by Michael Bond
‘So that he could stretch his legs, I presume?’
‘It was more urgent than that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse loyally. ‘He was badly in need of a pipi. As it was he only just made the silver birches in time. I also wanted to see if they had any string …’
‘String!’ boomed the Director.
‘The passenger door had developed a rattle,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I was worried in case Pommes Frites fell out when we were cornering at speed.’
Monsieur Leclercq emitted a sigh. ‘Ah, Aristide, I do wish you would pension off that old 2CV of yours and use a company car instead. Although, in the circumstances …’ He broke off, dismissing whatever it was he had been about to say and instead glanced nervously at his watch.
Waving towards the visitor’s chair, he followed them back into the room.
Pressing a button to trigger off the automatic closing of the sliding doors, there was a faint, but luxurious hiss of escaping air from his black leather armchair as he seated himself.
Leaning forward, he placed his elbows on the desk in front of him, forming a steeple with his hands as he gathered his thoughts.
It may have been the result of wearing dark glasses, but it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that the overall effect was more suggestive of the Leaning Tower of Pisa than the upright spire of Sainte-Chapelle.
Happening to glance to his left during the pause that followed, he saw the door to the drinks cupboard was open. A bottle of Monsieur Leclercq’s favourite cognac, Roullet Très Hors d’Age, was standing alongside an empty glass, and he couldn’t help wondering if it were a case of cause and effect.
Also, it might have been his imagination or simply a trick of the light, but the heavily framed portrait above the cupboard appeared to show the sitter looking even more forbidding than usual. On second thoughts ‘strained’ might be a better description.
Perhaps Glandier was right and even now Le Guide’s founder, Monsieur Hippolyte Duval, was in the process of turning over in his grave.
In much the same way that the subject’s eyes in many portraits had a disconcerting habit of appearing to follow the viewer round a room, so the founder’s portrait never failed to reflect the prevailing mood; his steely eyes acting like the mercury in a barometer as they moved up and down according to the prevailing temperature.
Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but glance surreptitiously at his own watch. The hands showed 13.45.
Following whatever was on the menu for the main course at Michel Bras, poached fois gras with beetroot perhaps, or his renowned filet of Aubrac beef, they might have been rounding things off with a chocolate coolant: another ‘signature’ dish, inspired, so it was said, by a family skiing holiday. The warmth of a hollowed out sponge, sometimes filled with fruit, at other times with chocolate or caramel, the whole capped with a scoop of frozen double cream, was intended to give the effect of a snow-covered mountain peak.
As he remembered it, the latter truly was the icing on the cake; much imitated, but never surpassed. It was no wonder the restaurant boasted three Stock Pots in Le Guide.
The thought reminded him of how hungry he felt, and he knew someone else who would be even more upset if he knew what was passing through his mind.
Except the ‘someone else’ in question, blissfully unaware of his master’s thought processes, was making full use of the lull in order to look for the water bowl that was invariably made ready for him whenever he visited the Director’s office. He peered round the desk and behind the waste bin, but he couldn’t see it anywhere. Such a thing had never happened before, bringing home to him, as nothing else could, the full seriousness of the situation.
Having drawn a blank, he gave vent to a deep sigh and settled down at his master’s feet to await developments.
The Director gave a start and came back down to earth from wherever he had been.
‘No doubt, Pamplemousse,’ he said, ‘you are wondering why I sent for you.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse sat back in his chair. He couldn’t have put it better if he tried.
‘As you may know,’ continued Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I have recently returned from a visit to New York. While I was there, I paid a courtesy call on a company not dissimilar in size to our own.
‘One of the things I discovered was that they have what they call a “vibe” manager; a person whose sole function it is to report back to the management on matters concerning staff satisfaction.
‘In my position, Aristide, it is all too easy to lose touch with the rank and file.’
You’re telling me, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. Getting in touch with them from the beginning and staying that way might be the answer.
‘Tell me, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘you are a man of the world, and I place great value on your powers of observation. How would you rate the vibes within our own organization?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hardly knew where to begin. ‘I, too, have been away,’ he said, slowly gathering his thoughts. ‘But in the short time I have been back I have noticed a number of things. There is a feeling of unhappiness in the air. Rumours are rife, and since they are spreading in all directions, much as tiny waves are set in motion when you throw a stone into the waters of a lake, they are hard to evaluate.
‘To put it bluntly, monsieur, I would say our own vibes indicate that matters have possibly reached an all-time low.’
‘Ah!’ Monsieur Leclercq shrank back in his seat. As he did so, there was another hiss of escaping air; almost as though he was being engulfed by the weight of some vast, overpowering tidal wave and had given up the fight. ‘I feared as much.’
‘Can I get you anything, monsieur?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse voiced his fears as he jumped to his feet. ‘A glass of cognac, perhaps?’
‘You are a good man, Pamplemousse.’ The Director reached for a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. ‘Perhaps you would care to join me? I think you may be in need of one too when you hear what I have to tell you.’
An innocent enough remark: it seemed like a good idea to Monsieur Pamplemousse at the time.
Afterwards he was to realise that even a spider’s web has to start somewhere.
If you enjoyed
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint,
read on to find out about other books
by Michael Bond…
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MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE AND THE FRENCH SOLUTION
When Monsieur Pamplemousse got an urgent summons from the Director of Le Guide, he knew that there was trouble at the top. His faithful canine companion, Pommes Frites, noticed it too.
But neither of them expected that the trouble would involve a nun who was in the habit of joining the Mile High Club or a full-scale smear campaign targeting Le Guide’s credibility as France’s première restaurant and hotel guide. Someone has been spreading worrying rumours among the staff and infiltrating the company files – awarding hotels prizes for bedbugs and praising egg and chips signature dishes. Even Pommes Frites has become a victim of the assault.
It could all spell the ruin for Le Guide, but Pamplemousse is on the case…
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. This is the seventeenth book to feature Monsieur Pamplemousse and his faithful bloodhound Pommes Frites.
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 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
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
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Hardcover published in Great Britain in 2010.
Paperback edition published in 2011.
This ebook edition first published in 2011.
Copyright © 2010 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 978–0–7490–4048–2