Monsieur Pamplemousse (Monsieur Pamplemousse Series)

by Michael Bond

  It had been a strange experience, blowing it up with the aid of Pommes Frites’ gas cylinder and seeing it grow into his own shape before his very eyes. Pommes Frites had been most surprised—seeing an effigy of his master instead of the usual kennel. It wasn’t at all what he’d expected and he spent some time sniffing the result and wondering what on earth was going to happen.

  Where they had managed to get the wooden legs from at such short notice, Monsieur Pamplemousse neither knew nor cared. It was sufficient that the job had been done to his satisfaction. Although it wouldn’t have fooled anyone in the cold light of day, at night—with the lights turned out—who knew? It was worth a go.

  He found his pyjama jacket and put it on over the top half, smiling to himself as he pulled back the bed cover. In one respect at least, Poupées Fantastiques had done him a great compliment. Madame Sophie, when she returned that night, would certainly have nothing to complain about—provided the electric mechanism stood up to the strain.

  Making some final adjustments to the position of the model, he inserted one end of a long lead into a socket at the base of the spine—the one which according to figure fifteen in the instruction manual connected to the pressure-operated membre, and ran it carefully up the bed and over the end of the mattress, passing it underneath to a point about halfway down, where he looped it round one of the bedsprings for good measure.

  It was as he paused to consult the instruction manual again before connecting the free end to a large battery box that his jaw suddenly dropped. The battery box, said the manual, in the casual terms reserved for such matters, will require eight 1.5 volt rechargeable bat­teries. He searched through the wrapping paper. They had not been included.

  ‘Imbéciles!’ Where was he to get eight 1.5 volt batteries in St. Castille at this time of night? It would be bad enough trying to get one battery. One battery he might be able to borrow from someone’s torch, or two even—but eight—rechargeable ones at that!

  For a moment or so he toyed with the idea of getting into his car again and going in search of a late-night garage. There must be one in the area. On the other hand … Monsieur Pamplemousse’s knowledge of things electrical was not of the highest, but he did know that a car battery contained considerably more power in just one of its cells than a whole drawerful of torch batteries. He well remembered having once seen a car go up in flames because of a short-circuited battery; once they got going there was nothing to stop them. In the circumstances, a car battery might be an ideal power source for Madame Sophie’s needs. If the worst came to the worst he could always get it recharged in the morning.

  Some ten minutes later Monsieur Pamplemousse staggered up the back stairs carrying a large object wrapped in a car rug.

  Shortly afterwards, having bared the ends of the lead, he twisted them round the two terminals, added some adhesive tape from his first-aid kit for good measure to make doubly sure they didn’t come adrift in the heat of the moment, and pushed the battery under the bed.

  Now for the big moment. The moment critique.

  Closing the shutters in case he was being overlooked, he turned off all the lights except one and, under the watchful gaze of Pommes Frites, approached the figure on the bed.

  Turning back the sheets, he gave the membre a ten­tative tweak. Almost immediately there was a click followed by a faint humming sound and things began to happen.

  The result was beyond his wildest expectations. My word, but things had progressed since the old days. In the old days he’d heard tell of inflatable models being exported for the benefit of lonely guardians of what remained of the French colonial empire, but they had been of the opposite gender and certainly not—at least in his experience—readily available on the home market.

  The whole thing was a miracle of ingenuity. Those areas which needed to contract, contracted. Those which needed to expand, grew large, gathering speed with every passing moment, vibrating in sympathy with the heaving buttocks, while the mouth opened and closed in random fashion emitting such lifelike moans and groans that even Pommes Frites’ hackles began to rise.

  Madame Sophie was in for a high old time that night. He wouldn’t have minded being a fly on the pillow. If all went well she would be able to add her name to Poupées Fantastiques’ list of satisfied customers in the truest sense of the word.

  He consulted the instruction book again. There was no sense in wasting the battery. Besides, all the heaving and moaning was making him feel restive. Finding the right diagram at last he reached for the pressure-operated switch which controlled the vital organ. The humming died away.

  He tried it several more times—just to make sure everything was working properly. It really was most intriguing. A tweak in one direction and the model relaxed with a hiss of escaping air. A tweak in the other and it started up again.

  But if Monsieur Pamplemousse was fascinated by the gyrations of the figure on the bed, Pommes Frites was beside himself with excitement. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Firmly convinced that it was some new kind of everlasting bone dispenser he began running around in circles, giving vent to growls of anticipation. He’d been given an everlasting bone once at Christmas and it had kept him going for several weeks; he couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into it.

  It was as the hubbub was at its height and he was nearing his fiftieth lap of the bedroom, barking his head off with delight, that he suddenly skidded to a halt and stared at the door. Or rather, he stared at the spot where the door had been the previous time round. Now it was open.

  ‘Monster! … Pervert! … Unhappy man!’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse jumped to his feet, but it was too late for explanations, if indeed he could readily have thought of one. Before he had a chance to open his mouth the door closed and the chambermaid disappeared, but not before she had ostentatiously removed the requirement notice from the handle and placed it outside. As far as she was concerned the room could stay occupé for all time. Such depravity was quite beyond belief. If she hadn’t witnessed it with her own eyes she would not have thought such things were possible.

