by Michael Bond
What would it be this time? He couldn’t remember ever having had a day like it before. Apart from the matters he had dealt with personally, reports were coming in of other strange happenings in various quarters of the town. No part of St. Castille was without its problems. There was the mysterious affair of the old crone with six—or was it seven?—children, all of whom had decided to squat in the middle of the main road to Digne and were refusing to budge. They had better be moved before the autobus went on its way or there would be hell to pay. Already he could hear the sound of irate car horns.
Then there was the case of old Madame Ranglaret. She’d emptied an entire bucket of slops over some American tourists who’d been taking a stroll round the old part of the town and had had the misfortune to pass under her window at the time. In fact, not just one bucket, but, according to all accounts, three! One bucket might have been an accident—but three! Where she’d got them all from goodness only knew. Madame Ranglaret had probably never owned more than one bucket in the whole of her life.
As for Dupré. He regretted hanging up on him. He would have to make amends in some way. On reflection, he, Banyuls, would deal with the matter personally. Not for nothing had Monsieur Dupré contributed to the police funds over the years.
It was going to involve a lot of paperwork. As if he didn’t have enough on his plate already.
He picked up the receiver. ‘Banyuls here.’
But if Inspector Banyuls hoped for some kind of respite from his problems he was unlucky. As the voice at the other end spluttered forth its indignation he reached for a pad.
‘One moment … let me get that down. You say you are playing boules against a team from Digne … their pointeur had just committed a pousse-pousse.’
Inspector Banyuls was no boules player, but he knew enough about the game to appreciate that in some circles, the very serious circles—and St. Castille was in line to win the area championship, bowling a pousse-pousse—the act of making your ball end up as close to the cochonnet as possible and at the same time intentionally knocking your opponent’s ball out of the way—was considered de trop.
He could picture the scene in the Square du Centre; the strip of gravel under the plane trees behind the fountain; the group of elderly citizens with their berets, their Gauloises, and their own personal locker against the wall; perhaps a sprinkling of younger bloods privileged to join in; the click of the balls and the grunts and imprecations and arguments as the play went first one way and then another. They were all probably too engrossed in the game to even notice the outrage being perpetrated in Monsieur Dupré’s shop. Some, no doubt, were already looking forward to the traditional pan bagna after it was all over.
Placing his other hand over the receiver, he raised his eyebrows for the benefit of anyone who happened to be passing, and then realised that he was alone in the station. He must concentrate. It wasn’t easy, for his caller was more than a trifle incoherent.
‘Yes, yes, I understand. Your tireur was about to throw a carreau.’ He gave a sigh. Why was it that in all walks of life a certain mumbo-jumbo had to be created in order to add to the mystique? Why couldn’t the man simply say that the best thrower in the team was about to hurl his ball and try to knock his opponent’s one for six, leaving his own in its place? It would be much simpler.
‘Yes, I do know that Jean can crack a walnut at twenty paces, but I really do not see …’ It was hard to tell where the conversation was leading. Boules was undoubtedly an important matter, but …
‘What? You have lost your cochonnet? Do you mean to say you have been talking to me all this time about a lost ball? Really …
‘What?’ Inspector Banyuls jumped to his feet. ‘Would you mind repeating that? A man came out from the crowd of sightseers, picked up the cochonnet and did what with it? … He placed it in the letter box outside the P.T.T? The Autres Régions section? … Yes, yes, I know the P.T.T. does not reopen until fifteen hundred hours. I will be with you immediately.’
Slamming the receiver down, Inspector Banyuls reached for his belt and revolver.
Forces were at work in St. Castille which for the moment were beyond his understanding. There was a feeling of near anarchy in the air. But he would get to the bottom of it.
It was an unprecedented situation. Such a thing had never happened before. Not in his memory. The entire police force of the town was fully occupied. For the first time in its history he was going to have to lock up the station and leave it unattended.
Noting the time on his pad—fourteen twenty-three—he turned the key in the station door and made his way quickly towards the square. If he wasn’t careful there could be a lynching. Already a large crowd had collected.
Ahead of him, the autobus had disgorged its passengers and was making ready to leave again. Reluctantly, for the driver was craning his neck to see what was going on. A solitary female figure in a fur coat was just disappearing with some luggage into the Hôtel Langoustine. From behind the hotel there were sounds of activity—a crane was moving into position, its jib turning and the giant grappling hook swinging through the air as it set to work. Close by a lorry was backing through a gap in the wall, revving its engine impatiently.
In his room on the first floor of the hotel Monsieur Pamplemousse was taking his call.
‘… sorry to trouble you, Aristide. I wouldn’t normally have telephoned, but we only got the news this morning. It is terrible. Terrible.’
‘What news?’ For a moment Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t think what the other was talking about. Then he remembered. Time flew.
‘Oh, it wasn’t so bad. A bit of a shock at first. It was unexpected. It isn’t every day one finds a head on one’s plate. However, it’s kind of you to ring.’
‘A head?’ It was the turn of the voice at the other end to sound puzzled. ‘What head? I was telephoning about your accident. It is terrible news. Terrible. Both legs, I hear. The boys are arranging a collection.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse suppressed a groan. He wished he’d never thought of the idea. It seemed as though he would be plagued with it for the rest of his life; all for the sake of a momentary act of goodwill.
