by Michael Bond
‘One more thing.’
‘Oui, Inspector?’
‘I would like a plastic inflatable dog kennel. King size.’
‘A plastic inflatable dog kennel … King size? Mon Dieu!’
‘If you consult your records you will find I purchased one some four years ago. I had it made specially.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt in a better mood as he left the telephone booth. His last request had clearly given him game, set and match.
‘Pardon, Monsieur.’ The woman with the deaf aid, her bloodless lips made ever thinner by being tightly compressed in disapproval, pushed past him and began ostentatiously cleaning the mouthpiece of the telephone with her handkerchief, much to the enjoyment of her friends.
Avoiding their gaze, Monsieur Pamplemousse looked around for Pommes Frites, but Pommes Frites was nowhere to be seen. That was all he needed. He could think of nothing he wanted to do less at that moment than hang about outside the telephone booth. Quite a small crowd had collected and they were eyeing him with a mixture of interest and downright disbelief.
Reaching into an inside pocket he withdrew a small whistle and blew into it hopefully several times.
His audience broke into a titter as they waited for the blast and none followed. Much to Monsieur Pamplemousse’s embarrassment, Pommes Frites was clearly out of range. For a moment or two he toyed with the idea of trying to explain the basic principles of silent dog whistles to his audience, but then he thought better of it. They didn’t look as if they would be terribly receptive. Instead, he pretended to study a poster in the window of the P.T.T. No doubt Pommes Frites would reappear in his own good time. He always did.
Unaware of his master’s predicament, Pommes Frites made his way along the Grande Avenue Charles de Gaulle looking more than a little pleased with himself.
Not even one of his most ardent admirers—and he had a great many—would have credited him with an over-abundance of grey matter. Generosity, an unrivalled and highly developed sense of taste in matters culinary, a capacity for love and affection, steadfastness, tenacity; he had many things going for him. But when it came to such mundane matters as, for example, the putting of two and two together and making four, it took him a little while to get things sorted out in his mind. In short, equations were not one of his strong points. Simultaneous ones even less so.
On the other hand, by remaining blissfully unaware of his mathematical shortcomings he was able to sail through life without the additional worries such knowledge often brought to others.
Two and two could sometimes make five, at other times three; it depended entirely on circumstances. And in Pommes Frites’ view it didn’t really matter much anyway.
On this particular morning, however, there was a gleam in his eye and a resolute angle to his tail which showed beyond all shadow of doubt that he, Pommes Frites, had reached a decision. And once Pommes Frites reached a decision there was no diverting him. It was a decision, moreover, that had to do with the safety of his master. Than which, in his eyes, there could be no finer cause.
Nose to the ground, he ignored the rather tasty looking tranche of Terrine de Sanglier which Monsieur Hollard was placing in the charcuterie window to his right, turned a blind eye towards a ginger cat disappearing down an alleyway to his left, and closed his olfactory glands to the smell of freshly baked bread wafting down the street from Madame Charbonnier’s pâtisserie.
Pausing only to leave his mark on a concrete flower tub standing on a corner of the newly completed pedestrian precinct, he hurried on his way, following a trail which led him up some steps towards the Place Napoleon. There was a purposeful expression on his face; an expression which boded ill for anyone who attempted to get in his way without a very good reason.
It had taken Pommes Frites some little while to reach the conclusion that all was not well, and having reached that conclusion he was determined to do something about it.
The sound of Madame Pamplemousse’s voice through the glass door of the telephone booth had set him worrying. There had been something in the tone of her voice, not to mention the way Monsieur Pamplemousse regarded the end of the telephone receiver as he held it out at arm’s length, which pointed to the fact that ‘something was up’. What happened shortly afterwards had clinched matters in his mind.
Pommes Frites knew several very good reasons why Monsieur Pamplemousse was reluctant to leave town; and one of those reasons, had his master but known, passed within two feet of him shortly after he entered the telephone booth.
