Monsieur Pamplemousse (Monsieur Pamplemousse Series)

by Michael Bond

  ‘Whereas?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse prodded him gently.

  Auguste Douard looked round carefully to make sure they were alone before replying.

  ‘Monsieur Pamplemousse, you are an honoured and most welcome guest in our hotel. You and Pommes Frites. It has always been that way and I trust it will remain so in the future. Your reputation in the Sûreté as a man who never gave up on a case, often and sadly to his cost, has gone before you. Your taste in food and in wine is something I have observed with pleasure over the years, and your approval is a reward in itself. I ask for nothing more. In matters of cuisine I am content to be judged by what is set before you. In the end there is no other way. Your secret is safe with me.

  ‘But I will not conceal from you the fact that last night’s affair came as a great shock, not simply because of its nature, but because of its timing. As you know, we have many plans for the hotel; many commitments. We have much at stake.

  ‘To win the approval of Michelin is a great honour; to gain a further toque in Gault Millau, that, too, would be good. But to receive a third Stock Pot in Le Guide—the oldest, the most respected in all France, that would mean so much I cannot possibly put it into words. I repeat, I ask no favours as far as your judgment on the food is concerned. I would not insult either you or Le Guide by suggesting such a thing. However, if there is some way in which you can help to solve this mystery I shall be more than grateful.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the matter for a moment or two, conscious that the other was watch­ing his every movement.

  ‘Were what you have just said about me true,’ he hedged, ‘it would have been even more unfortunate if I had recommended last night’s dish as a speciality. Think what that might involve in the future.’ He chuck­led at the thought and then immediately repented. Monsieur Douard was obviously in no mood for such frivolities.

  ‘Rest assured, Auguste,’ he placed one hand on the other’s arm and allowed himself the luxury of familiarity, ‘if it is within my power to help in any way during my stay here, then I shall be happy to do so. I must confess my curiosity has already been aroused. As for the other matter, if I were in a position to pass judgment then in no way would I allow what happened to influence my decision.’

  He clasped the other’s hand warmly in his own and then rose from the table. For some reason or other Pommes Frites had become increasingly agitated, and glancing out through the door he could see why. The young man with the artificial hands was crossing the square. He was by himself and he seemed in a hurry. His companion—the girl—aloof as ever, was heading towards the main part of the town carrying a shopping bag. Gucci by the look of it.

  ‘Thank you, my friend.’ Auguste waved as Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way outside. ‘I feel better already. A man should not enter his kitchen in a mood of despair. He should be in a state of grace. Tonight I shall prepare something very special indeed—just for you!’

  But Monsieur Pamplemousse scarcely heard. His mind was already on other things. Crossing the square, he was just in time to see steel-claws, as he’d mentally christened the young man, round a corner near the P.T.T. and disappear up a side street.

  Signalling Pommes Frites to heel, he waited for a moment or two and then hurried after him.

  Like many towns in the region, St. Castille had been spared the outer sprawl of industrialisation. It began and ended abruptly, almost as if surrounded by an invisible moat. Once past the grey, gaunt building of the hospice which marked the boundary they were in open country.

  Hardly slackening speed, the young man began the steady climb up a narrow road leading towards the plateau which lay at the foot of the hills and mountains to the east.

  Once, early on, a car shot past, scattering Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites as it took a bend ahead at high speed.

  Breathing heavily as he jumped down from the boulder which had acted as a temporary refuge, Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his fist after both car and driver as they disappeared up the hill in a cloud of dust. Whoever was at the wheel might know the road, but he was no respecter of persons.

  Beyond the treeline some miles ahead he could see a cluster of buildings which he guessed must be the new solar heating station, St. Castille’s contribution to the march of progress. No doubt they were deriving pleasure and profit from the warmth of the day—which was more than he could say. Even Pommes Frites was beginning to flag a little and he hung back for a moment to slake his thirst noisily from a brook, babbling its way down the hill. Some bees from a nearby cluster of hives buzzed their disapproval at the intrusion and then settled down again.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse mopped his brow while he waited. It was pointless indulging in any sort of cat and mouse game. Apart from a few olive trees and the odd clump of gorse, the countryside ahead offered little or no cover.

  A lizard appeared as if by magic on a nearby stone, froze, and then carried on its way. Overhead a bird hovered for a moment and then it, too, went on its way.

  Throwing caution to the wind, he quickened his pace as they set off again. He had no wish to turn the whole thing into a cross-country race, but if he didn’t catch up by the time they reached flatter ground that was what might happen.

  But the young man seemed to be displaying no interest whatsoever in his surroundings. Hands thrust deep into his pockets, just as they had been in the restaurant the night before, he went on his way—looking neither to the right nor to the left. And yet Monsieur Pamplemousse was left with the curious feeling that not only did he know he was being followed, but he actually wanted it.

  Already the terracotta rooftops of St. Castille were far below, lost in the morning heat haze. Apart from a few sheep and the solitary figure of a man with a shotgun slung over his shoulder on a rise to the right of them—doubtless a farmer trying to fill the evening cooking pot—they could have been alone in the world.

