by Michael Bond
In the silence that followed he felt rather than saw a shadow loom up against the side window. There was a tap, then the door opened.
‘Well?’ said Inspector Banyuls sarcastically. ‘Don’t tell me you have changed your mind.’
‘Someone,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse with as much dignity as he could muster, ‘seems to have taken my battery.’
‘What!’ A sudden change came over Inspector Banyuls. He reached inside his pocket and took out a note-book. ‘This is serious.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at him. How could anyone be such an oaf as to ignore what he was convinced amounted to yet another attempt on his life and yet spring into action on hearing about a missing battery? He’d been nearly poisoned, shot at, had his balcony railings sawn through, escaped death by inches from a maniac in a car … words failed him. The man’s mind was an arid desert.
‘I will give you a clue,’ he said slowly and distinctly. ‘It is my belief that the person who took it is not a million miles from this very spot, and if you meet him I should treat him with the greatest respect. He is undoubtedly highly dangerous and may well render you grievous bodily harm.’
Deriving what little satisfaction he could from the parting shot, he climbed out of the car again and with Pommes Frites at his heels set off briskly towards the Grande Avenue Charles de Gaulle. Pommes Frites had long since given up trying to follow what was going on. He was wearing his mournful expression, the one he kept for occasions when things promised—like after-dinner walks—took a long time to materialise.
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt he could delay matters no longer.
It was late when they got back. Pommes Frites had been determined to get his pound of flesh. The clock over the Hôtel de Ville already showed past midnight, and by the time Monsieur Pamplemousse had inflated the new kennel and said good night the half hour had also struck.
Finding the rear entrance locked, he made his way round to the front of the hotel and with a nod to the gendarme who was still on duty just inside the doorway, crossed the hall to the stairs.
Halfway up he thought he heard a muffled explosion coming from one of the floors above. He sniffed. There was a smell of burning coming from somewhere not too far away. Rubbery, rather like a vacuum cleaner which is about to give up the ghost. That was all that was needed to round off the evening—a fire!
Hurrying up the remaining few stairs he was about to turn on to the landing when instinct told him to slow down. Luck was with him. Peering round the corner he was just in time to see Madame Sophie leaving his room. She was, to say the least, in a state of déshabillé. Her hair hung about her shoulders in ringlets, most of her front appeared to be covered by some kind of black deposit, and from the brief glimpse he had of her face it wore a glazed expression like that of a believer who has just been awarded the honour of the last waltz with her favourite guru. Oblivious to all about her, she turned and groped her way along the corridor, finally disappearing into her quarters at the far end like someone in a trance.
As soon as the coast was clear Monsieur Pamplemousse hurried after her. As he drew near his door the source of the smoke was only too clear. Wafts of it were emerging from the gap at the bottom. Holding a handkerchief over his nose he pushed it open and went inside. It was even worse than he had expected. It smelt and looked like a charnel house.
Gasping for breath he crossed to the shutters and flung them open, then turned, prepared for the worst.
His bed was a sorry sight. Rumpled sheets were one thing, and in the circumstances not unexpected, but of the poupée, apart from the two wooden legs and a motley collection of wires, rods and sundry items of unidentifiable electronic devices, little remained but a smouldering heap of blackened rubber. Like the rim of an all too active volcano, they surrounded a large hole in the centre of the mattress.
Through it he could see the twisted remains of his car battery. Placing it immediately below the bedsprings had obviously been a cardinal error. He’d taken no account of Madame Sophie’s weight, nor her enthusiasm once she got going. She must have cut through the wire and caused a short circuit. If Banyuls knew what had really happened to the battery he would have filled his note-book a dozen times over. How he would ever face the chambermaid again he didn’t know.
While he was thinking the matter over, Monsieur Pamplemousse heard a slight sound at the door. He turned and saw a sheet of notepaper lying on the carpet. It had a familiar look.
The words confirmed his worst fears.