The encounter had been a chance one, for the man in question reacted in a way which could only be described as furtive in the extreme. Pulling a black Homburg down over his forehead, he’d turned his back towards Monsieur Pamplemousse and crept past the telephone box until well clear, before disappearing up the Grande Avenue Charles de Gaulle as if his very life depended on it.
All of which, given the fact that it was a hot day and there were other equally interesting things happening in the square at the time, might not have occasioned anything more than a passing glance from Pommes Frites, had it not been for the smell; an unusually strong and clearly recognisable scent which set his nose twitching and made him jump to his feet with all his senses racing.
Not for nothing had Pommes Frites been born a bloodhound. Bloodhounds were good at smells and he’d met that same one before—to be precise, in, on and around the bush he’d encountered up the hill the previous morning, and it had remained firmly fixed in his memory ever since.
Apart from having a personal score to settle, he had a feeling he might be able to kill at least two birds with one bite—and he knew exactly where he intended placing it if he got half a chance. Hopefully, if all went well, he could also do something to put his master back in favour with Madame Pamplemousse. And with these thoughts uppermost in his mind, he set off in hot pursuit.
Not that Pommes Frites disliked Madame Pamplemousse. Her complaints regarding the amount of hairs he left behind when he rose from his afternoon nap had about as much effect on him as did water on a duck’s back. Pommes Frites was not one to fly in the face of nature. There were things he could do something about and there were things he could do nothing about. Loose hairs happened to be something he could do nothing about. As for complaints about the state of his paws when he came indoors after a walk in the rain, people who worried about such trifles ought not to polish their floors. It was a matter of differing temperaments.
Monsieur Pamplemousse understood about such things. Monsieur Pamplemousse often came under fire himself for much the same reasons: crumpled cushions, stray hairs, muddied shoes. It was a case of like gravitating towards like and there was an understanding and a bond of affection between them that mere words could not describe.
Besides, Pommes Frites owed Monsieur Pamplemousse a great debt of gratitude.
It dated back to the occasion of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s early retirement from the force.
It so happened that around the same time Pommes Frites, who’d been on attachment to the Eighteenth Arrondissement where Monsieur Pamplemousse lived, was made redundant following a government cut-back.
Although it was a simple matter of last in first out, it wasn’t a nice thing to happen to a dog of Pommes Frites’ sensibilities, especially so early on in his career. Trained to the peak of perfection, passing his course with flying colours, only to find himself discarded like an old slipper.
Word had reached Monsieur Pamplemousse, who’d rescued him in the nick of time from being sent to the local dogs’ home; a journey from which there would probably have been no return.
A nicer retirement present Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t have wished for, nor could Pommes Frites have dreamed of a happier turn of fate. It was the kind of thing a dog doesn’t forget in a hurry.
All these and many other things might have entered Pommes Frites’ mind that morning had he been given to deep and philosophical thoughts, and if he hadn’t had his attention firmly fixed
on more important things.
As it was he bounded up the remaining steps leading to the Place Napoleon, ignored a sign which proclaimed that ‘CHIENS’ were ‘INTERDITS’, threaded his way in and out of the various stalls dotting the square, and hurried towards number 7-bis on the far side.
The smell was growing stronger with every passing moment, and as he pushed open the door with his nose Pommes Frites paused and sniffed appreciatively. The scent had now taken on a slightly different flavour. Along with the odour of bay rum, there were overtones of sweat and … yes, there was definitely more than a trace of fear. Instinct told Pommes Frites that he had the advantage of his prey.
Licking his lips in anticipation, he headed towards a flight of stairs immediately facing him.
Number 7-bis was old and rambling, and sadly in need of repair. High up on the outside wall overlooking the market an inscription recorded the fact that the Emperor Napoleon himself had once stayed there for lunch (from twelve fifteen until a quarter past two) during his long march across the Alps. But that had been a long time ago, on the 23rd June 1815. Since that happy day it had fallen into neglect, and had even escaped the attentions of the present progressive mayor—he of the ‘CHIENS INTERDITS’ sign, who was endeavouring to bring back to the town of St. Castille some of its former glories.
