Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot (7 page)

As he lay luxuriating in the foam from a sachet of liquid bath oil, he turned over in his mind all that had happened that evening. Memories of his strange encounter in the wood came flooding back and multiplied, aided and abetted by the warm water, Badedas and Sauternes. He began to feel strangely disturbed. Perhaps a cold shower would have done him far more good.

The towels were of the finest cotton, satisfyingly large and absorbent; there was a voluminous dressing-gown monogrammed with the hotel’s initials to match.

Topping up his glass for the final time, Monsieur Pamplemousse placed the empty bottle on top of the refrigerator, consigned its companion to the compartment on the inside of the door, adjusted the temperature so that it wouldn’t become over-chilled, and retired at long last to his bed. With the alarm set for eight o’clock, he fluffed up the pillows and picked up his book. Opening it at the point where he’d left off in the restaurant, he returned to
The
Hound
of
the
Baskervilles.
But reading it did not come easily. He found himself going over the same paragraph again and again; Holmes was explaining to Watson a theory he had formed about some knotty problem.

Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself wondering sleepily what the famous detective would have made of his present situation, especially the encounter in the wood. Encounters of an amorous nature didn’t figure largely in Holmes’ adventures. He would have taken a coldly analytical approach to the whole thing, listing all the possibilities, trying them out on the Doctor for effect.

He glanced down. His own Watson was still fast asleep, twitching every so often in his dreams. He would get no help there for the time being.

Twisting open his Cross pen, he picked up a pad of paper and began to write. For some while he wrote and scratched out and amended and cut and edited and then rewrote again, filling page after page. Not until he was completely satisfied did he lay down his pen and even then he tore up the used sheets and transferred the distillation of his findings to a fresh page before reading it out loud.

‘What we are looking for,’ he intoned to his captive
audience of one, ‘and there cannot be many in this world who fit the description, is an illiterate English female compositor, who stands about 168 centimetres tall, and is possessed of a
balcon
of such largeness and generosity, of such roundness and hardness, that it almost defies belief.’

Ignoring the snore which came from the direction of the wheelbarrow, Monsieur Pamplemousse tore the sheet off the pad and placed it carefully beneath the glass on the bedside table. Well pleased with the result of his evening’s work, he turned out the light and closed his eyes.

One thing was for certain: given the opportunity, he would be able to identify them again anywhere, anytime, anyplace. They were indelibly and disturbingly etched on his memory.

He had another flash of inspiration before sleep finally overtook him. He remembered where he’d seen the subject of the photograph before. It was the girl who had been sitting all alone in the restaurant that evening.

‘I am looking,
Monsieur,
for a woman with exceptionally large
doudounes.
Large, firm and of coconut-like hardness. A woman who is not averse to exposing them to the world …’

‘Aren’t we all, Pamplemousse, aren’t we all.’ The Director sounded tired, as though he had been up all night. ‘May I remind you that you are in the Haute-Savoie, not St. Tropez.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to ignore the interruption. ‘They belong,’ he continued, ‘to someone who works, or has worked, in the printing trade. Possibly someone who has a grudge. I am told there is a great deal of redundancy in the industry. Competition from the Orient is severe.’

‘Pamplemousse!’ The Director’s voice cut in again. ‘Why is it that whenever you are on a case there is always a woman involved? Sooner or later sex rears its ugly head. Usually it is sooner rather than later.’

‘
Cherchez
la femme, Monsieur
. It is my experience in life that there is always a woman involved. Man has a great and undying and unquenchable need for woman. It has been so ever since the Garden of Eden. You could say,
Monsieur,
that were I to find this woman I would be well on the way to solving the problem.’

From the silence at the other end he felt that he had scored a point, and from the length of that silence it was not just an outer or a magpie, but a bullseye; a direct hit.

‘No, Pamplemousse,
I
would not say that. You are saying it. The choice of words is yours.’ There was a note
of acerbity in the voice, and yet Monsieur Pamplemousse felt there were also overtones of respect; respect and some other quality he couldn’t quite define. A whisker of apprehension perhaps?

‘May I ask you something, Aristide?’ The Director was clearly about to change his tune.

‘
Oui
, Monsieur
.’

‘It is only a small thing, of little importance I’m sure. But it kept me awake last night wondering.’

‘Please ask anything you wish,
Monsieur
.’

‘Why were you pushing Pommes Frites about the gardens of Les Cinq Parfaits in a wheelbarrow last night? Has he suffered some kind of injury?’

‘Shall we say,
Monsieur,
that he is indisposed.’

‘Nothing serious, I trust?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced towards the subject of their conversation. It was hard to say. Pommes Frites hadn’t visibly moved from where he’d been deposited some ten or eleven hours previously. Nevertheless there was some improvement; he appeared to be regarding the outside world through at least one half-open, if decidedly lack-lustre eye which could only be interpreted as a step in the right direction. His jowls gave an occasional twitch.

