by Michael Bond
‘Oui, Monsieur.’
‘And Aristide …’
‘Monsieur?’
‘In the meantime I will prepare the ground with Madame Grante. Perhaps a little bouquet of her favourite flowers marked “A Present from the Riviera” would not be out of place?’
‘As you wish, Monsieur.’
Knowing Madame Grante of old, he felt certain such a gesture would be singularly out of place, particularly if he tried to claim it on expenses. Her suspicions would be roused straight away, but he had no wish to disturb the note of tranquillity that terminated the conversation.
It wasn’t until after he had pressed the off key that he realised he had failed to mention anything about his lack of success in picking up the painting, still less his fears as to why that was. On the other hand, Monsieur Leclercq hadn’t brought the subject up either. Perhaps he had been feeling distracted too.
Feeling in need of a stiff drink, he opened the refrigerator door, studied the row of miniature bottles in the rack, and settled on a vodka; a double vodka with ice would be admirable. In the circumstances even Madame Grante couldn’t begrudge him a medicinal pick-me-up.
Settling himself down at a small table near the window, he opened up the laptop and powered it. It would take him all his time to marshal his report into some kind of logical order.
Putting off the evil moment, squaring his conscience with the excuse that it would help clear his mind, he set the computer up for a game of Free Cell. All the aces were along the top row, which in his experience meant there wasn’t a hope of getting it out, so he decided to make it the best out of four.
There was now no question in his mind – he had struck a run of bad luck in all directions. Ten minutes later, weary of all the warning pings and bells and in a worse mood than when he started, he idly switched into the Smart Capture mode, hoping that might do the trick by triggering off a few thoughts. It was the electronic equivalent of sharpening pencils.
Hearing the sound of a key being inserted into a lock behind him, Monsieur Pamplemousse rotated the lens and watched on the screen as the top half of the door slowly opened, then closed again. Reaching forward, he gently rotated the pod, zooming in at the same time until the head and shoulders of a man came into view. Whoever it was, he appeared to be watching him intently.
Mindful of a sophisticated version of the original Minitel service which provided an escape route for those who were caught watching the so-called ‘pink’ services (known as the ‘my wife is coming’ button, it replaced porn with a table of meaningless statistics), he returned to the games mode.
Bracing himself before the other had a chance to make the first move, Monsieur Pamplemousse leapt to his feet, pushing the chair aside at the same time, and having closed the gap between the two of them in a couple of strides, gripped the intruder by his collar and tie.
‘Cochon …! Salud …! Maquereau …! Enfant de putain …! Débile mentale …! Imbécile …!’ Effectively punctuating each word by slamming his victim against the wall, it wasn’t until he found himself running short of expletives that he realised the man’s cheeks were glistening.
‘Please …’
‘Sapristi!’ Expecting to hear Russian rather than English, it took him by surprise. ‘I don’t know who you are or what you want,’ he said, loosening his grip, ‘but I never, ever want to see you again. And I warn you here and now, if I so much as catch a glimpse of you in the far distance I shall make sure you will regret it for the rest of your days. And when I have finished with you, others will begin. Now get out of here and don’t come back.’
With that, he flung the door open with his free hand and hurled the intruder into the corridor. As the man landed in a heap, he traced an imaginary line left to right across his forehead with the forefinger of his right hand, palm facing downwards, in the classic J’en ai ras le bol gesture.
‘I have had it up to here with you people!’
Pausing only to reverse the card on the door handle so that it read DO NOT DISTURB, he slammed the door shut behind him, and having made sure the security latch was firmly in place, returned to the table.
Breathing heavily after his exertions, Monsieur Pamplemousse flopped into the chair. It was always the same: bottle things up for too long and when the cork eventually popped under the pressure, all the pent-up frustrations came out with a rush …
He stared at his vodka glass. A moment ago it had been full. Now it was lying across the keyboard – empty! Upending it, a drop no larger than a budgerigar’s larme – certainly smaller than the man’s teardrops – clung suspended from the rim for a brief moment, then landed on the table beside him. Upending the laptop produced a similar result. A tiny smidgen of liquid trickled its way down the keyboard, winding a path in and out of the keys before joining the first drop.
He barely had time to read the ominous phrase YOU HAVE PERFORMED AN ILLEGAL OPERATION before the picture faded and a metallic female voice uttered the dreaded words: ‘Your battery is running low’.
Searching out the mains adapter, he powered the machine from a wall socket, but the screen remained resolutely blank. He tried shaking it, but there was not a bleep to be heard.
It was all he needed!
With the basic operating instructions contained in the HELP section of the programme only available when the laptop was working, he upended a large envelope that had come with it. Searching through a mass of documents hoping to find the usual worldwide list of main dealers, he drew a blank. All he found was a sheet of paper torn from an exercise book with the words EN CAS D’URGENCE scrawled across the top. Below it was written a telephone number. Once again there was something familiar about the writing. It could have been the same as that on the address of the antique dealer in Nice, but he couldn’t be sure and anyway he had thrown that away.
He reached for his mobile. It was worth a try.
