenderly in his arms. ‘If you don’t mind, I will carry out the initial launch. It is the only model in existence and it wouldn’t do to have an accident. Once it is airborne you will soon get the feel of the controls.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse followed him out onto the balcony and watched while adjustments were being made and the twin motors set in motion.

‘It is a complete replica in every detail.’ Like a small boy with a new toy, the Director could hardly keep the excitement from his voice as he licked his finger and held it up to test the wind direction. ‘As I said earlier, no expense has been spared to ensure the success of the enterprise; no stone left unturned …’

‘Except one,’ Monsieur Pamplemousse found the Director’s enthusiasm infectious.

‘Indeed, Aristide. Except one. The reason for my being given the loan of this is so that we can see for ourselves the ergonomics of the task ahead. Is there,
par exemple
,
room for a dessert chariot, and if so, how large?’ Shading his eyes against the sun, the Director released his hold on the craft and then watched as it set off, uncertainly at first, and then with rapidly gathering speed in the direction of the wide open space of the Esplanade des Invalides.

‘You may take over now, Pamplemousse.’

Feeling slightly nervous now that the actual moment had arrived, Monsieur Pamplemousse took the control unit and began tentatively moving an array of levers.

On the square below an
autobus
was disgorging a load of Japanese tourists, all of whom were so busy rushing to and fro taking photographs of each other in groups of varying size and complexity they quite failed to see what was going on above their heads. Monsieur Pamplemousse reflected that had they but known, they were missing a golden opportunity to surprise and delight their friends back home.

He suddenly realised he’d been concentrating so hard he hadn’t noticed the Director was talking again.

‘I was saying, Pamplemousse, I should try and avoid flying too close to the Hôtel des Invalides. It wouldn’t do to attract the attention of the guards. One of them might draw his revolver and attempt to shoot it down. I have promised to return it safely by this afternoon at the latest. The President himself has yet to see it. No doubt he will wish to have a go inside the Palace grounds.’

‘
Oui, Monsieur.
’ Monsieur Pamplemousse moved a lever to the left and watched as the airship began executing a turn to port. It really was most enjoyable. Perhaps when he got back from Brittany he would investigate some more modest version of the toy. A radio-controlled boat, perhaps? The possibilities were endless.

As he moved another control and set the craft into a downward path which would bring it level with the top of the balcony he felt a stirring behind him. It heralded the arrival of
Pommes Frites on the scene.

Pommes Frites blinked as he emerged from the Director’s office onto the sunlit balcony. Having enjoyed a short nap while the others were talking, he’d woken to find he was alone and that the voices were now coming from outside. Something was going on, and feeling left out of things he decided – quite reasonably in his view – to find out what it was.

He arrived just as his master was about to carry out the delicate manoeuvre of making the final approach; a manoeuvre which would have been difficult enough at the best of times, but made more so by a sudden downward draught of cold air created by the temperature of the water issuing from the fountain in the courtyard below. It was a manoeuvre which needed the utmost concentration and which most certainly would have been brought to a more successful conclusion, had not what felt like a ton weight suddenly landed on his shoulders just at the
moment critique
.