by Michael Bond
The main difference was that, whereas the top half of Marcel Aymé’s likeness was permanently embedded in a wall, Monsieur Leclercq’s upper torso protruded through a trapdoor in the stage.
‘What kept you, Pamplemousse?’ he groaned. ‘I have been shouting my head off. Where is everyone? And would you kindly remove your hound!’
‘Asseyez-vous!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse called Pommes Frites to heel before turning back to the Director. ‘He was only doing what he was trained to do. As Monsieur may remember …’
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said Monsieur Leclercq impatiently. ‘When he was with the Paris Sûreté he won the Pierre Armand Golden Bone Trophy for being sniffer dog of the year, but I am not a bone, Pamplemousse, and licking is not the same as sniffing.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave Pommes Frites a consoling pat. ‘Dogs’ saliva is said to be rich in vitamins,’ he said.
‘It is also rich in aqua far from pura,’ barked the Director. ‘It feels as though I have been caught in a sudden downpour outside an abandoned mid-European coal mine.’
‘I expect it is all the excitement,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, resisting the temptation to ask if he was speaking from experience. ‘It has probably gone to his head.’
Privately, he had to admit Monsieur Leclercq’s face was in a sorry state. Comparisons were odious, of course, but from where he was standing the Director looked as though he could well have been a victim of the wreck of the Hesperus. The all over wetness of his visage wasn’t helped by the fact that Pommes Frites’ ministrations had disturbed much of the carefully applied make-up.
His misgivings communicated themselves to Pommes Frites, who began backing away from the scene while his master hastily reached into his pocket for something with which to repair the damage.
Monsieur Leclercq did a double-take. Drawing back his head as far as it would go, he visibly flinched. ‘What is that object you are holding in your hand, Pamplemousse?’ he barked.
‘Aah!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start. ‘It is something Pommes Frites passed on to me.’
‘It looks remarkably like an item of ladies’ underwear!’ exclaimed the Director. ‘Something he found discarded under a hedge, no doubt.’
‘I have yet to examine it closely,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, hastily exchanging the offending article for his handkerchief. ‘But from my brief knowledge of the owner I have no doubt it is a souvenir of taste and discernment.’
‘A souvenir?’ repeated the Director. ‘I will not embarrass you, Pamplemousse, by enquiring as to what event it was celebrating. I very much fear you must have fallen prey to the seamier side of the theatrical profession. It is not as though we are at the end of a long tour of Les Trois Mousquetaires, by which time, I am told, such goings-on can become rife.
‘As for Pommes Frites, he would be better employed if he had one of those kegs of cognac his colleagues are apt to carry round their necks for use in an emergency.’
‘With respect,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I think you are confusing him with a St Bernard. That is an entirely different breed. The long-haired ones are massive. They are reputed to be related to The Great Pyrénées. Then, of course, there is the short-haired variety …’ His voice trailed away as he caught the look in the Director’s eye.
Seeking refuge in diversionary tactics, he pushed the movable platform supporting the cash desk to one side. ‘Give me your hands, Monsieur.’
‘Would that I were able to, Aristide,’ groaned Monsieur Leclercq. ‘My arms are pinioned to my sides. I am wedged like a bung in a barrel.’
Taking a closer look as he dabbed Monsieur Leclercq’s face with his handkerchief, Monsieur Pamplemousse had to agree that, apart from his ears, there was very little to take hold of, and he was reluctant to make use of either one of those, let alone both. Even using all his strength it would be a classic case of the irresistible force up against the immovable object. Something must eventually give.
‘I don’t understand it,’ he said. ‘I gave the stage designers precise measurements of your dimensions …’ He took a step back. ‘On the other hand, if I may be so bold, Monsieur, your carbon footprint does seem to have increased more than somewhat during the performance. I didn’t take into account the amount of food you would be consuming. I know it is one of the hazards of our calling, but—’
‘It is also one of the hazards of what is known as “method acting”, Pamplemousse,’ groaned the Director. ‘I fear I committed a cardinal error by overplaying my part …’
‘The smell of the greasepaint, the roar of the crowd,’ ventured Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘A heady mixture, Aristide,’ agreed Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I well remember a similar occurrence many years ago …’
‘Would that be when you were playing the part of Robespierre in a school play?’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse, knowing full well what the answer would be. The Director lost no time in reminding others of his early triumph whenever he got the chance.
‘How did you guess, Aristide?’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I was being pursued by the mob at the time and, as things took a turn for the worse, I sought shelter inside what was meant to be a hole in the ground. As is so often the case with school plays, they try to give everyone a part. It keeps the parents happy. Even at such a tender age, crowd scenes tend to bring out the worst in people, and human nature being what it is there were those who made the most of the situation. I ended up black and blue all over and spent several days in the sanatorium being tended by Matron.’
‘Perhaps,’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘to enlarge on the bung in a barrel analogy, if you could find a suitable purchase for your feet and were able to push in an upward direction, more of you will eventually emerge and that will afford me the opportunity to be of assistance …’
‘Impossible!’ exclaimed the Director. ‘I have lost the use of my legs.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was overcome with remorse. Could it be that his words uttered on the spur of the moment in the coach at the behest of others had come true?
