Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation (19 page)

Returning to his station the man reached for their room key. ‘The young
Monsieur
is staying here?’ he asked. ‘Because, if so …’

‘He has his own inflatable kennel,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I have made the necessary arrangements with the beach attendant. I will take him down there in a moment.’

‘I will see that a bowl of water is made available for him before he retires for the night,
Monsieur
. Still or sparkling?’

‘Still,
s’il vous plaît,
’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Evian.’

Having made a note, the deputy concierge preceded them to the lift, opened the doors, stood back to allow Pommes Frites entry after his master and mistress, then pressed a button for the third floor.

‘It’s a wonder he didn’t ask what
journal
he likes in the morning,’ said Doucette, as the doors slid shut. ‘Or
journaux
.’

‘He will go far,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Good hotel concierges are worth their weight in gold. Their importance cannot be overestimated. For the regular visitor they provide a sense of continuity; of timelessness in an ever-changing world. For those in search of information they have no equal. I must make a note.’

‘More work,’ sighed Doucette. ‘I thought this was meant to be a holiday.’

‘When it comes to hotels and restaurants,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, as the lift came to a halt and the doors slid open, ‘there is no such thing as a holiday. The Director will still expect a report. Besides, I have a new laptop to test. It is one of the latest models – on the cutting edge of computer design.’

‘I would have expected nothing less from Monsieur Leclercq,’ said Doucette.

Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if he detected a note of irony in her voice, but she was already gazing at her reflection in the dressing table mirror. Women always had so many things to do before performing even the simplest of tasks, like going downstairs to dinner.

His colleague Bernard was fond of saying that his wife even applied fresh make-up before ringing up the butchers to make a complaint.

The terrace was crowded when they arrived back downstairs. All the prime tables nearest the sea had either been taken or had a reserved notice on them, and they were seated in a corner near the bar.

‘It is more romantic,’ whispered the female sommelier by way of consolation as she lit a candle for them. Any complaints Monsieur Pamplemousse might have harboured melted away.

Pommes Frites curled up under the table, his head resting between his two front paws, looking as
though his mind was millions of kilometres away on another planet.

Dressed in the clothes he had worn to the concert, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt lost without the notebook he normally kept hidden in a pocket of his right trouser leg. Reduced to relying on his memory, he fell silent while he concentrated on the food. Doucette seemed to catch the mood too and, tired after their long journey, they retired to their room as soon as the meal was over, foregoing their usual
café
in case it kept them awake.

Before he went to bed, Monsieur Pamplemousse took one last look over the balcony at the scene below. The hum of conversation was a polyglot mixture of French, German, English, Japanese, plus a sprinkling of American voices.

In the distance he could see the twinkling lights of the coast road. An aeroplane drifting low overhead lost height and its landing lights came on as it headed towards Nice airport. Over it all the sound of a piano drifted up from the bar; recalling the days of Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda, whose photographs still graced the walls. He wondered whether it merited an ear plug –
Le Guide’
s symbol for background music, and decided not. From the medley of tunes he picked out Noel Coward’s ‘Room With a View’ and Cole Porter’s ‘Night and Day’. There was a selection of Maurice Chevalier hits. It was really very pleasant.

In the time it had taken them to come up in the lift more people had arrived. Their own table had been cleared and reset, and one of the larger reserved tables overlooking the sea was now occupied by the Russian group he had encountered at the school. Seen from on high with the moonlight shining on it, the father’s head looked more like a tiny
Anglais
Millennium Dome than a warhead.

He wondered what mysteries it might contain and if the family were just passing through or staying in the hotel. Probably the latter, since there was no sign of the daughter. Very likely she was sitting up in bed stuffing herself with whatever Russian children stuffed themselves with when they played ‘midnight feasts’. In her case it would be a packet of something pretty solid; dried sturgeon on a stick perhaps, with a large bowl of vodka-flavoured ice cream to follow. With luck it might make her sick.

The sommelier materialised with a bottle and presented it to the father, who nodded his approval, as well he might. Even from two floors up Monsieur Pamplemousse recognised the distinctive label with its host of brightly coloured bubbles.

It was a Côte Rotie La Turque from Guigal. Tasting dispensed with, the girl disappeared, returning a few minutes later with a second bottle. At anything up to 2000 francs a go, they were certainly pushing the boat out. The
concierge was right about where all the money came from in that part of the world.

‘Are the people who were at the table behind ours still there?’ called Doucette.

Monsieur Pamplemousse leant precariously over the edge of the balustrade. Once again there was the ubiquitous smell of bougainvillaea. ‘I think not …’

‘There were three of them – an American and another couple. The American caught my eye because he reminded me of Tino Valentino. Remember … he was singing at the dance you took me to at the
Mairie
last Christmas. He was much shorter than I expected.’

‘Those sort of people often are,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, his mind on other things. ‘Remember Tino Rossi?’

‘The woman was definitely English, or I suppose she may have been Scottish – she had that sort of skin. She reminded me a bit of that American film star we used to go and see years ago – Greer Garson. I’m not sure what nationality her husband was. He kept looking at you. Once or twice I thought he was going to come across.’

‘You should have said.’ It was the story of his life. Where Doucette was concerned the action was always behind him.

