Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation

by Michael Bond

  Rapturous applause greeted the end of the number and cries of encore filled the hall. When the lights came up to signal the interval and it became clear that many a dream would remain unfulfilled, those nearest the back made a beeline for the ticket desk to put their names down for the video.

  ‘Wonderful, weren’t they?’ whispered Doucette.

  ‘Heavenly,’ agreed Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Round and firm, yet not lacking movement when the moment was ripe, as in the final crescendo.’

  ‘Aristide! I was referring to the children.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at his wife. Truly, however many years two people spent together, there were moments when communication remained at a very primitive level. And if that were the case when discussing a matching pair of innocent doudounes – which possibly, although perhaps in this day and age not necessarily, remained as yet untouched by any human hand other than her own – what hope was there for the rest of mankind? Heads of State conferring over such complicated matters as the disposal of nuclear weapons would have their work cut out.

  ‘And she wasn’t wearing a brassiere.’ Clearly, as far as Doucette was concerned that was the end of the matter. Her copybook had been irredeemably blotted.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse knew better than to argue. In any case the general hubbub as those around them stood up to stretch their legs put an end to further conversation.

  Leading the way to the back of the hall, he hovered near the entrance, half expecting to receive a tap on the shoulder, or at the very least catch sight of someone carrying a large parcel, but he looked in vain.

  ‘Perhaps he is waiting for us in the hotel,’ said Doucette, as the minutes ticked by.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a grunt as they turned to go back inside. ‘That’s not what the concierge told me. The message was very specific. Besides, he would have given us the tickets if …’ He broke off at the approach of a small figure, a tray rather than a balalaika suspended from its neck.

  ‘Pragráma. Souvenir Programsk.’ You could have cut the accent with a knife.

  Seen from close to, the child looked even more unprepossessing than she had on stage. Not so much a mixed infant as a mixed-up one. He wondered what she would become when she grew up. A tram driver, perhaps? Or a crane operator? If it were the former he wouldn’t fancy the chances of anyone running for the last one back to the depot late at night.

  Ignoring a bowl filled with large denomination notes held in place by a paperweight, he took one of the programmes and felt for some small change.

  ‘Nyet!’ The child shook its head and held up four pudgy fingers and a thumb. ‘Cinq cent francs. Fife hundreds of francs. Eet is for good cause. Eet is in aid of school library.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse froze, then slowly withdrew his hand from a trouser pocket.

  ‘Nyet pour vous aussi!’ he said, with feeling.

  ‘Aristide!’ Doucette looked shocked. ‘She is only small.’

  ‘She may be small,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but I am not in the market for purchasing a deluxe edition of the complete works of Alexander Dumas.’

  He could feel the child’s eyes boring into him as she made her way round the room and joined a small group standing at the far side of the lobby. He guessed it must be her parents: the woman, très solide, with tightly-permed hair, was how he imagined the daughter would be in thirty years’ time. As for the father, he was definitely one of the old guard; short, barrel-chested, far removed from the current breed of slim, Armani-clad Westernised executives. Apart from the open-necked shirt and gold chain, he could have passed for a Nikita Khrushchev lookalike. The top of his shaven skull looked like an old warhead from an Exocet missile, and was probably twice as dangerous. Better a face to face meeting than have it trained on him while his back was turned.

  Following a brief conversation, they all turned. The girl pointed towards Monsieur Pamplemousse. The father nodded, then patted her head affectionately before sending her on her way. None of which would have worried him overmuch if she hadn’t made a throat-cutting gesture with her free hand as she left. It caused hearty laughter all round. Her father passed a comment to another man, who responded with a smile that was rendered even more mechanical by what appeared to be a row of steel teeth. In all, it could only have lasted a half a minute or so, but he was left with the distinct feeling that he hadn’t heard the last of the matter. He hoped the daughter didn’t have a birthday coming up.

  ‘I didn’t like the first one’s ears,’ said Doucette, reading his thoughts.

  ‘And I don’t like tiny tots who go around demanding money with menaces,’ growled Monsieur Pamplemousse. Nor, he might have added, did he like ones that smelt strongly of pot, but then she wasn’t the only one. Looking around he decided he might just as well be in Leningrad or Vladivostok. He felt an alien in his own country.

  ‘You can tell a lot from ears,’ said Doucette darkly. ‘That man’s are much too small. They look as though they were stuck on as an afterthought.’

  It was true. Since he had left the force, ears had become the subject of a great deal of scientific study. Prints taken from windows and doors often yielded as much, or more, information than fingerprints. On the other hand, he wouldn’t want to try taking the Russian’s ear-prints with an inkpad.

  ‘Shall we go?’ asked Doucette, as the audience began drifting back to their seats. ‘It doesn’t look as though he’s coming, and I really can’t stand much more.’

  ‘If that is what you would like, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, hoping she wouldn’t choose to argue the point.