  In other circumstances Monsieur Pamplemousse might have enjoyed it more. As it was he was beginning to wish himself back in Paris. The sheer scale of it all; the grandeur of the distant Alps outlined against the perfect blueness of the sky, the hum of the insects, the smell of the wildflowers, were lost on him. Head down, he found himself wondering what had ever possessed anyone to build such a road in the first place. Where on earth had they been going and for what purpose? Come to that, what was he doing there? What would his colleagues at headquarters think if they could see him now? He’d really only set off on a whim. For a second or two he toyed with the idea of turning back. It was all rather ridiculous.

  Occupied as he was with these thoughts, he failed to notice his quarry had stopped until he was almost on top of him. By then it was too late to do anything about it.

  ‘Will you please stop following me?’ Steel claws sounded over-wrought. ‘I know what you’re going to say.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse took out a handkerchief, already wet with perspiration, and mopped his brow again while he played for time. He was momentarily at a loss for words. To be truthful he hadn’t the least idea what he’d been going to say.

  ‘You were going to ask about these, weren’t you?’ The young man held up both hands. They glinted in the sunshine.

  ‘What about them?’ If that was what he wanted it was as good an opening conversational gambit as any.

  ‘I knew it! I knew it! You’re all the same. Why can’t you leave me alone?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse felt somewhat aggrieved. To give him his due, although the matter of the mech­anical hands was not without interest, they hadn’t been uppermost in his mind. He certainly wouldn’t normally have been so unfeeling as to pose a direct question on the subject without being prompted.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me.’

  ‘You’re not going to believe me if I do. No one ever does.’

  ‘You could try me if you wish,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gently.

  The young man sat down on a stone at the side of the road and gazed out across the valley. ‘I used to work for a large ca
tering firm,’ he began at last. ‘Grimaldi. You may have heard of them. Refrigerators … deep freezes … kitchen equipment … that sort of thing. Waste disposals …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse caught his breath. ‘You don’t mean …’

  The young man nodded miserably. ‘The trouble is I’ve never been very good with my hands.’ He broke off. ‘That’s a laugh as things turned out.

  ‘Some people are mechanically-minded, some aren’t—never will be. I was demonstrating our latest model—the Mark IV industrial size with the last-for-life bearings and the optional U-train recycling attach­ment, when something went wrong. I should by rights have sent for a mechanic, but it could have been a big order so I tried to fix it myself and that’s when it happened. I put my hand down inside and whoosh! There it was—gone!’

  They fell silent as Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to picture the scene.

  ‘It must have been a very big machine,’ he ventured at last. ‘I mean … to accommodate two.’

  His companion gave a shrill laugh. ‘That’s what’s so ridiculous. That’s the bit you’re really not going to believe.’

  ‘You mean …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse shuddered at the thought. ‘You didn’t do it a second time?’

  ‘There was a big investigation, you see … after­wards. All the pezzi-grossi from Rome were there. They asked me to show them exactly what went wrong, so I put my other hand inside and … and …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at the young man. He was glad he’d been spared the second ‘whoosh’. To paraphrase that great Irish writer, Oscar Wilde, losing one hand was a misfortune, losing two in the same manner was downright careless.

  ‘You’ve no idea, no idea what it’s like …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shifted uneasily. He realised he had been standing perfectly still for some minutes, hanging on the other’s every word. That, combined with the long, uphill walk had brought on a certain stiffness; his shins felt quite painful. What could he say? What words could he possibly find to meet the young man on common ground? What personal mis­fortune could he conjure up to even begin to match the other’s?

  He was a kindly man at heart and as he pondered the matter an outrageous thought entered his mind; one which had he dwelt on it for any length of time he would have dismissed out of hand. As it was, almost without thinking and with the highest possible motives, he found himself giving voice to an untruth.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he said simply, ‘I do not know your name, but fate seems to have thrown us together for a short while and I have to tell you that you are not alone. You do not have a monopoly on misfortune.’

  The young man stared at him. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse tapped the secret compart­ment in his right trouser leg, the one containing his precious note-book. It gave out a hollow, wooden sound.

  ‘Does that sound like flesh and blood to you?’

  ‘You don’t mean … it isn’t?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. Then, having em­barked on a certain course, decided that he might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

  ‘And that is not all.’

  ‘Not … both?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded again. Conscious that Pommes Frites’ eyes were following his every movement, he avoided the direct lie. It was totally idiotic, but there it was. There was no going back.

  ‘That’s terrible. I’m sorry. I would never have known.’ It was the young man’s turn to be tongue-tied. For one moment Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he was going to cry.

  ‘By the way, it’s Giampiero.’

  ‘Giampiero?’

  ‘My name.’ The young man thrust out his right hand for Monsieur Pamplemousse to shake and then withdrew it hastily. ‘I’m sorry. I’m always doing that. I still haven’t got used to it.’

