by Michael Bond
Monsieur Pamplemousse signalled for some more coffee. His own had gone cold. ‘And the price?’
‘They would keep half the money extorted from me. The rest would find its way back to her. After that she would disappear out of my life.
‘It looked all too easy in the beginning. The head was meant as a preliminary salvo; a warning of what was to come. It was a reasonable replica of my own. It ought to have been—I happen to know the man who made it; he is one of the best. The arrangement was that at the appointed time I would be sitting at that particular table—by the entrance. The people carrying out the operation were far removed from those who organised it and had never seen me. Afterwards there would have been a note demanding money. A large sum.
‘You can imagine her reaction when she was refused the table. Eva was not used to her requests being refused.
‘She always got what she wanted. When she discovered that you had actually ordered the same dish—not all that surprising in view of the fact that it is a speciality—she was almost beside herself with rage.
‘What was even worse from her point of view was that the people carrying out the task had by then got it fixed in their minds that you were the right target. Hence the second warning up on the hill the following morning. By then she was beginning to panic. She needed to contact them but didn’t know how. She needed time to put matters right and time was the one thing she didn’t have. That was when she tried to get you out of the way for a while by sawing through your balcony rail. One way and another you were a bit of a problem all round—from our point of view as well as hers. The local police had to be warned from on high not to be too interested.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse mulled this matter over in his mind. He wondered what would have happened if he’d agreed to take another table that first night. Perhaps that was what life was all about; choosing the right table—or the wrong one—whichever way one looked at it.
‘What I still don’t understand,’ he said at last, ‘is why I didn’t receive any demand notes. What went wrong?’
Giampiero smiled again. ‘They were addressed to me. I have them still. I tried to warn you to be on your guard, beyond that …’
It was said in exactly the same tone of voice as had been used for the rest of the story. Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a chill as he realised how narrow his escape had been.
How could anyone be so matter-of-fact about someone else’s life? Then he shrugged. Every man to his job. There was a time when he might well have acted in the same way.
‘I still find it incredible that you should carry off the charade of the false hands for so long and get away with it.’
‘Any more incredible than making people believe you have two false legs? I must say I believed that myself for a while. I felt very sorry for you.’
Giampiero had an answer to everything.
‘Besides, people tend to turn away from the abnormal. They don’t want to embarrass you. As far as Eva was concerned it was never an affaire d’amour. She was only too pleased to leave the consommation of our mariage until later. Sex was not her prime motivation. And although she didn’t know it, the marriage wasn’t for real anyway. The “priest” was from Interpol—the best man and all the other guests were from the office.’
Again there was a silence as Monsieur Pamplemousse digested the facts. He glanced around the square. The boules game was already under way. The window in the outfitter’s was in place. He looked up towards the mountains and thought of Doucette. Perhaps he would buy her a gazebo when they got back to Paris. He could stand it on their roof garden. Except that the sun would never be that strong. She would probably demand an electric fire. That would mean running a lead up. It was typical that she should take to it in such a bizarre way. Typical, also, that she had put the fear of God into her captors. They probably still didn’t know what had hit them. He hoped she was all right up there.
‘I shouldn’t worry.’ Giampiero broke into his thoughts. ‘They won’t come back.’
‘Shouldn’t you be chasing after them?’
Giampiero shrugged. ‘That is for others to do. I have finished my part. Besides, the Mafia in my country are very predictable. The moment the heat is on a link in the chain will be broken.’ He made a brief throat-cutting motion. ‘Someone along the line will quietly … disappear. We will never reach back to those that matter. The ones at the top.
‘As for Eva … I would not like to be in her shoes at the present moment.
‘Consider the facts. She made a deal. A deal involving a great deal of money. As soon as she heard about the shooting in the hospice yesterday she left, but they will catch up with her, make no mistake.
‘They have one great advantage. They know who she is, but she does not know them. One evening, wherever she is, there will be a knock at the door.
‘And when they catch up with her they will not let her out of their sight, not until the insurance money is paid out. And when they discover, as they will do in the fullness of time, that the money doesn’t exist, they will not be pleased.
‘I think we shall not hear of Eva again for a long time to come—if ever.’
Once again, the matter-of-fact tone in which it was said contrasted strangely with the life going on around them. They would go their separate ways and the ripples would die away. Working for Le Guide, where the biggest crime was a misprint, had its compensations.
He stood up. ‘Thank you. Perhaps we shall meet again one day.’
Giampero held out his hand. ‘Perhaps. It is a small world.’
‘It is like my insurance on Madame Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse meaningly. ‘That, too, is small.’
Giampiero smiled. ‘Ah, but have you ever enquired as to Madame Pamplemousse’s insurance on your life? That is a much more pertinent matter.’
‘Bonne chance to you, too!’
‘Ciaou!’
The exchange was automatic but without rancour.
