Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation

by Michael Bond

  ‘Like I say, it’s bungee jumping in reverse, except you have two cords. Instead of acting as a brake, the elastic projects you upwards so the sky’s the limit.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dryly. He glanced down. ‘I know someone who won’t be going on it.’

  He wouldn’t receive any thanks if he let Pommes Frites loose on garlic soup. One member of the family would be deemed quite sufficient.

  Their room was empty when he arrived upstairs. Doucette’s tray had been collected, the bed made. He guessed she and Mrs Pickering must have already left for their outing together.

  Looking out of the window he saw Mr Pickering enjoying a paddle. His trousers were rolled up to just below his knees and it was as Todd had said. He had his pipe firmly gripped between his clenched teeth. The business end was pointing towards the hotel. One of the penthouse suites on the top floor to judge by the angle.

  The beach was beginning to fill up. A North African bearing a tray-load of assorted gifts threaded his way in and out of the recumbent bodies on his first excursion of the day. There were no takers.

  With time to kill before lunch, Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly felt at a loose end. Leaving the Bâton de Berger just inside Pommes Frites’ kennel in case he got hungry (in the old days it had often signalled the end of a case, and the most effective way he knew of destroying evidence. Even the nuts were reprocessed beyond recognition) he set off to walk into Antibes.

  Taking a short cut, he joined the main coast road near the Port de la Salis and followed it until he reached the old harbour in Antibes itself.

  The restaurant turned out to be one of those places where the fare probably hadn’t changed since the Madame running it had taken over from her mother. Entering it was like taking a step back in time.

  Ricard ashtrays and blue Pernod water jugs, each containing a small posy of flowers, were dotted around the room. The sun shining through net curtains made filigree patterns on the marble-topped table as he sat down near the window and took stock of his surroundings: bent-wood chairs for those facing the wall, faded red plush banquettes for those facing outwards.

  Just inside the door there was an old wooden hat-stand, and alongside that a numbered rack, presumably where regulars kept their napkins. A well-worn path in the patterned tiled floor led to a zinc bar, behind which was an etched glass mirror. Beneath the mirror there was a shelf of inverted Paris goblets and a variety of pastis bottles.

  Drawings of fishing boats adorned the dark wood-panelled walls. Among them, on the wall near the bar, was a framed embroidery bearing the words L’aigo-boulido sauvo le vido. Loosely translated he took it to mean ‘garlic soup saves lives’. A bead curtain separated the main room from the kitchen, and behind it he could hear the business-like sound of a baguette slicer at work.

  In the far corner an ancient radio did battle against noise coming from the fair, while from under a table an Alsatian dog kept watch on the comings and goings. It was another reason why he wasn’t wholly sorry to have left Pommes Frites behind. The world had enough problems over territorial rights as it was.

  The Madame appeared, negotiated the beads with practised ease, spread a brown paper ‘table cloth’ in front of him, and having placed a single spoon on top, stood poised, order pad and pencil at the ready as she awaited his order. As if she didn’t know!

  A Ricard, a L’aigo-boulido, a demi-pichet of red vin ordinaire … each item received a nod of approval, followed by the ultimate accolade of parfait.

  What more could anyone wish for? If they did they were welcome to go elsewhere!

  A copy of his order was removed from the pad and placed under a jug. Moments later the pastis materialised, along with a jug of ice-cold water and a basket of bread.

  The soup came as an individual portion served at the table. First to arrive was a generous helping of hot garlic bouillon containing a sprig of sage and a bayleaf. Sprinkled with olive oil and stirred, it was added a little at a time to a bowl containing beaten egg yolk. After the two had been combined and served, the remaining mixture was returned to a double boiler to keep warm.

  The dish was all that Mr Pickering had cracked it up to be. With every spoonful Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his voice returning. It cried out for a second helping.

  Finally wiping the bowl clean with the last of the baguette, he drained his glass and called for l’addition. The Madame didn’t seem at all surprised. On the contrary, the state of his bowl brought a smile of pleasure to her face.

  ‘You must be looking forward to the fair moving on.’

  She gave a shrug. ‘It brings in the evening trade.’

  He wondered. They wouldn’t be the choicest customers in town. It was hard to picture Mr Pickering taking his evening meal there. And yet … passing on the other’s message produced another warm smile. Clearly, he had left his mark.

  Leaving the bistro, he headed towards the harbour. Worming his way through a cluster of tow-trucks and mobile homes – mostly Ford, but with a sprinkling of other makes: Citroën T55, Renault, Opel and Berliet; the usual hodge-podge of fairground vehicles – he felt a renewed spring in his step.

  The noise grew louder: a pot-pourri of sound. Organ music from an old Bayol children’s carousel with carved wooden gingerbread pigs; the steady crack of rifle shots from a shooting gallery – all mirrors and gilt and lined with portraits of film stars contemporary at the time when it was built – Maurice Chevalier, Charlie Chaplin, Fernandel. Girlish screams came from a wooden boat as it hurtled down a chute before landing with a huge splash in the water below. Above it all, there was the low roar of generators and the characteristic smell of discharging electricity from the dodgem cars. The big wheel was doing a roaring trade.