‘Dearest one of the darkness,’ he read. ‘You who remain so silent and yet have so much to give. When I left you tonight you seemed strangely deflated, and yet … and yet, each time we meet … is it only twice? … each time is more exquisite than the one before. I thought I knew you, but tonight was different again. What will tomorrow bring? I cannot wait … although I know I have to. Until then … your loving S.’
Merde! Monsieur Pamplemousse sat down on the end of the bed and buried his head in his hands. Now he was really dans le chocolat. A dying sizzle came from somewhere underneath, but he ignored it. It was no good. Tomorrow he would have to go through the whole rigmarole again. What next? Perhaps … perhaps the Mark V—the one with the optional extras—whatever they might be.
He opened his suitcase and reached inside for the catalogue which had been enclosed with the parcel from Poupées Fantastiques. Sleep would not come as easily as usual that night.
7
THURSDAY AFTERNOON
At fourteen hundred hours precisely on the following day, Monsieur Pamplemousse, replete from a most satisfactory déjeuner at the Bar du Centre, picked up his receipted bill and set off across the square towards his hotel.
He felt at peace with the world. The word cuisine had many meanings and variations, but in his humble opinion one of its most rewarding peaks lay within a freshly baked baguette, split down the middle, lightly buttered, with perhaps a dash of Moutarde de Dijon to taste, and then filled with slices of ham—preferably from the Ardennes and tasting of the smoke from the trees of the forest and the maize and acorn diet on which the pigs had been reared. When it was washed down with a bottle of local wine, such as the Chateau Vignelaure he’d been privileged to drink that day, there was nothing finer.
It was a view with which Pommes Frites heartily concurred. Apart, that is, from the mustard. Pommes Frites didn’t like mustard. It made his eyes water.
Monsieur Pamplemousse made a mental note to confirm the Bar du Centre’s entry in Le Guide. Not with a Stock Pot—they would neither expect it nor thank him for it, but certainly with a wrought iron table and chair—the symbol which denoted a good place to stop en route, and a cut above the award of a mere bar stool.
One way and another it had been a busy morning. There had been the ordering of a new poupée—the Mark V this time complete with batteries, to be sent direct to the hotel without delay. That in itself had taken a great deal of argument and had used up most of his small change. Oscar had not been keen on the idea at all. In the end he’d had to resort to threats again, but it had left him feeling weary. Arguments always did.
Then he’d had to change his car battery. The plates on the old one were buckled beyond hope. That had taken most of the morning. The Citroën agent was at the other end of town, too far to carry the old one. And when he’d finally got it there on the back of a borrowed bicycle he’d encountered a distinct lack of enthusiasm about taking it in part exchange.
Halfway across the square he heard someone call out his name and turned to see Giampiero hurrying towards him. He looked worried.
‘Is it true about last night?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stifled a sigh. The chambermaid must have been talking. Not that he could blame her—she probably couldn’t wait.
‘I heard the car going past from my room. I rushed to the end of the corridor but by then it was too late. I saw you and Inspector Banyuls by the fountain, so I guessed you were all right. Then, soon after, I heard a bang … i
t sounded as though it came from the direction of your room. After that I smelt smoke …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated, wondering whether to tell the full story, then thought better of it. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time someone has tried to do away with me.’
‘Perhaps.’ It was Giampiero’s turn to hesitate, then he, too, seemed to change his mind. ‘But take care.’ He held out his hand. ‘It is possible we may be leaving soon. Eva is getting restive. She wishes to move on.’ Again there was a slight hesitation.
‘I’m sorry.’ Really there was little more to be said. In any case he was anxious to be on his way. It was kind of Giampiero to bother about his well-being and although it was true that it wouldn’t be the first time someone had been out to do him harm, that was long ago. He felt more than able to take care of himself. Besides, it was nearly five past the hour.
Entering the garden behind La Langoustine by a side gate, he made his way towards a small hexagonal iron and glass gazebo standing in the centre of a small patch of rough grass which served as a lawn. He was pleased to see that it was still empty.