Monsieur Pamplemousse left and made his way back into the hotel. For a moment he toyed with the idea of going back up to his room, but there was no point. His luggage was packed, a note left for Doucette.
His goodbyes had already been said to Madame Sophie. There had been a strangely muted meeting in her room the previous evening before dinner. He’d had no wish for a repeat performance of the activities earlier in the week now that Doucette was there. But he needn’t have worried—Madame Sophie had her own set of rules. It was a question of territories.
She had been all sweetness and light. She quite understood about Madame Pamplemousse and wished her well. She was lucky to have such a fine husband.
It was as if nothing had happened between them. But her farewell kiss had lingered in his mind and like a schoolboy he hadn’t washed before going down to dinner.
That same evening when he and Doucette arrived back in their room there was a fresh bouquet of flowers awaiting them. Doucette had attributed it to him and he hadn’t denied it for fear of sparking off a whole train of questions. For a while it had been like a honeymoon all over again. But the moment had been short-lived. There had been complaints about the missing balcony rail—someone might have got killed—disapproving sniffs arising out of the smell of stale smoke which still hung about the furnishings, implying that he’d taken up the ‘habit’ again; and a rather nasty scene about having to share the room with Pommes Frites.
Pommes Frites had been at his most unco-operative. When he didn’t want to be moved his weight seemed to grow four-fold, as did his snores. The ones he’d given vent to that night had been among the worst Monsieur Pamplemousse had ever known; like a herd of cows suffering the after effects of a particularly bacchanalian New Year’s Eve party.
Things were soon back to normal and breakfast had been taken in monastic silence. Shortly afterwards Madame Pamplemousse had left for the gazebo.
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced into the kitchen. Auguste was supervising the removal of some plastic bags of ice cubes from a work t
op. He must be about to make some pastry. As he caught sight of Monsieur Pamplemousse his face lit up and he waved to him to come in.
Motioning Pommes Frites to stay where he was, Monsieur Pamplemousse entered the holy of holies.
‘Forgive me,’ Auguste was already hard at work, up to his wrists in flour. ‘It is a large wedding and there is no one so hungry as those being given a free meal. Most of the guests will have been “saving themselves”.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse watched, wondering what the secret was. Why didn’t his pastry turn out like Auguste’s? Why didn’t Doucette’s for that matter? Why didn’t most people’s?
‘The secret?’ Auguste laughed. ‘There is no secret. A cold surface to work on. The pastry mix and the butter must be of exactly the same consistency. If the butter is too hard it will not roll out properly—it will go into lumps. If it is too soft it will spread. That is all. That and these …’ He held up his finger tips. ‘A lot of hard work with these.’
Perhaps, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. But how many bothered? Life was too short for most people. Therein lay the difference between those who were just content to make pastry and those who set their sights on higher things, like a third Stock Pot.
He said his goodbyes.
‘L’année prochaine?’ Auguste looked at him enquiringly.
‘L’année prochaine.’ Something inside him made him add, ‘Bonne chance,’ in a tone of voice which he hoped embraced all that had happened during his stay.
Auguste smiled. ‘Life goes on. If you are a thinker, then it makes you laugh; if you “feel” then it becomes a tragedy. Me?’ He lifted up the dough with both hands. ‘Me, I am happy with my pastry!’
His luggage was waiting for him in the hall. He paid his bill and asked for Madame Pamplemousse’s to be sent on.
Madame Sophie was still busy in the dining room. There had been another delivery from the fleuriste. She blew him a kiss with her eyes.
‘L’année prochaine?’
‘Oui, l’année prochaine.’ He’d keep his door double-locked next time. Or would he? Perhaps it would not be necessary.
The chambermaid carried his bags for him through to the back of the hotel where his car was parked. Her nose was held high in a permanent sniff. The bare patch of lawn marking the spot where the gazebo had been stood out like a sore thumb. He opened the car boot and felt in his pocket for some change while the maid bent over to put the bags in. Even her backside looked disapproving.
Suddenly, the sight of her skirts riding up over her buttocks proved irresistible. He did something he had never done before. He reached over and gave her a pinch. Her behind felt hard and unyielding.
The effect was instantaneous, if not entirely satisfactory; the sting from her hand extremely painful. The only consolation was that he’d saved himself ten francs. Pommes Frites obviously didn’t know quite what to make of it all as he clambered in on the passenger’s side and made himself comfortable.
The engine started immediately. He must change his battery more often.
As he backed the car to turn out of the hotel he realised someone was watching him from the shadows. Inevitably it was Inspector Banyuls. He must have witnessed the whole episode.
Inspector Banyuls undoubtedly had witnessed it. As Monsieur Pamplemousse came to a halt by the gate he leaned through the window.
‘Incredible!’ His breath was stale as though he hadn’t slept for several nights. ‘Tell me, how do you do it? A man of your age.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse thought for a moment and then, remembering something, reached for a small phial on the parcel shelf. He removed the top and shook a dozen or so pills into the inspector’s hand. ‘Take three or four of these before you go to bed tonight. You’ll find they will work wonders.’
