Monsieur Pamplemousse (Monsieur Pamplemousse Series)

by Michael Bond

  Wriggling was possible, if slightly painful; bounds were definitely out of the question.

  Pommes Frites closed his eyes again and hoped that the noises, whatever they were, would go away. But he was doomed to disappointment.

  A faint click from the direction of the door heralded a welcome draught of fresh air. It was followed almost immediately by another click and as the door closed there came a strong smell of talcum powder and he heard the sound of breathing again, closer this time and much heavier, then a soft rustle of silk as something white and filmy landed on the floor beside him.

  Pommes Frites blinked at the object in astonishment, but before he had time to work out what was going on let alone do anything about it, the breath was suddenly knocked clean out of him for the second time that night as a heavy weight landed on top of the bed.

  But if Pommes Frites was taken by surprise, Monsieur Pamplemousse was positively devastated. Unlike Pommes Frites, he was unable to claim that he’d been in the middle of a particularly pleasant dream; rather the reverse. He’d fallen asleep with a confusion of thoughts in his mind; thoughts which eventually began to form themselves into a small cloud on the horizon. A cloud which then turned and began to head in his direction, growing inexorably larger and all-enveloping with every passing second. Seconds, which at the time seemed like hours, but which he realised afterwards were all contained within the brief period between sleep and waking.

  All he was aware of was a dreadful feeling of trying desperately to raise his leaden arms to ward off the cloud and being unable to move them. As he forced open his eyes, heavy with sleep, he realised to his horror that somewhere along the line the dream had turned into reality and that the amorphous mass on top of him had taken on human shape. A shape which was at once warm, voluptuous and all-embracing. A shape whose lips were showering him with endearments as they sought his own. Moist, sensuous, urgent lips, belonging to a body which seemed to possess more than its fair share of hands; hands which caressed and searched and stroked and squeezed.

  Taking advantage of a momentary lull in the pro­ceedings as his assailant raised herself and drew breath for an instant, Monsieur Pamplemousse managed to free one arm. Reaching out in desperation to the table beside his bed, he grasped the first thing that came to hand—a heavy, carved wooden candlestick.

  No one would be able to say he’d gone down without a struggle.

  But the moment of respite was short-lived. Before he had time to transfer his grip from the base to the top in order to make better use of it as a weapon, he felt himself being embraced yet again. Limbs stretched out, pinning both his arm and the candlestick between them.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse steeled himself for a second assault, racking his brains as he did so for an explana­tion as to who his assailant might be and what possible circumstances could have triggered off such a bizarre event.

  But the assault never came. True, the moans and groans and the intermittent cries of ecstasy continued unabated, but they had taken on a more regular pattern. He realised with a start that the pleasure being enjoyed by his intruder was not of his making, nor indeed was it of a kind that in his wildest and most boastful dreams could he possibly have emulated. Lying there, gather­ing his senses, Monsieur Pamplemousse had to admit to a faint feeling of regret that he was unable to share in the obviously all-pervading delight being enjoyed by his companion. For one wild moment he contemplated a little sleight of hand; a substitution of instruments. Then he dismissed the idea. In his present state of shock he would never get away with it. Far better to lie back and let matters take their course.

  At last the movement ceased and with a long drawn-out gasp his visitor collapsed panting by his side.

  ‘Chéri.’ The whispering voice on the pillow beside him brought him to his senses with a bump. He sud­denly realised where he’d heard it before.

  ‘Never … never, never, never have I experienced such a moment. Such … love … such … manhood. I didn’t realise it could be possible. If only I had known before. When I got your note …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind raced ahead of the words. Note? What note? He had sent no note.

  As the arms entwining him relaxed he took advan­tage of the moment and shifted his position.

  Madame Douard appeared to be searching for some­thing. Whatever it was she seemed to have found it, for she relaxed again. ‘My little wooden legs …’ her voice took on a girlish note as she turned to him again. ‘Let me caress them in my own special way …’

  Any doubts Monsieur Pamplemousse might have had as to what was going to happen next were resolved as a searing pain suddenly shot up his leg.