  Feeling as deflated as the figure on the bed, Monsieur Pamplemousse gave the wiring a final check and then pulled the cover into place. All good things come to an end sooner or later and even Pommes Frites seemed somewhat sobered by the experience as he exchanged glances with his master.

  Shortly afterwards, freshly bathed and with the dust of the journey removed, Monsieur Pamplemousse emerged from his room and with Pommes Frites lead­ing the way headed down the stairs for a much needed dinner.

  Madame Douard was busy at the reception desk with a late arrival. As he passed their eyes met briefly and he felt the colour rise to his cheeks. Madame Sophie had large eyes. Large and round, a strange mixture of innocence and promise. At the moment they were full of promise.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse mopped his brow as he entered the dining room. Mon Dieu! If only he’d been thirty years younger. Alas, such opportunities had never come his way when he was eighteen; or perhaps they had and he’d been too shy to take advantage of them. Life could be very unsatisfactory at times.

  On the other hand, only that very morning when he’d been out for a walk with Pommes Frites he’d caught sight of Madame Sophie disappearing into the local bricolage—no doubt to replenish her supply of sandpaper, probably with a coarser grade. Far better to devote his energies to safer things. He’d noted earlier in the day that Loup was on the menu; Loup en Croûte Douard—one of the patron’s specialities. Perhaps he would indulge himself. Soupe aux Moules Safranées to begin with; the whole washed down with a Meursault—the ’76. He felt his taste buds begin to throb; the kind of throbbing which could only be assuaged by a Kir Royale. One made with his favourite champagne: Gosset.

  There was a thump, thump against his right leg as Pommes Frites wagged his tail with anticipation. Monsieur Pamplemousse was not the only one with active taste buds.

  ‘Great minds discuss ideas, average minds discuss events, small minds discuss
people. Me, I discuss none of these things. I am a chef and I talk of food.’

  Monsieur Douard’s booming laugh echoed round the deserted square. ‘That is also why I do not wish to discuss Sophie. In her own way she is a good wife. She runs the hotel like a dream. Nothing escapes her eye. She looks after the money. The bills are always paid on time. The customers go on their way happy, and she leaves me alone to get on with my work. What more could a man wish for?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse was tempted to say a wife who didn’t jump into bed with the clients at the drop of a hat, but Auguste forestalled him.

  ‘If she has her little peccadilloes on the side, that is her affair. It does no great harm.’

  Thinking of his aching muscles, Monsieur Pamplemousse came to the conclusion that harm, like most things in life, was only relative. All the same, picturing what was safely tucked in his bed upstairs, he couldn’t help but wish the conversation would take another turn. Monsieur Douard was obviously trying to tell him something he would really rather not know about. Worse still, it was getting late and it would be an even greater embarrassment if, on his way to bed, Auguste met Sophie en route to her assignation.

  ‘The great sadness of life,’ he said, trying to change the subject, ‘is our ignorance when young that first love can ever end.’

  ‘My friend,’ Monsieur Douard was obviously reading his thoughts with uncanny accuracy. ‘Do not distress yourself. To tell you the truth, I am grateful. When one is at work all day in a hot kitchen there is little time left over to take care of other things.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse forebore to comment that in his travels he’d met a good many chefs who found their appetites more than whetted by the time they’d spent in their kitchen. Hotted up, in fact. In life, if you really wanted something you made time for it.

  ‘Most mornings,’ continued Monsieur Douard, ‘I am up at five. I have to go to the market to make sure I get fresh vegetables. I have to go to the butcher to make certain the meat is as I wish it to be. Then I have to see what fish is available so that I can come back and prepare the menu. Then there are many people to see; the négociant about the wine; people who have been supplying me with cheese over the years—small farmers from up in the mountains, representatives from the big suppliers; people I know who grow fruit for me specially and who bring it when it is exactly right for picking, not a day too early and not a day too late.

  ‘Then, and only then, can I really begin work. At the end of the day it is nourishment I require—not punishment. It has always been that way—ever since we were first married. Sophie understands my feelings and I respect hers. She is a woman with an abundance of love—some might say an over-abundance, and she loves to give. It is her nature.

  ‘Over the years there have been many. In the begin­ning the sous-chef had to go. He was never at his post. Then there was the garde-manger, guests, the facteur … in their time they have all drunk their fill, including the odd-job man. Especially the odd-job man. She has a strange proclivity for wood. She should have been in a circus. Give her the smell of sawdust and she is away. There is no stopping her. There are things I could tell you …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse rather hoped he wouldn’t. He felt doubly glad he’d placed his order with Poupées Fantastiques. He hoped it would stand the strain.

  But Auguste was warming to his subject. He waved towards the statue in the middle of the square. ‘She is a true descendant of Hortense and no mistake.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse followed his gaze. Who­ever had sculptured Hortense had been fortunate enough to capture her in what could only be termed an unguarded moment. Bending over in order to pick some flowers, on what was presumably a summer’s day, for she was totally unclothed, the pose had afforded ample opportunity to highlight what were undoubtedly her best features, her derrière and doudounnes enhanced still more by the forces of gravity. In the moonlight, and seen from a certain angle, Monsieur Pamplemousse had to agree that the figure bore a striking resemblance to Madame Sophie, although he was too much of a gentleman to say so.