Pommes Frites had to pick his way very carefully up the ramshackle wooden staircase in order to avoid making any kind of noise; or even, for that matter, to avoid falling through it in some places.
On his way up he peered in at some empty rooms. In one there was a table with the remains of a meal, in another a couple of unmade camp beds. As he reached the third landing an ominous metallic click from somewhere close at hand caused him to stop in his tracks. He froze for a moment, then quickened his pace. Not for nothing had he attended a two-day seminar on ballistics; the only dog of his particular year to gain maximum marks and the coveted Golden Bone.
The sound meant only one thing. There was someone on the floor above with a gun, and if the heavy breathing was anything to go by, that someone was in a hurry.
Covering the remaining stairs at something approaching the speed of sound, Pommes Frites struck, and having struck, held on for all he was worth.
As he sank his teeth into the posterior of the figure on the far side of the room, a most satisfactory noise emerged from its other end; the first of a whole series of satisfactory noises.
It was an amalgamation which would have brought tears of joy to even the most fastidious of recording engineers in search of the esoteric in the way of sound effects. Not, perhaps, destined for the Top Ten, but assured of a place for ever more in the libraries of all self-respecting drama studios the world over.
Cataloguing would, of course, always present a problem, for it was hard to pin-point the dominant theme. Put at its simplest it was the cry of a man of Italian extraction, leaning out of a third-floor window in a small French town and taking aim at a distant target with a high-powered rifle. (Sounds of busy market nearby anPommes Frites stood with hum of distant traffic in background.) Being attacked by fierce dog. Assorted barks and growls. Tearing of cloth. Cries of pain. Firing of rifle, followed by more cries of pain and alarm (mostly in Italian) as man falls from window and lands on second-floor balcony below. Sound of balcony giving way. More cries, some in It., but predominantly Fr. as man lands on barrow of fruit and veg. in the street below (12.5 secs.)
Pommes Frites stood with his paws on the window-sill and gazed down at the scene below. He felt slightly disappointed about the balcony. It hadn’t entered into his calculations and it marred what might otherwise have been a perfect operation; one which he knew would have won the approval of his master.
Talking of which … looking up, he noticed a gap in the buildings opposite. Through it he had a clear view of the Square du Centre, La Langoustine, and—on the far side—a familiar figure standing outside the telephone booth. Even from that distance Monsieur Pamplemousse looked somewhat impatient.
It was time to go. Already he could hear footsteps and voices on the stairs. Being no fool Pommes Frites decided to avail himself of a second flight of stairs at the rear of the building.
A few minutes later he ambled into the square looking as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
‘Pommes Frites!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse’s voice held a touch of asperity. ‘And where have you been?’ He wagged his finger in mock reproof. ‘The boucherie, n’est-ce pas?’
Pommes Frites gave a sigh. The boucherie indeed! Why was it that even the best and nicest of humans always suspected the worst. Really, there was no justice in the world. No justice at all.
He had half a mind not to give his master the present he’d brought him, but after a brief struggle his good nature and early training got the better of him. Reaching up, he dropped a small, shiny object into Monsieur Pamplemousse’s outstretched hand.
It was cylindrical in shape, 7.5mm in diameter and despite its sojourn in Pommes Frites’ mouth, still had the strong and unmistakable smell of cordite, a fact which did not go unnoticed or unrewarded by its recipient.
Pommes Frites wagged his tail as his master reached down to pat him. He couldn’t have wished for a nicer reward.
6
WEDNESDAY EVENING
‘Merde! Sacrebleu! Nom d’un nom!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed in frustration at the unwrapped contents of a parcel which littered his bed. He was not in a good mood.
