by Michael Bond
A moment later the thought was transformed into action as he led the way along a deserted corridor towards a door at the end marked SORTIE DE SECOURS. Opening it as quietly as he could, he let Pommes Frites through and then left it slightly ajar with the end of a mat so that he could come back in again when he was ready. The air outside struck cold and there was no sense in both of them suffering. He would need all his strength in the next two weeks. What a blessing he hadn’t sent off a card to the Director. With his present luck the request for an extra two weeks would have been granted.
Leaving Pommes Frites to his own devices he hurried back to his room. Before leaving Ananas’ suite he’d had the foresight to pack a few magazines he’d seen lying about. They would help while away the time. Poor old Pommes Frites – he wondered what he was thinking about it all.
Pommes Frites, as it happened, had several very clear thoughts occupying his mind; three, to be precise, and for one not over-given to exercising his grey matter unnecessarily, three was quite a lot.
The first thought he’d taken care of on a large bush immediately outside the door, and very rewarding it had been too. He felt much better and ready for action. He was very glad his master had made a move, otherwise he might not have been responsible for his actions, for his second thought had to do with bones. Inasmuch as Pommes Frites ever felt guilty, he was feeling it now.
He hadn’t been quite so hungry for a long time, and he’d been finding it increasingly difficult to rid himself of a picture that had entered his mind while lying at his master’s feet. In his mind’s eye he’d suddenly seen them in quite a different light; not as objects on the end of the trouser-covered legs he had known and loved for many a year, but as bones – two lovely, juicy bones. And the longer he’d dwelt on the thought the more juicy and desirable they had become. It had been a narrow squeak. If Monsieur Pamplemousse had stayed asleep much longer he might have woken with an even greater start.
Pommes Frites’ third and most constructive thought was that if his master wasn’t prepared to do anything about their present situation then he, Pommes Frites, would have to take matters in hand personally. Unlike many of his human counterparts, it was not part of his philosophy to believe that the world owed him anything. The idea wouldn’t have entered his head. That being so, when things weren’t going right you did something about it. Which, as he set off, nose to the ground on a tour of investigation, was exactly what he intended doing.
It was some while later, almost an hour to be precise, that Monsieur Pamplemousse, having spent much of the intervening time searching for his letter and finding, to his growing concern, only a small piece of wet and partly chewed red sealing wax, heard a bump in the distance. A bump which was followed almost immediately by the sound of something heavy being dragged along the corridor.
Thinking it might be another patient in difficulty, an elderly lady perhaps, who was suffering from a surfeit of hot water, he put down his magazine with a sense of relief. Any diversion was better than none at all. Without exception the magazines had been porn, certainly not pure, but definitely simple in their single-minded approach to a subject which was capable of almost infinite variations. The only feeling of lust they inspired in him was the wish that some of the many derrières displayed could have been real. Had they been real he would have been sorely tempted to take a large bite out of them, so great was his hunger. That would have wiped the smile off some of the owners’ faces as they peered round the side, or in some cases from below, tongue protruding from between moistened lips.
By the time he reached his door the thumping was almost outside. As he opened it, Pommes Frites pushed his way past dragging a large parcel tied up with string. His face wore the kind of expression which befitted a bloodhound whose trail has led him to exactly the right spot at precisely the right time.
Having looked up and down the corridor to make sure the coast was clear, Monsieur Pamplemousse closed the door. He had no idea what the parcel contained, but at a guess, since the outside bore the name of a retailer, and below that the magic word charcuterie, it might with luck be a delivery of groceries. How and where Pommes Frites had managed to get hold of it was academic. The important fact was that somehow or other he had.
With trembling hands, Monsieur Pamplemousse carried the parcel over to the table and pulled the string away from the outside, up-ending the contents as he did so. To say that he was taken aback by the result was to put it mildly. Even Pommes Frites looked startled. Putting his paws up on the table he gazed down open-mouthed as a string of sausages spilled out; large ones, small ones, medium sized – as they landed so they seemed to grow in size until it was hard to believe that the parcel he had been carrying could have contained so much.