  Merde upon merde! It could not be true. It was not possible. The pain hit him again. This time a little higher up. It was true! Madame Douard was sand­papering his right leg! By the feel of it the paper was très gros quality at the very least.

  Summoning all his strength, he gave a tremendous heave and leapt out of the bed, crossing to the door in a single bound, determined at any costs to escape the clutches of this daughter of the Borgias.

  Once outside he hurried down the corridor as fast as his legs would carry him. Mindful of the fact that Madame Douard’s knowledge of the hotel was in­finitely greater than his, he took the stairs leading down into the hall two at a time and headed towards the toilets. Surely, inflamed with passion though she was, Madame Douard couldn’t possibly follow him into the Hommes.

  Rounding a corner, he narrowly missed the pile of builders’ material and paused in order to peer up at the doors, trying to decipher in the dim glow of the emergency night lighting which was which. It was a long time since he’d used them.

  As part of its modernisation, La Langoustine’s public toilets were undergoing extensive changes. A feature which obviously gave Monsieur Douard particular pride when he’d been describing it over breakfast was the installation of a system of automatic flushing in the Hommes, operated by means of an electric beam. All very well, but in the circumstances he wished they’d devoted a little more of the money to buying some proper symbols for the doors. In the half-light it was hard to tell whether he was looking at a man wearing an extra long jacket or a girl in a very short dress.

  He was about to give up and take a chance when he noticed a relic of earlier times which had yet to be removed; some carved wooden letters high up on the door which spelled out the word ‘ADA’. By process of elimination, the second door along had to be the one he wanted. A moment later he was safely inside.

  As the door closed behind him he looked around and saw facing him a long shelf, surmounted by a mirror, running the length of one wall, and below it a row of hand-basins and stools.

  Gazing at his reflection in the mirror, Monsieur Pamplemousse realised several things in quick suc­cession. First of all, in his haste he had come away without his pyjamas. Not that there would have been either the time or the opportunity for such niceties. The weather was warm and they were still in his suitcase. Second, also reflected in the mirror, was a long line of cubicles, but nowhere was there any sign of the urinals Auguste had described so graphically that morning.

  His heart sank. He was in the Dames after all. Merde!

  The appositeness of the expression suddenly struck him. At any other time it might have brought a smile to his lips, but he froze as he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. High heels on stone flooring. On the principle of any port in a storm he made a dive for the nearest cubicle. Pushing the door shut behind him he collapsed on to the seat and held his breath. He wondered whether or not to risk drawing the bolt and then decided to play it by ear and await developments.

  The outside door opened and swung gently to again. He caught a faint whiff of perfume. The smell was expensive, discreet, subtle. Whoever it belonged to it certainly wasn’t Madame Sophie; he would remember hers for a long time to come. The wearer was obviously looking for something. He heard a murmur of im­patience as a cupboard door was opened and then closed again. He felt his
heart miss a beat as the footsteps came in his direction and paused, then he relaxed again as they entered the next cubicle along.

  He waited gloomily for further developments. It was the Follies all over again. No one would believe him a second time if he said he’d gone through the wrong door by mistake. He would be branded as a Peeping Tom for ever. He could almost see the head­lines. NUDE INTRUDER STRIKES AGAIN!

  He pricked up his ears. Whatever else was happening in the next cubicle he was sufficiently a man of the world to realise that it didn’t point to the occupant having been taken short.

  There was a heavy clunk which sounded like some­one removing the top from the cistern. A moment later there was a splash followed by an even heavier clunk as the top was replaced. After a moment’s pause there came the sound of rushing water as the toilet was flushed.

