Monsieur Pamplemousse (Monsieur Pamplemousse Series)

by Michael Bond

  He put the binoculars away again, relocked the case and climbed back into bed, slipping his feet beneath the wire cage which was the cause of the large lump at the bottom. He couldn’t imagine why it was there. He felt his legs. Apart from a slight soreness where he’d been hit by the shot and the aggravation caused by Sophie’s sandpapering, they seemed fine. In fact, taken all round, give or take a little stiffness here and there, he felt remarkably fit; none the worse for his fall.

  He took a closer look at the room. On the wall near the door was a sampler. ‘GOD GIVE ME PATIENCE’, and underneath the words, ‘BUT PLEASE MAKE IT SOON’. He was definitely in the hospice. The humour bore all the signs of a Catholic mind at work.

  By his bed, on top of the cupboard, there was a glass and a bottle of Vichy water.

  He sniffed. There was an all-pervading smell of flowers in the room, and yet he could see none.

  Climbing out of bed for the second time, he pulled aside a screen across a corner near the window and identified the source.

  Back in bed he stared at it, trying to decide what it could possibly mean. To say that he had been sent flowers was the understatement of the year. It looked like the entire stock of a fleuriste. There were flowers in vases and in jugs; there were posies, arrangements—someone had obviously gone to a great deal of trouble. In the middle of them all—the centrepiece in fact—was a large, glass-fronted cabinet containing, of all things, his wooden legs. He recognised the charred ends where the bed had caught fire. But why on earth had they been put inside a glass case? And why all the flowers? Above it there was a carved figurine of the crucifixion. It was like a shrine.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse lay back pondering the matter for a while and he had almost fallen asleep again when he was woken by a tap on the door.

  ‘Come in.’ He sat up, rubbing his eyes drowsily and opened them to see a young novice coming towards him carrying a large parcel and some smaller mail: a packet and two postcards. She hovered uneasily beside the bed and then placed the parcel gingerly on the counterpane as if it was some kind of a bomb about to explode. Stepping back quickly, she blushed and then crossed herself. Her expression seemed to be a mixture of disbelief and disappointment. Rather as if yet another illusion in her young life had been shattered; her choice of calling confirmed.

  He saw why. The parcel was from Poupées Fantas­tiques. The label would have been recognisable a kilo­metre away.

  ‘Merci.’ There seemed nothing else to say.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse followed the girl with his eyes as she turned towards the glass cabinet, crossed herself a second time, and then fled from the room as if the Devil himself was behind her. Thank the Lord he was fit and well and not in there for treatment. If all the staff crossed themselves every time they did anything, woe betide anyone who was in there hoping for a quick operation.

  He read the first of the two postcards. If the writing was familiar the words were equally so. It bore a Paris postmark and it was from Doucette in reply to the one he’d sent her when he arrived at La Langoustine. His own card, as always, had taken a good deal of time to write. He remembered it very clearly. ‘This is a picture of my room (the one marked with a cross) and below it is the garden. Now they have a gazebo where every lunch time I sit and have my café and think of you.’ Doucette’s was brief and to the point. ‘It is the same room you always stay in! Do they have no other cards?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse turned to the second one. On the front there was a picture of the Roman theatre at Orange and on the back another message from Doucette, this time full of regrets and wanting to see him. It must have been written while she was waiting for the autobus to St. Castille. Poor Doucette.

  The packet was marked ‘CONFIDENTIEL’ and looked official. He tore the envelope open. The con­tents would have confirmed Banyuls’ worst suspicions about his presence there. From a friend in ballistics, it dealt with the bullet case Pommes Frites had brought him the morning of the shooting in Place Napoleon.