‘They can’t!’ he exclaimed. ‘They mustn’t.’
‘Nonsense! It’s the least we can do.’
‘But it isn’t like that.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse hovered between telling the truth with the risk of revealing all and embroidering his tale still further. If rumours could fly one way they could certainly fly the other. Perhaps a transplant? It was amazing what they could do these days. He would be able to return to Paris a new man. But two legs, and from whom? Two different ones? Perhaps one male and one female? Or even two female? Now, there was fuel for thought … A voice in his ear reminded him that the other was still speaking.
‘There, is talk of applying for a wheelchair through the Ministry. With your background …’
‘Look,’ he broke in, ‘I am saying there is no truth in the story—no truth whatsoever. But for the moment, while I am still here in St. Castille, I would rather it wasn’t spoken about. I will explain it all when I get back to base.’
‘No truth?’ The voice at the other end sounded almost disappointed.
‘I swear on my copy of Le Guide. The two legs I am standing on at this moment are not only flesh and blood, they are my own, as they always have been. As for the collection—you must give the money back at once. All of it. It would be most embarrassing …’
‘Oh, that’s O.K. No trouble there. You know how it is … the end of the month … most people out on the road … the Directeur always in conference. To tell you the truth, we haven’t actually got very much yet. Everyone sends their felicitations, of course. The thing is …’
‘Well?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried not to sound aggrieved.
‘That’s the other reason I’m phoning. To warn you …’
‘Warn me?’
‘I wouldn’t be in your shoes right now, that’s for sure. Hey, can you sta
nd a shock?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse could have sworn the voice at the other end was about to break into a chuckle. He glanced at his watch impatiently. It was almost half past two. His coffee would be stone cold.
‘Speak up, do.’ He could hardly hear for the noise outside. The builders must be back at work earlier than usual. Apart from the rattle of the crane there was an infernal roar from one of the lorries. Above it all he suddenly heard a long drawn out howl from Pommes Frites.
‘One moment.’ Holding the receiver at arm’s length he crossed to the balcony. As he reached out to pull the shutters closed he glanced down into the courtyard below. Pommes Frites appeared to be struggling to free himself from his kennel. For some reason or other—perhaps a nightmare following his lunch—he must have stood up too quickly. He looked for all the world like an arctic explorer dressed in one of those bulbous waterproof jackets that were all the rage. As he watched, Pommes Frites managed to struggle free at last and ran barking across the garden, peering upwards as he did so.
Monsieur Pamplemousse followed his gaze and suddenly became transfixed at the sight which met his eyes.
There, not a stone’s throw away, rising inexorably into the air on the end of the crane’s cable, was the gazebo. The very same gazebo in which he’d been sitting only moments before. The hook on the end of the cable had been slipped through the steel ring which surmounted it. Miraculously his coffee things and the empty Armagnac glass were still in place on the table.
But it wasn’t any of these trivial details or the mournful sound of Pommes Frites’ howls that caused him to blanch; it was the sight of a solitary white-faced occupant, clutching a parasol with one hand and the side of the gazebo with the other as it swung in a circular motion while the crane shunted back on its rails.
Before he had a chance to call out, the jib moved away from the window. The movement sent the hut spinning, as with more haste than finesse it began lowering it on the other side of the garden wall.
‘Hullo! Hullo!’ A series of whistling noises brought Monsieur Pamplemousse back to earth again with the realisation that he was still holding the telephone receiver. He held it up to his ear.
‘Ah, there you are. What on earth’s going on? As I was saying, this may come as a bit of a shock, but you see … when your wife heard the news she left for St. Castille at once. There was nothing we could do to stop her. She should be with you any moment now. I thought I had better warn you …’
The rest of the words were lost as there came a roar of an engine. Monsieur Pamplemousse gripped the receiver in his clenched hand as he leaned out of the window across the balcony to see what was happening.
‘Doucette has not only arrived,’ he said grimly, ‘she has already left again. She came past my window not ten seconds ago in a gazebo, and at this very moment she is on the back of a lorry speeding God knows where … Pommes Frites is about to set off in pursuit, but I fear the worst.’
They were the last words he was to utter for some while. Straining to the utmost in order to follow the progress of the lorry he made a grab for the rail and realised all too late that it was no longer there. He felt himself falling. Halfway down he remembered he’d moved Pommes Frites’ kennel. Then everything went black.
8
FRIDAY MORNING
‘I am sorry to disturb you.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse stirred and shook himself awake. Ever since his fall he’d been confoundedly sleepy, hardly able to keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time. His mouth felt dry. He suspected drugs but had no recollection of being given any.
He sat up and gazed at Inspector Banyuls, poised at the side of the bed, note-book in hand.
‘What time is it?’
‘Eleven thirty in the morning.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse concentrated his thoughts. ‘It can’t be,’ he said at last. ‘I remember very clearly having lunch at the Bar du Centre …’
Inspector Banyuls allowed himself one of his rare smiles. ‘That was yesterday—Thursday. Today is Friday. Friday morning. As I was saying, I do not wish to disturb you … for obvious reasons.’ He nodded towards a large mound at the bottom of the bed. ‘But if we are to have any success in our search we must have a description.’
