by Michael Bond
There was a moment’s silence. ‘If you were to give me some possible names of people who might be sending you flowers, Monsieur,’ said the girl, ‘I can tell you whether or not you are correct.’
Swallowing his pride, Monsieur Pamplemousse tried out Doucette’s suggestions; Le Guide, followed by Monsieur and Madame Leclercq. It sounded pathetically short.
‘How about the Pickerings?’ called Doucette from the balcony. ‘It could be a “thank you” for dinner the other evening.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse doubted it. Including delivery charges, the flowers must have cost more than the meal, but it was worth a try.
‘Monsieur is very cold,’ said the girl. ‘Perhaps you could try giving me some areas and I will tell you if you are getting warm.’
‘Antibes?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse lamely, his memory for place names momentarily deserting him.
‘Monsieur is getting warm,’ said the girl excitedly. ‘Very warm …’
A thought struck him. ‘If I were to mention the Hôtel au Soleil d’Or …’
‘Monsieur is in great danger of burning himself …’ The girl’s voice went up an octave or two. From the sound of her heavy breathing she was almost wetting her culottes with excitement.
‘Why didn’t you say that in the first place?’ he growled. ‘I know. Don’t tell me. You have your instructions. But when you have a spare moment, please ask your superior who is protecting who from what and from whom? Now, since I have guessed the location correctly, perhaps you can give me the name. If it wasn’t Pickering, then who was it?’
‘Putin,’ whispered the girl. ‘A Monsieur Vladimir Putin. And he paid cash. He said he was expecting a funeral. That is why they had to be all white. He seemed very cheerful about it …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse terminated the call.
‘Aristide,’ said Doucette, as he returned to the balcony. ‘Is anything the matter? You look quite pale. Just as you were beginning to get a tan.’
‘Nothing is the matter with me, Couscous,’ growled Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is the world. It is going crazier by the minute. You are absolutely right in what you say. People have so many different ways of talking to each other nowadays, they are in grave danger of ending up barely communicating at all. When I think back to my old mother and the time when we had our first telephone … life was simple then. If it rang before nine in the morning or after six o’clock in the evening she had palpitations because it meant bad news. She was usually right. I well remember the night Tante Hortense fell down a well and got stuck …
‘As for mobile phones … this one has brought me nothing but trouble ever since I had it.’ He thrust his arm up in the air. ‘That is what I think of mobile phones!’
The fluttering of wings as the sparrows perched on the balustrade hastily dispersed was punctuated by a faint splash.
‘Aristide!’ Doucette looked at him in horror. ‘What will Madame Grante say?’
‘Quite frankly,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse lamely, ‘I don’t care!’
The truth of the matter was he hadn’t intended to let go of the mobile. It was simply that his encounter with the girl in the flower shop had made his hands sweaty, and that, in turn, had acted as a lubricant, causing the instrument to shoot from his grasp with all the velocity of a cork from a champagne bottle when it has been kept overlong in a freezer. He couldn’t have done it again if he’d been paid. His heart sank as he pictured trying to explain it in a P37B.
‘Perhaps I could send Madame Grante the flowers,’ he said. ‘Monsieur Leclercq did suggest it might be a good idea.’
‘Certainly not!’ said Doucette. Glancing over the balcony, Monsieur Pamplemousse’s gaze softened as he saw Pommes Frites emerging from the sea. Gazing upwards as he shook off the excess water, he spotted his master. Unable to give voice to his feelings by virtue of the fact that his mouth was full, he began jumping up and down, wagging his tail with unalloyed pleasure. Love was unmistakably written large on his countenance. Clearly he was all set for an action replay.
Monsieur Pamplemousse quickly polished off the remains of his breakfast. ‘I must go, Couscous,’ he said. Feeling in his pocket, he produced the egg. ‘The sooner I establish whether or not this rightfully belongs to Monsieur and Madame Leclercq, the sooner we can be together and enjoy what is left of our holiday.’
Madame Pamplemousse knew better than to ask him how he planned to go about doing that, and truth to tell, even if she had he couldn’t have told her. As he made his way downstairs he wasn’t sure where to start. At the beginning was how he had always been taught. The old electrician’s formula of ‘assuming all external connections are correct’.
The first person he met was Mr Pickering. He was sitting on the terrace doing a crossword. An open copy of Nice Matin lay on the table beside him.
‘I see you had a narrow squeak yesterday afternoon,’ he said. ‘Fame at last!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up the French paper and stared at a picture of himself being helped out of the cage at the fairground. During his time with the Paris Sûreté he’d had his share of exposure in the press, usually showing him arriving at the scene of a crime, but this was the kind of publicity he could well do without. Someone must be congratulating themselves on having captured the moment for posterity.
He skimmed through the story. The police were still trying to discover the identity of the person who had occupied the seat next to him. Still trying, or didn’t want to say. The search was also on for the missing operator, who was said to be English.
‘Not a nice experience,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘I feel partly responsible, having suggested you visit the fair in the first place.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. ‘Accidents happen.’
‘According to the makers that is not possible, but then of course they would say that. However, be that as it may, it ties in with a conversation I overheard last night in the lift.
