Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation (7 page)

It was a wonder they didn’t make sure you had a degree in electronics before they allowed you in.

Hearing noises coming from the other room he retraced his steps to the sitting room.

‘I’m sorry we’ve been such a long time,’ said Shinko. ‘For some reason best known to himself, Pommes Frites fancied a walk in the snow. He seemed to have a lot of investigating to do.’

‘Sometimes,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘he plays his cards close to his chest. He didn’t spend several years in the Paris
Sûreté
for
nothing.’

‘Pommes Frites was in the Paris
Sûreté
?’

‘We both were,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse proudly. ‘He only left because he was made redundant following a cutback. It was my good fortune that it happened at the same time as I took early retirement and they gave him to me as a leaving present. In his time he was sniffer dog of the year. He won the Pierre Armand Golden Bone trophy.’

‘Brilliant!’ The girl gazed at them both with new respect. ‘I tell you something, though. He’ll have to do something about wiping his paws when he comes in. Just look at the trails he’s left.’

‘He is tired,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘We both are. We have had a long journey. I wonder … would it be possible to order something? A steak for Pommes Frites and a sandwich or two.’

‘Of course. All things are possible.’ She glanced down at Pommes Frites.

‘
À point
?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head and reached for his wallet again. ‘Given the choice, he prefers it
saignant
.’

Shinko gave a sudden frown – almost like a nervous tic. ‘This time it really isn’t necessary.’ She was gone before he had time to argue.

Left to his own devices Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up the nearest telephone, dialled 9 for an outside line, and tried calling Doucette. There was
no answer. Either she was out shopping or she had gone to see her sister in Melun.

He had no better luck with the Director.

Véronique was
désolée
. ‘He left early. He’s been like a cat on hot bricks all day. You could try reaching him on his mobile. He was asking earlier if you had rung in yet.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at his watch. It was approaching the hour of
affluence
and he had no wish to embark on long explanations if Monsieur Leclercq was battling with the rush hour traffic. He had a habit of disappearing into tunnels just at the crucial moment and then being tetchy when he came out the other end having missed half the conversation.

‘If he asks again, tell him I’m at the hotel and I’ll try later.’

Feeling strangely deflated, Monsieur Pamplemousse switched on the television and set about doing his unpacking.

Picking up the remote control, he flipped through the channels as he came and went. There was nothing he wanted to see. The Sports Channel was showing tennis from goodness knew where. Not only was the world shrinking at an alarming rate, seasonal joys were fast becoming a thing of the past.

The Movie Channel was showing a film he had seen with Doucette at least ten years ago. A
magazine programme was full of people airing their views about nothing of any great importance; more for their own enjoyment than anyone else’s. It was no wonder the Americans, always good for the apt phrase, called it surfing. Skimming the surface in the hope of finding something worthwhile in the murky waters. It was one area where more definitely wasn’t better.

He had more luck with the refrigerator. Champagne bearing the name Dulac, a plain and a rosé; red and white wine in quarter litre bottles. All the usual miniatures of spirits. Several cans of Heineken and Carlsberg beer. Three varieties of water including one from the Monts des Vosges; Wattwiller.
Rare et Bienfaisante.
He jotted down the name. It was a useful way of gaining the ascendancy if you encountered a wine waiter who needed taking down a cru or two. An assortment of nuts and other comestibles.

He was about to pour himself a beer when there was a knock on the outer door leading to the corridor. He opened it and Shinko entered pushing a serving trolley.

‘Sorry I’ve been so long. The kitchen’s busy what with everyone being inside because of the snow. I had to organise it myself.’ She lifted a silver dome ‘… One large
entrecôte
steak,
saignant,
for Pommes Frites …’ then pointed to another plate
bearing an oblong loaf of brown bread standing on end. It was of the style sold by the English firm Marks & Spencer in their Paris establishment and currently much in favour. What they called a ‘tin’ loaf in the quaint way the English had of describing things.

‘Hey presto!’ Removing the top crust she revealed that the inside had been removed so that it formed a hollow shell in which to contain the crustless sandwiches. ‘Brilliant! I asked for an assortment.’

It was the kind of touch that separated the men from the boys; the three Stock Pot establishments from the mere two. Even when the pressures were on nothing was too much trouble.

‘
And
…’ Having spread a white napkin on the floor, Shinko returned to the trolley, opened a cupboard door in the base and took out two pairs of tiny Wellington boots. ‘I’ve brought these for “a certain person”. I dare say he’ll want to go out after he’s finished his snack.’

