by Michael Bond
Monsieur Pamplemousse sighed. He knew when he was fighting a losing battle.
Sensing that capitulation was close at hand, the Director held out his hand. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Aristide.’
‘Leave it with me, Monsieur. I will do my best.’
‘I could not ask for more,’ said the Director simply. ‘And the troubles back at the location? You will look into those too?’
‘I will look into those too, Monsieur.’ He took the proferred hand. ‘But first things first.’
They were only just in time. The door opened and the nurse entered. She looked at her watch. ‘Your time is up, Monsieur.’
‘I think possibly Monsieur … er … Pamplemousse needs his sheets changing.’ It was hard to resist the temptation. ‘He is very restless and he wants to look his best for the photographers when they arrive.’
‘Au revoir, Aristide,’ said the Director pointedly. ‘I think you should hurry.’
‘I shall be back, Monsieur. Rest assured, one way or another I shall return.’
‘Tcchk! Tcchk!
‘Sacré bleu!
‘Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!
‘Un désastre formidable!’
Carefully removing a pair of rubber gloves, Monsieur Pamplemousse placed them on the bedside table alongside the cherry stones which he had abandoned earlier in the day. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Director visibly blanching. Insofar as cold sweat was metaphorically able to mix with calcium carbonate, his face had gone a chalky white. Enough was enough.
Monsieur Pamplemousse was also only too well aware that his every move was being watched by others in the room, albeit with the reverence accorded to those whose knowledge and experience by definition far outshone that of his audience, but he needed to be careful. So far everything had gone according to plan; it would be a pity to overplay his hand.
It was early evening before he had arrived back at the hospice. Glancing up at his reflection in the rear view mirror as he drove in through the gates, he’d had to admit that the time he had spent at the make-up desk in his trailer had not been wasted. Unable to locate Anne-Marie, it had been very much a do-it-yourself job, but he looked – and felt – ten years younger. A thin layer of Mehron 26A Tan Glow make-up had changed his skin tone and formed the base for other titivations. No more than an inch of shadow applied midway between his cheek and jaw bones had changed the shape of his face. A thin line of collodion applied to his forehead suggested a past accident, repaired perhaps by another master surgeon. Parting his hair on the wrong side had worked wonders. His natural greyness now looked becomingly premature. Distinguished was a word which sprang to mind. Matching eyebrows and moustache provided the finishing touch.
Wardrobe had come up with a lightweight tropical suit and suitable accessories. Props had provided a pair of thick-rimmed plain glass spectacles. Both departments had been only to pleased to get their teeth into the problem – no questions asked. It helped break the monotony of waiting for something to happen. Work on the production had been brought to a temporary standstill. The local police had been much in evidence; taking statements, measuring wheel tracks, interviewing eyewitnesses. Brother Angelo was still nowhere to be found. The big test came when he found himself being inter viewed for the second time in less than an hour by the same officer, who failed to recognise him.
Having parked his car as far away from the main entrance to the hospice as possible – apart from the fact that it wouldn’t do for anyone to recognise it, a 2CV was hardly in keeping with his new role – he had taken the bull by the horns, relying on a peremptory manner to bluff his way through. Speed was the order of the day. ‘Don’t give the other side time to think,’ his motto.
With a white gown billowing out behind, a stethoscope hanging loose from one of its pockets, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but wonder if he wasn’t overdoing things slightly. Would an eminent surgeon dress in such a manner? Wouldn’t he be more likely to arrive immaculately attired and with a beautiful secretary in tow? But he needn’t have worried. The only reason the red carpet hadn’t been rolled out was because his arrival had taken everyone completely by surprise, which was as he’d intended. Had he forewarned the hospice he was coming, they might have tried looking him up in some medical Who’s Who.
Using the Director’s own name had been an added touch. Monsieur Leclercq of the 16th arrondissement produced the desired effect. Say no more. It was an area of Paris renowned for housing the crème de la crème of the medical profession. As an address, its very mention was an open sesame.
What he hadn’t bargained on was the Director himself failing to penetrate his disguise. That needed to be rectified.
He turned away from the bed. ‘This man must be operated on as soon as possible. Otherwise,’ he made a suitable gesture to his audience. ‘Amputé!’
The Director’s face went an even paler shade of white.
‘Do not worry, Monsieur,’ hissed Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Do not worry!’ repeated the Director. ‘You use the word amputé about one of my most precious possessions and then you say “Do not worry”. I demand a second opinion.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank. ‘The operation will need to be done in Paris,’ he said, loudly and clearly for the Director’s benefit. ‘Away from here.’
‘Amputé!’ A man in evening dress who had clearly been called away from some important function turned to the Sister. ‘Why was I not informed of this, Sister Agnes?’
‘Monsieur …’ The Sister was temporarily thrown off balance. ‘It is the first I have heard …’
‘Silence!’ Hurriedly breaking into the conversation before it took a dangerous turn, Monsieur Pamplemousse hooked the hearing end of his stethoscope over the Director’s ears. ‘Keep very still, Monsieur.’
He turned to the others, ‘An old trick. It keeps them occupied when delirium is setting in. Poor fellow. He is so overwrought he doesn’t even recognise his old family surgeon, Monsieur Leclercq.’
Placing the business end to his lips he hissed the words ‘It is I, Pamplemousse.’ His words produced a satisfactory response. The Director gave a start and nearly fell out of bed. ‘See, it works!’
‘Now, you have some x-rays, I trust. Blood group confirmed? Measurements taken?’
The others exchanged glances. ‘There has hardly been time, Monsieur Leclercq,’ said Sister Agnes nervously. ‘The doctor who has been attending Monsieur Pamplemousse is off duty and …’
‘Tcchk! Tcchk!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘I ask because it may be necessary to carry out a transplant.’