  Monsieur Douard broke across his thoughts. ‘She is very beautiful, that one. The story goes that she is under a spell … that she is waiting … has been waiting all these years for someone to come and … release her. Someone, that is … who understands.

  ‘Poof! It is all nonsense, of course. But there are some things—like Papa Nöel—in which it is nice to believe.’ He gave a nudge. ‘Perhaps it is the same with Sophie. Perhaps she, too, is waiting. She will not have long, n’est-ce pas?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a nervous laugh. In spite of himself his voice sounded cracked and dry. He licked his lips and downed the last of the Armagnac.

  ‘Another?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, thank you. Pommes Frites and I may take a stroll before we retire.’

  Monsieur Douard stood up and held out his hand. ‘In that case, my friend, forgive me if I don’t join you. I have to be up early. Enjoy yourselves. It is a beautiful night.’

  As Auguste disappeared into the hotel a figure rose into view from beneath a nearby table, stretched, and then joined Monsieur Pamplemousse at the top of the steps leading down from the terrace.

  Together they set out across the square. Monsieur Pamplemousse paused by the fountain and glanced up. Douard had been right. Hortense was beautiful. Deliciously, delightfully, provocatively beautiful. Sur­veying the world through half-closed eyes, her lips were parted slightly as if she was about to be kissed. Better still, as if she wanted to be kissed. She appeared to be staring straight at him, and there was about her an air of voluptuous, ill-concealed abandon, which caused strange stirrings inside his stomach.

  At that moment a car came round the corner of the square, its headlights picking out the statue momen­tarily as it shot past. For a brief moment Monsieur Pamplemousse had a feeling that one of Hortense’s eyes had closed in a wink, then it was gone—a trick of the light.

  He shook himself. It was totally and utterly ridiculous. Perhaps the Armagnac had been a mis­take.

  ‘Pommes Frites,’ he said. ‘You and I are going for a very long walk.’

  Pommes Frites indulged his master with a wag of his tail. As far as he was concerned there was nothing stop­ping them. A statue was a statue was a statue. They were made of stone and having said that you’d more or less covered the subject. He’d already left his mark more than once on the side of the fountain belonging to this one, and slaked his thirst into the bargain. He saw no particular reason to linger any longer.

  Somewhere not far away there was the sound of a car turning. From the way the engine was being revved the driver was obviously in a great hurry. Probably a late-night traveller who’d taken the wrong turning and was cursing his luck. It seemed to be heading back the way it had come. There was a squeal of tyres as it rounded a corner and entered the square.

  Expecting it to follow the normal line of traffic anti­clockwise round the statue, Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to move out of its way round the other side when some sixth sense signalled an urgent warning. Shouting to Pommes Frites to get out of the way, he made a leap for the safety of the fountain. Jumping on to the edge he was propelled forward by his own momentum and only saved himself from falling into the water by clutching the back of Hortense.

  He felt the draught from the car as it hurtled past, its driver clutching the wheel while two white faces peered out at him from the back window. It was the same car that had followed him up into the hills the day he’d met Giampiero.

  Looking round, he breathed a sigh of relief. Pommes Frites had managed to scramble clear as well.

  Glancing over his shoulder he could see the lights of the car as it disappeared up the hill the way it had come. Pushing against Hortense’s shoulders he inched his way slowly downwards until he was clasping her bottom. After a pause for breath he gave a heave. As he did so he felt a faint rocking movement. Quelle horreur! He would never be able to show his face in St. Castille again if he pushed the
statue off its perch and Madame Hortense broke in two. He held his breath and tried again. There was an ominous creak from somewhere below.

  Very slowly he turned his head and caught sight of Pommes Frites standing some distance away staring at him; or rather staring, he realised, at something a little way beyond him.

  Equally slowly he turned his head back the other way and then suppressed a groan as he saw a familiar figure watching him.

  ‘Testing the legend, I see. How very romantic.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse glared at the speaker. Inspector Banyuls seemed to have perfected an uncanny knack of appearing at the least opportune moment. He must spend most of his waking hours lying in wait.

  ‘Péquenot!’ he muttered under his breath. There was no other word for it. That was what he was … un péquenot. A hick. He wouldn’t last two minutes in somewhere like Paris.

  Taking the bull by the horns, he pushed against Madame Hortense with all his might. Better a broken statue than suffer the indignity of Banyuls’ stares a moment longer than was necessary. As he toppled backwards he was mortified to feel a helping hand reach out in the nick of time to prevent him falling back into the road.

  Regaining his balance he jumped to the ground and glared at the inspector as he brushed himself down.

  ‘Instead of just standing idly by,’ he growled, ‘you would be better employed in the pursuit of the car that forced me up there in the first place.’

  ‘Car? What car? I saw no car.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse glared at him. ‘If you won’t go after it,’ he bellowed, ‘then I will.’

  Signalling to Pommes Frites, he strode across the square to where his own car was parked, climbed in, slammed the door and pressed the starter.