Clearly Pommes Frites had lost no time establishing a bond. Who was it said the English weren’t a nation of pet lovers? All the same, Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed them dubiously. He strongly suspected the so-called ‘certain person’ might have his own views on the matter, but as if to give lie to the thought, while the girl was quickly
and expertly cutting his steak into bite-size pieces, Pommes Frites gave the boots an approving sniff.

‘Better safe than sorry,’ said Shinko, transferring the plate to the napkin. ‘Anyway, there are no children staying here at the moment so “Cloaks” won’t miss them.
Bonne chance.
’

Once again she gave a nervous giggle and disappeared before Monsieur Pamplemousse had a chance to thank her, by which time Pommes Frites was already deeply into his steak.

Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t even bother trying to compete. Instead, he began working his way slowly through the sandwiches. He counted seven layers in all; neatly cut into quarter segments and containing in turn,
pâté
, smoked salmon, cream cheese with thinly sliced pickled gherkin,
écrevisse
lettuce and mayonnaise, ham, scrambled egg with tiny slivers of truffle …

Entering the list into his notebook reminded him in no uncertain terms once again of the burns on his fingertips. Holding the ice-cold cans of Carlsberg helped, but it would be a day or two before they returned to normal.

Ringing through to reception he left a message telling them he didn’t want to be disturbed until further notice. To make doubly certain he hung the room card outside the door. It said PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB in no less than twenty-four different
languages, some of which he could only hazard a wild guess at.

Operating the roller blinds in the bedroom he sat on the bed for a moment or two contemplating what he might have for his evening meal. To begin with, truffles would definitely be top of the list. It was nearing the end of the season and he might as well make the most of things. A simple omelette to begin with? Or perhaps as a
Julienne
mixed in with the beaten egg, returned to the shell and baked? On the other hand, and to his way of thinking it was still the best method of all, sliced and served on top of coarsely mashed potato coated with olive oil.

And to follow … he lay back and closed his eyes while he considered the matter. To follow …

When Monsieur Pamplemousse woke it was to the sound of Pommes Frites making one of his snuffling noises. It was the kind he held in reserve for times of emergency and it was coming from the other room. Guided by a flashing red light on the bedside telephone, he felt for the nearest bank of buttons. Having eventually located one for the room light, he operated the shutter. Raising it a little, he saw it was already dark outside. Dark and snowing hard. His heart sank when he looked at his watch. It was long past dinner time. He’d slept for well over six hours. It was no wonder Pommes Frites sounded restive.

Making his way into the other room, he was met by a pair of reproachful eyes. He set to work quickly. The boots slipped on easily enough and actually stayed in place, almost as though they had been made to measure.

It wasn’t until he closed the French windows and Pommes Frites had hurried off into the night in search of the nearest tree that Monsieur Pamplemousse noticed an envelope had been slipped under the main door while he’d been asleep; several envelopes, in fact. The slips inside all said the same thing and they were timed at hourly intervals. The first at 18.30, the last 21.30. There was a message for him on the voicemail.

‘Pamplemousse …’ Once again the voice was slightly muffled, as though the Director didn’t wish to be overheard. ‘Pamplemousse, I fear the worst. What
is
going on?’ He could have asked the same question. ‘I know you are there. I have checked with reception. Please get in touch as soon as possible, but not, repeat
not
under any circumstances after 22.30. I promised Chantal an early night.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse checked his watch again and hesitated. Should he or should he not? It was already 22.40. Monsieur Leclercq was a stickler for accuracy. If he said not after 22.30 – he meant not after 22.30. But … other matters began to exercise his mind. Fancy missing his dinner on
the very first night! He eyed the remains of the loaf of bread. At least he wouldn’t starve. There was still the bowl of fruit to fall back on, not to mention the chocolate … On the other hand there were two mouths to feed. It would be a case of calling on room service again and without knowing how to get in contact with the girl he would have to wait until Pommes Frites returned so that he could hide him somewhere, although with so much in the way of glass partitioning it was hard to know exactly where. The need to hide a large bloodhound was something the architect hadn’t thought of. Open planning was all very well in its place, but it did have its disadvantages.