  On past the maze with its distorting mirrors, and the ‘Boîte à Rire’ Fun House; if the graphics in the style of Jacques Coutois outside were anything to go by it was another throwback to the days when travelling fairs provided prostitutes for their customers. He wondered if the Russians might revive the custom and whether they frequented the bistro where he’d just had lunch.

  At the far end he came across the ride he was looking for. His first sight of it was when a steel cage-like object suddenly hurtled skywards, executed a quick flip, then disappeared again. He quickened his pace.

  There were more people watching than there were queuing to have a go. Even so, there was clearly a brisk turnover. As he joined the crowd two girls paid their money and began screaming with excitement the moment they were strapped into the seats. There was a pause while the cables hanging from the two elevated steel support poles – one on each side – tightened and took up the strain, then the operator stood clear and pressed a foot pedal.

  Paradoxically, as the cage was catapulted upwards the screaming stopped. It resumed as it reached the end of its run, rotated through 360 degrees, then bounced up and down four or five times before finally coming to rest. It was all over in less than a minute.

  The operator lowered it gently to the ground before locating it onto a spigot protruding from the platform.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse had a feeling he recognised the man, but perhaps it was simply that he looked like fairground operators the world over.

  Feeling a presence at his side he turned and found himself face to face with the person he had come to think of as Krushev’s minder. Close to his teeth looked even more metallic than they had from a distance. He wondered if he cleaned them regularly with metal polish. If he didn’t, did they ever go rusty during the night?

  ‘Fancy a ride?’ It wasn’t so much a question as a statement.

  ‘I have better things to do with my life than entrust it to a set of elastic bands,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Particularly after a good lunch.’ He was about to move away when he felt something small, round and hard pressing into his back, propelling him forward.

  ‘We need to talk.’ The man spoke French with an American accent.

  As they reached the head of the queue a c
ouple who had been about to climb into the cage began to remonstrate.

  There was a short sharp exchange of words. The girl stifled a cry of alarm, her companion went pale.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse made a quick calculation of his options. There wasn’t a uniform in sight, and for the moment at least no one in the waiting crowd looked as though they would be on his side; if anything it was very much the reverse.

  He felt himself being forced into the nearest seat. ‘Breathe out, Monsieur.’ The operator bent over him.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse turned his head away and obeyed. What sounded like a Russian imprecation came from the adjoining seat as the Russian climbed in. It was good to know that there was still satisfaction to be gained from the little things in life, like recycled garlic soup.

  ‘Hold very tight, Monsieur,’ whispered the operator. Once again Monsieur Pamplemousse had a fleeting feeling of déjà vu. Somewhere in his early twenties, the operator was sweating profusely. His hands were trembling as he tried to engage the tongue of a five-point safety belt.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse decided on the direct approach towards his companion while he was being attended to.

  ‘What do you know of the man who was washed up at the hotel the other night?’

  He was rewarded with a non-committal shrug. ‘In Russia we have a proverb: “A mouthful of sea-water gives you the taste of the ocean.”’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning some people become greedy.’

  ‘Perhaps he simply believed in free enterprise …’

  ‘My friend, the only free cheese is in the mouse-trap.’

  ‘We in the West would say you should never commit yourself to a cheese without first examining it,’ replied Monsieur Pamplemousse, not to be outdone.

  ‘If you are a mouse,’ said the man, ‘that is almost always the last thing you say. Unless you want to end up looking like a Swiss Gruyere, you’ll tell me what’s happened to the girl.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at him. So that was it. He doubted if he had been coerced into taking a ride on the Human Slingshot simply to indulge in an exchange of national proverbs. He was about to seek final refuge by quoting Bertolt Brecht – wondering out loud what happened to the hole when the cheese was no longer there – when there was a sudden whip-like crack of escaping air and before he had a chance to brace himself they took off.

  An experienced astronaut would have been able to quantify the effects brought on by maximum acceleration as the cage left the ground. But even if he’d had the benefit of such a luxury, it was doubtful if Monsieur Pamplemousse would have taken it in. The loss of any sense of balance as the fluid in the inner ear went haywire, coupled with the feeling of increased weight as g-forces battled to push his body in the opposite direction saw to that.

  As his heartrate gathered speed, seeking to get the vital oxygen-bearing blood flowing back to his brain as quickly as possible, a feeling of nausea swept over him.

  Aware of tightening stomach muscles, he thought he was about to faint.

  The momentary, but no less fervent wish that he had gone without a second helping of L’aigo-boulido was short-lived. As the forces of gravity overcame the forces of acceleration, the cage came to a halt and began to revolve. Almost immediately there was a violent shudder and it began to twist.

  Hearing a long drawn-out gasp like the howling of a wind from somewhere far below, he opened his eyes and realised the seat next to him was empty.

  A split second later came a feeling of weightlessness as the cage began its descent, hurtling towards the ground at terrifying speed. Clutching the safety bar in front of him as though his life depended on it, he looked down and saw a small crowd of people gathered round a huddled shape on the concrete jetty. Mercifully no one else had been involved, but from the way the man was lying he didn’t fancy his chances of a quick recovery.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t know what he felt. Shock? Anger? Indifference?

