Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot

by Michael Bond

  ‘You have a permanent staff of ski instructors?’ He tried to make the question sound as casual as possible.

  ‘Naturally. In the summer they do other things, of course. But we like to preserve continuity.’ Madame Schmidt regarded him across the top of her desk. ‘Perhaps, before we set out on a brief tour of the school, Monsieur would like to fill in the registration form giving details of your friend’s children. You realise there is almost always a long waiting-list so it is necessary that we have some form of selection. It may take time.’

  The implication that his friend’s children might not measure up to the Institut des Beaux Arbres’ requirements was not lost on Monsieur Pamplemousse. Perhaps if he’d been driving something more exotic than a deux chevaux the question would not have arisen.

  ‘I think you will find their background is impeccable. References of the highest order will be made available. For the time being, I am not allowed to reveal the name of my friend – for diplomatic reasons, you understand …’ A barely perceptible reshaping of the steeple warned him that for some reason he had said the wrong thing. ‘I mean, of course, in the sense that it would not be right for me to pre-empt any decision on his part without prior consultation.’ Madame Schmidt visibly relaxed.

  ‘You say he has three daughters? If you care to fill in their Christian names and a few brief details regarding their ages and previous schooling … the colour of their hair … any special interests …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank as he felt for his pen. His knowledge of the English educational system was hazy in the extreme, other than the fact that public schools were anything but that implied by the name. The perfidious Albions were past masters at the art of calling a spade by anything rather than its proper name. They had ‘stands’ for sitting down, and places called ‘downs’ that were really ups. They had conquered half the world that way before opting out and leaving it in a state of confusion.

  Names like Eton and Harrow sprang to mind, but he had a feeling that they were for boys only; it was part of the English habit to segregate the sexes at an early age, a habit that gave rise to problems later on. A colleague had once had a bizarre encounter in Boulogne with a party of girls from a school on the Channel coast; he still talked about it, releasing tantalising details in the canteen from time to time. It was worth a try.

  ‘It is on the south coast of England. Somewhere near Brighton. Where the rock comes from.’ That had been part of the story. It had had them all on the edge of their chairs.

  ‘Roedean?’ Madame Schmidt sounded impressed.

  ‘Roedean.’ He put pen to paper. It was not an easy word to spell. Worse than that place near London. The one they spelt like ‘rough’ and pronounced like ‘cow’. The language was full of pitfalls. He crossed out the first attempt and tried again. It looked even less likely and he felt glad he wasn’t applying for a place.

  ‘They are all three at Roedean?’

  ‘My friend is very wealthy.’ He racked his brains for some suitable names. It was dreadful how the mind went completely blank at such times. Thinking up names in one’s own tongue was bad enough, but English! There had been the landlady’s daughter in Torquay where he’d stayed during his visit to England. She’d taught him a lot more than differences in the language. Entente between the two countries had never been more cordiale. She’d had a friend who’d also been impressively advanced for her years. He decided to try his luck again.

  ‘I don’t recall our ever having had an Ada here before,’ said Madame Schmidt with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. ‘Or a Reet.’

  ‘Simple names are often the best,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, conscious that his stock was sinking again. ‘I have read that in England they are coming back into favour. It has to do with the Royal Family,’ he added vaguely.

  The thought triggered off another. ‘It is, however, Diana who is the prime concern. The other two have a few years to go yet. Diana is barely eighteen and her father is a little worried about her. She is a lovely girl in every way, but I’m afraid her academic qualifications leave a lot to be desired. It is her parents’ wish that she continue with her education for a few more years. There are so many temptations for a girl these days, especially those who have the misfortune to look older than they are. Drink … drugs … sex … it is a difficult age.

  ‘Not,’ he continued, warming to his subject., ‘that she has experienced any of these things … yet. They lead a sheltered life at Roedean.’

  ‘She sounds,’ said Madame Schmidt thoughtfully, ‘just the kind of girl we like to have at the Institut des Beaux Arbres. Do you have a photograph?’

  ‘A photograph?’ Carried away by enthusiasm for his subject, emboldened by the after-effects of the wine he’d consumed at lunch, Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself reaching for his wallet. ‘But, of course. I always carry one. She is, after all, my god-daughter.’

  Brandishing the photograph taken from Jean-Claude’s room, he handed it across the table and then sat back to see what happened.

  But if Monsieur Pamplemousse was expecting any kind of reaction, he was disappointed. Madame Schmidt held the photograph up to the light and gazed at it intently for several long moments. ‘A very pretty girl,’ she said, in much the same tone of voice as she might have used to comment on one of her pupil’s flower arrangements. ‘From all you have told me I am sure we can give the application every consideration.’

  Rising to her feet she took the completed form from Monsieur Pamplemousse and then led the way out into the corridor. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind waiting here.’ She motioned towards a chair. ‘I shan’t keep you more than a moment. If I may, I will have this photograph copied so that it can go with the application. I do think it’s so useful to have a clear picture of whoever one is dealing with, don’t you?’