‘Friday?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked instinctively for his watch. A lighter patch of flesh marked where it had been. He had a momentary feeling of panic, as if a lifeline had been cut off. Then, to his relief, he saw it on the table beside the bed. Alongside it was his favourite Cross pen. He reached for the watch, checked Banyuls’ statement, and slipped it back on his wrist. Things were slowly swimming into place. The telephone call. The gazebo. Doucette … the broken balcony … Pommes Frites barking as he ran off in pursuit of the lorry …
‘I repeat. We must have a description.’
‘Of course … I understand. Let me see …’ This was no good. No good at all. He must concentrate.
‘Fairly large, I would say. Tall, that is … not in weight. The weight is about forty-five to fifty kilograms. Deeply sunk eyes—a mixture of hazel and yellow. Large ears. Looks rather sorrowful. The hair … the hair is a mixture of colours. Black and tan with a little red here and there, flecked with white on the chest …’
Inspector Banyuls carried on making notes for a moment or two. His writing was like his moustache; small, thin, precise and well cared for. When he finally caught up with his words and read through them he let out a whistle.
‘Morbleu! She sounds formidable. No wonder you holiday alone. Tell me, how long have you been married?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at him pityingly. ‘Married? I am not talking of my wife. I am talking of Pommes Frites.’
Inspector Banyuls seemed to have some difficulty in swallowing. Tearing off the page, he screwed it up into a tight ball and tossed it into a wastebin.
‘I am not,’ he said at long last, ‘I never have been, and I never will be interested in Pommes Frites. I have better things to do with my time than look for stray dogs. Besides, he ate my best clue.’ He made it sound like a schoolboy complaining about a lost ball.
Monsieur Pamplemousse glared at him. ‘And I,’ he said, drawing himself up as high as he could in the circumstances, ‘have better things to do with my time than talk to nincompoops. How dare you talk of Pommes Frites in that way! You are not fit to tread the same ground he walks on. If you were lost together in the Sahara desert you would not deserve a sip at his water bowl. The sad fact is that he would readily allow it whereas it wouldn’t even cross your tiny mind to share yours with him. If he is not found and found quickly I shall hold you personally responsible. And if any harm comes to him in the meantime I would not care to be in your shoes.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse sank back into his pillow, exhausted by the effort of his outburst, and awaited a return barrage. But to his surprise, the reply when it came was unusually mild.
Inspector Banyuls snapped his note-book shut and fastened it carefully with an elastic band. ‘I realise,’ he said, ‘that you are a little overwrought after your … experience, therefore I shall ignore those remarks. I will return later in the day when you are more amenable to conversation.’
He crossed to the door and then paused and looked curiously at Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Why are you here? What exactly are you doing in St. Castille?’
‘I have already told you. I am here on holiday.’
Inspector Banyuls shrugged. ‘I ask,’ he said, ‘because when you were brought in, this,’ he reached into an inner pocket and withdrew another note-book which he tossed on to the end of the bed, ‘this was found strapped to your … er … leg.’ Once again Monsieur Pamplemousse was aware of an odd hesitation. ‘It appears to contain entries about various rendez-vous—St. Castille included. All written in some kind of code. It is also,’ he continued pointedly, ‘full of holes.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse breathed a sigh of relief. To have had his true identity revealed would have been bad enough, but to have lost his
precious note-book into the bargain would have been much, much worse. Its accumulation of riches would be hard to replace even though much of it had found its way into Le Guide.
He thought quickly. ‘I am conducting a survey of the police forces of France,’ he said maliciously. ‘The holes are where I feel improvements could be made. If you look closely you will see there is a large one opposite St. Castille.’
But he was addressing a changed Inspector Banyuls. For some reason best known to himself he refused to be drawn. In any case, before he had time to reply the door opened and there was a rustle of starched linen as the ward sister—a nun—entered the room, signalling that it was time to leave. The door closed again and he heard a murmur of voices in the corridor outside. The sister appeared to be laying down the law regarding something about which Inspector Banyuls, to judge from the sceptical tone of his voice, remained unconvinced.
Monsieur Pamplemousse took stock of his surroundings. Obviously he was in some kind of hospice. Probably the one he’d seen on the edge of the town. From the view through the window he judged himself to be on an upper floor. A half-open door led to an adjoining bathroom. His suitcase was on a stand just inside the door. Slipping out of bed he crossed to it and lifted the lid. Everything appeared to be intact. Clothes, neatly folded, some untouched reading matter. A smaller case bearing an embossed stock pot on its lid, containing among other things his Leica R4 and Trinovid binoculars, property of Le Guide, was safe. The directeur would not have been pleased if on top of all else that had been lost. He unlocked the case, slipped the binoculars out of their compartment, and crossed to the window. His guess was correct. He was on the fifth floor. The window faced the mountains, affording much the same view as the one he’d enjoyed at La Langoustine. Somewhere out there in all probability was Doucette. Doucette and Pommes Frites.