Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation

by Michael Bond

  ‘Sheerokeey kaka laye …’ Yielding to the pressure, he felt a scented draught of air enter his mouth. It wasn’t a perfume he immediately recognised.

  ‘Wide … wider … toute grande.’

  Feeling others tugging at his arms and legs, Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered for a moment if perhaps he wasn’t in some heavenly massage parlour, a kind of staging post where candidates selected for even greater delights were prepared for their final exams … Apart from obvious reasons of convenience there was no guarantee that French would be the chosen language. Although, logically, of course …

  ‘Sapristi!’ He jumped as he felt a wet hand on his heart.

  Light dawned. Initially the girl must have been speaking to him in Russian. So much for his theories on national differences. On the other hand … as the tip of her tongue made yet another exploratory sortie, he lay back and considered the matter.

  She could have been living in France for so long she had absorbed the best characteristics of her adopted country. That must be it.

  And if that were the case, then undoubtedly it was a marriage made in heaven. He glanced down. Doucette was right, as always. Confirmation of her theories regarding lack of support for the music mistress’s doudounes was closer to hand than he would have dreamt possible. Doubly so, in fact; they were like two peaches, luscious and ripe for plucking. Memories of many a crescendo in ‘Gee, Officer Krupke’ came flooding back. His involuntary sigh elicited renewed efforts on the part of his benefactress, and this time, feeling powerless to resist, he offered himself up to whatever fate might have in store. Indeed, it would have been churlish of him to act otherwise. These things were best left to the experts. Clearly, youthful though she was, the girl was experienced in matters of resuscitation, for he was already beginning to feel concrete evidence of the return to life.

  Having closed both eyes in order to gain the full benefit of her ministrations, Monsieur Pamplemousse immediately opened one of them again – the one nearest the shrubbery – as he heard the sound of something heavy approaching.

  He was just in time to see Pommes Frites burst into view. He was wearing his pleased expression, as well he might, for the stolen Leica was firmly clasped in his capacious mouth. Indeed, with the lens pointing straight ahead and his jowls overlapping either side of its body, he looked for all the world as though he could be about to swallow a giant marble. Either that or he was sprouting a third eye.

  ‘Asseyez-vous!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse rapped out the word of command.

  ‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’

  The mistress’s cry of alarm as she looked round and saw Pommes Frites crouching down only a few feet away was echoed by all and sundry.

  ‘Ne vous effrayez pas. Do not worry. There is no cause for alarm.’

  For a second or two it crossed Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind to feign a relapse, but seeing the look on Pommes Frites’ face he hastily decided against the idea. Expectancy had been replaced by something else; it was hard to tell what. Anxiety? Fear? The triumphant look had vanished; the eyes had lost their shine and his face had taken on a mournful expression. Perhaps, given the combined size of the camera and its winder attachment he was about to throw up?

  Then again, was it the look of a dog who was planning some kind of rescue operation? If so – and Monsieur Pamplemousse certainly wouldn’t put it past him – who knew where it would end? The pompiers might well become involved, and if it turned out to be the same lot he’d encountered the previous morning they might feel inclined to make up for their lost football. He could imagine their whoops of joy as they pounced on him.

  The matter was unexpectedly resolved as Pommes Frites suddenly leapt to his feet and disappeared into the shrubbery as fast as his legs would carry him.

  The truth of the matter was he had been feeling a faint vibration coming from the object in his mouth. And accompanying the vibration had been the sound of ticking.

  Having once, during the Algerian troubles, spent a period with the Bomb Disposal Squad, during which time he had been trained to search for explosive devices, he was well versed on the subject of bombs, and he was convinced he’d been holding one in his mouth.

  Torn between wanting to receive his master’s approbation for retrieving his property and getting rid of it as quickly as possible, it didn’t take him long to decide on the latter course.

  Even during the few seconds he had spent debating the subject, the whirring had ceased. So, too, had the ticking. In his experience that was never a good sign. Whenever ticking had stopped on the course his instructors had made a run for it, calling on him to follow. Almost always it had been followed by an explosion. Once with particularly dire results.