  Outside, it was like walking into an oven; much as it had been when they stepped off the train that afternoon. The air was heavy with the sensuous smell of mimosa and bougainvillaea. Pommes Frites came bounding out from behind an ancient olive tree, pleased to see them as ever. If he was surprised to find them leaving when everyone else was going in the opposite direction he showed no sign, rather the reverse. Monsieur Pamplemousse registered the fact that his brows were knitted, and his eyes, or what little could be seen of them beneath large folds of flesh, looked slightly glazed; sure signs that he had been thinking. Of what, would only be revealed in the fullness of time, if then.

  In truth, had he been taxed on the point, Pommes Frites would have had to admit he wasn’t too sure himself, although a brain scan might well have revealed an unusual number of local disturbances in the overall pattern of his thought processes. In fact there were so many undercurrents darting hither and thither he might well have been asked to make a further appointment, for it was really a matter of sorting them into some kind of logical order.

  His master’s prophecy on the way down that there would be new smells for him to smell and new trails for him to follow had proved all too true, although in the end both had come to an abrupt end in the car park. Putting two and two together had led him to one inescapable conclusion. The person responsible had gone off in a car OR – and this was where confusion began to set in – had been driven off. And if that were the case, then it must have been in the boot rather than at the wheel.

  It was for such powers of reasoning that Pommes Frites had been awarded the Pierre Armand Golden Bone Trophy for being Sniffer Dog of the Year in the days when he, too, had been a member of the Paris Sûreté.

  ‘It was a funny evening, didn’t you think?’ said Doucette. ‘I don’t want to keep on about it, but I still can’t understand why we were supposed to meet up at a school concert instead of in Nice.’

  ‘Ours is not to reason why,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. He watched as Pommes Frites disappeared into a clump of pine trees in order to investigate the sound of cicadas in a deserted boules area, the sodium lights casting a ghostly shadow as he dashed back and forth sniffing the ground. ‘I’m sure he had his reasons. Perhaps he didn’t want us to go to his shop.’

  ‘In that case, why didn’t he turn up?’ said Doucette. ‘Seeing all those Russians makes me wonder. I’ll say one thing for the
m. They all had lovely shoes. You could see your face in them. It reminded me of the time I gave your new slippers to the Victims of Chernobyl Disaster Fund. You were cross with me because you said it would be a miracle if they ever got that far. You said they were probably already being worn by some fat member of the Russian Mafiya toasting his feet in front of a roaring fire in his dacha.’

  ‘It is not quite the same thing, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse mildly.

  ‘We don’t even know how big a painting it is,’ said Doucette. ‘Perhaps that’s why Monsieur Leclercq wanted us to go by train. Have you thought of that?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse had to admit the answer was ‘no’. Trust a woman to home in on details.

  Beyond the pine trees they passed a row of shops he didn’t remember being there the last time he had visited the area: a couple of boutiques, a photographic shop and another with drawn blinds.

  Pommes Frites caught up with them as they drew near the hotel, then ran on ahead and pushed his way through the revolving door.

  The concierge was nowhere to be seen and his number two rushed out from behind the counter as an errant tail made furious contact with an ancient dinner gong positioned near the lift. Other staff materialised within moments. An elderly women, her hair in curlers, appeared on the stairs.

  ‘It used to be the fire alarm, Monsieur,’ said the man reprovingly.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his wallet. ‘It is good to know it still works,’ he said cheerfully. ‘So often these things are mere token gestures. I must congratulate the management on keeping it as a stand-by. You never know when it may come in useful.’

  Returning to his station the man reached for their room key. ‘The young Monsieur is staying here?’ he asked. ‘Because, if so …’

  ‘He has his own inflatable kennel,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I have made the necessary arrangements with the beach attendant. I will take him down there in a moment.’

  ‘I will see that a bowl of water is made available for him before he retires for the night, Monsieur. Still or sparkling?’

  ‘Still, s’il vous -plaît,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Evian.’

  Having made a note, the deputy concierge preceded them to the lift, opened the doors, stood back to allow Pommes Frites entry after his master and mistress, then pressed a button for the third floor.

  ‘It’s a wonder he didn’t ask what journal he likes in the morning,’ said Doucette, as the doors slid shut. ‘Or journaux.’

  ‘He will go far,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Good hotel concierges are worth their weight in gold. Their importance cannot be over-estimated. For the regular visitor they provide a sense of continuity; of timelessness in an ever-changing world. For those in search of information they have no equal. I must make a note.’

  ‘More work,’ sighed Doucette. ‘I thought this was meant to be a holiday.’

  ‘When it comes to hotels and restaurants,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, as the lift came to a halt and the doors slid open, ‘there is no such thing as a holiday. The Director will still expect a report. Besides, I have a new laptop to test. It is one of the latest models – on the cutting edge of computer design.’

  ‘I would have expected nothing less from Monsieur Leclercq,’ said Doucette.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if he detected a note of irony in her voice, but she was already gazing at her reflection in the dressing table mirror. Women always had so many things to do before performing even the simplest of tasks, like going downstairs to dinner.

  His colleague Bernard was fond of saying that his wife even applied fresh make-up before ringing up the butchers to make a complaint.

