Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot Page 7

  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.

  Crumbling the remains of the cake between thumb and forefinger, he debated his priorities; whether to attend to Pommes Frites or continue with his telephone calls. He decided on the latter. The longer he left Pommes Frites the stronger would be the call of nature once he surfaced.

  The first number he dialled was engaged, the second was a garage in Evian. He apologised and tried the third number. It was a cancoillotte producer in a village higher up the mountains. Cancoillotte, made with well-rotted Metton cheese warmed over a low heat along with salt water and butter, was a speciality of the area. It was then melted again with white wine and garlic to be served as a fondue on toast or over potatoes. Just the thing after a ski run on a cold winter’s day. The thought almost made him feel hungry again.

  The fourth number was a flower shop in Evian. Something about the voice at the other end made him decide to try his luck.

  ‘I am telephoning on behalf of Monsieur Parfait. Monsieur Jean-Claude Parfait. There is some confusion about an order.’

  The girl sounded puzzled. There was the sound of rustling paper as if she was looking through an order book. ‘Do you know when it was made? There is no record. Monsieur Jean-Claude usually calls in on his way back from market. Was it to do with the restaurant? Monsieur Albert always deals with that later in the day. He should be in any moment. I haven’t seen Monsieur Jean-Claude for two days …’

  ‘I’m sorry. I think I had better check.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse made his excuses and hung up. Perhaps his remarks to the Director, made more in his own defence on the spur of the moment than for any other reason, were not so wide of the mark after all. It could still be a case of cherchez la femme. Jean-Claude would hardly be buying flowers for himself.

  The sixth number was a ski club near Morzine.

  He tried the first number again. This time he got the ringing tone. He counted over twenty rings and then a girl’s voice answered. ‘Bonjour. Vous voulez parler à qui?’ She sounded breathless. The words were French but the accent was foreign. He guessed it was English; the pitch went down at the end rather than up. Again, instinct told him to prolong the conversation. He plucked a name out of the air.

  ‘Monsieur Duval, s’il vous plaît.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  He repeated the name. ‘Monsieur Duval. Monsieur Henri Duval.’

  The reply, when it came, was halting and confused, as if the speaker was suddenly out of her depth, struggling in heavy water. He decided to put her out of her misery.

  ‘Parlez-vous anglais?’

  ‘Yes. I mean … oui.’ The relief was evident in the way the words came pouring out. ‘I don’t know anyone by that name. I think you’d better try the other number. This is the communal phone – the one for the pupils. I just happened to be passing.’

  While he was listening, Monsieur Pamplemousse removed his pen from an inner pocket and twisted the barrel. ‘Do you have the other number? I am afraid I have mislaid it.’

  While he was writing there was a stirring from the confines of the wheelbarrow. It was followed by a loud yawn and a smacking of lips. Pommes Frites was showing signs of life at long last.

  ‘And who shall I be speaking to?’

  ‘You’ll probably get Madame Schmidt herself. I saw her go towards her room as I was coming up the stairs.’

  Thanking the girl for her trouble, he replaced the receiver and then almost immediately regretted his haste. Having established some kind of rapport he should have taken matters a stage further and found out where she was speaking from. The code was from an outside area. He checked with a list in a folder beside his bed. It was somewhere higher up the mountains near Morzine. It was obviously an educational establishment of some kind.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed thoughtfully at the telephone for a moment or two, then picked up the receiver and dialled the number the girl had given him.

  This time the call was answered almost immediately.

  ‘Institut des Beaux Arbres. Madame Schmidt speaking. Can I help you?’

  He decided to take the bull by the horns. ‘Bonjour, Madame. I hope you can. Forgive my troubling you at this early hour, but I am in the area and I am making some enquiries. I am told that it is possible you have some vacancies.’

  ‘The term has already started, Monsieur.’ The voice sounded hesitant. ‘We like our pupils to be here from the beginning, otherwise it sometimes creates difficulties. The school year begins in September.’

  ‘No matter. There is no great urgency. It is a question of planning for the future. I am staying at Les Cinq Parfaits and while I am here I hope to see as many establishments as I can.’

  ‘Monsieur should have an easy task then. As far as I know we are the only school in the area. They are nearly all on the Swiss side of the lake.’

  ‘In that case perhaps it would be as well if I came to see you as soon as possible.’

  ‘You have our brochure?’

  ‘I am speaking on behalf of a friend. He is abroad at present and unable to carry out the investigation himself. I promised I would do my best.’

  ‘He is French? Most of our clients are from overseas. Learning the language is an integral part of the course. A French student would find the going very slow.’

  ‘No, Madame. He is English. That is also part of the problem and why I am here.’

