Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot

by Michael Bond

  Madame Grante seated herself on a long, black leather couch near the door, straightening her skirt automatically as she did so. ‘I am always available, Monsieur.’

  She watched while the Director removed the cork from the bottle and began pouring the wine. ‘Only a very small glass, Monsieur. Some of us do have to go back to work, you know.’ The shaft, directed at Monsieur Pamplemousse, met with an unreceptive target. Turning back to the Director, she unbent a little. ‘Unlike you hardened drinkers, I have to take care. One glass and I am not always accountable.’ It was a joke she clearly kept for festive occasions – probably at office birthday parties and Christmas, and although it went unremarked by the other occupants of the room, it did not go unnoticed.

  The Director looked even more nervous as he approached her, holding one of the glasses delicately by its stem. His eyes, as they met those of Monsieur Pamplemousse, clearly gave the green light for the other to take charge should the occasion demand it. As with Madame Grante’s arrow, it fell on stony ground.

  The second glass of wine deposited on a table beside Monsieur Pamplemousse’s chair, the Director seated himself behind his desk again. He held his own glass up to the light and uttered a deep sigh of contentment.

  ‘Ah, such depth of colour, such bliss … it makes one feel good to be alive.’

  ‘It looks very expensive,’ said Madame Grante disapprovingly.

  ‘My dear lady’ – the Director sounded put out – ‘of course it is expensive. Such wine can never be cheap. Grapes, infected by the “noble rot”, are left on the vines to shrivel until they lose half their weight and are barely recognisable. Often they have to be painstakingly picked one by one; but the juice is lush and concentrated, rich in sugar and glycerine. Even then it is no easy matter. The wine is kept for three and a half years in cask, topped up twice a week … the result is overpowering – you can almost feel the weight.’

  Seeing that Madame Grante remained unconvinced he swirled the contents round. ‘Look at it. Note the deep, rich amber-gold. It is a luscious wine. It is like drinking a mixture of honey and crème brûlée. Would you say crème brûlée, Aristide?’

  ‘It is an apt simile, Monsieur.’

  ‘As for the bouquet … that is something else again …’

  Raising the glass to his nose, the Director held it there for a brief moment while he inhaled deeply. ‘Sacré bleu!’ The glass fell from his nerveless hand as he jumped to his feet. ‘Mon Dieu! Nom d’un nom! Have you smelt it, Pamplemousse?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his own glass, but before he had time to put it to the test there was a choking sound from the direction of the door. Looking round, he was just in time to see Madame Grante, a handkerchief already to her mouth, disappear through the opening. The slam as the door swung shut was echoed seconds later by another.

  Pommes Frites, wakened by the commotion, rose to his feet. He peered at the half-empty glass on the table, gave it a proprietorial sniff, then stared at his master in surprise.

  Avoiding his gaze, Monsieur Pamplemousse looked the Director straight in the eye. ‘Did you say you bought this wine, Monsieur?’

  ‘No, Pamplemousse, I did not say that. I made no mention of where it came from.’ The Director sounded irritated. His voice was defensive. ‘It was, as a matter of fact, a gift from Les Cinq Parfaits. It arrived this morning and I am told it was their last bottle. It seemed only right that you should share it.’ He picked up his glass again and eyed the contents dubiously. ‘What do you think can have happened to it? You have a nose for these things.’

  ‘I think it is a little over the top, Monsieur.’

  ‘A little over the top? It is incroyable. I have never smelt anything like it. It reminds me of that old pissoir near the Métro.’

  ‘An even apter simile, Monsieur.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse crossed to the cupboard and picked up the bottle. ‘Perhaps the journey has unsettled it.’

  ‘You think we should give it time?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked round the room. ‘I think, Monsieur, it is yet another bottle destined for the pot plant.’

  The Director watched unhappily while Monsieur Pamplemousse performed the task. ‘This is becoming a habit, Pamplemousse.’

  ‘At least Madame Grante will appreciate that life in the field is not all roses.’

  The Director chuckled. ‘She will not be querying your P39s for some while to come. Do you think she is all right?’

  ‘I think she will recover.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse decided against any further explanations. He’d had quite enough for one morning.

