by Michael Bond
‘Now, look here.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse made a half-hearted attempt at bluster. ‘Before we go any further I suggest you question your subordinate on who else has used the toilet within the last half-hour. I am not the only one.’
‘Is this true?’
The gendarme gave an indifferent shrug. ‘How should I know? I have my rounds to do. I have seen this man twice. Once as naked as the day he was born, and now …’ He left the sentence unfinished, but his opinion on the whole sordid matter was all too obvious.
Monsieur Pamplemousse knew better than to argue. He had met the type many times before in his career. Fine if they were on your side, but there was no getting through if they weren’t.
‘All right.’ He handed the saw to Inspector Banyuls, who tucked it inside his jacket with an air of satisfaction. ‘But it could be to your advantage to have it checked for finger-prints as soon as possible. With luck the water may not have destroyed them, in which case you will find other ones than mine on the handle.
‘As for my being here in the first place, you will no doubt be aware of the fact that certain alterations are taking place. Obviously the toilet facilities for the Dames are being enlarged. That is why they now have two rooms. One,’ he pointed to the sign on the door he’d just come out of, ‘one is marked “EVE” and the other “ADA”. Naturally, when I first saw the one marked “ADA” I assumed this one was for the men. It is a mistake anyone might make.’
He was pleased he had treated the matter in a dignified way. Others might have tried to think up a cock-and-bull story. It paid to tell the truth in the end.
Inspector Banyuls was looking at something on the floor. He followed the direction of his gaze and dimly made out a small piece of carved wood.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t have my glasses and unfortunately I am unable to bend down at the moment.’
‘Boasting again, Pamplemousse!’ The inspector bent down, picked up the object and held it in the air between thumb and forefinger.
It was obvious what it was, but clearly he was determined to get his pound of flesh.
‘I am surprised that an ex-member of the Sûreté should be so easily taken in,’ he said. ‘I think you will find, although I am sure you already know, that the toilets are as they have always been … “ADAM” and “EVE”. It is simply that the letter “M” has fallen off the end of the “ADAM”.
‘Also,’ he added, pressing home his point remorselessly, ‘next time you feel an overwhelming desire to dress up as a woman, I suggest you either confine your activities to your own room or you first shave off your moustache. It does not go well with your costume.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse reached instinctively to his face and then, conscious of a barely suppressed snigger from the gendarme, turned on his heels. He knew when he was beaten.
Aware this time of not one, but two pairs of eyes boring into him, he made his way slowly back up the stairs. Halfway up the worst happened. Over-reaching his step, he felt the material start to give. The sound of tearing silk echoed round the hall, but he was determined not to give the others the satisfaction of seeing him hurry. Never had a flight of stairs seemed so long.
As he let himself wearily into his room he caught sight of the note on the floor and, regardless of the harm he was doing to the rest of the nightdress, bent down to pick it up.
‘My shy one of the darkness,’ he read. ‘You have no need to run away as you did tonight. You have made me the happiest woman in the whole world. Sleep well, and gather your strength for the morrow. I will make sure you have need of it. I shall be counting the seconds until we meet again. Your ever-loving, ever-wanting, ever-needing, ever-lusting … S.’
Too tired even to bother removing the nightdress, Monsieur Pamplemousse flopped down on the bed alongside Pommes Frites. Gazing up at the ceiling he offered up a silent prayer, thanking the good Lord that Sophie did not plan to return that night. At least it gave him some sort of respite. He glanced at the candlestick. Things were in a mess and no mistake. It would take some sorting out.
As he reached back over his head to turn out the light a warm tongue sought out his arm. He immediately felt better. There was something very reassuring about Pommes Frites’ tongue in times of trouble.
In no time at all their snores mingled. Both were out for the count.
They were still in the same position when the chambermaid opened the door with her pass key next morning, illuminated by a shaft of sunlight sneaking in between a gap in the shutters.
