Monsieur Pamplemousse Investigates

by Michael Bond

  He opened the refrigerator door. Somewhat unexpectedly, there was an unopened bottle of white Puligny-Montrachet in the door. It was from the Domaine of Henri Clerc; that from a woman who always said ‘no’ to a second glass of wine at the office Christmas party for fear of what it might do to her! Otherwise, apart from a few plastic pots containing unidentifiable left-overs, the shelves were once again almost bare.

  Hanging on a hook fixed to the wall alongside the door were several carrier bags bearing the name of an épicerie in the Rue Cler near the office. Odd, given the fact that she had a thriving food market right on her doorstep. Why would she go to the Rue Cler? To save time? Because she was taking her purchases elsewhere? It was too early in the year for picnic lunches.

  On his way out of the kitchen Monsieur Pamplemousse opened the lid of a rubbish chute and glanced inside. As was so often the case – his own was no exception – there were some odd scraps of paper trapped behind the flap. He was about to close it again when something about one of the pieces made him change his mind. It was part of a page torn from a large-scale map. There was a faintly familiar look about it which rang a bell in the back of his head. Someone – it didn’t look like Madame Grante’s writing – had marked one of the avenues with a cross. Nearby the word ‘Beaumarchais’ was printed. He folded the paper in half and put it in his jacket pocket for future reference.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse left the bedroom until last. Somehow it felt almost like forbidden territory – and it certainly would have been ‘interdit’ had Madame Grante been anywhere around; an unforgivable violation of her privacy.

  The bed was large and old-fashioned with a crocheted cover. Again, both had probably been in the family for years. On a bedside table, between a reading lamp and the telephone, there was a small doll – it looked like an Armand Marseille – and alongside that an open box of Paul Benmussa chocolates. The first layer had already gone. The sight of it made him feel hungry. He hesitated for a second or two, then resisted the temptation as he caught sight of a large thumbprint in the middle of one of the chocolates. Someone had been testing them. It looked too big to have been left by Madame Grante – and as his old mother might have said – ‘you never know where it’s been!’

  On the dressing-table there was a bottle of Guerlain ‘L’Heure Bleue’. Again, not what Madame Grante usually wore to the office – at least, not that he had ever noticed. Once, years before, he had bought Doucette a bottle of it for Christmas. It had lasted her ages, and was only worn on special occasions.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to explore further when he spied something white on the carpet. Stooping down to pick it up, he reached between the legs of the dressing-table and then realised it was the note he had left on his first visit. One end was torn – torn or chewed – it was hard to say which. There was a curious series of half-round serrations – almost like tiny bites – along one edge.

  He was about to hold the paper up to examine it more closely when there was a sound of flapping followed by a downward draught of air and something struck him a glancing blow on the top of the head. Almost immediately he felt a sharp needle-like pain, as if a hair had been pulled out.

  Reacting in what amounted to a blind panic, Monsieur Pamplemousse automatically jumped to his feet and in so doing collided with the underneath of the dressing-table. Rolling over onto his side he clasped his head, partly in pain but also to protect it from any further blows. As he did so he made contact with something soft and wriggling. Before he had time to tighten his grasp it had gone, but not before he felt another sharp pain, this time to his index finger.

  A scuffling from the direction of the doorway heralded the arrival on the scene of Pommes Frites.

  ‘Comment ça va? Comment ça va?’ Hearing a strange, gruff voice calling out from somewhere near at hand, Monsieur Pamplemousse tentatively opened one eye. Pommes Frites was standing in the doorway, staring in the direction of the window as though transfixed. Had he been given to dropping his jaw in moments of stress, this, clearly, would have been one of those occasions.

  Following the direction of his gaze, Monsieur Pamplemousse reacted in like manner as he found himself staring at a small blue object clinging to the top of one of the curtains.

  ‘Nom de nom!’ He climbed to his feet and dusted himself down.

  ‘JoJo. JoJo. Comment ça va?’ The gruff voice repeated itself.

  Without taking his eyes off his quarry and risk losing face, Pommes Frites backed away. He shared his master’s dislike of birds. They were bad enough outside, where they belonged, but at least out in the open they could be chased. Indoors, they were something else again. He fully understood Monsieur Pamplemousse’s panic at having one land on his head and he had no wish to take part in a repeat performance when he would be the prime target.

  Taking a leaf out of Pommes Frites’ book, Monsieur Pamplemousse tiptoed towards the bedroom door and closed it behind him.

  A budgerigar! That was all he needed! At least it solved the problem of the snatched note. He looked round the room and saw what he should have noticed when he first came in: a birdcage on a stand. His only excuse was that it had been partially hidden from view by the door leading to the hall. Taking a closer look he saw that it had recently been cleaned out. A new sheet of sanded paper covered the floor and that in turn had been freshly sprinkled with grit. Both the seed bowl at one end and a water bowl at the other were full. The cage door was wide open, but perhaps Madame Grante usually left it that way. Along the bottom edge of the cage there was the address of a pet shop on the Quai de la Mégisserie.

