by Michael Bond
His presence was unnecessary. Madame was quite capable of dealing with the situation; her vocabulary was more than equal to the task. No conceivable occupation, no possible country of origin was omitted from the list of permutations she flung at the unwelcome intruder. Her performance drew a round of applause.
Pursued by cries of ‘vieille toupie, vieille bique, boche, rastaquouère’, pausing only to indulge herself in the luxury of that classic gesture of contempt – ‘le bras d’honneur’ the slapping of the right arm above the elbow by the palm of the left, causing the former to rise sharply upwards, the old woman disappeared along the promenade rather faster than she arrived.
‘Pardon, Monsieur. Poof! L’alcoolo!’ The Madame squeezed her way past.
Monsieur Pamplemousse offered his thanks, then bent down and reached under the table. In her haste to leave, the old crone had dropped her bottle. He looked at it thoughtfully, then raised it to his nose and cautiously sniffed the opening. It smelled of honeysuckle.
He wondered. The bottle was empty, but according to the label it had once contained wine from Savennières, an area just to the north of Angers; a Coulée de Serrant at that – something of a rarity. Not the usual tipple of a wino. And if the lingering bouquet was anything to go by, it had been opened quite recently.
There was something else that bothered him. The old woman had been close enough for him to have caught the full force of any bodily odours she might have had. Expecting the worst – the nauseating, overpoweringly sweet smell which only the extremely unwashed manage to achieve – he’d instinctively drawn himself back. But it hadn’t been like that at all. What little scent he’d detected had really been quite pleasant; more male oriented than female. He was no great expert, but if he’d been asked he would have said it was that of a fairly expensive after-shave.
Hearing a commotion going on behind him, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned in his seat. It didn’t need any great powers of detection to see what had happened and to arrive at an immediate solution. While everyone’s attention had been focused on the goings-on with the old woman, someone had helped themselves to the steak.
In looking for the culprit, the one advantage he had over the others was that he could see Pommes Frites under the table and they couldn’t. Pommes Frites had his eyes closed, but his face said it all. It could have been summed up in the one word – extase. And if concrete rather than circumstantial evidence were called for, salivary tests would have been money down the drain. His lips were covered in meat juice. Others may have abandoned their cutlery, but it took a lot to put Pommes Frites off his food.
Monsieur Pamplemousse called for the bill. On the pretext of feeling unwell he paid it as soon as it came and left without waiting for the change. It was only a matter of time before those around him realised what had happened, and when they did, one thing was very certain, it would not be an ideal moment to broach the subject of a room for the night.
He had left the car in a space a little way along the front, and as he walked towards it felt in a quandary. He could hardly punish Pommes Frites in front of all the people in the Hôtel. It would give the game away.
On the other hand, as with a small child, punishment needed to be carried out immediately – otherwise it would be extremely unfair. Pommes Frites would think it was yet another unprovoked assault and he would be most unhappy.
That was another thing. Far from looking repentant, Pommes Frites’ behaviour was entirely the opposite. Goodness as well as repleteness shone from his eyes. A halo would not have looked out of place; one of the larger sizes. He looked for all the world like a bloodhound who felt himself in line for a medal for services rendered.
Monsieur Pamplemousse was still puzzling over what to do for the best when they reached the car. He let Pommes Frites into the back and was about to climb in himself when he paused and looked across the road, hardly able to believe what he saw.
It was the old woman again. She was skulking behind the Sanisette. Worse still, she was clearly beckoning to him. Even as he watched she lifted up her skirt suggestively and started performing a jig. It was not a pretty sight. With the total dedication of a Cartier-Bresson and throwing caution to the winds, Monsieur Pamplemousse pointed his camera in her direction and once again used up the rest of his film. Fortunately, he had left the motor wind on his camera. At least it was all over quickly.
