by Michael Bond
He tried another tack.
Had he been sent there for some deeper purpose than merely losing weight? Had someone heard of his impending visit and decided to take advantage of it? Without knowing the contents of the letter he couldn’t be absolutely sure, but deep down he knew the answer.
Once again, he felt tempted to telephone the Director and make a clean breast of things. Once again, he decided against the idea. It was a matter of pride. The Director would not be sympathetic. He would assume his ‘I find this difficult to grasp, Pamplemousse,’ voice:
‘Would you mind repeating that more slowly? You say Pommes Frites actually ate the letter? While you were asleep? A letter of the utmost importance! A letter from the highest authority!’
Then there would be the sarcastic tone: ‘You say all those who died recently were women? And they had unusually large mollets? Could it be, Pamplemousse, that you are suffering aberrations brought on by lack of food? I have heard this sometimes happens.’
This would be followed by incredulity: ‘What is this I hear? You have not been on a régime? You have been living on saucisses… and saucissons!’ There would be silences. Silences intermingled with splutterings. Perhaps even the sound of banging on the Director’s long-suffering desk. He could picture it all too clearly.
He stared at his list. In all conscience, it wasn’t much to go on, but at least it was a beginning.
Were the staff in general involved? He pondered the question. Starting from the top: Herr Schmuck – certainly, and therefore, presumably the aloof and detached Madame Schmuck. He wondered why she had so little to say for herself. And yet she had the air of being a power behind the throne. Doctor Furze? In all probability – a tentative ‘oui’. There had been something odd about the chauffeur, but as for the rest of the staff he had met so far, ‘non’. He would have staked his reputation, for example, on Mrs. Cosgrove not being involved.
He found himself staring into space. Rubbing his chin thoughtfully and realising he needed a shave, he looked at his watch. Sacré bleu! He would need to get a move on if he were to make himself look reasonably respectable in time for their tête-à-tête. Pommes Frites, too. If Pommes Frites was to be in a fit state to receive Mrs. Cosgrove he would need a good brush and some Vaseline rubbed on his nose; it was beginning to look dry after being cooped up indoors for so long. Mrs. Cosgrove – he still found it hard to think of her by her prénom.
His thoughts coincided with a knock on the door. Mrs. Cosgrove was early.
Kissing him lightly on the cheek as she brushed past, she gave a quick glance round the room; first at Pommes Frites, watching her with a red and jaundiced eye from a position he’d firmly taken up in the centre of the rug; then at the furniture, much of which was still as it had been left after the search. Finally, she looked down at Monsieur Pamplemousse’s feet.
‘I hope I am not too early.’
‘Not at all.’ Wishing he’d remembered to put his shoes back on, he went to kiss her hand, then realised she was holding something behind her back.
‘I’ve brought the wine.’ As she placed an uncorked bottle and two glasses on the table, he took the opportunity of studying her more closely, on home ground as it were. She had obviously spent the time since they’d last met in a more productive manner than either he or Pommes Frites. Her blue dress had been exchanged for a more casual one in cream. Like her uniform jacket, it had a zip running down the front. He caught a different perfume too. It had a discreet understatement which left him wanting more. Her hair hung carelessly over her shoulders in a way that could only have been achieved through long and careful brushing.
Her hand trembled slightly as she began to pour the wine. He noticed, too, that she filled her own glass first and took a quick drink before attending to his. He wondered idly if she was still sans culottes.
‘Merci.’ He took it gratefully, conscious of a lingering touch from her fingers as they met his. Rotating the glass quickly and expertly, he swirled the liquid round until it touched the rim, then held it to his nose. The bouquet as it rose to greet him was full and fruity. He was about to hold it up to the light when he realised Mrs. Cosgrove was watching his every movement intently.
‘Do you know any more party tricks?’
‘Old habits die hard.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse bent down and held his glass near the floor so that Pommes Frites could share his pleasure. ‘It is a beautiful wine. I feel highly honoured. I only hope my andouillette stands comparison by its side. It will have a lot to live up to.’
‘Aristide?’ Mrs. Cosgrove sounded hesitant.
He glanced up at her. ‘Oui?’
‘I don’t know quite how to put this, but … it’s just that in England we have a saying – “two’s company, three’s a crowd”. What I really mean is, will he be watching?’
‘Pommes Frites? Watching?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the matter. What a strange question.
‘It is possible. It depends on his mood.’
‘All the time? Everything?’
‘Of course. He has a very sociable nature. He likes to join in things.’
‘Oh!’ Mrs. Cosgrove sat down in the chair. She seemed depressed by the news. ‘Oh, dear. I … I didn’t think you were like that. I mean …’
‘Don’t worry.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to sound as soothing as possible. ‘Despite his size he is really a very gentle dog. Normally he wouldn’t hurt a fly – not unless he is roused.’
‘Is he very easily … roused?’
‘Again, it depends. He has, how would you say? – a strong sense of what is right and what is wrong. If he feels he is being done out of what should be his, then he can get very roused. I would not like to stand in his way at such times. Then, of course, we always share things. If he feels left out then sometimes jealousy sets in.’