For a start, the journey to Orange and back had taken much longer than he’d anticipated. At any other time it would have been a pleasant way of passing an afternoon. First the drive through the great lavender-growing area of the Vaucluse; at this time of the year the plants already cropped and looking for all the world like row upon row of freshly barbered hedgehogs on parade and ready for inspection. Then the drop down through the Gorge de la Nesque via the D942 to the melon country of Carpentras, with the opportunity of making a short detour in order to sample the delights of a glass or two of the delicious sweet Beaumes de Venise. It would have been a good way of combining business with pleasure, for as well as commenting on food Le Guide also offered advice on the best and most enjoyable ways of getting from one restaurant to the next.
But things had not turned out as planned. The rot had set in at Orange itself with the discovery that the TGV high-speed train didn’t stop there. Not only did it fail to stop, its specially laid track enabled it to ignore the city altogether and head straight for Avignon at a speed of something like 260 kilometres an hour.
Wondering what the Romans would have thought about this slight to a city they had helped to create and make beautiful, Monsieur Pamplemousse hurtled after the train in his 2CV, covering the first half of the thirty or so kilometres at a speed which would have caused M. André Citroën to gaze in wonder had he been alive and able to witness the event.
Unfortunately, wonderment was not one of the emotions shown by a gendarme when he came off the autoroute at Avignon Nord. The stern, implacable disapproval etched into his face left no room for other, finer feelings as he compared the entry time on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s card with that indicated by his watch.
The practice of holding spot speed checks on the autoroute was something Monsieur Pamplemousse was aware of but had never actually encountered before, and he wished it could have happened at any other time.
Arguing was a waste of time. He went on his way eventually with a wallet which was considerably lighter than when he’d first set out, and reached the gare at Avignon long after the train had arrived and gone on its way again. That, in turn, meant his parcel received rather more attention than he would have liked.
The discretion in the filing system about which Poupées Fantastiques had boasted obviously did not extend to their labelling department. Either that or Oscar had deliberately tried to get his own back, for he’d seldom seen quite such a blatant advertisement on the outside of a package. An over-zealous official behind the counter refused delivery until it had b
een opened and its contents put on display for all to see. Trying to brazen things out by pulling his old rank had been a mistake too. The man had called his bluff.
The whole affair had been so upsetting he’d lost his way taking a short cut somewhere up in the mountains on the return journey and both he and Pommes Frites had arrived at La Langoustine tired, late and hungry.
Pommes Frites had been no help whatsoever. Normally Pommes Frites liked car rides. He enjoyed nothing better than bowling along with his master at the wheel and the side window open so that he could poke his head out from time to time and feel the cool breeze on his face and whiskers.
But today was an exception. He was still feeling the effects of the previous night’s encounters. A certain stiffness had set in, a stiffness which hadn’t been helped by all the exercise that morning. In short, Pommes Frites would much sooner have stayed where he was, recovering. However, he hadn’t been given any choice in the matter. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he’d been bundled into the car and had had to endure over 340 kilometres of winding roads—more if you counted the extra kilometres they’d travelled trying to find the right one back, and it had put him into one of his difficult moods. Having refused to wear his seat belt, he kept leaning against Monsieur Pamplemousse every time they went round a right-hand bend, and threatening to burst open the offside door every time they rolled in the opposite direction. In the end Monsieur Pamplemousse put his foot down metaphorically as well as in practice and banished Pommes Frites to the back seat, an indignity he suffered in silence until just before St. Castille, when he’d been sick.
The only consolation to show for the afternoon—and Monsieur Pamplemousse was man enough to admit it—lay in the fact that the model itself, seen in all its inflated glory, was a masterpiece of the poupée maker’s art. A symphony in wood and rubber. His warning must have gone home—for an unknown hand had even gone to the trouble of turning it into a rough likeness of himself with the addition of a moustache. An optional extra which made even Pommes Frites look twice. Perhaps—who knows?—it might have been someone he’d come up against in the old days and done a good turn for. Whatever the reason, ten out of ten for initiative.