  Without waiting for a reply, she entered a room on the opposite side of the corridor and closed the door firmly behind her. Almost immediately there came a murmur of voices. First Madame Schmidt’s, then male voices. It sounded as though there were at least two others in the room, possibly three. Monsieur Pamplemousse took the opportunity to remove the lens cap from his camera and check that the exposure system was in the correct mode. He cocked the shutter and then listened outside the door for a moment. The voices were much too low to make any sense out of what was being said, but from the tone of the conversation it sounded as though it might go on for a few more minutes at least.

  He glanced around. There were three other doors, two further along the corridor, one on either side, and another at the far end. Larger than the others, the third one had a red cross painted on the outside and he guessed it must be the Sanatorium.

  He decided to seize the opportunity to do some exploring. If he met anyone he could always say he was looking for a toilet.

  The first door opened into an office. It was empty. A typewriter, its cover neatly in place, sat on an otherwise clear desk near the window. In the far corner was a copying machine. He wondered if the Institut ran to two such machines or whether the photograph had been used as an excuse. The second room turned out to be a library of sorts. It was also empty. Both rooms were dark and neither worth wasting any film on.

  The door to the Sanatorium was locked. As he tried the handle he thought he detected a hurried movement on the other side. On an impulse he half-raised his camera, waist-high, finger on the shutter release button, but no one materialised. Just as he was about to try the handle for a second time he heard the sound of a door being closed somewhere behind him. He pressed the button as he turned. If Madame Schmidt registered the fact she showed no sign other than by a quick glance at the camera.

  ‘I think you will find that everything of interest has already been photographed for the brochure, Monsieur …?’

  You don’t know my name, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse, because I didn’t give it to you. He decided there was nothing to be gained by concocting a false one. He’d had enough of inventing names for one day. Madame Schmid
t would find out soon enough if she really wanted to know.

  ‘Pamplemousse.’ He wound the film on. ‘Photography is a hobby of mine. I’m afraid I am a compulsive picture-taker. But as you say, it is good to have a clear picture of whoever one is dealing with.’

  His reward was an enigmatic smile which was hard to classify; wintry Mona Lisa, perhaps? Madame Schmidt looked pointedly at her watch and then turned to lead the way in the opposite direction.

  ‘If you will forgive me, I think we should begin our tour. There are many things to show you and I have another appointment at four.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse stood his ground. ‘It is not possible to see the Sanatorium while I am here? It was one of the areas my friend was particularly anxious I should report on. Diana is a little delicate and when one’s child is away from home in a foreign country …’

  ‘I’m afraid it is occupied at the moment. A serious skiing accident. The patient must not be disturbed.’

  ‘Is it not a little early for a skiing accident?’ persisted Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Early ones are the very worst.’ Madame Schmidt’s smile took on another layer of frost. ‘People try to run before they can walk. They are over-confident. It is always bad to be over-confident.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave up the struggle and followed her down the corridor. ‘Do you have many such casualties?’

  ‘All winter sports are dangerous,’ said Madame Schmidt. She paused before opening another door. ‘Those to do with the mountains most of all. To some the mountains mean white gold – they are a source of power and energy. To others they can mean death. Sadly, we have had our share of bad luck, but these things go in cycles. I think you will find that overall our record stands comparison with many other similar establishments. If people have been telling you otherwise then I suggest you do not listen to them. It does not do to listen to idle gossip.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at her with mild surprise. His remark had been intended merely as a pleasantry, a bridge to get them from one talking point to another, nothing more. What was it the great English playwright, William Shakespeare, had said? ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’

  ‘I will take you first to the lecture rooms.’ Changing the subject abruptly, Madame Schmidt led the way across a small courtyard towards a more modern brick-built building. ‘Here, the girls are taught secretarial work – shorthand and typing – needlework, painting, and various social activities. We also have our language laboratory. New girls spend a great deal of time there during the first few weeks. All our classes are conducted in French and some of them have a good deal of catching up to do. Diana has French?’

  ‘Diana,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse non-committally, ‘has a great many languages. Her parents are much travelled.’ He followed Madame Schmidt down a long corridor peering at empty rooms through glass panels in the doors. ‘Do you have many pupils at any one time?’

  ‘It varies,’ said Madame Schmidt, avoiding, as he had, a direct answer. ‘We pride ourselves on giving individual attention. Staff sometimes outnumber the pupils.’ She stopped by a noticeboard and ran her finger down a chart. ‘This afternoon, for example, many of the girls are making the most of the good weather enjoying a run with our Matron and gym mistress, Fräulein Brünnhilde. The rest are either doing revision in their own rooms or they are engaged in a cooking lesson.

  ‘Regardez!’ She paused by a door near the end of the corridor and looked through the panel. ‘I think perhaps it will be as well if we do not disturb them. They are making a cake in honour of our patron’s visit and they seem to have reached a delicate stage.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse focused his gaze on a small group of girls in white aprons struggling with an enormous jug of melted chocolate which they were endeavouring to pour over a castle-shaped edifice. Beyond them he could see a line of stoves and racks of kitchen equipment: sauce-pans and plates, knives and other paraphernalia. It all looked highly organised.

  He glanced back at the group round the table, wondering if he might strike lucky and see the girl from the restaurant but she didn’t appear to be there.