  After what seemed like an interminable wait while the cistern refilled the cubicle door opened again. There was a rustle from the paper-towel dispenser, the sound of a wastebin lid being lifted, a faint squeak from the outer door, then the clip clop of feet as whoever it was disappeared again as swiftly as she had come.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse waited for a moment or two, counting his lucky stars that he had remained undiscovered, then gingerly pushed open his cubicle door. Something very odd was going on and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

  Mindful of his narrow escape, he decided to make sure the coast was clear before going any further. It wouldn’t do for whoever had been in there to return and catch him red-handed.

  Opening the door to the corridor he stuck his head through the gap and peered out. All was quiet.

  He was about to withdraw inside again when he felt rather than saw a pair of eyes boring into him. Focusing his gaze on the far side of the entrance hall he became aware of a faint glow from a lighted cigarette, and below it, merging into the darkness of a deep armchair, a figure in uniform.

  ‘Bonne nuit!’ Much to his annoyance, Monsieur Pamplemousse realised his voice was a shade higher than he’d intended. He cleared his throat and pointed up to the sign. ‘I seem to have made a mistake. It is not easy in the dark.’

  The figure in the armchair didn’t move. There was a sucking noise, almost like a sigh, and the cigarette momentarily glowed brighter. From its light Monsieur Pamplemousse made out the by now familiar figure of the gendarme. He stifled his annoyance. He’d totally forgotten about the gendarme.

  Summoning all his dignity, he emerged from the toilet and headed back towards the stairs, conscious as he did so of a pair of eyes watching his every move­ment.

  As he reached the first floor landing he quickened his pace. The possibility of meeting anyone else at that time of night was slight, all the same … he paused outside his door and listened. Suppose Madame Sophie was still there, awaiting him with open arms? Mon Dieu! What a night!

  Bending down, he applied his eye to the keyhole and then realised that it was a waste of time. The light was still off. As he stood up he caught a glimpse of a uniformed figure at the top of the stairs. It ducked out of sight, leaving behind a trail of cigarette smoke.

  Taking the bull by the horns, he flung open the door and marched deliberately into his room, reaching for the light switch at the same time. As the room flooded with light a form on the bed lifted its head and stared at him reproachfully through eyes red from lack of sleep.

  ‘Pardon!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse flicked the switch which operated the lights over the dressing table and then turned off the overhead ones. In all the excitement he’d forgotten about Pommes Frites. But from the look on his face it was clear that Pommes Frites had not forgotten his master.

  The whole disastrous evening was imprinted for evermore, not only on Pommes Frites’ mind, but on most of his body as well. One way and another it had taken quite a battering that night. Having his kennel collapse on top of him had been bad enough, but that had all been over in a matter of seconds. Being incarcerated under the bed had been much, much worse—never-endingly worse. The combined weight of his master and Madame Sophie had strained the springs to their utmost and when the activity was at its height it had felt for all the world as if he’d been trapped beneath a giant pile driver.

  Pommes Frites had no wish to pass judgment on the morals of others, least of all his master, but he wished they’d carried out their frolickings elsewhere.

  Battered and bruised, when the coast was clear and he was at last able to crawl out from his hiding place, Pommes Frites sought refuge on top of the bed. There he intended to stay until he was removed by force. Not that he felt totally safe even then. He wouldn’t have been at all surprised if the ceiling suddenly fell in. Nothing would have surprised him any more.

  At least … he fixed his master with a stare. He had been expecting some kind of an apology, a word of cheer or a friendly pat, but Monsieur Pamplemousse obviously had his mind set on other things. During the course of their life together he, Pommes Frites, had been witness to many strange goings on. Had he been equipped for the task he could have written a book about them. A book which might well have reached the best sellers list in Animal Ways, but … he blinked in order to make sure he was seeing aright—never before had he seen his master acting quite so strangely.

  Suddenly aware of Pommes Frites’ unwinking gaze, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned his back on him. Pommes Frites had a very disconcerting gaze when he chose and he wasn’t in the mood for explanations; he had enough problems as it was.