  Already suffering pangs of remorse for leaving his master unattended in his hour of need, Pommes Frites decided he needed to take the object as far away as possible and bury it, preferably in sand. That was another thing he had learnt on his course. Sandbags had come in for a lot of use. And if sandbags were well thought of, then how much better must it be to bury a suspect object in somewhere like a beach?

  Destined to go unrecorded, Pommes Frites’ act of bravery was on a par with that of a Newfoundland dog named Gander VC, who was blown to pieces while removing a hand grenade which had been thrown at a group of wounded Canadian riflemen during the war with Japan. It was simply yet another case of a dog having to do what a dog had to do where the safety of its master was concerned.

  Silence followed his departure. The music mistress rose to her feet and Monsieur Pamplemousse did his best to follow suit.

  ‘You are all right, no?’ said the girl anxiously. ‘I thought for one moment …’

  ‘I think I shall live,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply.

  ‘I hope so.’ She hesitated, suddenly shy as she caught him staring at the thin, rain-soaked dress clinging to her body. Then she looked up at the sky. ‘The storm has passed.’

  It was true. Already there were gaps in the clouds.

  ‘You are wet, Katya … You should have a hot bath as soon as possible.’

  ‘You know my name!’ For a moment she looked confused.

  ‘I looked it up in the programme yesterday evening.’

  She looked pleased. ‘You enjoyed the performance? You are wanting to come again?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head and explained why he was there.

  No, there had been nothing for him and she was sure she would have known if there had been. She had been the last to leave that night.

  As they said goodbye it struck him that her handshake was full of unspoken thoughts, but that was probably wishful thinking on his part. Her mind was probably already on the evening’s performance. Wanting to catch up on lost rehearsal time.

  She hesitated. ‘Please to close your eyes.’

  He obeyed, and a moment later felt her dabbing at his mouth, then she placed something in his hand and gave it a squeeze.

  ‘Now you may open them.’

  Looking down, he found himself holding a tiny white handkerchief, embroidered in one corner with red roses surrounding the letter K. It felt warm to the touch. It was also covered in lipstick.

  ‘Please to keep it. It is to bring you luck and to wish you safe keeping.’

  Half turning in order to undo a back pocket in his trousers, when Monsieur Pamplemousse looked up again she was gone.

  By the time he reached the shops the sun was shining. Steam was already rising from the road. In places the tarmac surface had completely dried out.

  Half expecting to find Pommes Frites waiting for him, he hesitated outside the photographic shop, wondering whether or not to risk leaving the film for processing.

  Catching sight of his reflection in the window, he decided against it. He looked a mess; jacket and trousers crumpled almost out of recognition, button-down shirt ripped apart, lipstick on what was left of the collar.

  Far better to send it off to Headquarters by the fastest possible means. Let Trigaux work his magic printing up
the negatives. He, too, had entered the digital age, updating his darkroom with the latest high-tech equipment.

  Slinking into the hotel, he managed to escape the eyes of those on duty at the main desk who were busy with prenoon departures. Making a detour round the dinner gong, he avoided the lift, and mounted the stairs to his room two at a time.

  Hastily removing his damp clothes he dumped them in a pile on the floor, luxuriated for a few minutes under a warm shower, then donned a dressing gown while planning his next move.

  First things first. Having found a plastic laundry bag in the bathroom cupboard, he ran his finger down the list of options alongside the telephone, dialled 6 for the valet service and gave his room number. Turning on the radio he caught the tail end of an updated weather forecast. ‘… it has rearranged itself. The backpacker in the sky has rolled up his sleeping bag and is on his way to pastures new. It may be wise to give him a head start though …’

  A quick glance out of the balcony window confirmed that life was back to normal. The bay was already alive with water skiers making up for lost time; tables laid ready for lunch awaited their return.

  It was like that on the coast; weather changed rapidly and the bad was soon forgotten.