‘I had a feeling it might mean more work for you and we are here on holiday. I think he may
have been English too. He knew enough to raise his thumb when he was ordering. Not like so many foreigners who use their forefinger and then wonder why they get two of everything. But then at the end of the meal he left his fork with the tines pointing upwards. It was the kind of mistake that must have happened a lot in wartime. It’s the little things that give you away.’

‘You would have made a very good detective, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Do you really think so?’ Doucette sounded pleased as she turned off her bedside light. She gave a yawn. ‘I haven’t lived with you all these years for nothing.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to turn back into the room when his attention was caught by a movement at the far end of a long jetty to the right of the hotel.

A fishing boat had appeared out of the inky blackness of the bay and was tying up at the end of the jetty. It rocked violently as two shadowy figures struggled to land their catch. He smiled to himself as he caught sight of Pommes Frites hurrying towards it to see what was going on. He wished he had his energy.

‘Would you like me to lower the shutters, Couscous?’ he called.

But in the words of the famous Scottish poet, Sir
Walter Scott, ‘Answer came there none.’ Doucette was already fast asleep.

It wasn’t long before Monsieur Pamplemousse was in the same blissfully happy state. His last waking memory was that of hearing a series of three distant howls. Long, drawn-out and mournful, they were reminiscent of the wailing of a North American train crossing the prairie at night. Or so it always seemed to be in Westerns.

Had he been in a slightly less comatose state, he would undoubtedly have recognised it for what it was: the plaintive cry of a frustrated bloodhound making his way homeward to an inflatable kennel.

Though the first was man-made, and the other reflected nature in the raw, they both performed a similar function.

As Pommes Frites settled himself down for the night, he had the satisfaction of knowing that while he might not have brought his master running, at least as far as those on the terrace of the Hôtel au Soleil d’Or were concerned, they couldn’t say they hadn’t been warned.

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When the Director of
Le Guide
offers up a holiday on the Canal de Bourgogne, Monsieur Pamplemousse is unaware that there are strings attached – several, in fact. Things are not quite as peaceful as they seem among the vineyards of Burgundy, and family rivalries and resentments from long past culminate in a series of strange occurrences.

Monsieur Pamplemousse, accompanied of course by his faithful bloodhound Pommes Frites, finds himself caught up in the trouble. Before the holiday is over the crime-solving duo will have to cope with the perils of portholes, a dead parrot, missing undergarments, the advances of a Marilyn Monroe lookalike, and an assassin disguised as a nun …

Monsieur Pamplemousse is looking forward to a well-earned break in the South of France courtesy of his employer – all he has to do is collect a piece of artwork for
Le Guide’s
Director. But when his contact fails to show and a dismembered body is washed up outside the hotel, the holiday mood evaporates.

As Pamplemousse struggles with the case (and with modern technology) his ever-faithful bloodhound Pommes Frites is on hand offering proof why, during his time with the Paris
Sûreté
, he was one of their top sniffer dogs.

When Monsieur Pamplemousse is offered a free ticket to Cuisine de Chavignol, France’s premier TV cookery programme, he is unenthusiastic – there’s something fishy about the culinary expertise of its host. But when the show ends in disaster, Pamplemousse finds himself with something more suspicious on his hands: a puzzling case of murder.

Soon Pamplemousse and his faithful bloodhound Pommes Frites find themselves caught up in a bizarre world of illusions, unrequited lust and blackmail in high places.

It isn’t every day that a coffin explodes during a funeral ceremony. Barely escaping with his life, thanks to a warning howl from his faithful bloodhound Pommes Frites, Monsieur Pamplemousse can only wonder who was behind the explosion … and if they were also responsible for the demise of the coffin’s inhabitant.

But then another urgent matter comes to his attention: a terrorist group is planning to poison the food chain. Monsieur Pamplemousse, together with Pommes Frites and a rather strange ally, must spearhead an elite group to stop the catastrophe …

When Monsieur Pamplemousse gets an urgent summons from the Director of
Le Guide
, he knows that there is trouble at the top. But neither he nor his faithful sniffer dog, Pommes Frites, expects the trouble to involve a nun who is in the habit of joining the Mile High Club or a full-scale smear campaign targeting
Le Guide’s
credibility.

Someone has been spreading worrying rumours among the staff and infiltrating the company files – awarding hotel prizes for bedbugs and praising egg and chips signature dishes. Even Pommes Frites has become a victim of the assault. It could all spell the ruin for
Le Guide,
but Pamplemousse is on the case …

In an attempt to improve the lacklustre reputation of
Le Guide
in America, the Director persuades Monsieur Pamplemousse to write a play for the guide’s benefit, complete with a walk-on part for faithful bloodhound Pommes Frites. Emphasising the importance of a healthy lifestyle to decrease one’s carbon footprint, Monsieur Pamplemousse tries to impress the renowned American food critic Jay Corby.

But disaster strikes on opening night and Corby storms out in a rage. It’s vital he is found before he ruins everything for
Le Guide
. Luckily, star sniffer dog Pommes Frites is hot on the trail of their only lead: a flimsy undergarment belonging to an exotic dancer they came across in a state of undress before the start of the show …