  ‘I understand, Monsieur.’ The voice was perceptibly friendlier. ‘The second half of this week will be a little difficult …’

  ‘How about this afternoon?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse assumed his most ingratiating manner. ‘I realise it is very short notice, but my friend spoke most highly of your establishment, and with three children to plan for …’

  This time there was a distinct thaw. ‘Let me see … I have another appointment at four. Shall we say two thirty? That will allow plenty of time for you to see around the school and to observe our pupils at work.’

  ‘Thank you, Madame. I will be with you at two thirty. A bientôt.’

  ‘Au revoir, Monsieur.’

  Pommes Frites looked at him enquiringly as he replaced the receiver. While his master had been engaged on the telephone he’d been taking stock of the situation, absorbing his new surroundings, weighing up the scene as best he could, given the fact that his brain was still far from functioning on all of its many cylinders. Not for nothing had he accompanied Monsieur Pamplemousse on his travels up and down the autoroutes and byways of France, sharing his thoughts at the wheel, his many meals, the passenger seat of his 2CV, and more often than not his hotel room – even his very bed. Over the years he’d become adept at reading his master’s mind. Lack of vocabulary, at least on a scale which would have met the minimum requirements laid down by the Minister of Education for the schools of France, did not prevent him getting the gist of conversations or sensing which way the wind was blowing. Rather the reverse. The ability to recognise certain key words often gave him the edg
e in that it allowed him to go straight to the heart of matters at a time when others more skilled in their use would have been diverted. Instinct told Pommes Frites that something was going on.

  However, coming up with the right answer was one thing. Co-ordinating the rest of his body to follow suit was another matter entirely. He tried shifting his position and then hurriedly froze as the surface beneath him rocked in a most unseemly manner and his stomach rebelled accordingly.

  The plain fact was, Pommes Frites still felt distinctly out of sorts. Had he been given to writing to the newpapers on topics of current interest, he would have happily spent the rest of the morning lying in the wheelbarrow composing a very bitter letter indeed to the local journal on the subject of hotels who denied canine guests access to their dining-room and then left their waste-bins not only unattended but full to overflowing. It was simply asking for trouble. Religion was not one of Pommes Frites’ strong subjects, but had he been cognisant of the temptations suffered by Adam in the Garden of Eden, he could have drawn some pretty pointed parallels. Nor would he have sought anonymity by signing himself ‘Disgusted, Evian’; he would have come right out with it and given his full name and address. Whether the local journal would have risked incurring the wrath of Les Cinq Parfaits by printing it was purely a matter of conjecture; an editorial decision was unlikely to be put to the test. Les Cinq Parfaits was one of the area’s major sources of income, a source whose ripples spread far and wide, giving support to innumerable diverse activities and industries, from mushroom-growers to helicopter pilots and the mechanics who serviced their machines, from wine-growers to owners of motor-launches, from chambermaids and dairy farmers to fruit-growers and butchers and suppliers of chlorine for swimming pools. Advertising revenue would have slumped and circulation figures been put in jeopardy.

  However, it summed up the kind of mood Pommes Frites was in as he rested his head on the side of the barrow and watched his master busy himself over a matter that was clearly causing him a certain amount of serious thought and which involved emptying the contents of a small leather suitcase on to his bed.

  The sight of the suitcase confirmed Pommes Frites’ suspicions. Something was very definitely ‘going on’.

  Designed at the turn of the century by Le Guide’s founder, Hippolyte Duval, for use by Inspectors at a time when emergencies of one sort or another were commonplace, it had been carefully added to and improved upon over the years until it had reached a point where practically any eventuality was catered for; even, reflected Monsieur Pamplemousse as he removed the tray of photographic equipment and exposed a lower one containing a selection of culinary items, eventualities which would surely have been undreamed of by the founder or any of his various successors.

  Pommes Frites never ceased to be amazed by the contents of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s suitcase, but amazement gave way to incredulity as he watched his master take out what looked like a very ordinary flat metal disc. Then, with one flick of his wrist, he changed it into a totally different shape – a shape not unlike a giant version of the ice-cream containers he was sometimes allowed to share, the ones which tasted of biscuit. Had his master produced a string of flags of all nations from his left ear, Pommes Frites could not have been more taken aback, and for the moment at least it took his mind off his own problems.

  Nor did his master show signs of resting on his laurels. Having performed one trick to his obvious satisfaction, he looked around the room for another, peering into the bathroom, opening cupboard doors, until suddenly his gaze alighted on a large, empty bottle standing on top of the refrigerator.

  Giving a grunt of satisfaction, Monsieur Pamplemousse slipped the cone-shaped article into the neck of the bottle, held both up to the light, then turned to face Pommes Frites, uttering as he did so the words, ‘Une promenade?’

  Although simple in content and perhaps not in the same class as such immortal phrases as ‘Kiss me, Hardy’, or ‘Not tonight, Josephine’, they were, nevertheless, words which would have caused a keen student of such matters to prick up his ears and reach for a notebook, aware that he was privileged to be present at one of those moments destined to become in its own small way one of historical importance.