‘People usually go very quiet in lifts. There isn’t time to tell a long story, and if they are only going a short distance they spend the time racking their brains trying to think up something witty that doesn’t need a reply. The only exception is if they think they are among foreigners who won’t understand what they are saying.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was reminded of the two Englishmen in the train.
‘Last night Jan and I shared the lift with our friend – the one you aptly call Kruschev – and someone I hadn’t seen before. From his accent I suspect he was from somewhere north of the Urals. They were talking about what had happened at the fair.
‘It rang a bell when I saw your picture this morning. I think they may have had you in mind.’
‘You speak Russian?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly felt inadequate.
‘Enough to recognise a serious statement when I hear one. As with Pommes Frites, certain key words cause an immediate reaction. Words like Frantsús – meaning Frenchman – entered the conversation. The consensus of opinion seemed to be that a Frantsús had to be taken care of. I’m not sure when or how, but from the way they nudged each other as we went past your floor – I couldn’t help thinking of you. As I say, we didn’t go far. But the little I overheard didn’t sound encouraging.’
‘I am planning to go into Nice this morning,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘On the trail of the golden egg?’
‘That is one thing,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘There are other matters that need looking into. Things to do with France.’
Mr Pickering nodded. ‘As ever, the redoubtable Miss Stein summed it up. “It isn’t so much what France gives you as what it doesn’t take away”. Such things are very precious. It would be a pity to lose them. Are you going alone?’
‘Doucette is visiting the butterfly centre with your wife. She has been told to wear something bright and to go early, before it gets too crowded.’
‘And while many of the inhabitants are still around,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘Genetically modified crops
and pesticides are creating havoc with caterpillars. When I was small, I had an uncle who collected butterflies. He had cases full of them, impaled in neat rows, all with grand names: Red Admirals, Purple Emperors, Silver Studded Blues.
‘Nowadays you are lucky if you catch sight of a common or garden Meadow Brown.
‘It is a strange life, being a butterfly. To be born so beautiful and remain that way for the whole of your life. Many ladies would pay a king’s ransom for that. But as always there is a price to pay. Their average life expectancy is only three weeks.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Life is very precious. I suggest you keep a close eye on what’s going on behind you from now on.’
‘Even better,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I am taking Pommes Frites.’
Mr Pickering hesitated. ‘You place great trust in him.’
‘I would trust Pommes Frites with my life,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply. ‘And I am sure he feels exactly the same way about me.’
‘Let us hope neither of you are put to the test,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘Changing the subject completely. Have you heard about the Visiobulle?’
‘The strange-looking yellow boat with Vision Sous-Marine painted on the side? I have seen it around but there never seems to be anyone on it.’
‘That’s because the passengers are all inside the hull viewing the ocean bed through windows. They got more than they’d bargained for yesterday.
‘Todd was in Juan when it arrived back, and according to him the passengers looked distinctly green about the gills when they disembarked. Apparently they had been admiring the view down below when, in amongst the flora and fauna, the posidonia plants, the sea slugs and the cucumbers, they came across a large grouper enjoying a hearty breakfast. It could well have been the remains of our friend who was washed-up the other evening. The bits and pieces had been weighed down with blocks of concrete and were waving about on the ocean bed. Not a pretty sight, I imagine.
‘Todd feels that once word gets around there will be a lot of fish going begging in the local restaurants. Grouper will definitely be off the menu for a while.
‘On the other side of the coin, the Visiobulle is now doing a roaring trade running special excursions to the scene of the crime. One might almost say they are packing them in like sardines.’
‘There’s no accounting for human nature,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Talking of which,’ said Mr Pickering, ‘how was the fish soup? It sounds as though it worked.’
‘Absolument!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse had totally forgotten his temporary loss of voice. ‘The Madame should market it as a cure-all. She could make her fortune.’
Reaching into his pocket he took out his silent dog whistle and placed it to his lips. Moments later Pommes Frites came bounding up the steps leading to the beach. He was carrying the mobile phone in his mouth. Monsieur Pamplemousse took it from him, slipped it into his trouser pocket alongside the laptop, and gave him a pat.
‘It’s all systems go then,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘Bonne journée!’
‘Merci. And you?’
‘I shall finish my crossword first. If I don’t, today’s papers will be in and I shall be tempted to look at the answers. After that, I think I may go for a quiet walk. Englishmen like nothing better than to disappear from time to time. The feeling that no one else in the world knows where you are is a great luxury.’
As Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites disappeared into the hotel foyer, Mr Pickering hesitated for a moment, then opened his guidebook. He seemed relieved by what he saw, although his satisfaction was short-lived.
Following the others out of the hotel a few moments later, he gave a frown. The parking area was almost empty. Opening the guidebook again, he examined it more closely and gave vent to an oath that might well have proved unfamiliar even to Monsieur Pamplemousse’s ears. Turning on his heels, he hurried back into the hotel and ran up the stairs two at a time.
None of which failed to escape the notice of the concierge, but then concierges the world over are trained to notice such things – small departures from the norm which might impinge on the smooth running of their domain – and to act on them or not as they see fit. As such times information often went to the highest bidder.