  Thank goodness he hadn’t opened any of the windows to let in some fresh air. If JoJo had escaped he would never have heard the last of it. He certainly wouldn’t have fancied his chances of finding it on a dark, wet night in March.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse sank down in the armchair beside the bookcase, wondering what to do next. If Madame Grante had left the bird flying loose she couldn’t have intended being away all that long. In which case it might be better to carry on waiting for her. It would be silly to give up now.

  To be on the safe side he unlocked the outer door in case she returned. It was a matter of balancing the weight of her wrath on finding herself locked out of her own apartment against having to explain why he was there and how he had managed to get in. Of the two alternatives, the latter was preferable. If she was locked out she might well call the police and he didn’t want that to happen. The cat would really be out of the bag then.

  As he reached across to replace the Cocks et Féret, he noticed something had fallen over in the space where it had been. Somewhat to his surprise, he saw it was a map of the Père-Lachaise cemetery. It had been folded inside out so that an inner section now formed the front cover. Part of it had been torn out. He felt inside his jacket pocket. The piece of paper fitted exactly into one of the corners.

  Perhaps Madame Grante had a family grave there, and yet if that were so she would scarcely need a map to find the way – unless, of course, she’d wanted to direct someone else to the spot. From what he remembered of the cemetery it was so overcrowded you practically needed radar to find your way around.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse slipped the piece of paper back into his pocket and closed his eyes.

  He wondered whether he should telephone Doucette, but decided against it. For a start her sister, Agathe, always ate late and if Agathe answered the phone in no way would it be a short conversation. Anyway, Doucette was used to him being away for long periods without making contact – she wouldn’t worry. All the same, he wished he hadn’t thought of it. He was beginning to feel hungry.

  The thought of food reminded him of Mademoiselle Borel. Was it his imagination or had she looked more than a little lonely standing in her doorway when she said goodbye? Lonely, and somehow, despite her chicness and poise, surprisingly vulnerable. He wondered if she often ate alone. If she did, it was a terrible waste. At least she didn’t live on prepacked meals like a lot of women in her s
ituation. Perhaps it was a case of ‘once bitten – twice shy’ and she found computers a safer bet than a husband – assuming all her external connections were correct. At least you could program them the way you wanted. He wondered if he would take her up on her offer when it was all over. What was it Brillat-Savarin had said? ‘Tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are.’ It would be interesting to find out.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse woke with a start as he realised a telephone was ringing somewhere. He reached out automatically and then remembered where he was.

  Pommes Frites stirred in his sleep as his master blundered past towards the bedroom, rubbing his eyes as he went.

  ‘Allô!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse cursed under his breath as in his haste to grab the receiver he knocked over the box of chocolates.

  In the background he could hear a police siren, but otherwise there was nothing.

  ‘Allô!’ He tried again. The only response was a click, then the line went dead.

  He felt for a cord switch he had noticed earlier and as the light came on he looked at his watch. It was just after one thirty. He must have been asleep for several hours.

  As he lay back on the bed for a moment gathering his thoughts, Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the matter. There had been something odd about the call, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He wondered who could have been ringing Madame Grante at that time of night. Whoever it was must have been shocked to hear a man’s voice at the other end. Probably too shocked to say anything. It sounded as though it had come from an outside box. The siren had been very close at one point.

  ‘Morbleu!’ He sat up with a start as he realised what had been bothering him. A siren had gone past the apartment at almost the same time – exactly in sync with the one on the telephone. Whoever it was must have been telephoning from very close by.

  Turning out the light, he got up and crossed to the window. The rain was coming down even harder; it was no time to think of going out. He checked the locks on the french windows and then drew the curtains. As a further precaution he went back into the hall and set the safety catch on the front door.

  Returning to the bedroom Monsieur Pamplemousse removed his jacket and tie, hung them over a chair, then lay down on the bed again and covered himself with the eiderdown. It was very unlikely that Madame Grante would return now, and if she did, then tant pis – too bad! He was not only tired, he was hungry. And if there was any truth in the old saying, ‘qui dort dîne’ – ‘He who sleeps forgets his hunger’, that was precisely what he intended doing.

  Half-way through plumping up the pillow, his fingers made contact with a piece of card. As he withdrew it and held it up to the light, his pulse quickened. It was a photograph of a man, and staring back at him from above the folds of a blue roll-neck sweater was a face which matched the description given to him by the night porter earlier that evening. He turned it over. On the back there was the name of a photographer. It wasn’t much help – there was no address. He studied the face in greater detail, committing it to memory. The porter was right in his judgement. It was not the face of someone he would have trusted further than he could see. But what was of greater interest was an inscription across the bottom. POUR VIOLAINE – MON AMOUR. So, it hadn’t been a joke after all. Madame Grante did have an homme. It must have turned her whole life upside-down, perhaps even made her a trifle unbalanced for a while.

  He placed the photograph alongside the piece of map in his jacket pocket, then climbed back onto the bed and closed his eyes again. Sleep came easily.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse was a great believer in committing problems to his subconscious, and as he slept he wore on his face the look of someone who felt that at long last he might be getting somewhere.