  It told him nothing that meant anything. It was much as he had expected. The cartridge was a 7.5 × 54 m.m. match quality. Probably fired from a French FR-F1 Tireur d’Elite sniper’s rifle. Ten-shot, manually oper­ated, bolt action. Now obsolete. There was a lot of other information about availability of silencers and other accessories, mostly technical and mostly meaning­less. It was of a type common in the French Army, and doubtless on the black market as well; an observation confirmed by a newspaper cutting which was attached, reporting a recent raid on an Army barracks in the South where amongst others fifty such weapons had been stolen.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse turned his attention to another newspaper cutting. This time from an Italian newspaper. There was a picture of a familiar figure waving two bandaged hands jubilantly in the air. Italian wasn’t his strong suit, but as far as he could make out the cause of the celebration was the winning by Giampiero of his claim for damages against his employers. No figure was mentioned, simply the fact that a settlement had been reached out of court for a sum believed to be in excess of five thousand million Italian lire … that was … he did some quick mental arithmetic … that was more than twenty million French francs. No wonder Giampiero had said there was a lot at stake.

  He stared at the cutting for a moment or two. Strange, but it was not quite as he had explained it. Giampiero hadn’t mentioned it being settled out of court. He checked the date at the top. It was almost a year ago to the day. He looked at the item again. Unusually for an Italian paper, there was no human interest angle—just the bare facts. Perhaps by then the whole thing was already passé.

  He lay back again and closed his eyes. In his mind he had already accepted the possibility that Giampiero was right and that he had become the target for, to use the well worn phrase, ‘persons unknown’. There was no other explanation. Despite the fact that over the years he had on more than one occasion been the subject of an attack of revenge it had always been little more than a storm in a tea-cup. A temporary mental derangement of someone with a grudge to bear. If you carried on as usual it went away again, but this was different. The present series of attacks bore all the hallmarks of the Mafia; there was obviously more than one person involved—several in fact. The head he had been served up with on the first night had obviously been meant as a warning. Quite probably the attack on the hill the next day was meant that way too. If they had intended to kill him they would have used some­thing more powerful than a shotgun.

  The episode with the car? That was another matter again. It had been a narrow squeak, but he doubted very much if they had been out to kill him.

  The sawing through of his balcony rails? Somehow that didn’t fit in with the rest. It was an inconclusive thing to do, more the act of someone who wanted to get him out of the way for some reason or other.

  He had his own theory as to the identity of the person responsible. The perfume that night in the toilet had been unmistakable, unique. The wearer, he knew, had the cold hard eyes of someone quite capable of wielding a hacksaw to good effect if the occasion de­manded. Proving it would be another matter. Some­thing Banyuls could have got his teeth into if he’d felt inclined, which he obviously didn’t; his mind was on other things.

  As for the bullet—the spent case for which even now lay on his bed—that, too, could have been an intended warning. Pommes Frites must have thought it important since he’d brought it back for him, and he trusted Pommes Frites’ judgment in these matters.

  His thoughts turned to Pommes Frites. He would never forgive himself if anything happened to him. Not that he thought for one moment that anything would. Pommes Frites was well able to take care of himself. Doucette he was even less worried about. Since he was so clearly the target, he and no one else, he couldn’t believe that they would do her any harm. More than likely she would give as good as she got and they would be glad to be rid of her. Doucette had a sharp tongue when she was roused. All the same, he wouldn’t get any peace until he saw both of them again alive and well.
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  Another strange thing was the lack of any note. If what Giampiero had guessed at was true there should by now have been some kind of demand. At the very least after the first evening.

  He wondered for a moment about Giampiero’s relationship with Eva. On the surface it seemed an unlikely combination, and yet both in their own way were shadowy figures. Apart from a few brief encounters in the restaurant he’d hardly set eyes on the girl since he arrived; at least he had talked to Giampiero. Of the two he instinctively liked and trusted Giampiero, and yet …

  Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up his pen. It was time for a list. A setting out of all the relevant facts in chronological order, beginning with his arrival on the Monday evening.

  What day did Banyuls say it was now? Friday? It was incredible to think that he’d been in St. Castille for less than four whole days. So much had happened it felt more like a month.