‘It is difficult to form an opinion,
Monsieur
.’

‘You must seek medical advice.’

‘I am about to phone his
vétérinaire
in Paris. It may take time.’

‘Time is not on our side, Pamplemousse.’ The Director sounded agitated again. ‘A “certain person” has been on to me already this morning demanding news of progress. I can hardly repeat what you have just told me. I understand the workings of your mind, Aristide. I respect them. I know that threads have to be picked up and examined and pondered on before you weave them together into some sort of pattern, however bizarre and convoluted. I know that ordinarily this takes time, but I hesitate to pass on the news that the boilers and generators of France depend for their life’s blood on a pair of
doudounes,
however large and desirable they may be.’

‘
Oui
, Monsieur
.’

‘Were they …’ The voice hesitated. ‘Were they very exceptional, Aristide? Clearly, they made a deep
impression
on you.’

‘
Formidable, Monsieur.
Extraordinaire
. I will describe the situation and the events leading up to it more fully when I make my report.’

‘Good. I shall look forward to that moment. We will go through it over a bottle of champagne. Some of your favourite Gosset.’ The Director sounded in a better mood. ‘Now, I will leave you to your telephoning. Command the
vétérinaire
to fly down to Geneva if necessary. We will arrange for a car to meet him. Tell him it is a matter of supreme national importance. Oil is a valuable commodity. I need hardly stress the fact that other powers are interested. Powers, Aristide, whose climate is such that their needs during the winter months are even greater than our own. Pommes Frites must be restored to the peak of condition as quickly as possible. I have a high regard for his abilities and they must not be impaired.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse murmured his goodbyes and then with a sigh replaced the receiver. He bent down to pat the wheelbarrow’s occupant on the stomach. Almost immediately there was a distant rumble; a warning of worse things to come.

Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily drew the curtains and flung open a window. At least one of Pommes Frites’ abilities remained unimpaired; in fact, enhanced was more the word. If he stayed where he was storm-cones would need to be hoisted over the barrow; the air-conditioning would be tested to its limits.

He stood for a moment breathing in the fresh autumn air. The distant sound of a ship’s siren announced the presence of a paddle-steamer making its morning round of the lake. Waiters in jeans and sweatshirts were busy on the nearby terrace, laying the tables for lunch – holding
wine-glasses
above a jug of steaming water before giving them a final polish. Laughing and joking amongst themselves, they looked very different to the slightly aloof figures who had attended him the night before. One of them was busy raking a patch of earth where a mark had been left by the
wheelbarrow. He waved as he caught sight of Monsieur Pamplemousse.

Monsieur Pamplemousse returned the wave automatically, his mind suddenly on other things. How, for example, had the Director got to hear about the episode with the wheelbarrow quite so speedily? Someone must have been very quick off the mark in complaining. Someone high up in government, perhaps? Either that, or there was some other source of communication. Whichever it was, it left him feeling irritated.

He turned away from the window and contemplated Pommes Frites for a moment. It was not an inspiring sight. Had they been with him at that moment the powers that be in Paris would have had their confidence in the future well-being of France severely shaken.

Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for the telephone and his notebook. There were times when he felt as if he spent half his life on the phone. It was one of the penalties of working in the field. This morning was no exception. He still had all the numbers he’d found on Jean-Claude’s pad to go through. In the old days, back at the Sûreté, it would have been delegated to a subordinate.

His friend Durelle, the
vétérinaire
, greeted his request with a certain amount of derision.

‘Drop everything? Do you realise, in my waiting-room this morning I have seven dogs, three cats, a parrot, a tortoise, and an old woman with a budgerigar. The budgerigar is eleven years old and will live for another five or six years at least. The old woman merely needs someone to talk to other than a creature who can only say
Bonjour, Bonne nuit
and
Ooh, la, la
! She comes here every week.’

‘It is a matter of national importance.’

‘Are you pulling my leg?’

He didn’t blame Durelle for asking. Over the years they had played a series of long-running practical jokes on each other. Childish pranks which had seemed enormous fun at the time, but which didn’t always stand retelling. Like puns, they were things of the moment. There was the time when, having heard that Durelle had ordered a new suit, he had persuaded the tailor to parcel up an old sack which
he’d found lying in a street, one used to divert the flow of water in one of the gutters of Montmartre until it became too old even for that. It had stunk to high heaven. Durelle had passed no comment at the time, but he’d got his own back by giving it to him as a present the following Christmas. It had gone to and fro for several years until Doucette had put her foot down.

‘No, I am perfectly serious. You can check with the office. I am staying at Les Cinq Parfaits, by Lac Léman …’

‘Lucky devil! I wish I could join you. We could do a spot of fishing together.’