For a moment or two Monsieur Pamplemousse stood transfixed, a look of wonder on his face. He couldn’t remember having seen quite so many sausages since he last attended the annual Boudin Festival at Mortagne-au-Perche. There were more than enough to feed a regiment. Then he sprang into action.
Undoing his valise, he removed a smaller case, the one containing the emergency kit issued to all those who worked for Le Guide. Designed to cover every eventuality in the minimum of space, it was a miracle of compactness; not a single cubic centimetre was wasted. Spare notebooks, maps, report forms and writing instruments were contained in the lid. Below that was a felt-lined tray for the Leica R4, two spare lenses – wide and narrow angle, a motor winder and various filters and other accessories. Below that again, other compartments contained a pair of Leitz Trinovid binoculars, a compass, map magnifier, water purifying tablets (Monsieur Pamplemousse slipped several into his pocket, they might come in useful later) and a book containing emergency telephone numbers. Last but not least, in the very bottom of the case there reposed a funnel, a small butane-operated folding stove, a collapsible pan and a box of storm-proof matches.
In all his years with Le Guide he’d never had occasion to use the last three items. Nor, for that matter, had any of his colleagues, as far as he knew, apart from Glandière, who covered the Savoie region and sometimes disappeared for weeks at a time.
Now he blessed the man who had designed it. A man of foresight, a leader among men. He turned and looked down as something long and sinewy began slapping the side of his leg.
‘Pommes Frites!’ he exclaimed. ‘You are très, très méchant.’ But the tone of his voice gave lie to the words, and Pommes Frites’ tail began to wag even faster as he followed his master into the bathroom in search of some water.
Quite frankly, in order to save time, he would have been perfectly happy to dine on a smoked or dried sausage; a Saucisson de Lyon, for example, or perhaps one from Arles, even a raw sausage or two, but if his master intended cooking them first, then so be it.
The stove alight and the water beginning to show signs of movement, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned to the difficult task of deciding on an order of priorities. With such a wealth of sausages at his disposal, the choice would not be easy. As a member of several distinguished societies – the A.A.A.A.A., the Association Amicale des Amateurs d’Andouille Authentique, La Confrérie des Chevaliers du Goûte-Andouille, whose energies were directed towards the perfection of the andouillette, not to mention the Confrérie des Chevaliers du Goûte-Boudin, who were very protective about that other classic of French cuisine, and the Frères du Boudin Noir et Blanc, his loyalties were divided.
In the end, much to Pommes Frites’ approval, he decided on a representative selection. One by one, Andouillette, Saucisse de Toulouse, Saucisse d’Alsace-Lorraine, Saucisse de Campagne, and Boudins Noirs et Blancs disappeared into the bubbling water until the pan could hold no more.
Monsieur Pamplemousse thought the boudins looked particularly mouth-watering. He’d once taken part in the annual competition at Manziat to see who could eat the most – the winner had eaten over a metre at one sitting. The way he was feeling at that moment, that year’s champion would have been an also-ran, a non-starter.
Rea
ching into the bag again, he took out a fork and plunged it into the bubbling pan. The boudin was beyond his wildest expectations; it would have more than upheld a reputation which stretched back into history as far as Homer. Made to the classic formula of fresh pork fat, chopped onion, salt, freshly ground pepper and spices, pig’s blood and cream, it positively melted in the mouth, like a soft ice-cream on a summer’s day.
Wiping the juice from his hands lest they soil the pages, he reached for his notebook. The panful in front of him had barely scratched the surface of the vast quantity still left on the table. It would be a useful exercise to start a study of the subject. Already he could see another article in the staff magazine. Saucisses et Saucissons – A Comparative Study in Depth by A. Pamplemousse. Perhaps, looking at the pile in front of him, with the words ‘to be continued’ at the end. The editor would be pleased.