  The terrace was crowded when they arrived back downstairs. All the prime tables nearest the sea had either been taken or had a reserved notice on them, and they were seated in a corner near the bar.

  ‘It is more romantic,’ whispered the female sommelier by way of consolation as she lit a candle for them. Any complaints Monsieur Pamplemousse might have harboured melted away.

  Pommes Frites curled up under the table, his head resting between his two front paws, looking as though his mind was millions of kilometres away on another planet.

  Dressed in the clothes he had worn to the concert, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt lost without the notebook he normally kept hidden in a pocket of his right trouser leg. Reduced to relying on his memory, he fell silent while he concentrated on the food. Doucette seemed to catch the mood too and, tired after their long journey, they retired to their room as soon as the meal was over, foregoing their usual café in case it kept them awake.

  Before he went to bed, Monsieur Pamplemousse took one last look over the balcony at the scene below. The hum of conversation was a polyglot mixture of French, German, English, Japanese, plus a sprinkling of American voices.

  In the distance he could see the twinkling lights of the coast road. An aeroplane drifting low overhead lost height and its landing lights came on as it headed towards Nice airport. Over it all the sound of a piano drifted up from the bar; recalling the days of Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda, whose photographs still graced the walls. He wondered whether it merited an ear plug – Le Guide’s symbol for background music, and decided not. From the medley of tunes he picked out Noel Coward’s ‘Room With a View’ and Cole Porter’s ‘Night and Day’. There was a selection of Maurice Chevalier hits. It was really very pleasant.

  In the time it had taken them to come up in the lift more people had arrived. Their own table had been cleared and reset, and one of the larger reserved tables overlooking the sea was now occupied by the Russian group he had encountered at the school. Seen from on high with the moonlight shining on it, the father’s head looked more like a tiny Anglais Millennium Dome than a warhead.

  He wondered what mysteries it might contain and if the family were just passing through or staying in the hotel. Probably the latter, since there was no sign of the daughter. Very likely she was sitting up in bed stuffing herself with whatever Russian children stuffed themselves with when they played ‘midnight feasts’. In her case it would be a packet of something pretty solid; dried sturgeon on a stick perhaps, with a large bowl of vodka-flavoured ice-cream to follow. With luck it might make her sick.

  The sommelier materialised with a bottle and presented it to the father, who nodded his approval, as well he might. Even from two floors up Monsieur Pamplemousse recognised the distinctive label with its host of brightly coloured bubbles.

  It was a Côte Rotie La Turque from Guigal. Tasting dispensed with, the girl disappeared, returning a few minutes later with a second bottle. At anything up to 2000 francs a go, they were certainly pushing the boat out. The concierge was right about where all the money came from in that part of the world.

  ‘Are the people who were at the table behind ours still there?’ called Doucette.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse leant precariously over the edge of the balustrade. Once again there was the ubiquitous smell of bougainvillaea. ‘I think not …’

  ‘There were three of them – an American and another couple. The American caught my eye because he reminded me of Tino Valentino. Remember … he was singing at the dance you took me to at the Mairie last Christmas. He was much shorter than I expected.’

  ‘Those sort of people often are,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, his mind on other things. ‘Remember Tino Rossi?’

  ‘The woman was definitely English, or I suppose she may have been Scottish – she had that sort of skin. She reminded me a bit of that American film star we used to go and see years ago – Greer Garson. I’m not sure what nationality her husband was. He kept looking at you. Once or twice I thought he was going to come across.’

  ‘You should have said.’ It was the story of his life. Where Doucette was concerned the action was always behind him.

  ‘I had a feeling it might mean more work for you and we are here on holiday. I think he may have been English too. He knew enough to raise his thumb when he was orderi
ng. Not like so many foreigners who use their forefinger and then wonder why they get two of everything. But then at the end of the meal he left his fork with the tines pointing upwards. It was the kind of mistake that must have happened a lot in wartime. It’s the little things that give you away.’

  ‘You would have made a very good detective, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Do you really think so?’ Doucette sounded pleased as she turned off her bedside light. She gave a yawn. ‘I haven’t lived with you all these years for nothing.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to turn back into the room when his attention was caught by a movement at the far end of a long jetty to the right of the hotel.

  A fishing boat had appeared out of the inky blackness of the bay and was tying up at the end of the jetty. It rocked violently as two shadowy figures struggled to land their catch. He smiled to himself as he caught sight of Pommes Frites hurrying towards it to see what was going on. He wished he had his energy.

  ‘Would you like me to lower the shutters, Couscous?’ he called.

  But in the words of the famous Scottish poet, Sir Walter Scott, ‘Answer came there none.’ Doucette was already fast asleep.

  It wasn’t long before Monsieur Pamplemousse was in the same blissfully happy state. His last waking memory was that of hearing a series of three distant howls. Long, drawn-out and mournful, they were reminiscent of the wailing of a North American train crossing the prairie at night. Or so it always seemed to be in Westerns.

  Had he been in a slightly less comatose state, he would undoubtedly have recognised it for what it was: the plaintive cry of a frustrated bloodhound making his way homeward to an inflatable kennel.