  5

  THE GRILLING OF JOJO

  Throwing politeness to the wind, Monsieur Pamplemousse elbowed his way along the already crowded Quai de la Mégisserie, weaving in and out of the trees and shrubs, packaged rose bushes, boxes of bulbs and sundry plants, until he came across the shop he was looking for. The pavement outside was already stacked with cages of varying shapes and sizes. Pigeons vied with baby goats for attention. Cocks crowed. Other creatures, like the rabbits, gerbils and guinea-pigs, carried on eating regardless. If the concerted noise coming from the occupants of the cages was anything to go by, they must have been awake for ages.

  Few of the bouquinistes who normally plied their trade on the other side of the road seemed to have followed their example. The zinc-topped wooden bookstalls were firmly padlocked and looked as if they would remain that way for some time to come. Glancing up at the sky Monsieur Pamplemousse could hardly blame them. It looked as forbidding as the Palais de Justice on the opposite bank of the Seine, and that was saying something.

  Pommes Frites followed on behind at a discreet, not to say wary distance. All was not well between dog and master. Relations were, to say the least, somewhat strained.

  A student of such matters, had he been making notes, would have found his pencil racing across the page. Words such as ‘nadir’ rather than ‘apex’ would have sprung to mind when trying to describe their current mood.

  Had they been interviewed, Pommes Frites would have assumed his injured expression and said quite simply that in his opinion his master had got out of bed on the wrong side.

  Inasmuch as he had accidentally trodden on the chocolates, Monsieur Pamplemousse would have been the first to agree that his day hadn’t exactly begun on a high note. Normally he liked to sleep with a window open and today he had woken with a headache. He was also feeling both hungry and thirsty. The refrigerator had been bare of anything which looked remotely edible at that time in the morning. He’d found the end of a baguette, but it was rock-hard. The coffee was instant, and therefore undrinkable, and despite the presence of the juicer, fresh oranges were conspicuous by their absence.

  However, all these things had paled into insignificance when he discovered that JoJo was missing. He had spent the best part of half an hour searching high and low, calling its name and uttering tweets and other endearments, but all to no avail.

  In the end there was only one conclusion to be drawn. The evidence was, he had to admit, purely circumstantial; not the kind which would have stood up in a court of law. There wasn’t so much as a loose feather to be seen anywhere in the apartment, let alone on Pommes Frites’ person. All the same, facts were facts.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse blamed himself to some extent. He should have shut the bedroom door. Pommes Frites had been deprived of his meal and so, gently and stealthily while his master was asleep, he must have let his instincts get the better of him. There was little that could be done about it. Punishment had to be meted out at the time a crime was committed. Pommes Frites would have been both hurt and confused if his master had suddenly laid into him for no apparent reason.

  The only thing to do in the circumstances was buy another bird and hope that Madame Grante might not spot the difference.

  ‘Attendez!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse signalled Pommes Frites to wait while he entered the shop. Pommes Frites obeyed with alacrity. He was only too well aware that his star was not exactly in the ascendancy.

  Inside the shop the din was even worse. It was feeding time and the noise from puppies, dogs, kittens and a multitude of birds, all shrieking their heads off, was unbelievable. Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced around and found himself opposite a glass tank containing a python. A group of white mice snuggled contentedly in its folds for warmth, blissfully unaware of their fate. He looked the other way. Even in a pet shop the rule of the jungle prevailed.

  A little further along the row, beyond some tanks of tropical fish, he saw what he was searching for: a large enclosure full of blue, grey and green budgerigars. He looked for a blue one which might pass muster for the missing JoJo. To his untutored eye, apart from variations in colour, they were all remarkably alike, but he had no doubt Madame Grante would spot the slightest difference immediately. A missing heart-shaped fe
ather on a chin would not go unremarked.

  ‘S’il vous plaît?’ He summoned one of the assistants and stated his requirements.

  ‘Monsieur would prefer a cock or a hen?’

  It was not something he had given a thought to. ‘There is a difference?’

  ‘Monsieur, if you are another perruche there is a very great difference.’

  It was hard to tell whether the man was serious or not. No doubt he’d made the same joke many thousands of times over the years. It was probably too early in the day to accompany it with a smile.

  ‘The cocks are the best talkers.’

  Anxious to escape the din, Monsieur Pamplemousse chose one at random.

  The man looked down at the floor. ‘Monsieur would like it gift-wrapped?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank. He knew he had forgotten something. Acting on the spur of the moment he had put Madame Grante’s cage out with the rubbish – there was a door at the side of the lift on the ground floor of her apartment block where large objects could be deposited ready for collection. At the time he had entertained a notion of blaming it all on a burglar, but that was before he had thought of buying another bird. It had not been one of his more fortuitous thoughts; a straw of an idea, but one worth clutching nevertheless. Better than confessing to Madame Grante that Pommes Frites was probably responsible.

  ‘Perhaps you have a cardboard box of some kind?’

  ‘A cardboard box, Monsieur?’ Clearly from his tone, the man was classifying his client as belonging to the last of the great spenders.

  With a sigh Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his wallet and pointed to a square cage hanging from the ceiling on the far side of the shop. It looked identical to the original.

  ‘S’il vous plaît.’

  The cage with its occupant, a small packet of seed, an iodised nibble and a millet spray came to over four hundred francs.