At his feet, Pommes Frites gave a sigh of contentment. Oblivious to the subtle difference between an andouillette with its quota of chitterlings and tripe, and an andouille with its addition of pork meat, he’d had two of each and enjoyed them both. Now he was looking forward to rounding things off with a boudin or two followed by a nap. It had been a long and tiring day; a day of ups and downs, and a good nap wouldn’t come at all amiss.
It was a thought which appealed to Monsieur Pamplemousse too, and shortly afterwards, having taken the precaution of inflating Pommes Frites’ kennel and placing it in the bathroom lest he get any ideas about sharing the bed, he started to get undressed. Soon, they were both in the land of dreams.
4
THE CAMERA NEVER LIES
Monsieur Pamplemousse slept late into the following morning. When he finally woke, it was to the sound of engines revving, the metallic slamming of car doors, dogs barking, and raised voices.
He sat up and looked at his watch. Ten o’clock! Merde! Such a thing hadn’t happened in years. Breakfast would have been over and done with hours ago. Then he realised where he was. Breakfast was of academic importance.
Getting out of bed, he crossed to the window and drew the curtains. In the driveway near the main entrance a Police van was parked alongside the car in which he had arrived. A solitary gendarme occupied the passenger seat, otherwise all was quiet. The view was away from the Pyrénées, southward towards the Massif du Canigou and its sacred mountain. Château Morgue was even higher than he’d expected; above the tree line. The surroundings looked as still and unspoiled as they must have been in the days when the Troubadours roamed the area crying ‘oc’ instead of ‘oui.’
He opened the door to the corridor and peered out. That, too, was deserted. Outside several of the rooms reposed a tray with a solitary empty glass. The exit door at the far end was ajar, as it must have been all night. He shivered. No wonder it felt cold. Seeing it reminded him that Pommes Frites would probably be wanting to obey the call of nature. Having seen him safely on his way, he turned his attention to the more immediate matter of running a bath. Once again he had cause to bless the man who had designed the survival kit. In a special hole let into the side of the case he found a multi-purpose waste plug. Nothing had been forgotten.
As he lay back in the bath he contemplated his changed fortunes. It was certainly a case of one law for the rich and another for the less affluent. Gone were all the expensive unguents and lotions of the previous bathroom. The only aids provided for those who wished to cleanse themselves were a small bar of soap bearing the name of one of the giant combines, and a plastic shower cap. Perhaps not many inmates bothered to ask Doctor Furze for a plug. He could hardly blame them.
The disappearance of the letter was a problem and no mistake. He could hardly blame Pommes Frites, who had doubtless taken his cue from watching his master consume a corner of the envelope. All the same, it wouldn’t be very easy to explain. It would be bad enough in writing, but harder still when it came to the interview which would undoubtedly follow. He could picture the looks he would get and how his simple statement – ‘Pommes Frites ate it’ would be repeated in tones of utter disbelief, followed by stony silence. On the other hand, saying he’d lost it wouldn’t go down too well either.
For a moment or two he toyed with the idea of ’phoning the Director, but then he dismissed the thought. The Director was obviously as much in the dark as he was. He would get no help from that quarter, and it would only bring closer the moment he was trying to put off. Far better to play things by ear for the time being. Let matters take their course.
His musings were broken into at that moment by a double click from the outside door, heralding Pommes Frites’ return from his morning stroll. Pommes Frites was good at opening doors. It was a trick he’d learned on a training course when he’d first joined the Paris Police. He was less good at closing them again, although in this instance politeness, or discretion, had obviously won the day.
A head appeared round the corner of the bathroom door. Its owner was wearing a distinctly thoughtful expression, but by then Monsieur Pamplemousse was much too busy drying himself to notice.
A leisurely shave and it was time for breakfast. Soon Saucisses Viennoises, that heavenly mixture of pork, veal, fillet steak and coriander, were bubbling away on the stove. He leaned over as one of them rose to the surface, and pricked it with a needle to prevent it bursting.