‘Don’t tell me they are broken, Monsieur?’ he exclaimed. ‘I will have Sister come as soon as she is free. As you may recall, she was playing the part of a district nurse and she is still taking her bow.’
‘They are dangling in mid-air, Pamplemousse,’ broke in the Director. ‘Who knows what may lie beneath them? In this part of the world it might be an underground stream in full spate and I could be sucked into an abyss. I have despatched Rambaud to investigate.’
‘Excellent news!’ exclaimed Monsieur Pamplemousse, in tones of relief.
‘Excellent?’ boomed the Director. ‘There is nothing excellent about it. The man is a fool.’
‘Rambaud is a little set in his ways,’ admitted Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Gatekeepers often are. Most of them are ex-army and see things strictly in terms of black and white. He doesn’t take kindly to the current trend towards multi-tasking, so it wasn’t easy persuading him to take on the job of operating the curtain in addition to being Stage Doorkeeper for the day. Communication can be difficult at the best of times—’
‘When you are deprived of the use of your limbs and unable to mime even the simplest request,’ said the Director, ‘it is well nigh impossible.’
‘I can see that …’ began Monsieur Pamplemousse cautiously. ‘In which case …’
‘I wasn’t aware that Rambaud is hard of hearing,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘It is not something he has ever admitted to on his P27. I was shouting my head off and I wondered why the message was not getting through. I assumed at first my voice was muffled by all the applause from the auditorium, but he kept holding a hand over one ear and giving me the thumbs down sign with the other hand. Then he began pointing to his mouth and finally the message got through. It is my belief he has taught himself to lip read.’
‘Perhaps that is why he has acquired a reputation for being so grumpy at times,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I must make allowances for it when addre
ssing him in future.’
‘I shouldn’t be too optimistic, Aristide,’ said the Director. ‘He is far from word perfect. I suggested he remove some of the counterweights on the trap in order to raise it to a reasonable height. Instead of which he brought me a prawn sandwich.’
‘Aaah!’ Registering the fact that, apart from a few desultory cries, the applause on the other side of the curtain had taken on a more rhythmic quality, verging on that of a hand-clap, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t think of anything better to say.
‘The whole affair is a désastre, Aristide,’ exclaimed the Director. ‘Not only have I missed all my curtain calls, the press will be waiting, cameras at the ready. At all costs they must be kept at bay. If they catch me like this they will have a field day.’
‘I agree it is terrible,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but your fans are calling for you. It could be your finest hour.’
‘They will have to wait, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq firmly. ‘All in good time. On no account must they see me like this. Besides, they can’t go until I give the waiting buses orders to commence re-embarkation. Until that happens the drivers have strict orders to refuse entry. In the meantime, tell Trigaux to put on a record of the National Anthem – preferably the full version. At least it will keep them quiet.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director. A generous person in many ways, vanity was often his downfall. At such times his complete and utter selfishness was hard to credit.
He drew a deep breath. Someone had to tell him.
‘Monsieur,’ he began, ‘you are absolutely right, of course … but you have your public to consider. You cannot – you must not let them down. Audiences can be very fickle when roused and it would not be in your own interests. Nor would it be in accord with the best theatrical traditions. The show must go on, come what may.’
‘But the show has finished, Aristide—’
‘The show has never finished until the theatre is emptied and the audience has gone home,’ persisted Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘If we raise the curtain now it will look as though it is meant. Many will consider it a stroke of genius.’
Monsieur Leclercq hesitated. ‘Do you really think so, Aristide?’
‘Provided you really are well and truly wedged, Monsieur, I am sure of it. It is not as though you are about to plunge to your death. Think of the chaos that would cause.’
The Director shuddered. ‘Quite frankly, Aristide, I would rather not. On the other hand …’
Sensing a momentary hesitation, Monsieur Pamplemousse pressed home his point. ‘Audiences are always disappointed when the star doesn’t take a bow. They feel insulted.’
The Director visibly pulled himself together. Had his arms not been pinioned, he would almost certainly have slipped into his Napoleonic mode. Instead, he made do by cocking his head to one side, taking in the growing restiveness on the other side of the curtain.
‘You are absolutely right, Aristide. Tell Rambaud to raise the curtain.’
‘That won’t be easy,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dubiously. ‘As it is, he doesn’t know whether he is coming or going.’
‘Nonsense!’ boomed Monsieur Leclercq. ‘The curtain is electrically powered. All he has to do is press a button.’
‘It isn’t as simple as that, I fear,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Rambaud is a glutton for sticking to the rules. He has his written instructions.’
‘Then you must override them,’ barked the Director. ‘Tell him it is an order from on high. Quick! There is not a moment to be lost.’
Fearing the worst, Monsieur Pamplemousse dashed towards the wings with Pommes Frites hard on his heels.
‘Ah,’ growled Rambaud as he drew near. ‘Don’t tell me ’e wants another of them prawn sandwiches.’