As he sat down a waiter emerged from the rear of the hotel carrying a silver tray on which reposed a silver pot filled with coffee, a cup and saucer, and a large balloon-shaped glass containing Armagnac.
Having placed it on the table in the centre of the gazebo and made sure that all was well, he retired gracefully from the scene, nursing the forlorn hope that the other occupants of the hotel might emulate Monsieur Pamplemousse and take their after-lunch drinks on the terrace, in the garden, or even—sparing Monsieur Pamplemousse—in the gazebo itself. Anywhere, so long as he could get on with clearing the tables. The waiters from La Langoustine were playing netball against a team from an hotel in the next village that afternoon and time was of the essence.
At fourteen–o–eight, Pommes Frites, having decided that there was nothing to be gained from hanging about, wandered off for a post-prandial nap, leaving his master to cogitate on life in general and the aftertaste of sandwiches au jambon and Armagnac in particular. It was hot in the gazebo and if he was going to have a nap he preferred to do it in the comfort of his kennel.
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked forward to his half hour or so of peace and quiet every afternoon. The gazebo was a new addition—so new it still had the steel ring on top which had been used to lift it into place—but it was ideal. It was amazing how quickly one settled down to a new routine. A few days in a place and it began to feel as though you had always lived there.
He would have been somewhat put out had he been able to read the waiter’s mind. Fond of company when the occasion demanded, Monsieur Pamplemousse also placed great store on moments when he could be alone with his thoughts, which was quite a different matter to being lonely. Loneliness was often being by oneself in a crowd. Being alone of one’s own choice was in its way a great luxury, so when he saw the girl from reception heading his way he pursed his lips with annoyance. From the agitated way she was behaving he could tell she was not the bearer of good news.
‘A telephone call, Monsieur … from Paris.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse grunted. Who could it be, telephoning him in his lunch hour? ‘Did they not give their name?’
‘No, Monsieur. It was a man. He said it was urgent.’
‘I will take it in my room.’ Downing his Armagnac at a gulp, Monsieur Pamplemousse clambered to his feet and followed the girl back into the hotel.
At fourteen fifteen precisely, while he was making his way up to his room—a moment marked by the striking of the clock over the Hôtel de Ville—Albert, a clochard whose abode was rarely fixed and then usually at the whim of Inspector Banyuls or one of his subordinates, polished off the remains of a litre of a vin whose ordinariness needed to be tasted to be believed. Climbing unsteadily to his feet, he smacked his lips, which he then wiped on the sleeve of his tattered raincoat, crossed the street, and made towards the chemiserie of Madame Peigné, which was about to open for business.
Standing outside he opened his raincoat wide, thus exposing himself to Madame Peigné, who was about to unlock the door, and proceeded to go about his own business by the simple expedient of relieving himself on the glass panel.
Madame Peigné, who’d only had her windows cleaned that very morning, gazed at the sight open-mouthed. Registering the fact, without being totally aware of it, that there was something very odd about Albert’s anatomy, she uttered a short prayer and reached for the telephone on her counter.
Having many times rehearsed how to call for help in the dark in the event of an emergency, she was able to dial the correct number without missing a single moment of Albert’s performance. She had read of such things. She had—let it be said—even dreamed of such things, although not nearly as often as she would have liked, but never had she expected to see what she was seeing in the flesh as it were. Albeit, and thankfully, it was separated from her by a sheet of plate glass—but there it was, as large as life if not twice as beautiful. Her feeling of relief that she hadn’t actually got as far as unlocking the door was only outweighed by her desire to make the most of the situation. It was better than anything she had ever seen on television.
Inspector Banyuls tried to keep a straight voice. ‘He is doing what with it?’ he asked.
Madame Peigné gulped. ‘He is brandishing it at me. And … and …’
‘And what?’ Inspector Banyuls tried not to sound too impatient.
‘He … he has a balloon tied to the … the end of it. A large, red balloon.’