  He wondered if it was the work of Uncle Caputo, or a genuine mistake on the part of the operator. What Todd would have called ‘negative over-reaction’. Perhaps he had been acting under orders? Either way he wouldn’t fancy being in his shoes if the Russians caught up with him.

  As the up and down oscillations of the cage rapidly diminished he saw there was a fresh operator waiting for him, and he remembered all too late where he had last seen his predecessor.

  It had been back at the hotel when he had tried to send his trousers to be cleaned.

  It was no wonder the youth had seemed in a highly nervous state. Clearly, his travels hadn’t taken him quite as far as Mr Pickering had pictured. He was probably already making up for lost time.

  Another thought struck him as the replacement helped him out of the cage. If others subscribed to the theory of there being a third solution to every problem, he knew who would be next in line to get the blame.

  In most peoples’ eyes it would be a clear case of ‘Did the man fall, or was he pushed?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Who on earth can have sent them?’ exclaimed Madame Pamplemousse. ‘They must have cost a fortune.’

  A croissant poised halfway to her mouth, she gazed at an enormous bunch of white lilies which had been delivered along with their breakfast tray. ‘Are you sure there’s no message?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse took a closer look. ‘Quite sure.’

  In total there must have been thirty long stems; far too many for the vase in their room. They looked more suited to one of the boats moored in the nearby harbour, most of which were little more than floating florist’s shops anyway, and he wondered if they had been sent to the hotel by mistake. Perhaps, even now, another richer, but temporarily flowerless yacht-owner was pacing his deck working himself up into a lather.

  ‘It could be a present from Monsieur and Madame Leclercq.’

  ‘For what? We haven’t done anything yet.’

  ‘They don’t know that,’ persisted Doucette. ‘You must find out. Otherwise I shan’t know who to thank and that will be terrible.’

  The implied division of duties didn’t pass unnoticed. Stifling a sigh, Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up his cup and saucer. Watched by some anxious sparrows, he balanced a half-eaten pain au sucre on the rim of the cup and disappeared into the bedroom. Picking up the house phone, he dialled 5 for reception. Clearly there would be no peace until the mystery had been solved. In the meantime his coffee was getting cold.

  The concierge was desolate. ‘No, Monsieur, there was no message.’ But he remembered the name on the side of the delivery van because it had arrived unusually early. Just as he was coming on duty, in fact. It was a well-known florist in Nice. If Monsieur would wait one moment, he would look up their number …

  Monsieur took advantage of the pause to drain his cup.

  ‘I have it for you, Monsieur. If you wish, I will dial it for you and have the call transferred to your room.’

  ‘Even better,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, mindful of Madame Grante’s current purge on the use of hotel telephones, ‘give me the number and I will use my mobile.’

  That apart, he wanted to get the matter settled as quickly as possible. What with one thing and another – first the body in the sea, then the episode at the fair – he had enough things on his mind without adding any more to the list.

  Removing his handset from the charger, he dialled the number and waited.

  When he finally got through, the girl sounded breathless. He wasn’t surprised. It was early in the day and most of the staff were probably busy assembling orders. They wouldn’t exactly be fighting each other to answer the telephone.

  Having apologised, he explained the problem and asked for the name of the mysterious benefactor.

  ‘I am afraid I am unable to give it to you, Monsieur.’

  ‘You mean you do not have it? Surely there must be a record of it somewhere? Can you not try looking in your order book?’

  ‘No, Monsieur, that is not the problem. I have
the information here in front of me. It is on the computer screen.’

  ‘Good,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Then may I have it, please.’

  ‘That is the problem, Monsieur. It is because it is on the computer screen that I am unable to give it to you.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the receiver. ‘Excusez-moi. Would you mind repeating that? I do not understand.’

  ‘I am unable to provide you with the information you require,’ said the girl, enunciating the words carefully, as though addressing a hapless two-year-old, ‘because it would be against the Data Protection Act. How do I know you are who you say you are?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the telephone. It was happening again; a hideous variation on the list of buttons to press syndrome. Where would it all end?

  ‘How do I know I am who I say I am?’ he repeated. He was beginning to wonder himself.

  ‘Have I the misfortune to be speaking to a distant relation of a Monsieur Kafka, late of Prague?’ he demanded. ‘A third cousin twice removed perhaps? I know I am who I say I am because I looked at my reflection in the mirror when I was shaving this morning. You will have to take my word for it. How do I know you are who you say you are? Par exemple, you could be someone from the electricity company.’

  His sarcasm fell on stony ground.

  ‘If you wish to know,’ said the girl primly, ‘my name is Anne-Marie and I have my instructions. It is more than my job is worth to reveal the information you are asking for. I suggest if Monsieur is unhappy he refuses to accept delivery.’

  ‘That is not possible,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Your van has already been and gone. However, if you really wish to see how unhappy I am, I will catch the next train into Nice. While I am with you I will demonstrate in the clearest possible manner how much your own data storage system is in need of protection. I trust you keep it locked in a fire-proof safe.’