Inspector Banyuls was too surprised to refuse. He stammered his thanks as the car moved off. ‘You are more than kind. I won’t forget.’
‘No, I’m sure you won’t!’ Feeling an unwinking gaze emanating from the passenger side, Monsieur Pamplemousse shifted uneasily in his seat. He wondered if he’d been over-generous. They were Pommes Frites’ pills, after all. Travelling about played havoc with one’s ‘systems’ and they were really kept for emergency use in case of constipation. Touch wood, he’d only had to use them once. In Le Touquet. As he remembered it, half a tablet had been more than sufficient. Inspector Banyuls was due for another sleepless night.
He took a last look round the square. As they drove past the office of the P.T.T. he wondered how long it would be before his parcel reached Paris.
It would have been nice to have stayed for lunch, but with a wedding breakfast going on the service would have been stretched. Besides, he had to make Rouen by Sunday. Ideally, that meant Clermont Ferrand by nightfall. If he went over the top by the Route Napoleon it would take longer than cutting across to Orange and the autoroute—it always did. But the weather was good, the sky blue and clear. It was an ideal day. He hadn’t known it quite so good before. Sometimes he’d gone that way and once up the mountains he could have been anywhere. When the cloud was low it was a waste of time.
A little way out of town he pulled into a small lay-by—a pimple on the side of the road which had been hacked into the hillside.
He looked back down towards St. Castille, nestling snugly in the valley. Through his binoculars he could see the square. Cars were beginning to arrive at the hotel. He glanced at his watch. Twelve thirty. The pace would be quickening imperceptibly. Felix would be at his place making sure all was well. Sophie would be welcoming the guests. Conversation would have stopped for the time being in the kitchen.
He wondered what his verdict should be on La Langoustine. Was it ready for a third Stock Pot? Was Auguste ready for it? Without a shadow of a doubt he should retain his second. But there were other considerations. Undoubtedly a third would change the lives of the Douards. Perhaps that was what Sophie needed. Another challenge. They would have to take on more staff. Prices would rise accordingly. The clientele would change. It was something he, personally, would regret, but he must not allow that aspect to colour his judgment.
One thing he knew for sure, Pommes Frites was ready for his lunch. Pommes Frites wasn’t all that keen on view’s—especially when he was hungry. As far as Pommes Frites was concerned, once you’d seen one valley, you’d seen the lot. He was getting restive.
Monsieur Pamplemousse made a mark in his notebook. He’d reached a decision. Now it was up to others. To the directeur of Le Guide.
He felt in the compartment beside the steering wheel and took out a small jar. It was time Pommes Frites had some vaseline rubbed on his nose. The hot weather had made it very dry. That, and all the sniffing he’d had to do over the past few days. It was something bloodhounds suffered from.
His ministrations completed, Monsieur Pamplemousse started the engine again. He would drive on a little way and look for a picnic spot. He was glad they’d decided on a picnic. Pommes Frites liked picnics and it was just the day for one.
Fastening Pommes Frites’ seat belt again he pulled out into the road and took a last quick look across to the other side of the valley, towards the hills where the gazebo lay … it sounded like the opening words to an English song he’d once heard. How did it go? … Over the hills where the gazebo lay …
As they rounded a corner and began the steep climb he tried it out, adding a few ‘toots’ from the car horn for good measure.
… over the hills, where the gazebo lay … toot! toot!
And my Doucette sits knitting all day … toot! toot!
Ooooooooh, over the hills … toot! toot!
Where seldom is heard,
A discouraging word,
For her mari is far, far away … toot! toot!’
Pommes Frites wagged his tail. He liked it when his master started to sing—especially when he sounded the horn at the same time for no apparent reason. It showed that all was well with the world and that the next meal wasn’t very far awa
y.
No dog could possibly ask for more.
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ALSO AVAILABLE BY MICHAEL BOND
MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE AFLOAT
MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE ON PROBATION
MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE ON VACATION
MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE HITS THE HEADLINES
MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE AND THE MILITANT MIDWIVES
MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE AND THE FRENCH SOLUTION
MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE AND THE CARBON FOOTPRINT
MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE AND THE TANGLED WEB
About the Author
MICHAEL BOND was born in Newbury, Berkshire in 1926 and started writing whilst serving in the army during the Second World War. In 1958 the first book featuring his most famous creation, Paddington Bear, was published and many stories of his adventures followed. In 1983 he turned his hand to adult fiction and the detective cum gastronome par excellence Monsieur Pamplemousse was born.
Michael Bond was awarded the OBE in 1997 and in 2007 was made an Honorary Doctor of Letters by Reading University. He is married, with two grown-up children, and lives in London.
By Michael Bond
Monsieur Pamplemousse
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Secret Mission
Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot
Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure
Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft
Monsieur Pamplemousse Investigates