  Madame Douard’s shapely form, fashioned by nature in one of her more generous moods, had been made even more luxurious over the years by its owner’s pursuit of good food. The two combined meant that the nightdress she had left behind fitted him like a glove. And like a glove, putting it on was not as easy as it looked—especially as he didn’t want to run the risk of damaging it irreparably in the process. Bending over would be hazardous in the extreme.

  However, something untoward had taken place in the Dames and he was determined to get to the bottom of it before the night was very much older.

  Taking a large, white handkerchief out of a drawer, he tied a knot in each corner and then slipped it over his head like a makeshift bonnet.

  ‘Good boy!’ With a reassuring wave to Pommes Frites he made for the door and hurriedly shut it behind him.

  ‘Good boy!’ Pommes Frites stared suspiciously at the closed door for quite a long while. He was used to the various nuances in his master’s voice, and the guilt-ridden tones of the last remark had not escaped him. It was the kind of voice Monsieur Pamplemousse usually reserved for Madame Pamplemousse on those occa­sions when he arrived home late without a reasonable excuse, reasonable in Madame Pamplemousse’s eyes, that is … Part apologetic, part defiant, with a dash of apprehension mixed in for good measure.

  Pommes Frites heaved a deep sigh. In his haste his master hadn’t even bothered to turn out the light.

  He was about to try and resume his slumbers when something else happened to delay matters. A piece of blue paper came sliding underneath the door. A piece of blue paper, moreover, which had a border of flowers round it. Even without moving Pommes Frites could see them: large brightly coloured flowers. Also with­out moving he could smell a scent; a scent which he recognised at once. It belonged to the other half of the two people most responsible for his present aches and pains.

  Pommes Frites tensed himself lest the paper should be a prelude to yet another attack, perhaps this time on his own person. Then he relaxed again as he caught the sound of retreating footsteps going back down the corridor.

  Unaware of the happenings on the floor above, Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way towards the toilets in a curious crablike shuffle. Negotiating the stairs had taken rather longer than he’d bargained for, partly on account of his having to take them very carefully one at a time lest he burst the seams of Madame Sophie’s nightdress, but also—although he wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone—wearing it was having a delayed but pronounced effect on his ardour.
r />   He toyed with the idea of assuming a disguised voice and saying good night to the gendarme, then he rejected it. That might be pushing things a little too far. In any case the man seemed to have disappeared for the time being.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, he pushed open the door to the Dames, noting as he did so the outline symbol on the door and above that the original sign ‘EVE’. It wouldn’t do to make a second mistake and compound the felony by getting himself trapped in the Hommes dressed in his present garb.

  Once inside he lost no time. Making straight for the cubicle where all the activity had taken place, he lifted the top from the cistern and peered inside.

  A look of satisfaction came over his face. Clearly visible at the bottom was a long piece of metal with a polished wooden handle. Pulling up a sleeve of the nightdress, he reached down into the water. It was as he’d suspected; a small, single-ended saw, equipped with a fine-toothed blade of the type used for cutting metal. The blade, which was new, bore signs of having recently been used. Its blueness had been worn away and fragments of metal clogged the middle section of teeth.

  Wrapping the handle in a piece of toilet paper, he laid it carefully on the floor while he replaced the cistern top. Then he picked it up again, unbolted the cubicle door and made for the exit. Altogether, he could hardly have been in there for more than a minute or two.

  ‘Bonsoir, Pamplemousse.’ He jumped as a familiar figure detached itself from a pillar in the hall and came towards him.

  ‘Or should I say, bonjour?’ Inspector Banyuls gazed at him coldly. Making no attempt to hide the contempt in his voice, he looked Monsieur Pamplemousse slowly up and down, taking in the saw as he did so. The construction he placed on the meeting was obvious. A saw was for cutting wood. Holes cut in wood were for looking through.

  He turned to the gendarme. ‘You did well to call me, Lesparre. But as it is late I suggest we leave further enquiries until morning. As for you …’ He turned back to Monsieur Pamplemousse and held out his hand. ‘I will relieve you of that, if I may.’