Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation (2 page)

‘Which brings me somewhat appositely,’ he continued, ‘to the matter in hand; the reason why I called you in at this hour of the day.’ Once again the Director pointed to the pile of newspapers. ‘Pamplemousse, the worst has happened. In the early hours of this morning I received a telephone call from an old friend, the head of one of our most respected press agencies, issuing a friendly warning.’

A small cloud momentarily blotted out the sun and Monsieur Pamplemousse caught another brief glimpse of his own likeness. ‘The results of my exam are in the
journal, Monsieur
?’

The Director clucked impatiently. ‘No, Pamplemousse, they are not, and let us pray they never will be. If your name is ever linked to that of
Le Guide
the ignominy will be hard to live down. No, worse than that, I fear. Far worse. I am referring to events which took place later that same day.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the picture. The black areas, which from a distance he had taken to be shadows, took on an ecclesiastical nature when seen at close quarters. Legs protruded at unseemly
angles from a black gown. A face, looking straight up at the camera lens, was unmistakably his. Thank goodness he had unburdened himself to Doucette when he arrived home. It would have given her a terrible shock had she stumbled on it by accident.

‘Pamplemousse! Are you listening?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse came to with a start as he realised he was being addressed.

‘I repeat,’ barked the Director, ‘can you not be away from home for more than a day or two at a time without feeling the need to satisfy your carnal desires?’

‘I assure you,
Monsieur
, it was not like that at all. Nothing could have been further from my mind. Pommes Frites and I had been out for a walk and we were taking a shortcut. As you may know, “lights out” in our billets was at twenty-two hundred hours and it seemed a good opportunity to practise our wall climbing. It is a very useful attribute when one is visiting strange restaurants,
Monsieur
. The element of surprise when arriving late at night can sometimes prove invaluable when preparing reports.’

‘Spare me your sarcasm, Aristide,’ said the Director. ‘The pity is that you chose the wall of a convent on which to practise.’

‘All walls look alike in the dark,
Monsieur
.’

‘An unhappy choice of phrase in the circumstances,’ 
said the Director. ‘The Mother Superior was convinced you were trying to rape her on the spot.’

‘She happened to be doing her nightly patrol,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Unfortunately I landed on top of her as she was going past.’

‘That,’ said the Director sternly as he retrieved his copy of
Figaro
, ‘is patently obvious from this photograph. It is the stuff of which headlines are made. And Pommes Frites? What is he doing, glowering lasciviously over the unfortunate victim when he should have been going to her rescue?’

‘That is not a glower,
Monsieur
. That is his concerned expression.’

‘The article maintains that he was attacking her.’

‘It only goes to show people shouldn’t believe all they read in the
journaux
,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘But people do, Aristide. That is the trouble … people do. It is my belief that the media has it within its power to bring about the destruction of mankind if it ever feels so disposed.’

‘He was merely trying to lick her better,
Monsieur,
’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse lamely. ‘
Chiens’
saliva is believed to be rich in healing qualities. He was as concerned as I was at the turn of events.’

‘Not a story that would stand up in court, Pamplemousse, I fear,’ said the Director soberly.
‘Parallels might be drawn between yourself and a poster advertising Bela Lugosi playing the part of Dracula. The fact that you made good your escape before the police arrived will undoubtedly go against you.’

‘Escape?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked suitably offended. ‘By then it was five minutes to lights out,
Monsieur
. Discipline is very strict at the naval base and I had no wish to be locked out. Having tendered our sincere apologies to the good lady and made sure she was none the worse for the experience … no broken bones … no torn ligaments … we shook hands. She even thanked me for my courteous behaviour and rewarded Pommes Frites with a pat on the head.’

‘That is not what she is saying now.’

‘With respect,
Monsieur
, people often see things differently in the cold light of day. That is why in France when two cars are involved in a collision an accident report must be filled in by both parties on the spot. In that way neither side can change their story at a later date.’

