Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure

by Michael Bond

  There was a faint whirr and the glass panel slid apart. ‘All is for the best, Monsieur?’

  ‘Oui,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Merci.’ He caught the man’s eyes watching him in the rear-view mirror. He seemed disappointed by the reply, and faintly uneasy, rather as though he had been expecting something more than the bare acknowledgement he’d received. After an uncomfortably long pause, he pressed a button on the dashboard and the panel slid shut again.

  As they moved off Monsieur Pamplemousse relaxed and turned his attention to Pommes Frites, or rather to his rear end. Like most dogs, Pommes Frites was a bit of a snob when it came to cars and he was taking full advantage of his new-found status and the fact that the rear window on his side was half open. Eyes closed in ecstasy, he presented a profile to the world in general and in particular to any local inhabitants who happened to be passing, of one to whom such luxury was an everyday event. For the second time that day Monsieur Pamplemousse felt their usual mode of transport was being held up for comparison and found to be distinctly lacking.

  As they gathered speed on the autoroute outside Narbonne he could stand the draught no longer and much to Pommes Frites’ disgust, pressed a button on the central console which controlled the electrically operated window.

  Perpignan airport flashed by at nearly two hundred k.p.h. The saying was that birds went to Perpignan to die. Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but reflect that if there was any truth in the saying and they carried on driving at their present speed, many would have their wishes granted sooner rather than later.

  At Le Boulou they took the D115 and began climbing steadily. He dozed for a while. When he woke it was already growing dark and they were on a minor road. Ahead of them the Pyrénées looked grey and mysterious, outlined against the lighter sky behind, like a child’s painting, simple and stark. Snow on the upper slopes shone luminously in the moonlight.

  The car headlights picked out the beginnings of a small village, the houses already tightly shuttered for the night. As they shot through the square he spotted a small bar and beyond the Mairie some more lights. A moment later it was gone.

  Almost immediately they were out of the village and he was about to close his eyes again when they rounded a sharp bend and drove past a parking area on the valley side of the road, the sole occupant of which was a long, black hearse-like vehicle. The driver was standing in front of it relieving himself against a rock. Monsieur Pamplemousse had a momentary glimpse of three others dressed in black inside the car. They waved as the chauffeur gave a blast on his horn. Whether or not they had waved in recognition was hard to say, but he had an odd impression that they were waiting for something or someone. Even funeral attendants had to obey the calls of nature, but it seemed an odd time to be abroad.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse turned to see if he could spot the name of the village as they passed the sign, but he missed it in the dark. The Mercedes seemed to be totally unperturbed by the steepness of the climb. His 2CV would have been in bottom gear by now and struggling.

  Ten minutes later the Château Morgue came into view, its dark bulk remote and impregnable. Probably built originally to keep others out, it now served to keep people in. Not, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse as they swung in through the gates, that there appeared to be anywhere to go other than the village if any of the guests decided to play truant.

  The original stone building had been hideously embellished by a monstrosity in the shape of an enormously tall, circular tower. It betrayed itself as a twentieth century after-thought, and stood out like a sore thumb. Lights blazed from uncurtained windows at the top, but the rest of the building was in comparative darkness. The inmates of Château Morgue must retire early, probably worn out by their treatment.

  Before he had a chance to take it all in and absorb the geography of the surroundings, the driver made a sharp turn and scarcely slackening speed, they hurtled down a spiral ramp into a vast underground garage which must have been built at the same time as the tower.

  As they pulled up beside some lift doors, Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at the other cars already parked. Wealth radiated from their bumpers. He counted five Mercedes 500 S.E.Cs, two British registered Daimlers and a Rolls-Royce, an obscenely large American car he didn’t immediately recognise, a sprinkling of B.M.W. 735s – two with C.D. plates – three Ferraris with Italian number plates, and a German Porsche. Somewhat incongruously a small Renault van with the words Château Morgue – Charcuterie on the side was parked in a corner.

  The chauffeur opened the rear door for them to alight, removed the luggage from the boot, and then spoke rapidly into a small microphone let into the wall. It was impossible to hear what he was saying. Seconds later the lift doors slid open. Barely acknowledging Monsieur Pamplemousse’s thanks, the man ushered them through the opening, then reached inside to press the button for the ground floor. He withdrew, allowing the doors to close again. For whatever reason, dislike was now clearly written across his face and he seemed glad to be rid of them.

  The inside of the lift was small but luxurious, the carpet unusually thick. On the back wall, near the floor, there was a hinged panel of the kind common to lifts in large apartment blocks – easily removable for the transportation of a coffin. It reminded Monsieur Pamplemousse of their encounter on the road a few minutes earlier. Perhaps one of the patients had died. If the truth were known, death was probably never very far away at a health farm. Many of the clients only went there in the first place because they had caught their first whiff of it on the horizon. Early warning signals from on high.