Putting a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream, she stood in the doorway drinking in the scene. A dog—a large dog, and a man dressed in a woman’s silk nightdress, ripped all the way down the back—and what was he clutching? A candlestick! ‘Mon Dieu!’
It was the kind of thing she had read about in Dimanche-Soir, but never in her wildest dreams had she expected to see such goings on at La Langoustine. In her time she’d come across many strange sights, but this one capped the lot. It had all the ingredients of a first-rate scandal. She would have something to tell the others when she got back home, my word she would!
Quietly, she closed the door behind her and turned the card on the handle to occupé.
5
WEDNESDAY MORNING
‘Attendez, s’il vous plaît.’ With the briefest of signals to Pommes Frites, Monsieur Pamplemousse entered the telephone booth outside the Hôtel de Ville, placed a large pile of coins neatly on one side of the shelf and a carefully folded copy of Ici Paris on the other, then drew a deep breath as he mentally prepared himself for the first of three calls, all of which were, to a greater or lesser extent, of a confidential nature. The bedrooms of La Langoustine were not yet equipped for direct dialling and he had no wish to be listened-in to by the girl in reception, still less Madame Douard if she happened to be around.
The first of his calls was to his wife, Doucette. He’d been having qualms of conscience about Doucette. Doucette, who stayed at home looking after the running of the flat, doing the washing and ironing, watering the plants, dusting, standing in supermarket queues, while he, Pamplemousse, was away on his travels—often for weeks or months at a time.
If only he could explain to her the loneliness of it all. The sheer boredom of having to eat meal after meal on behalf of Le Guide and its readers, some of whom probably couldn’t tell a Tivoli aux Fraises from a Bombe Surprise. Awarding marks for a sauce Béarnaise one day, taking them away on the morrow for an overcooked sauce Périgourdine. Having to stuff himself with Écrevisses à la Bordelaise followed by Pêches à l’Aurore, when all he really craved for was a simple underdone steak and salad, with perhaps a glace vanille to round things off. She would never understand. The grass was always greener on the other side of the fence.
As the phone began to ring at the other end of the line he brushed a crumb from his coat sleeve and made a mental note to add croissants to the growing list of bonus points for the hotel.
Breakfast had been a little later than usual—mainly because in all the excitement he’d forgotten to leave his order card outside the bedroom door. But in the event it had been one of the most delicious croissants he’d eaten for a long time. Or, if he were to be absolutely honest, three of the most delicious croissants, for they had been very more-ish. Warm, buttery, with a satisfying lightness, they had positively melted in the mouth. A perfect accompaniment to the large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and the slightly acrid but flavoursome coffee, not to mention the bowls of home-made confiture, the berries of which were as juicy and full of fruit as the day on which they had been picked; a miracle of preservation. Altogether a most rewarding start to the morning. The slice of lemon in Pommes Frites’ water bowl had been a pleasant touch as well.
For a moment the memory of it all brought about another twinge of conscience and he toyed with the idea of asking his wife if she would care to join him for the rest of the stay. But only for a moment. A click as the receiver was lifted at the other end brought him sharply back to
earth. In the circumstances such thoughts would never do. He had enough problems as it was. He must not weaken. He told himself Doucette would not enjoy the experience. Apart from all the undercurrents at work the rich food would play havoc with her diet.
‘Couscous, is that you?’ He put out a tentative endearment to test the water. ‘Oui. Oui, oui, chérie, it is I, Aristide … Oui, we are still in St. Castille … Chérie, how strange … I was only thinking to myself a moment ago how nice that would be, but unfortunately something important has come up … No, Doucette, I think it would be better if you didn’t. Really, I do. I cannot explain for the moment, but I have to remain here a little longer, you understand? Besides, it is not like being on the coast and you know how much you dislike the cold. The mountain air …’
Holding the telephone receiver away from his ear, Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at it distastefully. It was all too clear that Doucette didn’t understand. He decided to play his trump card. The one that never failed.