Crossing to the window he looked out. It was black as pitch outside. Not a star to be seen. There was no sign of Pommes Frites either; only two sets of tiny footprints heading out into the night. The snow had eased off a little, and no doubt he would turn up when it suited him. In Paris he often went out for long periods at a time, and having been cooped up all day he was probably taking full advantage of being let out. In the meantime …

Monsieur Pamplemousse turned on the television again, but he wasn’t in the mood. He felt restless. Having come away in a hurry he’d brought nothing with him to read and the hotel brochure only told him things he had already mostly discovered for himself.

He felt almost tempted to go for a walk. If the hotel kept Wellington boots for children they must surely have an ample supply for adults. On the other hand … he looked out of the window and decided against it.

A foray in the refrigerator yielded a packet of mixed nuts and a choice between champagne and a Heineken. Choosing a Heineken, he was about to flip the metal opener when the feeling came over him that he was being watched and looking up he saw a face pressed against the French windows.

Monsieur Pamplemousse’s pleasure at seeing his friend and mentor return to the fold lasted all of five seconds. As Pommes Frites removed his nose from the glass and stood back wagging his tail in anticipation of the door being opened, he left behind an ominous dark stain. A stain which, to the trained eye, was immediately recognisable.

Blood was blood, no matter which way you looked at it.

In the beginning it had been kisses all the way. Kisses to welcome him on his arrival. Kisses both before and after a Suze; rather more after it than before, and tasting strongly of gentian. Then kisses, brief but noticeably more lingering as they took a shortcut through the shrubbery on their way from the offices to the new school building.

And that had just been Mlle Pichot!

Honoré Pichot was certainly making up for her lost moments in the woodshed. Perhaps it was the after-effects of a long, hard winter with only the television for company; a combination calculated to underline the passage of time and engender restlessness in the most sanguine of souls. Whatever the cause, formality had been cast to one side. He was no longer Monsieur Pamplemousse,
but Aristide. Soon it would be
tu
rather than
vous
, although not if he had any say in the matter. He couldn’t help but notice a strong smell of perfume and her
décolleté
left little to the imagination. And was it imagination that caused him to suspect her glasses were a little steamed up? If so, it wasn’t the only thing.

Fortunately the woodshed was no longer there. The spot where it had been was now given over to a large car park, otherwise there was no knowing what might have happened.

They walked in silence for a while, each busy with their own thoughts.

The new school was nothing like the one Monsieur Pamplemousse remembered of old. Built in 1885 on Republican ideals, the old one had originally been part of the
Mairie
, as was common practice in those days. The new building, brash and modern, occupied what had once been an area of wasteland behind it.

And that was another thing. Times change, but the parking area was packed with vehicles: cars, mopeds and various other forms of transport, including an invalid carriage.

‘Not,’ Honoré hastened to inform him, ‘that they
all
belong to the pupils.’ Some were owned by members of staff, parents and other interested parties who had come to meet him.

The car park had been given to the school by
Monsieur Dulac himself. ‘Such a kind and generous person. Many of our ex-pupils have gone on to work for him.’

‘I bet they have,’ thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It must have been a very good investment.’

His heart sank as he glanced through the windows of the new building and caught sight of a crowded hall. Heads were turned expectantly in his direction. More than ever he wished he hadn’t agreed to the whole thing. The Director would not be pleased, it was a mercy he wasn’t there to see him; all his worst fears would have been realised.

As it was, conversation that morning hadn’t been easy. One-sided would have summed it up. Clearly, for reasons he wasn’t prepared to reveal, Monsieur Leclercq had spent a sleepless night.

‘Profiles, Pamplemousse, must be kept low,’ had been his final enjoinder. ‘Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move. I will put “Plan B” into action from this end.’

Since Monsieur Pamplemousse had been taking a bath at the time, he’d felt justified in stretching matters a bit. If the Director didn’t want him to meet the recipient of the car, then so be it. It was no skin off his nose. He saw no point in making a great production number out of it.

All the same, one way and another he was glad he had fortified himself afterwards over a good
breakfast, otherwise the whole situation would have been hard to cope with. Glandier had spoken nothing less then the truth when he pronounced breakfast at Dulac as one of the best he had ever eaten; worthy of three Stock Pots in its own right. It was no mere trayload of
petit déjeuner
that had been delivered to his room that morning. It arrived on a
chariot
and more than made up for the previous evening’s
débâcle
.