  They stepped out of the lift into a circular foyer which was equally luxurious, like that of a small, but exclusive, hotel: discreet and reeking of understated opulence. The flowers in the vases were out of season. A desk stood in one corner. Its only concession to being functional was a row of buttons set in a free-standing remote control panel, and a red push-button telephone alongside it. The large, leather covered chair behind the desk was empty. The whole atmosphere was like that of certain establishments he’d come across from time to time in the sixteenth arrondissement of Paris. Places where anything was obtainable provided you could pay the price, and nothing was ever questioned.

  As they stepped out of the lift a man in a short white coat appeared from behind a screen and came forward to greet them.

  ‘Bonsoir.’ Tucking a clip-board under one arm he gave a tiny, almost imperceptible bow. ‘Doctor Furze. Herr Schmuck sends his apologies. He hopes to make your acquaintance later. At present he is unavoidably detained with a patient. In the meantime, I am at your disposal.’

  While he was talking Doctor Furze glanced down at Pommes Frites and, like the chaffeur before him, seemed surprised by what he saw. Again, Monsieur Pamplemousse got in quickly, forestalling any possible arguments. ‘This is Pommes Frites,’ he said simply. ‘We are never parted.’

  Although Pommes Frites’ inflatable kennel was packed away in the bottom of the valise in case of emergencies, he had no intention of revealing the fact for the time being. If there was any talk of his being accommodated in the stables he would resist the idea most strongly.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Doctor Furze turned and led the way towards the lift. Swiftly, he pressed a sequence of numbers on a panel. Old habits die hard, and Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself regretting that his dark glasses prevented him from making a mental note of them.

  Inside the lift the Doctor seemed even more ill at ease, rather as if he had discovered something out of place and didn’t know quite what to do about it.

  ‘You are busy?’ As Monsieur Pamplemousse posed the question he realised he was lowering his guard again.

  Doctor Furze seemed not to notice. He pressed a button marked four. ‘We are always busy in the V.I.P. area. The regular patients are in the main building. You will not be disturbed. Special arrangements can be made if you require treatment.’

  It was the kind of remark – a statement of fact, that put a full stop to any f
urther conversation.

  The lift opened straight into another circular hallway, almost identical to the one on the ground floor, except for four doors let into the perimeter wall. It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that the lift doors apart, he hadn’t seen any in the reception area. Perhaps there was some kind of medieval secret passage.

  Doctor Furze crossed the hall and withdrew from his pocket a chain with a bunch of keys on the end. ‘I trust you will find everything to your satisfaction.’ He stood to one side to allow Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites to enter.

  ‘No doubt you will wish to unpack before you order dinner. I will arrange for your luggage to be brought up. You will find the menu and the wine list in the bureau. The control panel for the television, video equipment and the electric shutters is beside the bed.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed around. It had to be some kind of joke on the part of the Director. In the course of his travels on behalf of Le Guide he’d been in some pretty plush places, but this one beat the band. Never before had he encountered such unadulterated luxury. The first room alone would have provided more than enough material for a feature article in one of the glossier Paris magazines; wallpaper from Canovas, crystal from Baccarat, Christofle china and silverware. On the far side of the room, through an archway, he could see a king-size four-poster bed and beyond that a bathroom. Another archway opened onto the dining-area with a table already laid, and to its right sliding full-length windows opened onto a balcony. He crossed to look at the view, but a passing cloud temporarily obscured the moon; by daylight it must be breathtaking. He resolved to have breakfast outside next morning whatever the weather.

  Perhaps it was all pan of a carefully hatched surprise treat on the part of the management. After his last job of work he was due for a bonus. Vague promises had been made at the time, but somehow they had never materialised. If the thickness of the carpet was reflected in the size of the bill, Madame Grante would be throwing a fit in two weeks’ time.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly came back down to earth with a bump as he realised Doctor Furze was talking to him.

  ‘As I was saying, you may prefer to dine alone on your first night.’ Again there was a slight hesitation. ‘If not, “arrangements” can be made. If you would like company … a girl, perhaps, or two girls, you will find a list of numbers by the telephone.’ He glanced towards Pommes Frites. ‘It is short notice, but it may even be possible to arrange something for your dog. You must let me know his interests.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself avoiding Pommes Frites’ eye. Pommes Frites had an unwinking stare at times, combined with the ability to make it appear as if he were hanging onto every word, almost as though he could understand what was being said. It was nonsense, of course, but disconcerting nevertheless.

  ‘I think we are both a little tired after our long journey.’ He felt like adding that he would hardly have known what to do with one girl, let alone two, but resisted the temptation. As for Pommes Frites, heaven forbid that he speak for him or his interests, but he shuddered to think what he might make of any local chienne.

  ‘As you wish. If you change your mind, you have only to ring.’ The bow was accompanied by the suspicion of a heel click. ‘I will leave you now. No doubt you will wish to take a bath.’

  Doctor Furze opened the door, brought in the valise which had been left standing outside, and disappeared.

  As he undressed, Monsieur Pamplemousse contemplated his reflection in a mirror which occupied one entire wall of the bathroom; a reflection which was unnervingly multiplied many times by another mirror let into the ceiling. One girl? Two girls? What manner of place had he come to? It certainly bore no relation to any of the reports he’d seen lying on the Director’s desk. Perhaps they, too, had been a subterfuge? Perhaps even now they were laughing their heads off back at Headquarters. He had a feeling that if he’d asked for three girls it wouldn’t have presented a problem.