  But before he had time to marshal his thoughts, let alone put pen to paper, he heard the sound of approaching voices in the corridor. Lots of voices. They paused outside his room. It sounded like some kind of delegation. Mon Dieu! What was it now?

  He hadn’t long to wait. The door burst open and a flood of white-coated students poured through. Led by the large and authoritative figure of a surgeon and accompanied by the sister and a younger nun carrying some X-ray plates, they headed towards his bed.

  Totally ignoring him, they gathered round the foot and waited expectantly while the sister untucked the top sheet.

  ‘Voilà!’ Taking the end from her, the surgeon threw it back over the top of the cage like a conjuror demon­strating his latest and most ambitious trick.

  If a flock of pigeons had emerged Monsieur Pample­mousse couldn’t have been more taken aback, and he was hardly prepared for the response accorded this relatively simple act.

  The applause as the audience bent down to take a closer look was spontaneous and genuine. Mingled with it there was a feeling of awe, almost as if those present felt they were witnessing some big break­through in the medical world; a moment of truth to which they had been admitted as privileged beings.

  Given the cool draught which had suddenly blown up beneath his nightshirt, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt he hardly warranted such appreciation, gratifying though it was.

  But his moment of glory was short-lived. Leaving the bedclothes to fall where they might, the surgeon strode across to the window and signalled for the X-ray plates.

  Levering himself up in bed, Monsieur Pamplemousse strained in vain to get a better view. Nor, for that matter, could he catch more than a few passing words, and those that did come his way were hardly reassuring.

  Lowering his voice in the manner of doctors the world over when discussing the fate of their patients, the surgeon held forth while the others gathered round him like members of a rugby scrum. If Monsieur Pamplemousse had thrown a ball in—or better still, the bed pan—he felt sure it would have come flying out again.

  There were a lot of sucking-in noises as one or two of the students drew breath in surprise and several times he caught the word amputer. It was a word that seemed to bother the sister almost as much as it did him, but for very different reasons. It wasn’t so much that she was against the idea; she didn’t want it to happen before the arrival of the évêque. Though what he would want with a bishop, or a bishop with him, Monsieur Pamplemousse had no idea.

  A second school of thought seemed to favour a series of exploratory operations in the interim period. Découvert was the word used.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse had a profound mistrust of the medical profession. They had a habit of removing things without so much as a by-your-leave, or even a second’s thought as to whether or not they could get them all back in again, and he had no wish to be tampered with unless there was a very good reason.

  Finally, he was unable to stand it a moment longer.

  ‘When, or how, or why I arrived in this hospital,’ he bellowed, ‘I have no idea. But I arrived with at least one of everything to which I am entitled, two where there should be two, and that is how I intend leaving. I demand to see whoever is in charge immediately. I know my rights.’

  Silence greeted his outburst for a second or two. Even the surgeon was momentarily struck dumb. Obviously, the thought of a patient having any kind of rights was an entirely new concept, and one outside his experience.

  The sister hurried forward, anxious to pour oil on troubled waters. ‘Now, now, we mustn’t behave like that.’

  ‘We?’ barked Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘We are not. I am. And I repeat, I am having no more tablets, no more injections, no more talk of exploratory oper­ations, no more anything until I learn exactly what is going on.

  ‘As for you, Monsieur.’ He glared across at the surgeon. ‘If you or any of your colleagues come within a kilometre of me with one of your wretched knives, or if I hear the word amputer once more it will be you who are in need of a transplant, not me. I hesitate to go into details while there are ladies present, but by the time I have finished you may well wish to join them in taking the vow.’

  Not displeased with his effort, Monsieur Pample­mousse lay back in his bed again with his hands clasped and watched while his visitors filed out looking suitably cowed.

  As soon as they had disappeared he reached over and poured himself some Vichy water. Being in hospital was improving neither his temper nor his liver.