Slamming the 2CV into gear, Monsieur Pamplemousse manoeuvred it out of the parking space. The thought uppermost in his mind was to put as much distance between himself and Port St. Augustin as he could in the fastest possible time.
At the roundabout opposite the Mairie he took the road signposted to Nantes. If he did nothing else that afternoon, at least he could dispatch his films to Headquarters. If he was in time to put them on an afternoon train, Trigaux in the art department would have them first thing in the morning. With luck, they would be processed and on their way back to him by the end of the day.
After that he might call in at a local vétérinaire. Pommes Frites’ behaviour had really been most peculiar. It was quite out of character, and totally against his past training. To behave badly once was forgivable, but twice in one morning was not. Either the wound in his nose was troubling him – it could be that there was something in the ink – or there was another, less obvious, cause. Whatever the reason, it definitely needed looking into.
And after that … after that he would stop at a fleuriste and buy some flowers for the girl. He could call in with them later that afternoon.
It was early evening before Monsieur Pamplemousse finally got back to the hotel. He parked his car unobtrusively between two British cars, an elderly Rover and a Bentley, and unpacked his luggage.
The news of Yasmin was not good. She had been sent to a larger hospital in Nantes where they had more specialist treatment. He could have kicked himself for not telephoning first, for he must have passed within half a kilometre of her while he was there. At least the flowers were being sent on.
The doctor at the local hospital had been very cagey and full of questions.
‘Did she drink?’
‘Was she addicted to drugs?’
The answer to all of them was he didn’t know. Given her occupation, it seemed unlikely.
‘No, there was no point in going to see her. She wasn’t allowed visitors.’ It was all very depressing.
He had hoped to creep back up to his room unnoticed, but the owner of the Ty Coz was behind the reception desk.
‘Monsieur is back!’
‘Oui.’ He tried to make it sound as though he had never intended leaving.
The owner looked at his cases. ‘We had thought …’
‘I had need of them,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply.
‘Ah!’
‘Now, if you will excuse me …’
‘Un moment, Monsieur. There is a letter for you. It came during dîner last night, but you had already retired to your room. I would have given it to you this morning with your petit déjeuner, but …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse was left in no doubt as to where the fault lay.
The envelope was plain. On the outside it said simply ‘Monsieur Pamplemousse, Ty Coz’. He didn’t recognise the writing.
‘There was no other message?’ He slid his thumb under the flap and removed a single sheet of white paper.
‘Non, Monsieur. It must have been delivered by hand while everyone was busy in the restaurant. It was found on the desk.’
He read the note several times. It was brief and to the point: the salient words were heavily underlined.
‘I must see you. Please do not come to me. I will come to you, later tonight after the show. Take great care!’
It was signed Yasmin.
His mind in a whirl, Monsieur Pamplemousse slipped the note back into its envelope. If only he’d taken the bull by the horns and gone to the circus the night before … But he hadn’t, so there was no point in wishing he had. All the same, he couldn’t rid his mind of Madame Caoutchouc’s parting words – th
e one word the girl had repeated over and over again as she was taken away.
He suddenly realised the owner was talking to him. ‘Pardon.’
‘Monsieur will be wanting dîner tonight?’
‘Non.’ He folded the letter and slipped it into an inside pocket. ‘Non, merci.
‘Pommes Frites and I are going to the circus. I doubt if we shall be back until late.’
5
A TOUCH OF PNEUMATICS
Madame Caoutchouc had been wrong in prophesying that no one would be going to the circus. Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself at the tail end of a long queue and spent the next fifteen minutes shuffling along at a snail’s pace while he reflected on the strange make-up of human beings. Tragedy acted like a magnet. In the past he’d known people drive for miles in order to visit the scene of a particularly gruesome murder, often bringing the entire family with them so that they could make a day of it. Listening to some of the conversations going on around him it was obvious many of those present were enjoying a vicarious pleasure in discussing the gory details. Everyone had their theories. Overnight, people who had probably never done anything more adventurous than stand on the seat of a garden swing had become experts on the trapeze. He chose not to listen. Half of them wouldn’t have been there normally. One couple had travelled all the way from Rennes, nearly one hundred and fifty kilometres away. He wondered what Yasmin herself would have thought had she known.