Pommes Frites gazed at a strange object, not unlike an elongated black dog biscuit, lying on the sand.
It was getting near lunch time and he had been hanging about outside the hotel in the hope of drawing his master’s attention to the fact, when it had come flying out of an upstairs window and landed right by his feet.
Having circled it several times, he crouched down on his stomach, wormed his way forward, and gave a tentative sniff. A quick chew confirmed the fact that whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t edible, but he recognised one thing straight away: the scent of his master.
And if his master had thrown it out of his window, it could mean only one thing. He wanted to get rid of it as quickly as possible. A ringing noise coming from somewhere inside it only served to emphasise the urgency of the matter. It was another thing he had learnt on his course.
Being already in a disposing-of-bombs mode that morning, it didn’t take him long to reach a decision. Unable to see a bucket of water anywhere close by, he did the next best thing. Once again risking life and limb, he picked the object up in his mouth and dunked it in the sea.
Having successfully stopped the ringing, he took it back to his kennel to join his other trophies before settling down on the beach again to await his master’s pleasure.
Meanwhile, unaware of the dramas taking place outside his window, and temporarily deprived of his mobile, Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up the house phone and dialled 6.
Having waited a full two minutes he tried again. When there was still no reply he replaced the handset.
It was back to basics. Wearily, he added a comment to a growing list of items on the back of an old envelope.
There were days when an Inspector’s lot was not a happy one. One thing was certain; if the Hôtel au Soleil carried on like this is would be losing its d’Or appendage long before the next edition of Le Guide was due out.
CHAPTER SIX
Reaching for his napkin, Monsieur Pamplemousse dabbed furiously at a large black lump on his right knee. It was all he needed to round off the day. His suit was in a bad enough state as it was without being s
pattered by a mixture of black olives, anchovies and olive oil.
Having left home in a hurry, he had omitted to pack a spare pair of trousers. At least he had brought his lightweight jacket with him, otherwise he would have felt conspicuous alongside the others: Doucette in the dress she kept for ‘special occasions’, Mrs Pickering, looking elegant in a white dress and Hermès scarf, Mr Pickering hardly less so in grey trousers and a dark blue blazer.
‘I believe French chalk is very good for absorbing oil stains,’ said Mrs Pickering.
‘It will need to deal with many other things as well,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gloomily. ‘This version of tapénade has tuna fish mixed in. It helps reduce the saltiness. It also had capers and a hint of pastis. If you will excuse me …’
From an inside pocket, he produced his Cross pen and the envelope he had used for making notes on earlier in the day.
‘You can’t beat the tried and trusted methods,’ said Mr Pickering approvingly.
‘Aristide is having trouble with his computer,’ explained Doucette.
‘I don’t even have my notepad.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse launched into a brief run-down of his troubles.
‘You have my sympathy,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘Computers can be quite petulant at times. They have a tendency to announce that you have committed a Fatal Error and refuse to do any more work without so much as a hint as to what you have done wrong.’
‘In fairness,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I doubt if mine had come across vodka before.’
‘It’s the noises I can’t stand,’ said Mrs Pickering. ‘They are so smug and holier than thou when they’re first switched on – full of sweeping chords and arpeggios. Then they get impatient and start pinging like a dripping tap.’
‘That drives Aristide mad too,’ agreed Doucette. ‘My husband is a very patient man, but he does keep things bottled up. Then, when something snaps, it all comes out and he becomes a different person. It is like a thunderstorm. I hardly know him.’
Feeling himself on dangerous ground, Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to veer away from the subject.
‘Talking of thunderstorms, please forgive the way I am dressed. I was caught out in the one we had this morning.’
‘Another example of global warming,’ said Mr Pickering, applying some more of the anchovy paste to his toasted pain de campagne.
‘Another example of being pig-headed,’ said Doucette. ‘I told him to take an umbrella.’
‘You should be like Andrew,’ said Mrs Pickering. ‘He never goes out without his wherever we are.’
‘I did offer to iron Aristide’s trousers,’ broke in Doucette, ‘but our room is like a workshop. There are flashing lights everywhere and all the wall sockets are taken up with battery chargers. I didn’t even have one for my hairdryer.’
Mrs Pickering murmured sympathetically. ‘There are never enough sockets, and when you do find one it is never where you want it to be.’
‘I’m afraid we English are partly to blame for that,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘Ever since the Reverend Lewis Way instigated the laying out of the Promenade des Anglais in Nice, we have continued to leave our mark on this part of the world. Being much patronised by les Anglais, this hotel reflects old-fashioned values. In travel agents’ brochures it is the kind of establishment where people don’t actually stay, but take a sojourn. In most other respects it is hard to fault.’
‘All except one.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced ruefully at his trousers. ‘Twice this afternoon I rang for the valet service and nothing happened. If they are not careful the symbol of a steam iron will be missing from next year’s guide.’
‘In the circumstances,’ said Mr Pickering, ‘it doesn’t surprise me. But perhaps you haven’t heard. Extraordinary business. Apparently one of the staff went to pick up a pair of trousers for cleaning and received a severe beating up for his pains. He arrived back downstairs a gibbering wreck and hasn’t been seen since.’