  He was about to return to his list when there was yet another knock at the door. He closed his eyes. Let them all come. It was getting to be like the Gare de Lyon at the start of the holiday season. Who was it to be this time?

  The answer was framed in the doorway. It was Inspector Banyuls again. The new, conciliatory Banyuls. A Banyuls, nevertheless, who, catching sight of the parcel on the bed, couldn’t resist a dig.

  ‘Sacrebleu!’ he exclaimed. ‘You never give up, Pamplemousse. Even in hospital, you never give up.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse tried mentally counting up to ten. He wondered whether the inspector had taken some sort of course for saying the wrong thing or whether it just came naturally. If he had taken a course he must undoubtedly have come out top of his year.

  The inevitable note-book appeared. ‘You will be pleased to know, Pamplemousse, that progress has been made.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his heart miss a beat. His opinion of Banyuls went up. ‘You mean … Doucette? Pommes Frites has found Doucette?’

  Inspector Banyuls shook his head. He seemed to find the interruption annoying. ‘We have found your car battery!’

  ‘My battery?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse repeated the words as if in a dream.

  ‘I thought you would be pleased. It appears to have been damaged in some way. I doubt if it is usable. We found it in a local garage. Whoever was responsible for the theft brought it in on the back of a bicycle and changed it for a new one suitable for a Deux Chevaux.

  ‘What is more, we have a very full description of the person. Make no mistake. We shall bring him to book.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse lay very still, trying to make up his mind whether the inspector was being serious or not. He decided that incredible though it was he had yet to match the description in his note­book with the patient in front of him. But Inspector Banyuls obviously had other things on his mind.

  Putting his note-book away, he approached the end of the bed.

  ‘May I?’ he enquired. And without waiting for a reply he lifted up the counterpane and peered under­neath.

  ‘Curious,’ he said. ‘Most curious. You will not mind if we send someone round to photograph them?’

  ‘Them?’ A dreadful thought entered Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind. Perhaps he had suffered some terrible injury. An injury so bad no one had dared tell him. He dismissed the idea, but only with difficulty.

  ‘Let them all come,’ he said, putting on a brave face. ‘I am past caring. All I wish for at the moment is that someone should tell me what is going on. Not a single person comes into this room without they l
ift up my bed-sheets. I am beginning to feel like some side-show in a travelling circus.’

  It was Inspector Banyuls’ turn to look puzzled. ‘You mean … you really do not know?’

  ‘That is exactly what I mean.’

  Inspector Banyuls crossed to the window and stood for a moment looking out in silence, then he turned. When he spoke again he was obviously choosing his words with care.

  ‘The people in this part of the world are people of the mountains. They are insular—like islanders. Suspicious of strangers, and very superstitious.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse listened with interest. He couldn’t for the life of him think what the other was leading up to.

  ‘Some say one thing, some another. Rumours are rife. There are those, like the good Mother Superior, who maintain that it is the work of God. Others say the opposite. Already a maid in the hotel has come forward to give evidence of things she has seen. She has pro­duced part of a mattress with a hole burned in the middle to substantiate her views. A statement has been taken. Speaking for myself, I am keeping an open mind.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse ground his teeth. ‘Banyuls,’ he said, slowly and deliberately, ‘you are a good man, but will you please stop beating about the bush and answer my question. Why am I being kept in here?’

  The inspector moved away from the window and placed himself in a strategic position between the bed and the door. He pointed towards the glass case in the corner. ‘You are here,’ he said, ‘for the very simple reason that yesterday afternoon when you fell from your balcony you were a man with two wooden legs. Moments later, when you were found, you had two real ones. It is not every day the people of St. Castille are privileged to bear witness to a miracle in their midst.

  ‘There is, of course, a third faction—the disbelievers, or should I say the agnostiques.’ He shrugged. ‘But then, there always will be, whatever the subject.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t resist the obvious question.

  ‘And you, Banyuls, to which faction do you belong?’