‘May I have a description?’
‘You mean … for the identification parade?’ The voice at the other end could barely suppress its excitement. ‘One moment while I get my glasses.’
Having posed the question, Inspector Banyuls immediately regretted it. His words had obviously been misinterpreted. He put the receiver down, signalled to one of his subordinates, and made one of his very rare jokes.
‘It seems,’ he said with a thin smile, ‘that St. Castille is en fête. Please go at once to Madame Peigné in the Rue Vaugarde. She is having trouble with the decorations.’
It was the last joke he was to make that day. He’d barely put the telephone down when it rang again.
This time it was Monsieur Dupré, outfitter, clothier, and senior partner in the firm of Dupré et fils, an establishment almost as ancient as La Langoustine itself, and whose windows had suffered—were still suffering if the occasional sound of breaking glass was anything to go by—indignities of an even more basic and destructive nature than those of the previous complainant.
‘A brick?’ repeated Inspector Banyuls. He glanced at his watch and entered the time—fourteen eighteen—on a pad in front of him. ‘What sort of brick?’
His question unleashed a veritable torrent of abuse. A torrent which made it difficult to sort out the wheat of plain, unadorned truth from the chaff of uncontrolled indignation.
It seemed that Monsieur Dupré had been enjoying his usual leisurely lunch on the pavement outside the Bar du Centre on the other side of the square—a steak frites with salad, followed by a creme caramel—when, before his very eyes, a miscreant of the worst possible kind had struck, not once, but several times, leaving a hole in the window large enough to climb through.
‘Déshonorant! Scandaleux! Action sans intermédiaire!’ were just a few of the phrases Monsieur Dupré barked with matching gestures down the telephone at the back of the bar, while at the same time keeping a watchful eye on the goings on in his shop window across the square.
The lourdaud was even now trying on a pair of shoes—several sizes too small by the way he was mincing up and down. The backs would be broken for certain.
‘Yes, yes, I will send someone round as soon as possible.’ Inspector Banyuls’ voice sounded wearily over the line. ‘No, I cannot come myself. I cannot be in two places at once and I am needed here. There are many things happening at the moment and my forces are depleted.’
‘I
warn you, Banyuls, I am not without friends in the higher echelons.’ Monsieur Dupré, his face growing redder and redder, gripped the telephone receiver rather as he might have gripped the throat of the transgressor on the other side of the square had he possessed the necessary courage. Even as he did so there was a click. He gazed at it disbelievingly for a moment. The impossible had happened. Banyuls had hung up on him.
There was another crash of breaking glass. Monsieur Dupré’s uninvited guest was enjoying himself. It wasn’t often one could break the law and be paid for doing it. Never one to question good fortune when it came his way—the Lord alone knew how rarely that was—he had accepted with alacrity a fat fee and the promise of free transport out of town at fourteen thirty-five hours if all went according to plan. No doubt in the fullness of rime the law would catch up on him, but in the meantime he had a new jacket, a pocketful of socks, several ties and handkerchiefs, and a new pair of shoes. Sadly, two left-fitting ones, for Monsieur Dupré was not one to take chances and never left complete pairs on display in his window. But beggars could not be choosers; the trousers went very well with the jacket, and the shirt couldn’t have been a better fit. As for the tie—he looked at his reflection in the mirror. It was many years since he’d last sported a tie.
Covering his arm for protection with another jacket, he enlarged the hole in the window and clambered out. The few passers-by who had stopped to watch, tempered their outrage by their very active dislike of Monsieur Dupré, who had grown fat and rich at their expense over the years. Reaching inside the window for a hat as a last-minute embellishment, the intruder waved goodbye to his audience and set off out of town towards his rendez-vous. It was now twenty-two minutes past the hour by the clock across the square and he would have to hurry.
In his office at the Commissariat de Police, Inspector Banyuls also checked the time, registered the fact in his mind that the autobus from Forcalquier had just passed his window on schedule, and reached for the telephone as it began to ring again.