Mrs. Cosgrove seemed less than reassured by the reply. Having contemplated her glass for a moment or two she suddenly drained it and reached for the bottle.
‘Oh, well, c’est la vie. In for a penny, in for a pound. When in Rome do as the Romans do.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse tried without success to seek the meaning behind these seemingly unconnected remarks. Taken separately they made very little sense; strung together they defied analysis. He wondered if Mrs. Cosgrove was suffering some kind of mental disturbance. She was certainly having a bad attack of the ‘leg swingings’ he’d noticed earlier. Perhaps it was time to get on with the matter in hand. It would be a pity to let such good wine go unaccompanied. He took a firm grip of his stick.
‘Excusez moi. I must go to the bathroom. We are wasting precious time.’
Unaccountably, Mrs. Cosgrove blushed. ‘It isn’t strictly necessary you know. To take precautions, I mean.’
‘Experience has taught me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that one can never be too careful. I shall not be long.’ Closing the bathroom door behind him, he bent down and peered inside Pommes Frites’ kennel. It was, as always, a model of neatness. The sausages he’d cast through the opening in great haste were now lying in a neat pile at the back. There was almost a military precision about the way they had been arranged, smallest at the front, largest at the rear. Saucisse de Toulouse lay beside Saucisse de Campagne, Saucisson-cervelas snuggled up against Saucisson de Bretagne, but of andouilles and andouillettes there was not the slightest sign. Paradou must have decided that it was a case of prudence est mère de sûreté, and prudence being the better pan of valour, he had gone for the nearest.
No matter. Monsieur Pamplemousse put his arm inside the kennel and groped for a likely candidate among the remaining sausages. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be. One should never judge a sausage by its skin, and andouillettes could be unpredictable at the best of times; some he’d come across in his travels would have tested the strongest of stomachs. Far better to choose one which would match the wine.
His hand encountered one much larger than the rest, somewhere near the back. A giant of a saucisson, he remembered seeing it
before and at the time mentally reserving it for a special occasion.
‘Sapristi!’ He gave a gasp as he lifted it out. At a guess it must weigh all of three kilogrammes. Enough to keep them all happy for the rest of the evening. And afterwards? Afterwards, he would let matters take their course.
Clasping the saucisson in both hands, he rose to his feet and made for the door. Crooking the little finger of his right hand round the light cord, he gave it a tug, then manoeuvred the door handle down with his left arm and gave it a push. The door opened onto more darkness, a darkness made even more impenetrable by his glasses, stretching their photo-chromatic qualities far beyond anything envisaged by their designers.
‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’
‘I hope you don’t mind.’ Mrs. Cosgrove’s voice sounded tremulous. ‘Your world is one of total night-time, I know. So it will mean nothing to you, but to me it will mean everything. It will make us equal. I have turned out the light.’
‘As you wish,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse unhappily. Life had many strange and unexpected twists – that was part of its richness – but he had to admit that a minute ago he wouldn’t have remotely pictured himself groping about in his own room carrying a giant saucisson. It would certainly be hard to explain to others. Doucette wouldn’t believe him – not in a million years. That apart, he had other, more pressing problems on his mind. He wished now he’d made a more accurate mental note of the positioning of the furniture.
Steering a course as best he could to the right of centre, so as to avoid treading on Pommes Frites – assuming Pommes Frites was where he’d left him, he headed in the general direction of the table.
‘Merde! Nom d’un nom!’
‘Are you all right? Where are you? I can’t see you.’ Mrs. Cosgrove sounded anxious.
‘I have stubbed my toe on a leg of the bed.’ It was agony. It felt as though it had been broken in at least six places.
‘Aaah!’ Short though it was, Mrs. Cosgrove managed to imbue the word with a wealth of meaning. A moment later there was a rustle and she was by his side, breathing his name. And each time she breathed his name it was accompanied by a little sob and a wriggle. It was like standing beside a belly-dancer who was having trouble with her act.
His heart missed a beat as something gossamer light landed at his feet and he realised the truth of the matter. At least it answered an earlier question; answered it and immediately posed another.
Like most Capricorns, Monsieur Pamplemousse had a strong sense of priorities. Once a course had been set he didn’t like deviating from it. Mentally he had geared himelf to satisfying the desires of the inner man before anything else. The message had gone out to all departments; taste buds were throbbing in anticipation, salivary glands were at the ready, the stomach was standing by ready to receive. On the other hand …
‘Here, take this for a moment.’ Holding out the saucisson, he started to prepare himself for a change of plan.
‘Jesus!’
‘Out, c’est ça.’ It came back to him. ‘That is its name. Jésus.’ His opinion of Mrs. Cosgrove went up several more points. She obviously knew her charcuterie as well as she knew her vin rouge. She would do well on Ananas’ quiz show. ‘It is from the Jura. I am told it is delicious served with pomme à l’huile.’
Hovering on one leg as he gingerly removed the sock from his bad foot, Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly realised he was talking to himself. Mrs. Cosgrove was no longer there. Reaching out, he made contact with her outstretched form on the bed. His reward was a long drawn out moan.