The noise was deafening. The side shows in the Fair were doing a roaring trade. Overall there was a strange acrid-sweet smell, a mixture of candy-floss, greasy frankfurters, and smoke from a crêperie. He was glad they had stopped for a bite to eat in St. Nazaire on the way back, otherwise he would have felt ravenous and he might have been tempted. His liver would have suffered. As it was, once he’d got his ticket he gladly made his escape from the crowd and joined Pommes Frites in the car while he waited for nine o’clock.
A clown on stilts passed by on the other side of the road, drumming up custom; hardly necessary in the circumstances, but it was probably part of a set routine. A small group of children followed on behind, shouting words of encouragement. One, braver than the rest, tried to push him over and received a clip around the back-side from a walking-stick for his pains. A cheer went up. Loud speakers outside the Big Top blared forth unintelligible announcements at intervals. He heard the sound of a lion roaring, but in the general hubbub it was hard to tell whether it was the real thing or simply a recording. If he could judge by what he had seen that morning, he strongly suspected the latter.
He glanced round. Oblivious to it all, Pommes Frites was fast asleep on the back seat next to his bag of ballast. Opening the glove compartment, Monsieur Pamplemousse took out a pocket torch and shone it on his watch. It showed five minutes to nine. There was still time enough to stroll round the outside of the circus before taking his seat. If past experience with travelling circuses was anything to go by it was unlikely to start on time. Probably most of those running the sideshows were involved in one way or another and would need to make a quick change.
He was right. By the time he reached the Fair half the stalls already had their shutters up and the rest were following suit. Nearly all the crowd had disappeared. The only noise came from a giant electric generator parked near the carrousel. There was an air of suppressed excitement overall. Madame Caoutchouc, looking darkly voluptuous, came out of her caravan wearing a patterned dressing-gown over her costume. As she reached the tent belonging to the smallest man in the world, she paused and called out. A moment later she was joined by a midget dressed as a clown, and together they made their way towards the Big Top.
Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered whether to follow on behind, then he decided to explore the waste area near the back of the circus one more time. He had no idea what he was looking for, let alone where to start, but the sight of the girl’s car still parked in the same place reminded him of the need to do something, however trivial-seeming.
He glanced around. There was an element missing, but he couldn’t for the moment think what it could be. The BMW was in exactly the same place, alongside the generator lorry, but the blue van had been moved further away. He shone his torch on the tail-board. There were patches of mud which he hadn’t registered earlier in the day. They looked fresh. The thin splashes had dried hard, but thick areas were still damp, and dark in colour. The rear wheels were covered with mud as well and there were bits of grass sticking to the walls of the tyres. He knelt down and felt the ground. There were marks which looked as though something heavy had been dragged along the surface.
Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to check the front of the van when he felt rather than saw a light go out in a nearby caravan. Switching off the torch, he backed into the shadows and waited. There was the whine of an electric motor, followed by the sound of a door being opened and shut. It was followed by the metallic click of a key being turned in a lock. The whole process was repeated. Then footsteps muffled by the grass passed him heading for the back of the tent. Whoever it was seemed to be in a hurry.
Taking a chance, Monsieur Pamplemousse peered round the side of the van and had a clear back view of a man in a dark cloak silhouetted against the light from the circus. A hood was pulled up over his head.
At that moment the muffled strains of martial music filled the air; ‘The Grand March’ from Aida played on drums and fifes, with a solitary trumpet in support by the sound of it. What it lacked in grandeur was more than made up for by sheer vigour, and any imperfections were drowned beneath the cheers from the audience.