‘Perhaps you should have filled in a collision report yourself,’ said the Director dryly.

‘The facts will speak for themselves,
Monsieur
…’

‘Facts, as you well know, Pamplemousse, can be distorted beyond measure in a court of law. Besides, it is all there, the whole sordid incident. Recorded
for posterity on infrared film. The Mother Superior entering shot innocently going about her nightly duties without a care in the world. Her worry beads an unnecessary adjunct to her peace of mind. The next moment, there she is, lying on the path with her assailant spreadeagled on top of her.’

‘Infrared film?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In a seminary?’ It was no wonder the photograph in
Figaro
had a strange, almost surreal quality to it.

‘The nun in charge of security happens to be an ex-lawyer who has taken the vow,’ said the Director. ‘In her time she specialised in prosecutions involving crimes committed against other members of her sex. Fellow man is not a phrase that springs happily to her lips. That is why I fear the worst. She will leave no stone unturned until she brings you to book. It needs but one of your ex-colleagues to point their finger, or
Paris Match
to scent a possible scandal and send one of their ace reporters. I shudder to think what will happen if word reaches Rome. Sales of our Italian edition will plummet.

‘But you know as well as I do what the press are like once they get the bit between their teeth. Fortunately, the friend who alerted me managed to kill the story before it went too far. So far only one
journal
has picked it up, but it is only a matter of time. Some young blood anxious to prove himself must have dug up an old photograph taken at the
time of your unfortunate affair with the chorus girls at the
Folies
and put two and two together, only this time it will be much worse. There are those who would argue that mathematically speaking one Mother Superior is equal to, or greater than, a whole line of chorus girls. I can see the headlines now: “Pamplemousse Strikes Again.”’

‘A good lawyer would tear it to pieces,
Monsieur
…’

‘Good lawyers cost money, Aristide. Besides, where there is smoke more often than not there is fire and mud sticks.’

Faced with such a barrage of unarguable aphorisms Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated.

‘What do you suggest,
Monsieur
?’ he asked meekly.

‘There is only one course open to us,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘You must lie low for a while. It will blow over. These things always do. My informant has seen to that. To use a technical expression, the story has been spiked for the time being, and so far neither
Figaro
nor any of the other
journaux
have made the connection with
Le Guide
. We must ensure it stays that way.

‘
Alors
!
’ The Director raised his hands to high heaven before consulting the folder once again. ‘I have been reading your annual medical report. The word “stress” is mentioned several times. We have perhaps been overworking you of late. One forgets
you are no longer as young as you were. We none of us are. Perhaps you should have a thorough check-up.’

‘Madame Pamplemousse would not be happy,
Monsieur.
She takes the view that if things are working they are best left alone.’

‘Nonsense, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director severely. ‘I’m sure you take your car in for a regular service. Why should you balk at the thought of taking your own body in for a check-up simply because the doctor might find something wrong with it?’

‘Had I gone into the sea at Boulogne as instructed,’ broke in Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I may have needed a post-mortem. As
Monsieur
may well discover when it is his turn,’ he added meaningly.

The Director brushed aside the interruption with what might have been construed by some as unseemly haste.

‘I gave the matter considerable thought on my way into the office this morning, Aristide,’ he began, ‘and it seems to me that this unhappy affair could be an opportunity to kill several
oiseaux
with one stone. Clearly both you and Pommes Frites need to keep a low profile for the time being. At least until all the fuss has died down. Equally clearly a rest would not come amiss for both of you.’

As if to underline what the Director was saying, Pommes Frites gave vent to a loud snore at that point.

‘He is still recovering from his birthday celebrations,’ explained Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘We spent the evening in a local waterside bistro and one thing led to another …’

‘Please,’ Monsieur Leclercq held up his hand, ‘spare me the sordid details, Pamplemousse. It simply goes to prove my point. A change of scene will do you both the world of good. A breath of fresh country air … a chance to recharge your respective batteries.