‘Aristide!’ A hand took hold of his and gently but firmly guided it towards the head of the bed. Beneath the silk of the dress her boîte à lolo felt warm and inviting. Warm and inviting and …
He gave a start. Someone was knocking on the door. Knocking, moreover, in a manner which suggested that whoever was responsible would not readily go away without an answer.
‘Un moment.’ Panic set in as he reached out and turned on the bedside light. For a split second he toyed with the idea of covering Mrs. Cosgrove with the duvet, but one look at her made him change his mind. In her present state of mind there was no knowing how she might react.
A second knock, louder this time and even more insistent, spurred him into action. Reflexes born of years in the Force took over. Putting his arms round Mrs. Cosgrove, he lifted her bodily off the bed and dragged her towards the bathroom. En route he essayed a kick at the saucisson and immediately wished he hadn’t. It was his bad foot. With his other leg he hooked the culottes under the bed.
Pommes Frites jumped to his feet and stared at his master in astonishment. He hadn’t seen such a furious burst of activity for a long time. It looked a very good game and he hurried round the room collecting all the items in case they were needed for a repeat performance.
‘Where are you taking me? What do you want to do with me? Tell me! Tell me!’ Brought to her senses at last, Mrs. Cosgrove gazed wildly round the bathroom, first at the pile of sausages on the floor, then at Pommes Frites’ kennel.
‘Shush!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse put a finger to his lips and then planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘Please. I will explain everything later.’
Closing the bathroom door before she had time to answer, he made for the other door just as it started to open. Ananas was waiting outside. He looked furtive, as if he hadn’t wanted to be seen there.
‘May I come in?’
‘I am a little busy. Could it not wait until later?’
‘I will not keep you more than a moment or two. What I have to say I would rather say in the privacy of your room.’
‘As you wish.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. Clearly Ananas had no intention of leaving until he’d had his say. The sooner he got it off his chest and went away again the better.
Ananas took in the bottle and the two glasses, the state of the bed and Monsieur Pamplemousse’s foot, but made no comment.
‘I have come to tell you that I no longer require your services.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? You mean there is no one trying to blackmail you after all?’
Ananas dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his freshly manicured hand. ‘Shall we say it was a little misunderstanding all round. The good Herr Schmuck was merely taking precautionary measures to ensure that I would do something I fully intended doing anyway. Château Morgue has been getting some “bad press” recently and he wants me to restore its respectability. You or I would have done the same thing had we been in his place.’
‘You might,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gruffly, ‘I wouldn’t.’
Ananas inclined his head. ‘Perhaps. But in the end we all protect that which we believe to be rightfully ours. I admit I might have chosen a different means. However, we all have our methods.’
‘You mean – you will give him your endorsement – after all that has happened?’
‘In return for certain favours – why not? It is a business arrangement.’
‘You will endorse the work of someone who is prepared to resort to blackmail when it suits him?’
‘Blackmail is not a word I like. I prefer the term “making an offer it is hard to refuse”. So much more elegant, don’t you think? Believe me, if I did not wish to agree to his suggestion I would have carried on with our arrangement. As it is, I would prefer that you forget our previous conversation. We have talked too much already. However, I felt I owed you some kind of explanation and an apology for any unnecessary work you have been put to. Who knows? I may be in a position to do you a favour one day. In the meantime, perhaps you would be kind enough to let me have the photograph back and we will call it a day.’
‘I’m afraid,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that will not be possible.’
‘Not possible? Don’t tell me that after all your moralising, Pamplemousse, you too have thoughts of straying from the straight and narrow? Because, if so, I warn you that you will find you have picked the wrong person. You will also f
ind that Herr Schmuck does not take kindly to being crossed either.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath. Really, the man was totally insufferable. ‘It is not possible,’ he said, drawing as much pleasure as he could from the few words, ‘because the photograph is no longer in my possession. It is in the hands of the Police.’
‘The Police!’ The remark had its desired effect. Ananas went pale, his normally suave manner deserting him along with his polished accent. ‘What the devil do you mean by giving it to them?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse mildly. ‘They took it. There was a little confusion about the identity of the person playing what one might call the “leading role”. It is something I still cannot entirely see myself, but … as they probably didn’t even know you were here at the time, it was understandable.’
Ananas relaxed. ‘I have to admit to sharing your feelings on the subject. It is a cross we have to bear. But,’ his mind raced ahead of him, ‘in view of your past reputation, I agree it was an understandable error. People – even members of the police force – have a habit of putting two and two together and coming up with whatever number they choose to fit the bill.
‘I would not like to be in your shoes, Pamplemousse. I shall, of course, deny all knowledge of the affair, and in the circumstances I have no doubt the others in the picture will too. They will know on which side their bread is buttered. The negative, no doubt, is still in existence, but now that is your problem.’
Ananas pressed home his advantage. ‘Why are you here anyway? Herr Schmuck would not be pleased if he knew the truth – he would not be pleased at all. An ex-member of the Sûreté, wandering around with a white stick and dark glasses – pretending you have lost your sight, cluttering up the place with that dreadful dog.’
‘Pommes Frites?’ Ignoring the implied threat in the last part of the remark, Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath. He was about to launch himself into the attack when there was a stirring at his feet.