‘The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, slightly aggrieved. ‘The way things are going I shan’t have much time for fishing.’

‘Has he been overeating again? I seem to remember it happening once before. That time when you were both in Normandy. Apples stuffed with quail and baked in pastry, was it not? Afterwards Pommes Frites was given the cream bowl to lick and suffered accordingly. It took him several days to recover.’

‘
Chiens
are
interdits
in the dining-room at Les Cinq Parfaits,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse defensively. ‘Besides, he appears to have lost his appetite completely. He turned up his nose at a biscuit I offered him, one of his favourites which I keep for special occasions. It is always a bad sign.’

‘Has he been taking the local water?’

‘We are staying near Evian.’

‘Ah, then we must look elsewhere. Are his eyes at all bloodshot?’

‘Pommes Frites’ eyes are often bloodshot,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse reprovingly. ‘He is, after all, a Bloodhound.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Durelle sounded distracted. In the
background
there was the noise of a dog barking. ‘And his nose? Is it dry?’

‘It is hard to say. It has recently been greased. I gave it a liberal coating of Vaseline before we left Paris. Enough to last the holiday.’

‘Temperature?’

‘Again, it is hard to say. He felt very cold to the touch last night, but he’d been lying out in a wood …’

‘
Un
moment
.’
There was a pause followed by a heavy clunk as the receiver at the other end was laid down. There were now several dogs barking. It sounded like a fight. He heard a muttered oath, then a door slammed. When Durelle picked up the phone again he was breathing heavily and his words were interspersed with loud sucking noises as though he had been wounded.

‘It is a bad morning. I’m truly sorry I cannot be with you.’ The remark was made with feeling. ‘I assume you have contacted a local vet?’

‘They are not enthusiastic,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Besides, I need someone I can trust.’

‘In that case I can only suggest you send me a specimen of his water for analysis.’

‘Pommes Frites’ water?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse repeated the words dubiously.

‘A few millilitres will be sufficient. If you put it on the afternoon train I will get my secretary to arrange for its collection at the Gare du Lyon. You shall have my full report first thing tomorrow morning. We will take it from there. In the meantime, if there is any change for the worse do not hesitate to ring me. I will come at once if necessary.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse replaced the receiver and eyed Pommes Frites gloomily. He foresaw difficulties. It was one thing taking a horse to the water; it was another matter entirely getting it to drink. The converse problems in Pommes Frites’ case were all too obvious. Although on the surface Pommes Frites’ plumbing arrangements left a lot to be desired – so much so that a passing stranger
encountering
him for the first time on the slopes of Montmartre might well have been forgiven had he classed them
somewhere
between ‘random’ and ‘uncontrolled’ – nevertheless, they were in fact exceedingly complex. Somewhere within the system there was a highly sophisticated computer which, given certain basic pieces of information, such as the time of day, the state of the weather, and the direction in which its owner-operator was heading, could calculate within seconds the number of trees, parked cars and various items
of street furniture likely to be encountered en route. Armed with this information, the section which dealt with quantity control then dispensed measured doses with
laboratory-like
precision according to the total litreage available, the number of objects and their relative importance to each other.

The one thing Pommes Frites’ system lacked was any kind of early-warning system for the benefit of others. Short of lying in wait for him behind a tree, carrying out Durelle’s request would not be easy.

Reflecting that even Sherlock Holmes might have admitted to being temporarily baffled by the problem, Monsieur Pamplemousse attempted to extract a crumb of comfort from the laden breakfast tray beside his bed.

Holmes had often begun his cases over breakfast.
The
Hound
of
the
Baskervilles
was a good example; breakfast consumed straight after an early-morning pipe filled with the previous day’s dottle dried on the study mantelpiece. He must have had a constitution of iron.

Strange, the English predilection for a hearty breakfast. Perhaps it had to do with the uncertain climate. Boiled eggs, served in strange pottery containers, often shaped like hollowed-out human heads which grinned at you across the table. Knowing exactly when the eggs would be done to perfection was a mysterious art which was handed down and could not be described accurately in any cook book.

He wondered if a call from the Director would have been permitted to break the morning ritual at number 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson would not have been pleased to see her efforts grow cold. Nothing, not even the sight of a newly severed digit in
The
Adventure
of
the
Engineer’s
Thumb
was ever allowed to put Holmes off his breakfast.

Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed the remains of his
brioche.
It looked most unappetising. Disappointing to start with, now that it had grown cold it was even less enticing. Perhaps it was yet another of Jean-Claude’s skills which had not been passed on. Then, again, perhaps he was already conditioned to not expecting things exactly right; his expectations were now tempered by inside knowledge and the early-morning call from his office.