Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines (19 page)

‘You haven’t been out there since the first two men came?’

‘Should I have?’

‘Never mind. What happened?’

‘These two are much worse than the others. The first two were perfect gentlemen, but these…’ Doucette gave a shudder. ‘They practically forced their way in when I tried to shut the door on them. I won’t tell you what they said when I drove them into the kitchen.’

‘You did what? Are they still there?’

‘They have nowhere else to go,’ said Doucette simply. ‘They are locked in.’

‘Give me the key, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse grimly.

‘I can’t.’

‘What do you mean – you can’t?’

‘They have it. They locked themselves in. I think they were a little afraid of what I might do.’

‘Have you called the police?’

‘I was waiting for you, Aristide,’ said Doucette. ‘I know how you feel about these things. Aren’t you proud of me?’

‘How long have they been in there?’

‘About three hours. In the beginning they were
knocking
 
so loud I thought the neighbours might complain. But they’ve given up now.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse struggled to find the right words. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said at last.

Signalling Pommes Frites to stand by, he crossed to the far end of the living room and braced himself to charge.

‘
Enfants de garce
!’ he cried, as his shoulder landed fair and square in the middle of the door. ‘That is for my
marjolaine
!’

‘
Salauds
!’ he shouted at the second attempt. ‘That is for my
fenouil
!’

‘
Sélérats
!’ he bawled as tried for a third time. ‘That is for my
oseille
!’

He was beginning to wish he hadn’t started. Apart from the pain in his shoulder he was running out of herbs.

Taking a deep breath, he lowered his head in
preparation
for the final assault. ‘And this…’ he cried, as he
gathered
speed. ‘This is for my
estragon
!’

He was over halfway across the room there when the door suddenly opened. Too late to stop, he shot straight through into the kitchen, dimly aware as he did so of two figures going past him in the opposite direction.

‘Aristide? Are you alright?’ Doucette’s cry of alarm was punctuated by the sound of barking and the slamming of a door.

Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t answer. He was sitting on the floor studying a piece of paper. It bore an official stamp.

‘Why did you let them go, Aristide?’ Doucette came into the kitchen and helped him to his feet.

‘Because…’ began Monsieur Pamplemousse. He
wondered
if he should tell her the truth.

By now the men must be halfway to the
Mairie
, with Pommes Frites hot on their heels. They would be back. 
Nothing was more certain. Probably with reinforcements. It would be as well to make sure that when they did return there was nothing on the balcony they could complain about.

‘Perhaps, Couscous,’ he said, ‘seeing tomorrow is the last day of my holiday, we could go for a drive in the
country
. If we leave early we can take advantage of the fine weather. It may be the last chance we shall have before winter.’

It was hardly fate that caused him to follow the same route out of Paris as he had taken the previous Sunday; more a matter of satisfying his enquiring mind.

The census people were still there. Not only that but they recognised him immediately.

‘Don’t tell me you are going to see your sister-in-law again,’ said the man with the clipboard.

‘You must be a glutton for punishment,
Monsieur
,’ chuckled the
gendarme
.

‘There are
three
of us today,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse pointedly. ‘Allow me to introduce my wife. You understand what I am saying?’

The
gendarme
was quickest off the mark. ‘Of course,
Monsieur. Bonne promenade
.’ Coming to attention, he
saluted
. Clearly he must keep himself abreast of the news. In the old days Monsieur Pamplemousse would have marked him down for promotion.

‘Two adults, one
chien
.’ The man from the census ticked off his boxes. Then he, too, did his best to salute.

‘What was all that about?’ asked Doucette, as they drove on their way. ‘We are not going to visit Agathe are we? She won’t be expecting us and you know how she suffers from palpitations when she gets taken by surprise.’ 

Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head.

‘Thank goodness for that,’ said Doucette. ‘I really
couldn’t
stand another
tripes à la mode de Caen
quite so soon.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at her. ‘Do you mean to say you don’t like it either?’

‘It is revolting,’ said Doucette. ‘She only does it to please you. In the beginning she was so delighted we had met. Besides, at the time you said how nice it was.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse narrowly missed running into the back of an articulated lorry. ‘Do you mean to say that all these years we’ve been living a lie and I have been
paying
for it with indigestion.’

‘It’s too late to go back on it now,’ said Doucette firmly. ‘Agathe would be devastated.’

‘It was the first time we had met,’ protested Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I could hardly say it was the worst I had ever tasted. I might have lost you.’

Doucette gave his knee a squeeze. ‘You know you wouldn’t have, Aristide.’ She settled back in her seat. ‘Anyway, let us not spoil today. It’s quite like old times – just the two of us – driving out into the country for no
reason
at all other than the fact that we like being together.’

‘Three.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse corrected her. ‘Pommes Frites isn’t used to being squashed up in the back. He may want to get out and stretch his legs amongst other things later.’

He wondered if it was right moment to mention that what he really had in mind was paying a visit to a garden centre in order to replenish his stock of herbs and buy a new
jardinière
. He decided to wait until he saw the approach signs.

‘These things are really all a matter of communication, Couscous,’ he said. ‘If you want my opinion, lack of
communication
is responsible for half the ills in this world.’ 

Glancing up at the rear view mirror he caught Pommes Frites’ eye. He was wearing his quizzical expression; half disbelief, half barely concealed admiration. Or to put it another way, he looked like a dog who was finding it extremely difficult to believe his own ears where his
master
was concerned.

Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines

Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives

Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution

Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint

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, accompanied as always by his faithful bloodhound Pommes Frites.

Michael Bond was awarded an 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.