Madame Pamplemousse shivered.
‘Are you all right, Couscous?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse put his arm protectively round her shoulder. ‘Would you like me to fetch your pashmina?’
‘No. I was just thinking how awful to be married to a beast like that. The man who attacked him, I mean. I shall be frightened to leave the room by myself from now on.’
‘Do they have a record of the room number?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse asked casually.
‘Apparently not,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘He was English, over here to learn French. It was his first day on duty, so he hadn’t quite got into the swing of things. Anyway, it’s too late now. At the rate he was going he’s probably in Dover by now, vowing never to return.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse mentally breathed a sigh of relief.
‘One way and another it’s been quite a day,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘I saw one of our Russians being whisked off to hospital this morning. Apart from having been hit about the head, he’d been bitten in a most unfortunate place. Then came the to-do over the laundry.’
‘You’d think that while the police are looking into the other awful business with the body they would deal with it,’ said Mrs Pickering. ‘The two things might be connected.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it isn’t as simple as that. The problem with the laundry will be a matter for the local Gendarmerie. But since they are a military body under the control of the Army Minister and have no detectives, the case of the corpse will be handled by the nearest Police Judiciaire. They’re controlled by the Ministry of the Interior and are very similar to the English City police. After that a juge d’instruction takes over.’
‘I shall never get it straight,’ said Mrs Pickering.
‘Loosely translated,’ broke in Mr Pickering, ‘it means “examining magistrate” only in this case it’s always a judge.’
‘An even looser translation,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘if you will excuse my saying so, is pain in the derrière. They are a law unto themselves. They virtually take over an investigation. They visit the scene of the crime, questioning everyone and everything. If you need a search warrant you have to get their permission first.’
‘It’s swings and roundabouts,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘The Continental inquisitorial system may be slow, but at least by the time you get to court everything is sewn up. The weakness of our adversarial system, with counsel pitted against counsel, is that more often than not the man who can afford the best lawyer wins.
‘Which reminds me. I haven’t as yet seen anyone remotely resembling a magistrate, only a couple of what Todd would call “uniforms”.’
It was true. Monsieur Pamplemousse had been out a good deal of the time, but everything seemed to have gone strangely quiet. Could one turn a blind eye to a limbless corpse being washed up on the shores of the Mediterranean? It wouldn’t be the first time there had been shenanigans in that part of the world. It had reached its peak in the seventies when the Mayor of Nice, Jacques Médecin, had been forced to flee the country to Uruguay to escape imprisonment.
Before he had time to dwell on the matter, the first course arrived: consommé Niçoise. It was note-taking time again.
‘Seeing our meeting by chance like this is a cause for celebration,’ he said, ‘I have taken the liberty of asking if the chef could prepare a selection of regional specialities. All in aid of research, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Mr Pickering dryly. ‘It’s a hard job, but somebody has to do it.’
The dish was beyond reproach: clarified with egg whites, which had in turn been helped by acid from tomatoes, the liquid was so clear he could have put a ten franc coin at the bottom of the bowl and still read every word on it. It sparkled when he stirred it. There wasn’t a trace of fat. Yet the taste of each and every one of the other ingredients was still there; beef … potatoes … green beans …
Monsieur Pamplemousse awarded it Le Guide’s maximum points. ‘The best of Nice cuisine tastes of what it is,’ he said. ‘Which is as it should be.’<
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He was on home ground and his feeling of wellbeing was increasing by the minute. It lasted until the pianist, who for some while had been wallowing in nostalgic rhythms of the twenties, suddenly broke off and segued into a spirited rendering of the theme from ‘Doctor Zhivago’. Heads turned.
‘Is the back of your neck burning?’ asked Mr Pickering. ‘If it isn’t, it ought to be. I don’t think you are exactly flavour of the month with our Russian friends.’
‘I don’t see why they have taken against Aristide,’ said Doucette. ‘Just because he didn’t buy one of their daughter’s programmes.’
‘I don’t think it is as simple as that, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I have a feeling that for whatever reason they are suspicious of me.’
While the table was being cleared prior to the arrival of the next course he seized the opportunity to steal a quick glance over his shoulder. Clearly something was wrong. If the pianist had been hoping for a little extra pourboire for his efforts he was wasting his time.
A whole sea bass arrived at their table and was presented. Resting on a bed of watercress in a long oval dish, the upper skin had been removed to reveal flesh that was firm and white. It was garnished around the edge with slices of cucumber and lemon, interspersed with cherry tomatoes.
‘It is this morning’s catch, Monsieur,’ said the maître d’hôtel, anticipating his question. ‘It has been poached in a court bouillon of onions, carrots and celery.’
Placing the dish on a small serving table nearby, he began deftly cutting away portions of the upper side.
Monsieur Pamplemousse thanked him. ‘We are privileged,’ he murmured. ‘Even in the South of France you can no longer guarantee fish have not been farmed in Calais with water warmed from some nuclear power station’s cooling system.’