He allowed a few seconds to pass and then made his way towards the entrance, subconsciously matching his pace to the time of the music. With luck he would catch the end of the Grand Parade and a front view of the man he’d just seen. If anyone had asked why it seemed important, he couldn’t have answered.
In the event he was fortunate to get a seat. All the rows near the front were jam-packed, and he only just managed to squeeze onto the end of a bench near the back.
He recognised the man instantly even without his cloak. He had an air about him, as though he was at one and the same time both part of and yet separate from the whole. It was clear from the way he walked and the slightly arrogant look on his face as he led the parade out of the ring that he considered himself the star of the show. Perhaps he had usurped Yasmin’s place. The last time Monsieur Pamplemousse had seen him he’d been behind the wheel of the van which had followed the girl into town.
Once again, Monsieur Pamplemousse had the feeling of having seen him somewhere before, some echo from the dim and distant past. Either that or a picture of him. He wasn’t often wrong about such things. It was annoying because conundrums of this sort were liable to keep him awake at night, and he had lost enough sleep already.
He also recognised the man he’d spoken to outside the ticket office earlier in the day – now resplendent in the red frock-coat of a ring-master. He was introducing ‘Madame Caoutchouc’ in a ‘death-defying act’ – wrestling with a crocodile.
While the man did his build-up, Monsieur Pamplemousse took stock of his surroundings. It was a long time since he had been to a circus. Once upon a time, when he was a boy, it had been nearly all animal acts – lions, tigers, elephants, performing dogs and bears; now acrobats and jugglers were back in fashion.
Unusually for a small travelling circus, the king-poles were made of steel. Perhaps that was another sign of the changing times. It was logical. As well as being safer in a strong wind, steel poles would have allowed the height of the roof to be raised and with it the height of the trapeze. All the same the girl must have fallen many times before. Perhaps it was a case of one time too many. It happened; people injured themselves every day falling off step ladders or doing something equally mundane like tripping over a broken paving stone.
He applauded mechanically as the band reached a crescendo and the lights dimmed, only to be replaced by the flickering of a stroboscopic spot lamp as Madame Caoutchouc
dashed into the ring clutching a fully-grown crocodile in her arms. She landed in the sawdust with the beast on top of her and for a moment or two it was hard to tell which way the struggle was going as they rolled around – a mass of threshing arms and legs. At first the flickering light seemed an unnecessary embellishment, but gradually it had a mesmerising effect. It was like watching a rapidly changing series of old-fashioned still pictures. First the crocodile was on top, then Madame Caoutchouc, then the crocodile again. Their positions changed almost faster than the eye or the brain could cope with. Finally, as the music reached a climax, Madame Caoutchouc managed to kneel astride the animal. Clasping it around the middle she gradually lifted it off the ground, centimetre by centimetre, until they were both upright. The tent went quiet as the crocodile thrashed to and fro, finally giving her a blow with its tail which would have floored most of those watching.
Monsieur Pamplemousse joined in the applause as Madame Caoutchouc at long last managed to extricate herself from the crocodile’s grip, then forced its jaws open and placed her head inside its open mouth. Sooner her than him. The things some people did for a living; twice daily at that!
As she staggered from the ring, breathing heavily, the lights came up and the audience relaxed. A midget and another clown – an Auguste, the one with the red nose who always gets the custard pie – ran on and went through the age-old routine of balancing a bucket of water on the end of a pole. The shrieks as it fell off, threatening to soak those in the front row before they realised it was empty, were equalled only by the gales of laughter when a full bucket of water landed on the second clown. The rickety tiers supporting the audience swayed in sympathy. There was no gag like an old gag.
Half of him wondered if he should take the girl’s note to the local police, but that would only involve a lot of tedious explanations. More than likely someone there would recognise him. They would want to know why he was in Port St. Augustin in the first place – by himself at that. It would all take up a lot more time than he could afford. The Director would not be pleased. The temptation to do a bit of ground work first was hard to resist. Afterwards he could decide on what action to take.