  Three girls! Luxuriating in a leisurely bain moussant, he devoted his thoughts to the postcards he would send back to the office; they would be a series of progress reports.

  What was it the Director had said? ‘The change will do you good, Pamplemousse.’

  Basking in a euphoria brought on by his surroundings, a euphoria further enhanced by the warmth of the bath and by the oils which accompanied it, by the Stanley Hall of London soap, not to mention a shave in the softest of water, followed by the refreshing sting of an after-shave lotion which bore the name of Louis Philippe of Monaco, he stretched out a toe in order to ease open the hot water tap a soupçon, reaching out at the same time for a Kir Royale, lovingly mixed from ingredients found in a well-stocked refrigerator by the bed. If things carried on the way they had begun, his first postcard would be to the Director himself. ‘Regret, problems greater than expected. May need to stay on for further week.’

  No, on second thoughts, why stint himself? Why not play Headquarters at their own game? Why not make it two extra weeks? A month at Château Morgue would tide him over a treat until the spring.

  They were sentiments which, although unspoken, clearly won the whole-hearted approval of his thought-reading companion in the next room, revelling in the luxury of his new surroundings while waiting patiently for decisions concerning the evening meal. Decisions which, knowing his master as he did, would be made quickly and expertly when the moment came, and in the fullness of time would bear fruit which would make all the waiting worthwhile.

  3

  READ AND DESTROY

  Monsieur Pamplemousse was in his element. Gastronomically speaking, he couldn’t remember having had such an enjoyable time since the occasion shortly after joining the Force when, as a young Police officer, he’d been involved in his first big case outside Paris and had found himself being taken to meet Fernande Point at Vienne. Being shown round the great man’s kitchen – in those days the Mecca of Haute Cuisine and a training ground for many of the great present-day chefs – had been akin to a small boy of the 80s being invited up to the flight-deck of Concorde.

  Since taking a bath, his pen had been fairly racing over the pages of his aide mémoire as he set about making preliminary notes for his report. In his mind’s eye as he scanned the menu he was already hard at work planning déjeuners and dîners for the days to come, adding, subtracting, shuffling around permutations of the many delights it contained, so that he and Pommes Frites would reap full benefit in the time at their disposal, bearing in mind also, that if they were to include visits to the gymnasium during their stay, energy lost through unaccustomed exercise would need to be replaced.

  The Director must have been joking when he talked of régimes. Anything less like a régime would be hard to imagine. Faced with making a choice for one meal only he would have been hard put to reach a decision, but given that they were staying at Château Morgue for two weeks, hopefully more, he could afford to go wherever his fancy took him. Such an opportunity rarely came his way.

  And if the menu was one of the most exciting he’d come across for a long time, the wine list, too, had been chosen by someone with an eye to the good things in life, and possessed of an unlimited budget as well. It was a positive cornucopia of riches. The Bordeaux section in particular read like the pages of that bible of the wine trade, Cocks et Féret. The Lafites, for example, contained every vintage of note stretching back to the turn of the century. There were so many good things it almost made a choice more difficult; rather like finding oneself in the position of being able to go to the theatre after a long absence, and finally not going at all through sheer inability to reach a decision. In the end he opted for a bottle of ’78 Château Ferrière – from the Médoc’s smallest classified vineyard and a comparative rarity. He had never actually tasted it, but from all he had heard it would be a delightful accompaniment to the Roquefort, which, since they were in the area, was a must. It would also go well with the main course, earning bonus points from Madame Grante into the bargain for its very modesty.


  Monsieur Pamplemousse made the appropriate note in his book and then read it back out loud for the benefit of Pommes Frites, receiving in return a reaction which could only be termed satisfactory. Pommes Frites had a sizeable vocabulary of culinary terms, culled from travels with his master. There were certain key words – like boeuf, which invariably caused his tail to wag, and it was only necessary to add the word bourguignon, and he would be on his feet in a flash and ready for action. In this instance the phrase Magret de Canard grillé au feu de bois had the desired effect, and if anticipatory dribbles weren’t exactly running down his chin, it wasn’t because the choice failed to receive the full support of his salivary glands, but simply the fact that his mouth was so dry from lack of sustenance they were in need of a certain amount of priming first.

  In fact, he couldn’t really see what his master was waiting for. If the final decision was to have duck grilled over charcoal for the main course, why not get on with it and leave the choice of the dessert until later. Desserts were his least favourite part of a meal anyway, and he was a firm believer in the adage that a steak on the plate was worth two meringues in the oven any day of the week.

  It was a thought which gradually communicated itself to Monsieur Pamplemousse. Food took time to prepare and cook. Assuming the whole thing wasn’t part of some beautiful daydream from which he would suddenly wake, a mirage which would disappear as soon as he reached out to touch it, they were losing valuable time, which would be better spent over another Kir Royale. Taking the hint from Pommes Frites’ restless padding up and down the room, he looked for the appropriate button to press for service.