In this particular instance the concierge of the Hôtel au Soleil d’Or simply picked up the nearest telephone and dialled a number.
Back in his room, Mr Pickering made for the bathroom, plugged one end of a lead into the shaver socket, and connected the other to his guidebook. As soon as a red light came on he, too, picked up a telephone. His call was answered almost immediately.
‘The Mercedes has gone. Probably heading for Nice, but I can’t be sure. I’ve lost it for the time being.’
‘Shitsky!’
‘Exactly. There’s no other word for it!’
Unaware of the ripples he had set in motion when he left the hotel, Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way up the winding road leading to the summit of the Parc du Château; a reversal of the route he had followed on his previous visit to Nice.
Taking a left fork near the top, he headed towards the Terrace Frederick Nietzsche. Mr Pickering was right. There were moments when being alone was a great luxury, and he felt in need of time and space in which to think. The area where the table d’orientation was situated sounded as good a place as any.
It was where the great nineteenth-century philosopher had gone in search of peace and quiet during the latter part of his life. Having been brought up in a house with five women he had probably become something of an expert in such matters.
At which point Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank as he rounded the bend and narrowly missed being struck down by a trainload of tourists heading downhill. Emerging from behind a souvenir stand – ‘Anges Plastiques (Plastic Angels) 30fr’, ‘Sacs à Sacs (Fabric sausages for storing carrier bags) 12fr’ – his nostrils were assailed by the smell of cooking oil from another stand. He was one hundred and twenty years too late.
Following hard on the heels of his master, Pommes Frites took a quick look over the balustrade and stepped down again. He wasn’t deeply into views. Five or six seconds was usually more than enough to tell him all he needed to know. Besides, he had other ideas and his tongue was already hanging out at the thought.
He’d caught a tantalising glimpse of the waterfall on the way up, and had he been writing a book about Nice – a kind of rough guide for chiens visiting it for the first time and feeling thirsty after a hard climb, it would have been in line for five stars. Better than any restaurant, and you didn’t even need to be on your best behaviour.
Human beings did their best, but often they had no idea.
The walk from the station was a case in point. Coming across a sandpit with a post bearing a drawing of a dog obeying the call of nature, he had seized the opportunity to do likewise. And what had happened? A gendarme had blown his whistle! How was he to know he was meant to do it in the sand and not on the post?
Recognising that his master needed to be alone with his thoughts, Pommes Frites took advantage of the moment.
Briefly registering his departure, Monsieur Pamplemousse sought the shade of a nearby tree and stood for a moment gazing at the scene below. The Promenade des Anglais was crowded with matchstick figures taking a morning stroll. Here and there faster ones on rollerblades, peaked caps back to front, elbows and knees padded like baseball players, were weaving their way in and out of them.
A second miniature train headed towards the Albert Gardens. Or perhaps it was the first one making good progress, for it seemed to be faring better than the lemming-like stream of traffic coming and going on either side of the palm trees in the central reservation. It was all a very far cry from the day in 1927 when Isadora Duncan had met her death when the scarf she was wearing became entangled with the wheel of her open Bugatti.
He gazed out to sea, the tiny waves sparkling in the morning sunshine. Heads dotted the water nearer the
shore, and everywhere he looked there were splashes of blue; from towels spread out on the grey pebbled beach, from banners and parasols belonging to private beaches and cafés, and from chairs dotted along the promenade. To his right, beyond the red roofs of the old town, long since burnt a deep shade of ochre by the sun, the huge dome of the Negresco Hotel, a monument to ‘Belle Epoque’, rose like a minaret above the white buildings on either side.
Looking along the coast towards Antibes, he thought of Doucette and wondered how she and Mrs Pickering were getting on with the butterflies. His thoughts then moved further on towards the school. Closing his eyes brought back memories of the music mistress conducting ‘Gee, Officer Krupke!’. Screwing them up tighter still, holding his hands across the lids to keep out the light, the gently curving line of the Bay of Angels merged into a vision of her bending over him, mouth slightly parted as she prepared to administer the kiss of life. The moment their lips met he felt a change take place, almost as though she were struggling against some inner compulsion. For the moment at least the others gathered around them were totally forgotten. The involuntary sigh he gave vent to as she went limp in his arms came out as rather more of a groan than he had intended; certainly much louder.
‘Monsieur … Are you unvell?’
A voice near at hand made him jump. Peering through a gap in his fingers he saw an elderly woman staring at him through pebble glasses, as though he were some kind of specimen she was about to net.
‘It is nothing … a little dizziness, that is all. Le soleil.’ Taking out a handkerchief, he dabbed at his forehead and tried out his German. ‘In der sonne.’
‘Ya? Der sonnenstich … the strokink of ze sun …’ Wherever she was from, it certainly wasn’t Germany. And she had what looked suspiciously like a five o’clock shadow!
She was about to reach into a large leather bag when a sound not unlike someone shaking a rug came from somewhere nearby. Changing her mind she turned abruptly on her heels and left. A moment later Pommes Frites appeared, looking refreshed after his bathe. He gazed enquiringly at his master.