  For some strange reason Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself registering the fact that before his accident Giampiero must have had very long arms; almost apelike. Perhaps that was what had brought it about. Perhaps if they had been two or three inches shorter it wouldn’t have happened.

  ‘Fancy having two wooden legs. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Poof!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse waved his own hand carelessly in the air. Then, as he caught sight of it, immediately felt guilty.

  There was an embarrassed silence. ‘That is life,’ he continued. ‘Don’t ask me how it happened. Like you, I would really rather not talk about it. Besides, it all took place long ago. I merely wished to show that however bad things may seem, there is always someone a little worse off. No one is entirely without their private sorrows.’

  He broke off. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Pommes Frites stalking off towards a large gorse bush by the side of the road. On its own, not an un­usual occurrence. What distinguished this particular occasion from previous ones was the fact that he would have sworn on oath the bush in question hadn’t been there when they had first arrived. It was most odd. Perhaps he had been standing out in the sun for too long, or maybe he’d over-indulged himself with the marc at breakfast. Auguste was right; one should take care. Nevertheless … Monsieur Pamplemousse dis­missed the matter from his mind, putting it down as a momentary aberration; a summing-up which would have echoed Pommes Frites’ feelings almost exactly had he been able to put them into words. Such things did not happen.

  Even so, as he investigated the bush Pommes Frites couldn’t help feeling a certain amount of surprise that it smelled strongly of bay rum instead of gorse. Just as he was in the very act of raising his right leg his attention was caught by something else strange. The bush was beginning to rotate very slowly on its axis in a clock­wise direction. Pommes Frites gazed at it in astonish­ment for a moment and then hurried round the back in the same clock-wise manner in order to keep up with his chosen spot. He had a wide experience of bushes in all shapes and sizes, but he couldn’t remember such a thing ever happening before.

  As the bush settled down again he decided to have another go, devoting all his attention this time to the job in hand, lest it began playing any more tricks. Balancing on three legs while at the same time keep­ing a watchful eye open for possible attackers from the rear demands a certain amount of concentration. A moment’s relaxation, especially if the bush happens to be of a thorny variety, can be very painful.

  Pommes Frites concentrated, and as he did so he became aware of something else that was odd. It was a large bush and it wasn’t planted in the ground as were most bushes he’d come across, it was being held by someone; someone moreover who appeared to be clutching a long, shiny object in his other hand. Only an inch or two away from the end of Pommes Frites’ nose there was a large expanse of blue, pin–striped suiting. He blinked several times in order to make quite sure that he was seeing aright, but the object was definitely made of some kind of material. Material, moreover, that was stretched almost to bursting point by virtue of the fact that whoever was inside it was bending over.

  Never one to let an opportunity slip by, Pommes Frites gave the material an exploratory sniff.

  As sniffs go it wasn’t one of his best efforts. In his time he’d done many better, but the effect left absolutely nothing to be desired.

  To his astonishment the object of his attentions suddenly leapt into the air and went off bang—right in his face.

  Without waiting to find out the cause of this extra­ordinary occurrence, let alone complete his renverser la vapeur, Pommes Frites took off like a sheet of greased lightning. He was vaguely aware of shouts and cries and the sound of a car being driven off at high speed, but by the time he peered out from his hiding place all was quiet again.

  Assured that whatever had caused the phenomenon had gone on its way, he emerged and noticed for the first time that although his master was more or less where he’d last seen him, he was now lying on the ground with one leg in the air. Pommes Frites decided it was obviously one of ‘those mornings’, and he hurried across the road in order to take a closer
look and see if he could find out exactly what had happened.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse could have told him. Monsieur Pamplemousse could have told him in no uncertain terms what had taken place as seen from the other side of the bush. The whole thing was indelibly imprinted on his mind. Pommes Frites’ view had been from the wings as it were—a peep behind the scenes; his role that of prompter. Monsieur Pamplemousse, on the other hand, had viewed it all from stage centre and had, when he thought back over the chain of events later that day, played the leading role, escaping death or at the very least being maimed for life by a matter of millimetres.

  It had all happened in a flash, although at the time it seemed more like a bad dream taking place in slow motion. He’d been vaguely aware of seeing Pommes Frites amble off in the direction of the bush. He’d also felt there was something ‘not quite right’ when he’d seen him disappear round the back, but he’d been taken up with other matters. Then all at once the bush had taken off like a missile from its launch pad. There had been a flash of sunlight on metal, followed by a loud bang, and then something hit him in the right leg, knocking him off balance and causing him to fall to the ground.

  Like Pommes Frites he’d also been aware of a figure running from the bush and the sound of an engine starting up, but by the time he’d recovered himself sufficiently to do anything about it the car was already almost out of sight and it was too late to catch its number.

  He felt the top of his leg. The trousers were torn and peppered with small holes, but by some miracle which could only have been arranged by his own personal guardian angel—the one who had watched over him all the years he’d been in the force—the shot seemed to have been taken fairly and squarely by his note-book.