On the bottom level of the trolley there had been a selection of the day’s
journaux
. Much to his relief a quick flip through them revealed no follow-up of his escapade in Boulogne. The Director must have done his stuff. Anyway, by now it would be yesterday’s news. Perhaps even more importantly, there had been no mention in the local
journal
of any untoward happenings during the night at Dulac, although at one stage he’d heard plenty of comings and goings, and the sound of slamming car doors. Raising the shutters slightly he’d seen several flashing blue lights and he wondered whether there had been another mishap in the gym. Later, there had been the sound of a helicopter landing and taking off again.

Then had come the equivalent of a bucket of cold water; the ice-cold
douche
. Tucked inside a separate wallet he found an envelope addressed to Monsieur Blanc. Inside it there had been a slightly worrying
note from Shinko. Written in a schoolgirl hand, it said: ‘Watch out! Inspector Lafarge has spotted your guilty secret. Dreadful news about “You know who”. Take care! Love to P.F. See you …’

Cryptic was hardly the word for it. What guilty secret? Or, perhaps, to be more precise, which guilty secret? And he had totally no idea of ‘who’ the girl was referring to or what the dreadful news could be.

He had looked for her in reception after breakfast, but a party of half a dozen or so Americans had just arrived in a people carrier and all she had managed was a passing wave, so he was still none the wiser.

He followed Mlle Pichot up a short flight of steps and into the entrance hall of the new building. It was a shock as he entered it to find his photograph everywhere.

‘I did warn you,’ she said roguishly. ‘You
are
our most famous ex-pupil.’ At least she didn’t use the term ‘old’. ‘Such a pity you had to retire early; just when you were at your peak. We used to keep scrapbooks of all your activities.’

Excusing herself for a moment, Mlle Pichot disappeared into a nearby office leaving him to dwell on his visage in its many forms over the years. She hadn’t been joking. He could hardly believe his eyes. To all intents and purposes he was standing in a hall of fame; his own fame, or ill-fame, since there was even a picture taken shortly after his unhappy
affair at the
Folies
; the one that in the end led to his early retirement.

He wondered if it was a permanent display, or whether it had been hastily put together for his benefit. Moving a picture frame to one side revealed an area of lighter cream paint, which answered the question. Wonders would never cease.

‘
Alors,
’ Honoré returned carrying a large silver cup, ‘I have a little favour to ask of you, Aristide. This is for you to present to another ex-pupil. A little younger than yourself, but one of our rising young stars. A real all-rounder and a credit to us all. She has come back today especially to receive it. With your permission we plan to call it the “Aristide Pamplemousse Award” and make it an annual event.’

‘It will be a pleasure,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, with a graciousness he was far from feeling.

Following Honoré Pichot down a corridor he snatched a quick glance at his reflection in a mirror. There were no telltale traces of lipstick on his collar; a minor miracle considering all he had been through. Apart from a slightly drawn appearance there was little outward sign of the turmoil he felt within.

‘
Bonne chance,
Aristide. Everyone is so looking forward to your speech.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse came down to earth with a bump. He had been
so taken up with his thoughts he’d become quite oblivious to what was going on around him.

Honoré Pichot fluttered her eyelashes as best she could. Like her smile, they were much as he remembered them, small and thin. ‘I do so admire you men of the world who can address the multitude without so much as a single note.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at her. ‘
Mais
…’ he began. But he might just as well have saved his breath. A curtain was drawn to one side, and he found himself gently but firmly being ushered forward.

Following on behind, and reverting to her role of headmistress, Mlle Pichot held up her hand to quell the applause, tapped a microphone in the centre of the stage, then beckoned to someone in the front row.

‘Claude,
s’il vous plaît
.’

There was another round of applause, this time rather more muted.

Monsieur Pamplemousse blinked in the spotlight. Not for the first time, he felt a touch of envy for Pommes Frites. Pommes Frites had things all worked out. There he was, blissfully sleeping off his breakfast in the back seat of the Twingo parked in the main square, totally oblivious to the problems of this world. Not that he wouldn’t have taken the whole thing in his stride had he been there. Doubtless everyone would have wanted to
stroke him for a start, which would have provided a welcome diversion. As it was …

As it was, having expected to see a small boy – probably the one with rimless glasses and a knowing air who had been staring at him without blinking ever since he’d arrived on stage – Monsieur Pamplemousse was taken aback to see a girl instead. And not just any old girl, but one that Glandier, an acknowledged expert in these matters, would have rated as being small, but perfectly formed.