He broke off as Monsieur Pamplemousse took matters into his own hands and brushed past him. ‘Mon Dieu! What are you doing? That’s my job, that is.’ He held a sheet of paper aloft. ‘I ’as my instructions. Raise the curtain once at the start and lower it at the end …’
Rambaud was about to let forth in no uncertain terms on the rights and wrongs of the matter, but he was too late.
For a brief moment as the curtain began to rise there was a hush and then, as the audience took in the scene on stage, they instinctively rose to their feet as one and burst into spontaneous applause.
Apart from feeling vindicated, Monsieur Pamplemousse was momentarily overcome by the warmth of their approval, but it quickly evaporated.
What he had not bargained on was the reaction of the members of the press corps. Never ones to miss a scoop when it was handed to them on a plate, they made a concerted dash down the aisles. Cameras at the ready, they swarmed onto the stage like a pack of hungry locusts jockeying for position.
In a matter of seconds, the Director disappeared behind a sea of bodies and flashing lights. It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that they had no need to hurry; Monsieur Leclercq wouldn’t be going anywhere for some time to come, but the thought had barely entered his mind when he felt himself being pushed to one side.
Seizing the initiative for once, or perhaps it was simply a reflex action brought on by the fact that his territory had been invaded and needed protecting, Rambaud reached up and, after switching on a warning bell to indicate the safety curtain was about to be lowered, began clearing the stage, uttering dire warnings as to the fate of anyone who had the misfortune to get in its way.
‘Several tonnes, it weighs,’ he announced. ‘If ’e lands on any of your ’eads, it’ll be enough to crack them open like a load of walnuts at Christmas.’
It did the trick. As quickly as they had arrived, the members of the press beat a hasty retreat. They’d had their moment. No doubt the combined efforts would find their way into the papers on the morrow. Quite how Monsieur Leclercq would view them in the cold light of day was another matter. It would depend a lot on how the headline writers dealt with the subject. It might be grist to their mill.
While making good their escape, the more enterprising among the press corps began taking reaction shots of the audience.
Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to rejoin the Director when he caught sight of Corby. His face was a study in mixed emotions. Seeing one of the photographers approach him, he looked for a moment as though he was about to make a grab for the man’s camera.
After a brief struggle, clearly realising he would be outnumbered, he thought better of it and pulled himself free. Looking as black as thunder, he made a dash for the stage door, almost knocking Rambaud flying in the process.
‘Not one of your better ideas, Aristide, I fear,’ boomed the Director as Monsieur Pamplemousse drew near. ‘Did you see the expression on Corby’s face? He has obviously taken umbrage. I strongly suspect he saw himself in the part I was playing and assumed I was making a mockery of him. He couldn’t wait to escape.’
‘Do you think people recognise themselves as others see them?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I have heard it said on good authority that it seldom happens.’
‘In this instance,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I suspect the answer is “yes, they do”. I fear the worst!’
‘But you were magnificent,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He can hardly fault your performance. He only had to listen to the applause.’
The Director shook his head sadly. ‘Therein lies the rub, Aristide. I fear it was a little too good. Once again, it was the smell of the greasepaint! It does something to me. It is like sampling a glass of Margaux ’45. It sends the blood coursing through my veins.’
‘I am afraid it is a comparison I am unable to make,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘You mean you have never been backstage before?’ exclaimed Monsieur Leclercq.
‘I have never sampled a Margaux ’45,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
The Director stared at him as though doubting such a thing were possible. ‘Make no mistake about it, Pamplemousse. If Corby makes a bad report, sales of Le Guide in the Uni
ted States will plummet still further. Everything possible needs to be done to placate him. We must contact him before he gets in touch with his lawyers.’
‘We?’ echoed Monsieur Pamplemousse warily.
Monsieur Leclercq sighed. ‘I trust you are not going to be difficult, Pamplemousse.
‘I used the word “we” loosely,’ he added hastily, reading the others thoughts. ‘I know I can rely on you, Aristide. But I shall be right behind you. For the time being, until I have secured my release and received the all-clear from Sister, it will be metaphorically speaking of course.’
‘Corby is not staying with you?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘He was very insistent on making his own arrangements,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I must say at the time I was somewhat relieved. It avoided any possible accusations of his doing me a favour. It’s the kind of the thing the press would pick up on like a shot.’
‘And he didn’t leave you a forwarding address?’
The Director shook his head. ‘Clearly, he didn’t wish to tell me and I was reluctant to press the point. He is a strange mixture. On the surface he is inclined to be a trifle tetchy, but beneath it all he is surprisingly modest. He only agreed to be here provided no one else knew and I paid in cash. He jumped at the chance when I agreed.’
‘I will telephone the local police straight away,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘They should be able to help.’
The Director went pale at the thought. ‘That is the last thing you must do. If Corby gets to hear of it, it will only exacerbate matters and risk negating the whole operation.’
‘Perhaps he is already on his way back to the airport …’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dubiously.
‘In that case,’ said the Director, ‘you must intercept him. You are an ex-detective. With Pommes Frites’ help it should be a simple matter. There is not a moment to be lost. He was driven down here by car, but at his request it was dismissed. I think he wanted to make his own arrangements. Perhaps see a little of the country while he was over here.’