  The beach area was filling up. There was no sign of either Doucette or Mrs Pickering. They must still be in Antibes. Mr Pickering, pipe in mouth, was standing in the water with his trousers rolled up, gazing back at the hotel. Todd was nowhere to be seen. Presumably he was busy exporting or importing whatever it was that passed through his hands to make a show of things. If, indeed, he even bothered to do that. Nor was there any sign of the Russians.

  Pommes Frites went past looking pleased with himself. Even from a distance Monsieur Pamplemousse could see his paws were covered in wet sand; rather as though he had been digging. His heart sank.

  An unfamiliar muffled ringing sound took him back into the room. It was a moment or two before he realised it was coming from inside Le Guide’s case and was another of Monsieur Leclercq’s recent innovations – the mobile phone. That said, he detected the hand of Madame Grante in Accounts behind the move. She was always grumbling about the use of hotel telephones with their vast mark-up. Given the number of calls back to base the Inspectors normally made during the course of a year, she probably had a point.

  Searching out the Nokia, he activated it.

  ‘There you are at last, Aristide.’ It was Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Enjoying what you photographers call f32 weather, I trust. Ah, how I envy you. No doubt you are making good use of the haze filter.’

  ‘It has been more f2 than f32, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gloomily. ‘As for the haze filter, I am afraid that and the spare lenses are all I have left.’

  ‘What are you saying, Pamplemousse?’ barked the Director. ‘Don’t tell me you left the camera body in Paris. I know this is meant to be a holiday, but staff working for Le Guide are expected to be on duty at all times; the contents of their issue case on hand jour et nuit, ready to cope with any emergency. There is no point in your having one otherwise.’

  ‘I’m afraid the camera was stolen, Monsieur.’

  ‘Stolen?’ repeated the Director. ‘From your room? You have reported the matter, of course.’

  ‘No, Monsieur. It wasn’t in the hotel at the time. I was attacked from behind while taking some pictures for the Staff Magazine.’

  ‘From behind? Did you manage to catch a glimpse of the miscreant?’

  ‘I would recognise him at once if ever we meet again, Monsieur.’ He forebore to say there had been two. It would only complicate the issue.

  ‘Excellent. I trust you have been in touch with the police. Photofit pictures can be made based on your description. I will get Veronique to check on the serial number of the camera.’

  ‘I can save your secretary the trouble,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Pommes Frites retrieved it for me.’

  ‘Good. Good. Excellent! What would you do without him? What would we do without him come to that? I hope it is still in working order?’

  ‘Unfortunately …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated, choosing his words with care. ‘I have no means of knowing. He ran off with it.’

  ‘Ran off with it?’ repeated the Director. ‘Did you not call him back?’

  ‘I was in no position to,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, hoping Monsieur Leclercq wouldn’t ask him why. ‘The thing is, he has hidden it somewhere.’

  ‘Hidden it? That is not possible. In any case, why would he do that?’

  ‘I’m sure he had his reasons, Monsieur. He probably felt he was acting for the best.’

  ‘As an ex-member of the Paris Sûreté, highly trained in sniffing things out, he should experience no difficulty in finding it again. You must order him to.’

  ‘It is not as easy as that, Monsieur. It will be against his nature. When it comes to hiding things, his lips are sealed. That, too, was part of his training.’

  ‘A very negative aspect, if you want my opinion,’ said the Director crossly. ‘If that is the situation, then you must do everything in your power to unseal them before someone else finds it.’

  ‘Cap d’Antibes covers a large area, Monsieur. It is full of nooks and crannies. He may even …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath. ‘Par exemple, it is possible he may even have buried it in the sand.’

  ‘Buried it in the sand?’ While the Director appeared to be fighting the onset of a mild attack of apoplexy, Monsieur Pamplemousse seized the opportunity to adjust the volume of the earpiece in a downward direction. ‘What if the tide comes in before it is found?’