‘One might almost say, Aristide,’ he continued casually, and had Monsieur Pamplemousse not momentarily lowered his guard while he allowed his mind to dwell on other matters, it might have struck him as being perhaps a little too casual, ‘… one might almost say that a spell close to your roots might work wonders. It will give you a chance to take stock as it were. In short, what I have in mind is a week in the Auvergne.’

Monsieur Leclercq paused to let his announcement sink in, and while doing so gazed affectionately at the portrait on the wall, almost as though he were about to genuflect, but in the end he thought better of it.

‘Strangely enough,’ continued the Director, ‘it was to the Auvergne that I was sent by our founder shortly after I joined
Le Guide
. I haven’t been back since. It was before I was married and I suspect
Chantal would find it a little too rugged for her tastes. Queuing for a shower at the end of a long corridor in the morning along with half a dozen hardy individuals with hairy legs is not exactly her idea of fun; she prefers her creature comforts. But I remember it well. I felt the whole thing was a kind of test and I very nearly blotted my copybook.

‘It was early autumn and the
patron
of the very first hostelry I stayed at served the most delicious
pommes aligot.
It was made with very young
cantal
cheese.

‘And
crème fraiche
of course.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse was unable to resist breaking in.

‘Of course. But you must remember it was the first time I had ever tasted it and it was an eye-opener. As an accompaniment to a simple
crépinette
of pig’s liver and mixed vegetables fresh from the garden, the whole wrapped in lacy caul fat and cooked in the oven, it was nothing short of sensational.

‘I had begun the meal with tiny local sausages wrapped in pastry, and afterwards I was given the most delicious pie made with pears and walnuts.

‘On the strength of what I must admit in hindsight was a somewhat flowery report, a number of readers drove all the way down from Paris to dine there, but he was a curmudgeonly old character and often he wouldn’t let them in. Those who did manage to get a table couldn’t understand a word he was saying. 
There were numerous complaints and for a while my career was in jeopardy. It taught me a valuable lesson though, and Monsieur Duval had the good sense to see it that way.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse could picture it all. He had come across such people before, especially in the remoter parts of the Auvergne. Individualists who behaved as though they had a grudge against society. You wondered how on earth they had ever become involved in running a hotel. And yet, unable to read or write, they often cooked like a dream.

‘I can still recall the hills with cattle grazing in fields of yellow gentian,’ mused the Director. ‘Peat bogs with their tiny herbaceous willow trees in the valleys. The surprise at suddenly coming across vast areas of extinct volcanoes, and the mountains with their fields awash with wild flowers. The occasional
buron
, those stone huts shepherds used to take shelter in. And everywhere you went, hams hanging from the joists and fresh water bubbling up out of the ground. But most of all I remember the fresh, clean air of the mountains.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse shifted in his chair as Monsieur Leclercq began to wax lyrical. He felt tempted to say that they were the only things about the Auvergne which were memorable, but he knew better than to interrupt Monsieur Leclercq when he had the bit between his teeth.

‘I remember, too, the wild salmon from the Allier,’ continued the Director. ‘Do you realise, Aristide, that some two years after they are born they swim downriver to the sea and travel as far afield as Greenland, there to feed on the shrimps which give them their colour, before swimming all the way back to the place of their birth. Perhaps, Aristide, although your own marine activities hardly qualify to be mentioned in the same breath, you, too, should return to the place of your birth.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse could contain himself no longer. ‘All you say may be true of the Auvergne in the late spring and summer,
Monsieur
,’ he said. ‘But the summers are short-lived and we are talking about the depths of winter. In winter it is worse than Boulogne.’

‘There you go again, Pamplemousse,’ snorted the Director. ‘This negative attitude of yours is becoming a habit. It ill becomes you …’

‘But,
Monsieur
, the climate is harsh. Roads are often impassable from December to May. There is ice on the
inside
of the windows. People have been known to die of the cold. There is a very good reason why half the bistros in Paris are owned by men from the Auvergne. They escaped from it all as soon as they were old enough.’