  Blissfully unaware of either the importance of the occasion or the leading part he was about to play, Pommes Frites climbed out of the wheelbarrow and made his way unsteadily towards the door.

  Even in his present comatose state he could tell the difference between a suggestion and a command. His early training with the Paris Sûreté stood him in good stead. Suggestions offered a freedom of choice. Commands were meant to be obeyed without question.

  Conscious only that duty called, Pommes Frites followed his master out of the side door and into the gardens of Les Cinq Parfaits.

  It was some while before they returned to the room and by then both were in sombre mood, each busy with his own thoughts and studiously avoiding the other’s gaze.

  The telephone was ringing, and while Pommes Frites lay down on a rug by the window, Monsieur Pamplemousse placed the bottle and funnel carefully on the table beside his bed and picked up the receiver. It was a call from Paris.

  ‘Pamplemousse, what is going on? It was my intention to leave you to your own devices, but I have been receiving disturbing reports, reports I can scarcely credit. Reports of bestial happenings in the bushes outside the dining-room. There have been complaints from the guests. Some of them were so put off their lunch they demanded their money back. I would like to think that it was a case of mistaken identity, but I fear the description of both participants tallies. I demand an explanation.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath. There were times in his conversations with the Director when it was possible, by the lowering of suitable shutters, to divert the other’s voice along the shortest possible route leading to an exit through the opposite ear, but patently it was not one of those occasions. Patently it was an occasion when tops needed to be blown, his authority asserted and parameters established once and for all.

  He spoke at length, choosing his words with care; words which were both rounded and yet at the same time pointed. Explicit words which established his feelings with the utmost clarity and precision. Words which left no room for doubt. When he had finished he sat down on the bed and mopped his brow, waiting for the storm to break. Pommes Frites gazed at his master with renewed respect, aware that a stand had been made.

  There was a long pause. ‘Forgive me, Aristide.’ The Director sounded genuinely contrite. ‘I am under considerable pressure at this end, you understand. You are in the battle area, subject to bombardment by long-range missiles, but I am also under fire. Weapons are being held to my head. I have hardly slept all night.’

  ‘Pardon, Monsieur,’ Monsieur Pamplemousse broke in before the Director got too far with his emotional flights of fancy; once started there was often no stopping him. ‘With respect, I must be allowed to do things in my own way and at my own pace. I have, I believe, already made considerable progress. Now there are leads to be followed; there is information to be tabulated and considered. However, it appears that there are others staying at Les Cinq Parfaits who know as much about what is going on as I do – possibly more – and who seem to be aware of my every movement. Not only aware,’ he added with some heat, ‘but only too anxious to report on them with all possible speed. Let these others do the dirty work.’

  ‘That is not possible, Aristide. I cannot tell you why, but take my word for it, that is not possible. There are, as I said at the very beginning, wheels within wheels. Who knows what is what, or, indeed, who is who? If I were to tell you about some of the machinations which have reached my ears over the last two days you would scarcely credit them.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse rested the receiver under his chin and picked up the bottle containing Pommes Frites’ sample. He held it up to the light. Château Pommes Frites. A direct comparison with the real thing would rank it immediately as from a poor year; there was a distinct or
ange tinge. Perhaps a ’63? The year of a hard winter followed by a dismal summer, giving rise to poor flowering conditions. But that was only by direct comparison. On its own it would pass muster.

  If his chief did but know it, he was preaching to the converted. Monsieur Pamplemousse was only too well aware of things that went on behind the scenes. Lack of communication. Empire building. Parkinson’s Law, which ruled that the appointment of two assistants instead of one meant that jobs could be divided up in such a way that no one person knew enough to become a potential threat to those above. Inter-departmental rivalry. Jockeying for power. Corridors which led nowhere except to closed doors. He’d come across many of those in his time. Blank faces. Denials of the very existence of things one knew only too well existed. Sometimes he wondered how governments functioned at all.

  Wondering uneasily if he himself was some kind of pawn in the present game, he reached idly for the cork. It was still lying alongside the ice-bucket where it had been left the night before. Dried out by the warmth of the room, it went back into the neck of the bottle easily enough, needing only a slight tap with the ball of his hand to drive it fully home. There was only the smallest of holes to show where it had been penetrated by the corkscrew.

  He held the bottle up to the light again and as he did so a wicked thought entered his mind. Durelle was no fool, but given that the original label was still intact, he might get away with it.

  ‘Yes, chief, I am listening.’ He felt decidedly more cheerful now. He couldn’t wait to put his leg-pull into action. There would need to be a short note to accompany the bottle, of course. Something along the lines of: ‘Pommes Frites now on the road to recovery. No need for further action. A small token of my appreciation. Hope you enjoy it. Aristide.’

  It was true. Pommes Frites’ eyes now had a decided sparkle. He was growing more alive by the minute. The walk and the consequent chase round the garden must have done him good.