‘In that case, chérie … if you would really like to … I will make immediate arrangements. You can catch an afternoon train. I will arrange to have it met. You will be here by …’
The reaction was as he had predicted. How could she possibly leave Paris when there was so much work to do? Who would take care of the flat? The plombier was arriving on Thursday to put a new washer on the kitchen tap—something he couldn’t possibly do even if he was there to do it—which he wasn’t. Besides, she was in the middle of making a new dress …
Monsieur Pamplemousse stifled his relief and allowed his attention to wander across the square. Even Pommes Frites seemed to have caught the general mood of the conversation, for he was standing bolt upright with his ears pricked and his legs wide apart as if ready for the off at a moment’s notice.
‘No, chérie, I do not know for how long. Perhaps it will be for one more day, perhaps two. Maybe a week.’ He lowered his voice. ‘It all depends.’
Almost immediately he regretted placing so much emphasis on the last phrase.
‘No, no, no, Doucette, of course there is no other. I promise you on my honour, I have been faithful.’
Catching sight of a priest entering the church on the far side of the square, Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily crossed himself and turned back into the booth. Looked at in a certain light what he had just said was undoubtedly true. He, Pamplemousse, had been faithful. Faithfulness was largely a matter of intent. Was it his fault if others, less strong, had forced themselves on—or even upon him? Might it not be true to say that it was only consideration for others, a desire not to disturb them in their sleep by calling out, that had stifled his protests? The Americans, as ever, had a neat way of putting it. What was the expression they used? Brownie points. Did he not at the very least deserve a few Brownie points for his unselfishness?
‘And how are the window boxes, Couscous?’ he enquired. ‘Have you given them plenty of water? You know how quickly they dry out in this hot weather … It is raining in Paris! how strange! Here the sun is shining. It is like …’
A loud click brought the conversation to an abrupt end—at least as far as Madame Pamplemousse was concerned.
Merde! Women! Monsieur Pamplemousse replaced the receiver with rather more force than he had intended and prepared himself for the second call of the morning.
It was brief and to the point.
‘Bonjour. Pamplemousse here. May I have the office of Monsieur le Directeur, please?’
‘Certainly, Monsieur Pamplemousse. At once, Monsieur Pamplemousse.’
‘Chief, Pamplemousse here. I have a slight change of plans. It will necessitate a few more days in the area.
‘Ah, you have already heard? A strange business. It was in the Poularde de Bresse en Vessie.
‘Yes, chief. Thank you, chief.
‘Oui, I will take care.’
‘Le Guide needs you, Pamplemousse. You must be in Rouen by next Sunday at the latest. There is a deadline to meet. There have been bad reports of their Mille-feuille de Saumon au Cerfeuil. I would go myself but I cannot spare the time.’ The directeur of Le Guide spoke in the clipped tones of a general preparing his troops for battle. Tones which, try as he might, Monsieur Pamplemousse always found hard not to imitate when they were holding a conversation.
Catching sight of an elderly woman peering at him through the glass he realised with a start that he had been standing rigidly to attention. Turning his back on her he tried to relax.
The truth of the matter was that the whole organisation of Le Guide was planned like a military operation. The walls of headquarters were covered in maps, each of which was festooned with flags. The operations room itself—the holy of holies, to which admittance was gained by green pass only—was staffed by uniformed girls who pushed little bronze figures around on giant tables with croupier-like efficiency. Monsieur Pamplemousse knew that provided he filled in the correct forms all would be well and his request granted, but woe betide him if his reports were late. It would mean some pretty heavy field-work in the weeks to come—possibly entailing two dîners a night. He blanched at the thought. Thank heaven for Pommes Frites.
‘Hullo … Pamplemousse … are you there?’
‘Oui, Monsieur le Directeur.’ This would never do.
‘My regards to Pommes Frites. Oh, and Pamplemousse … if you stay more than three days don’t forget your P189.’