  ‘Fortunately, Monsieur, there is no worry on that score. As Monsieur will be aware the Medit …’

  ‘This is no time for complacency, Pamplemousse,’ boomed the Director. ‘The fact that the Mediterranean is tideless is small consolation. I shudder to think what effect prolonged exposure to salt water will have.’

  ‘With respect, Monsieur, Pommes Frites is only obeying his instincts.’

  ‘That, Pamplemousse, is not how Madame Grante will see it. She will not be pleased.’

  ‘Madame Grante has not been hit over the head …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse stifled a desire to suggest that such things could be arranged. ‘Fortunately I happened to have some boudin under my hat and that softened the blow.’

  There was a moment’s silence while the Director digested the latest piece of information. When he next spoke his tone was unusually mild.

  ‘Forgive me, Aristide. I had no idea it was that serious. It is probably a foolish question, but I must ask it all the same. Was there any particular reason why you were carrying a quantity of boudin inside your hat, other than for protection against possible blows about the head?’

  ‘There was a bad storm, Monsieur. I was keeping it dry for Pommes Frites.’

  ‘Ah, very sensible.’ The Director sounded relieved. ‘I have never partaken of a wet boudin, but I imagine it would be somewhat unpalatable. Not a pleasant experience. One would search in vain for a suitable recipe in Larousse Gastronomique.’

  ‘Not only that, Monsieur. I was fortunate enough to have a Bâton de Berger aux noisettes with me. It is something else Pommes Frites is partial to. My assailant did not make good his escape without first having felt its full weight behind him. In my days with the Sûreté I often made use of it when it came to eliciting information from those who had the misfortune to be suffering a temporary loss of memory. The noisettes were particularly efficacious in restoring it. They added a certain body …’

  ‘I do not wish to know that,’ broke in the Director. ‘Nor, I imagine, would the manufacturers. “As used by the Paris Sûreté during their interrogations” is hardly the kind of endorsement they would wish to see appearing on their labels. Nor would the phrase “a sure cure for amnesia” do much for their sales figures.’

  ‘It sounds even worse in German …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt honour bound to defend his late employers. ‘In German it is called Puur Vare
knsworst Met Hazelnoten. The other advantage was that you could collect coupons off the label and for two coupons plus 25 francs receive in return a disposable camera.’

  ‘I hope you are not suggesting that as a means of replacing the Leica,’ barked the Director. ‘I doubt if Madame Grante will see it that way.’

  There was a pause, during which Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he detected the sound of fingers drumming.

  ‘I am beginning to feel, Pamplemousse,’ continued Monsieur Leclercq at long last, ‘that your time in the Sûreté – and this applies to both you and Pommes Frites – was not always well spent.

  ‘Gross misuse of Bâtons de Berger. Training dogs to withhold vital information. It is a wonder to me you both lasted as long as you did. Really, it is most disappointing. I can only suggest you fill in a P37B, “Loss of Property during the Hours of Duty” form, whilst the unhappy incident is still fresh in your mind. Please let me have it back as soon as possible.’

  ‘Oui, Monsieur.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse settled for the soft soap approach. ‘I am already planning to send off a reel of film I took during the storm. I can put the form in with it.’

  ‘You took some snaps? Before the camera was stolen?’

  ‘Oui, Monsieur. It was one of the most spectacular displays of pyrotechnics I have ever witnessed. It was a case of seizing the opportunity while it lasted. Fortunately, having reloaded the camera with a fresh film before it was stolen, I still have the first cassette. I am hoping it contains something suitable for L’Escargot. If Monsieur should decide to go public, it is worth remembering the annual awards for the magazine cover of the year are coming up, and it could be worth entering. To win such a coveted award with the very first issue would be an enormous feather in our cap.’

  It did the trick. Monsieur Leclercq’s explosions rarely lasted for long, and he was clearly excited at the thought.

  ‘This is excellent news, Aristide. There is no time to be lost. I will arrange for a courier service to pick it up from the hotel as soon as possible. If it reaches Nice airport in good time it could be put on a plane for Orly. Trigaux should have it for processing by late this afternoon. I will make sure he lets me have the results as soon as possible.’