  The Director joined him at the cupboard. ‘Shall I open something else? I have a Beaumes-de-Venise. I am told that locally they drink it as an apéritif.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘If you will forgive me, Monsieur, I must go. I have to get back to Montmartre. I may watch a little boules on the way while Pommes Frites enjoys the fresh air. I must not be late. Despite his troubles Jean-Claude has promised to prepare a Soufflé Surprise. Madame Pamplemousse is taking his mind off things in the kitchen.’

  ‘I admire your stamina, Pamplemousse. I must say I have been quite put off my déjeuner. Besides …’ The Director hesitated. ‘I have another matter to deal with. One which requires a certain amount of delicacy in its handling. A complaint has been lodged.’

  ‘A complaint, Monsieur?’

  ‘Yes, Pamplemousse, a complaint. You are exercised by what happened at the Institut des Beaux Arbres. I am exercised about something that happened at Les Cinq Parfaits on the night of your arrival. It seems that one of the advance guard – a lesser wife of the Grosse Légume, mother, nevertheless, of twins – was attacked by a fetishist of the very worst kind. A fetishist whose bizarre tastes defy classification.

  ‘Picture the scene, Pamplemousse. It is night in a strange country. This poor, defenceless woman, knowing not a single word of the language, decides to take a stroll in the woods, her two infants suckling at her breasts. Suddenly, when she reaches the darkest part of the forest, she is pounced upon by a pervert. A pervert, Pamplemousse, who not content with waylaying her, begins to gloat over the innocent, down-covered heads of her charges, pawing at them like an homme possessed. It is scarcely credible the lengths to which some people will go in order to assuage their base desires.’

  ‘Was she able to provide a description of this man, Monsieur?’

  ‘No, Pamplemousse. It was a very dark part of the woods.’ The director gazed at him. ‘But it seems there was a dog involved. A very large dog.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse returned the gaze unblinkingly. Pommes Frites did likewise. ‘Perhaps, Monsieur, it was a case of mistaken identity. As you so wisely said earlier, sometimes things get blown up out of all proportion.’

  The sun was shining as he came out of the offices of Le Guide. There was, nevertheless, more than a hint of autumn in the air. Pommes Frites paused to leave his mark on a tree. He was obviously back to his old self. More Muscadet than Château d’Yquem.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse stopped to call in at a charcuterie. It was good to be back again on his own territory. As with Holmes at the end of The Hound of the Baskervilles, he was about to turn his thoughts into more pleasant channels. He ordered a selection of cold meats for lunch; a saucisson or two for the first course. Doucette was preparing a blanquette de veau. Then it would be Jean-Claude’s turn. Afterwards, if the others went out, he might show him his record collection.

  A little further along the rue de Babylone he called in at a fleuriste and bought a bouquet of freesias for the girl, suddenly realising as he did so that he didn’t even know her name. In his mind she would be for ever Diana. He bought another small bunch for Fräulein Brünnhilde and a bunch of red roses for Doucette; it would establish demarcation lines.

  Pommes Frites waited outside the shop for a while and then ran on ahead and waited by the car. He, too, was pleased to be back home. It signalled a return to normality, to walks at set times and his own basket a
t night. Given a day or two to settle down, his master might even stop calling him Watson.

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  About the Author

  MICHAEL BOND was born in Newbury, Berkshire in 1926 and started writing whilst serving in the army during the Second World War. In 1958 the first book featuring his most famous creation, Paddington Bear, was published and many stories of his adventures followed. In 1983 he turned his hand to adult fiction and the detective cum gastronome par excellence Monsieur Pamplemousse was born.

  Michael Bond was awarded the OBE in 1997 and in 2007 was made an Honorary Doctor of Letters by Reading University. He is married, with two grown-up children, and lives in London.

  By Michael Bond

  Monsieur Pamplemousse

  Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Secret Mission

  Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot

  Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure

  Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft

  Monsieur Pamplemousse Investigates

  Monsieur Pamplemousse Rests His Case

  Monsieur Pamplemousse Stands Firm

  Monsieur Pamplemousse on Location

  Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Train

  Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat

  Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation

  Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation

  Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines

  Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives

  Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution

  Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint

  Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Tangled Web

  Copyright

  Allison & Busby Limited

  12 Fitzroy Mews

  London W1T 6DW

  www.allisonandbusby.com

  First published in 1983.

  This ebook edition first published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2014.

  Copyright © 1983 by MICHAEL BOND

  The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978–0–7490–1791–0