  ‘It seems to be a very large cake,’ he remarked. ‘Large and rich.’

  ‘Our patron has a very sweet tooth,’ said Madame Schmidt. ‘And an insatiable appetite.’

  As she spoke they both heard the sound of a dog barking. Monsieur Pamplemousse pricked up his ears. To be more specific, it was the sound of Pommes Frites barking. He sounded cross about something, although not so much cross as put-out or bothered. His voice was distinctly agitato.

  He turned away from the window. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t keep you any longer,’ he began. ‘If you are busy …’

  ‘As you wish, Monsieur.’ It was hard to tell whether Madame Schmidt was pleased or otherwise. ‘As I said earlier, you will find all you wish to know in the brochure. If you have any other questions you can always telephone. No doubt your friend will be in touch when he has had a chance to consider the matter?’

  ‘No doubt.’ As they crossed the courtyard again and approached the main building, the barking stopped. Each, for different reasons, noted the fact with relief.

  Back inside the hall he paused by the front door. ‘I wonder if I might have the photograph of my god-daughter back?’

  ‘Of course. Forgive me. I had forgotten.’ She seemed to have slipped back into her ‘Tante Marie’ role again. ‘I won’t keep you a moment.’

  As Madame Schmidt disappeared from view Monsieur Pamplemousse stepped outside. Pommes Frites was standing on the passenger seat of the deux chevaux peering through the windscreen. He seemed pleased to see his master and as soon as the car door was open he leapt out and ran round the outside on a tour of inspection.

  ‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse followed on behind, but could see nothing. Perhaps someone had been having a quiet prowl while his back was turned. They would have had short shrift from Pommes Frites if they’d tried to look inside the car itself.

  He glanced around the area. The Peugeot with the Paris registration was no longer there. He focused the Leica and took a few pictures for luck; first the remaining cars, then the main building. He was about to frame up the entrance when Madame Schmidt appeared in the doorway holding his photograph. He caught her registering a moment of disapproval. ‘Fromage’ rather than the Anglo-Saxon word ‘cheese’ formed on her lips.

  Pommes Frites, clearly less than happy with the situation, climbed back into the car and sat waiting for his seat-belt to be fastened, making it absolutely clear that as far as he was concerned it was high time they left. Without being able to put his finger on a specific reason, Monsieur Pamplemousse had an uneasy feeling he could be right.

  ‘You are journeying far, Monsieur Pappernick? To Paris, perhaps?’

  ‘The name is Pamplemousse.’ He slipped the photograph back into his wallet. ‘No, we shall stay in the area for a little while longer. The weather is too good at present not to take advantage of it.’

  ‘You are wise. I am told Paris is very wet.’ Madame Schmidt held out her hand. ‘Au revoir et bonne chance.’

  ‘Au revoir, Madame.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse climbed in alongside Pommes Frites, fastened both seat-belts and closed the door. ‘Et merci beaucoup. I hope I haven’t kept you.’

  He swung the car round in a circle and changed up into second gear before beginning the long climb towards the main gate. He caught a final glimpse of Madame Schmidt in the driving mirror as she stood watching their progress from the doorway. Suddenly she was joined by someone else – a man, but the road curved sharply to the right and they both disappeared from view.

  The gates at the top of the drive were open; perhaps left that way by the driver of the Peugeot. On the basis of never looking a gift horse in the mouth, he took advantage of his good fortune and breasted the top of the slope at speed, with the result that he came out through the other side of the archway rather faster than he had intended.

  In retrospe
ct, reliving the moment later that night, he realised fate must have taken a hand in the proceedings; either that or whichever guardian angel with culinary inclinations had been allocated the task of looking after employees of Le Guide that afternoon. Had he been travelling any faster he would almost certainly have crashed through the low retaining wall opposite and hurtled down into the valley below – a thought which didn’t bear dwelling on; nor could he have avoided mowing down a group of girls in shorts and singlets who were about to turn in to the driveway, straight across his path.

  In the event, the car slewed round, missed hitting both wall and runners by a hair’s-breadth, rocked, then miraculously righted itself again and rushed onward. He was aware of a number of things happening almost simultaneously. Or rather, he was aware that certain things were not happening as they should. Although his right foot was almost pushing the brake pedal through the floor, it had no effect whatsoever. He could hear the sound of girls screaming, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Pommes Frites’ seat-belt was being tested to its limit. Then there was a crash as they cannoned into the road sign a little way down the hill and at last came to an abrupt halt.

  ‘Merde!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse released both safety-belts and together with Pommes Frites climbed out of the car and hurried round the front to view the extent of the damage. It was less than he’d feared; much less than the sound of the crash suggested. Not for nothing had Monsieur Boulanger kept his designers’ sights firmly fixed on two of the main requirements he’d laid down – a long life and minimum repairs. The minuscule dent in the front bumper would have brought joy to their hearts, the dent on the offside wing confirmed their policy of separate and replaceable body parts. The road sign had fared much worse. It now stood at a drunken angle, looking as if it had failed to heed its own warning of danger from falling rocks.

  ‘Monsieur … are you hurt? Such bravery … such panache … to drive straight into a signalisation routière, and without a moment of hesitation.’