‘Oui, Monsieur le Directeur. Merci. Au revoir, Monsieur le Directeur.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse replaced the receiver and mopped his brow. And now for the most delicate, and yet if he intended to stay another night in St. Castille, probably the most important call of the three. He took out his spectacles, wiped them clean, and checked a ringed number on page fifteen of Ici Paris—just to make doubly sure.
‘Poupées Fantastiques, à vôtre service.’ The voice at the other end sounded unctuous in the extreme; soft and oily, like an over-dressed aubergine. Monsieur Pamplemousse recognised it at once. It belonged to the proprietor, Oscar. Voice and owner matched perfectly. Nothing changed.
He cleared his throat. ‘I wish to place an order,’ he said briskly. ‘I need it urgently so I am prepared to pay whatever is necessary.’ That should do it.
‘Certainly, Monsieur. One moment, Monsieur, while I find a pencil.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse began issuing his instructions. ‘That is correct. The Mark IV. As advertised in Ici Paris. The de luxe model.’
‘An excellent choice, Monsieur. I can assure you it is impossible to do better. Our customers are worldwide and we guarantee complete satisfaction. All our Mark IV models are individually tested before they leave our work rooms.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse suppressed a shudder. ‘It is not for me …’ he began.
He was interrupted by a fruity chuckle. ‘That is what they all say, Monsieur. If I were to tell you the names of some of our clients … However, I can assure you of our complete discretion. All records of orders are in code and kept under lock and key.’
‘I wish,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, trying to sound as blasé as possible, ‘for the male version. Battery driven, but with certain modifications.’
‘Certain modifications?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse almost felt the hand go over the mouthpiece at the other end. He took a deep breath.
‘I would like it to have wooden legs.’
‘Wooden legs?’ The man seemed to take an unnecessary delight in repeating the words as slowly and loudly as possible. So much for the discretion of Poupées Fantastiques.
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked uneasily over his shoulder. The woman outside appeared to be doing something to her deaf aid. Probably turning up the volume.
‘Is it or is it not possible?’ he barked. The conversation had already gone on far too long for his liking.
‘Monsieur, all things are possible. As you can see from our advertisement we cater for all tastes. Nothing is too bizarre or exotique. Although I have to admit … would this be for Madame?’
>
‘No, it would not!’ thundered Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘And another thing …’
‘Another?’ The man could hardly keep the excitement from his voice.
‘I want delivery today.’
‘Today? Monsieur is joking, of course.’
‘Listen, you.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to play it rough. ‘I said today and I mean today. I do not mean yesterday, nor do I mean tomorrow. There is a high-speed train leaving Paris at fourteen twenty-six hours. It should arrive in Orange at about eighteen hundred. I shall be there to meet it. If it is not on that train I shall take immediate steps to have your premises closed down and you with them. Now, do I make myself totally and absolutely clear or do I have to spell it out in words of one syllable?’
There was a long silence at the other end during which Monsieur Pamplemousse stole a quick glance at the outside world. The woman with the deaf aid was almost wetting herself with excitement. She had been joined by two others.
‘What name shall I put on the parcel, Monsieur?’
‘Pamplemousse.’ He tried to speak as quietly as possible.
‘Pamplemousse? Not the Monsieur Pamplemousse? Pamplemousse of the Sûreté?’ A note of respect had entered the voice.
‘Late of the Sûreté. An early retirement …’ He wished now he had used a nom de guerre.
‘Ah, yes …’ A whistle came down the line. ‘I remember now … there was all that trouble with the girls at the Follies. Thirty-three wasn’t it?’
‘Fifteen,’ sighed Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Tell me, Inspector.’ Oscar began to regain some of his earlier confidence. ‘What is she like? Do you have any photos? We pay good prices for the right kind of negatives.’
‘The fourteen twenty-six TGV!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse decided he had had enough. For the second time that morning he was about to slam the receiver down, then he had second thoughts.