She was wearing a tight miniskirt, an even tighter sweater and large black boots of a style he remembered his father wearing. As she drew near he became aware of the smell of jasmine. Close to, it was even more potent than Mlle Pichot’s; tantalisingly so. A heady, sensual sensation. What was the figure he’d once had quoted at him when he’d been working a case involving passing off? One metric ton of flower petals, or eight million flowers, were needed for every two pounds of the perfume. He was certainly getting value for money.

Exactly why the girl was getting an award, and for what, Monsieur Pamplemousse had no idea, so he essayed a wild guess. ‘For your outstanding work in many fields,’ he began.

The titter which went round the first few rows of the audience was instantly quelled by Mlle Pichot.

As he shook the recipient’s hand Monsieur
Pamplemousse gave a start. Not only did it feel warm to the touch, warm and lingering, but unless it was his imagination, he felt something tickling his palm. A forefinger, perhaps?

‘And what do you hope to do in life, Claude?’ he enquired.

‘We were hoping she would enter a convent,’ said Mlle Pichot, ‘but at present she is in catering.’

Jet black hair, cut to frame a pale, oval face, might have given Claude an angelic air, but it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that anyone less likely to entertain thoughts of taking the vows would have been hard to find. It would certainly present a challenge to any Mother Superior who was unlucky enough to draw the short straw. It was tempting to remark that hope sprang eternal from the human breast, but as the girl gave a tiny curtsy, displaying a brief but tantalising glimpse of her unsupported
doudonnes,
he decided against saying any more for fear that his remark might be misconstrued.

‘I entered a convent only the other evening,’ he said, half jokingly. ‘But it was
un accident
.’

It was the second of his comments to misfire. Mlle Pichot fixed him with a beady stare as the girl turned and made her way back down to her place clutching the cup.

‘It is not a matter for jesting,
Monsieur
. She is just a simple girl at heart.’

‘Aren’t they all,’ murmured Monsieur Pamplemousse.

Turning to the audience, he decided to play it by ear.

‘Rather than bore you with a long speech which in the end may tell you none of the things you wish to know, I thought I would throw it open to you to ask the questions and I will try and provide the answers.’

It seemed like a good idea at the time. He should have known better. Questions weren’t slow in coming.

The first was from a girl sitting next to the bespectacled boy he’d spotted earlier. She looked as though
beurre
wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

‘In the case of the nude brides in the bath,
Monsieur
, were you the first on the scene and was there very much blood?’

He fielded the question as neatly as he could. ‘Fortunately, because the murder took place in the bath, blood was not much of a problem. Had it been elsewhere—’ He gave the universal shaking of the hand, palm down accompanied by a suitable sound effect.

‘So was the plug missing?’ It was the same girl again.

‘
Oui et non,
’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The young lady was actually sitting on it. That gave me my first clue. What person in their right mind would ever get into a bath and sit on the plug? Clearly, she
had been put there by someone, making it a case of murder rather than suicide.’

‘My brother sits on the plug,’ her spectacled friend piped up. ‘He says his girlfriend won’t get in with him otherwise.’

‘If there was only one bride,’ persisted the first questioner, ‘what happened to the others and were they all nude?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath. ‘They were all in different baths,’ he said, ‘and yes, they were all nude. People do tend to take their clothes off when they have a bath.’

The ripple of laughter which went round the hall gave him the opportunity to call for the next question.

They followed thick and fast. He disposed of the Axe Murders, then the Blow Torch Victims, followed by the Case of the Broken Bandsaw. During the latter he caught sight of someone standing at the back of the gathering writing furiously in a notebook. That was all he needed – a reporter.

It was time to call it a day. Enough was enough. To renewed cheers from the first few rows he took the easy way out and gave the school the rest of the day off.

Glancing over his shoulder he caught Mlle Pichot’s eye. A certain coolness seemed to have set in. Some people were never satisfied.

Postponing the evil moment before the storm broke, he offered to sign autographs before he left and was immediately besieged.

First it was autograph books … a few … very few. Then it was scraps of paper torn from exercise books, followed by a plaster cast or two. Then someone offered him a felt-tipped pen and a wrist to sign and he made the fatal mistake of obliging. There followed a whole series of wrists; hot wrists, sweaty wrists … ice-cold wrists. At the height of it all he became aware of one even warmer than the rest. It had a familiar feel to it, and once again he felt a finger gently tickling his palm, like some Masonic code.