While he was waiting for them to finish cooking he cut some slices from a Saucisson de Bourgogne. The slight tang of the kirsch flavouring would act as an excellent appetiser. Instinctively he made a note about the saucisson in his book. It was the correct length – forty-five cm – and had been well dried – in his judgement, six months at the very least. He gave it full marks, as did Pommes Frites from the speed with which it disappeared. The only unsatisfactory aspect was the lack of bread. The smell of freshly-baked bread suddenly wafted into his mind. Back home the second baking at the boulangerie in the rue Marcadet would be just about ready. Nevertheless, given the circumstances, he couldn’t grumble. It had been a more than satisfactory start to the day. Apart from orange juice and coffee, he doubted if even Ananas had fared better.
Washing-up completed, the emergency bag securely locked and packed away, he wrapped the remaining sausages in his overcoat and stowed them away at the back of the cupboard.
Since Château Morgue obviously didn’t believe in their patients enjoying the luxury of having locks on their doors – probably in case any of them shut themselves in and lacked the strength to get out again – he hung the OCCUPÉ notice on the outside handle for safety. One couldn’t be too careful.
Shortly afterwards, holding onto Pommes Frites’ harness with his left hand and grasping the white stick with his right, he set off, tapping his way along the corridor away from the SORTIE DE SECOURS towards what an arrow on the wall referred to as the CENTRE D’ÉTABLISSEMENT THERMAL (TOUTES DIRECTIONS). They had dilly-dallied long enough. It was time to take the bull by the horns and make their entry into the world of La Cure.
The signs on the doors of the adjoining building made gloomy reading. Everything from the coccyx to the pharynx seemed to be catered for. There was hardly a part of the body which didn’t have its name written up in large capital letters. LES ECZÉMAS embraced LES ACNÉS, and the two jostled for pride of place alongside LES ULCÈRES. Parts of the body he hadn’t dreamed existed were displayed in the form of illuminated X-rays, looking more like sliced portions of andouillette than anything remotely human. By the time he reached the end of the corridor a strange feeling of itchiness on his skin had been replaced by a dull pain in his stomach. He wasn’t sure whether it was a surfeit of sausages or merely psychosomatic, but whichever it was it quickly transmitted itself to Pommes Frites who stopped scratching himself in favour of looking for a possible exit door.
Monsieur Pamplemousse decided that impurities of the skin and intestinal disorders were not high on his list of priorities that day. Far better to get adjusted to his new surroundings with the help of something less exotic.
Following a sign marked AUTRES
DIRECTIONS, he turned a corner and spied a door marked OBÉSITÉ. His entry triggered off a flurry of squeals and indignant shrieks as a plethora of female bodies scattered in all directions, like over-fat mice at harvest time.
Monsieur Pamplemousse focused his attention on the nearest and undeniably most nubile of the forms. He touched his forelock with the end of his white stick.
‘Pardon, Monsieur,’ he exclaimed. ‘Est-ce la bibliothèque?’
A giggle of relief went round the room. Towels were released and fell to the ground unheeded, their owners breathing sighs of relief as they relaxed again.
It gave Monsieur Pamplemousse a chance to make a closer study of the scene. Like a small boy let loose in an ice-cream parlour, he sampled a chocolate-nut sundae here, a banana split there, discarding a half-eaten Knickerbocker Glory to the right of him in favour of a pecan and hot fudge confection to his left, while yet leaving room for manoeuvre in case he had another change of mina and dipped into a tutti-frutti special. The woman he’d spoken to came towards him.
‘I think you have made a mistake.’
Essaying a half-hearted attempt at sounding confused, Monsieur Pamplemousse stammered his apologies as she turned him round and gently but firmly pushed him back out through the door. He poked his head back inside for one last, lingering look. From the rear she was even more desirable. ‘A thousand apologies, Monsieur,’ he called.
Monsieur Pamplemousse went on his way with a lighter step. Life had suddenly taken on a new dimension. Quick thinking sometimes brought unexpected rewards. Saying he’d been looking for the library had been a mistake, but in the general excitement no one seemed to have noticed. There was no doubt about it, his ‘affliction’ had its compensations.