‘A transplant! Mon Dieu!’ A noticeable tremor of excitement ran round those present. One of the nurses crossed herself.
‘You could carry out the operation here, Monsieur. Such an historic moment will help us gain valuable publicity for our Amis du Hospice fund-raising project. Doubtless you saw the board outside. If I may, I would like to be present while it takes place. Perhaps an article in the medical journal afterwards. With your permission, of course …’
‘I am afraid that will not be possible,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse firmly. ‘Utterly out of the question. To start with, the patient belongs to a rare blood group – très, très rare. Then there is the question of finding a suitable donor. Monsieur Pamplemousse is from the north. He is very particular about his lineage. He would not wish to be endowed with a Provençal attachment. Nor, I suspect, would Madame Pamplemousse be best pleased.
‘I shall, of course, perform the operation myself. He must be transferred to Paris immediately.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch. ‘If he is not on his way within the hour I shall not be responsible for the consequences. The success rate, alas, is not high. Time is not on our side.’
Sister Agnes gave a tiny curtsy. ‘Oui, Monsieur. At once, Monsieur. Je m’en occuperai.’
‘I trust you know what you are doing,’ cried the Director as the others rushed out of the room
leaving them on their own for the moment.
‘Monsieur, have I ever let you down?’
‘There is always a first time, Pamplemousse. Words like amputé and transplant should not be treated lightly. I fear the worst. I do not trust the medical profession. Did you see the look in that man’s eyes? The one in evening dress. A frustrated butcher if ever I saw one. Doubtless he was attending a local bullfight. He cannot wait to get me on the slab.’
‘Do not alarm yourself, Monsieur.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse laid a soothing hand on the Director’s shoulder. ‘Everything is under control. I have arranged for you to be admitted to a private hospital in Paris. It is an establishment of the utmost discretion. They deal at government level with all manner of problems, so they are well used to the unusual.’
He felt inside the pocket of his gown and withdrew a small brown envelope. ‘I have taken the liberty of purchasing a series of postcards particular to the region. They depict various delicacies – soupe au pistou, boeuf en daube, salade noiçoise… so they will not tie you down as to exactly where you are staying. If you care to inscribe them as though you are constantly on the move and address them to Madame Leclercq, I will see they are mailed at regular intervals. A short non-committal message or two along the lines of “Wish you were here”, or “Regret severe local storms have disrupted lines of communication” will suffice. She need never know. In the meantime …’
The door was flung open.
‘Monsieur Leclercq … there is a private ambulance leaving shortly for Paris … but it is meant for another patient.’
‘Then you must commandeer it!’
‘Mais… it is an emergency case. He has only just been admitted.’
‘No “buts”,’ thundered Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘This is equally a matter of life and death. I shall hold you all personally responsible.’ He held the door open. ‘If nothing is done I shall inform the minister … heads will roll.’
Following Sister Agnes out into the corridor, Monsieur Pamplemousse viewed the scene with satisfaction. The normal cloistered calm had vanished. He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen nuns running. The rustle of their habits sounded like a flock of frightened birds taking to the air.
A man encased from head to foot in plaster was being whisked on a trolley from one room to another. It must be the emergency Sister Agnes had spoken of, for he heard the bleep of someone being paged. It sounded urgent. Any momentary pangs of conscience were quickly stifled. In this day and age someone would surely find a solution to the problem.
Porters scurried to and fro. Somewhere in the distance he heard a telephone ringing. No one was bothering to answer it. It had all the ingredients of a television serial at its most chaotic. The only thing missing was Von Strudel shouting ‘Dummkopf’ through his megaphone. Given his presence, the scenario would have been complete.
Monsieur Pamplemousse moved to one side as two more porters headed his way pushing a trolley. They disappeared into the Director’s room. Moments later they emerged.
The Director managed a wave as he shot past. ‘You are a good fellow, Aristide. I shall not forget this.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse waited just long enough to make sure his chief wasn’t being wheeled towards the operating theatre, then he paid his respects to the sister.
‘Chère Sister Agnes, please ensure Monsieur Pamplemousse is well looked after. And beware of answering any questions from les journaux. In return I will see your kindness and efficiency does not go unrewarded. A little contribution towards your fund, peut-être?’
It was the least the Director could do in the circumstances.
Back at base Monsieur Pamplemousse turned off just inside the main entrance and drove along a rutted pathway towards the scene of the Director’s downfall. The trailer was still lying on its side. It looked sad and abandoned. Someone from wardrobe must have made a desultory attempt at retrieving the discarded garments, for they were laid out in neat piles on a trestle table awaiting collection. Using a window frame as a foothold he climbed up on top of the trailer. The door was lying open. He peered through the opening. The inside had been stripped bare. Any thoughts he might have had about retrieving the Director’s belongings died a death. There weren’t any. The souvenir hunters had picked it clean. He clambered unsteadily to his feet.
Closing the door was almost like putting the lid back on a coffin. There was an air of finality about it.
It had been an automatic gesture; akin to straightening the cutlery on an untidily laid table, no more. But as the door fell shut he stared at it. There, right in front of his eyes, was the answer to one of the questions uppermost in his mind. The name board screwed to the top of the door bore not the Director’s name as he might have expected, but that of BROTHER ANGELO.
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at it for several seconds while he absorbed the implications. It certainly explained why the Director had been so disorientated the previous evening and why the fans had descended on the trailer.
He knelt down and examined the name board more closely. The slots in the screws used to fasten it to the door showed distinct signs of having been tampered with. The metal was shining through in places where the layer of fresh paint had been penetrated.
Climbing back down off the roof, Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way back to his car. He was tempted to use the telephone and ring his chief to tell him the news. Then he thought better of it. The girl at the switchboard might well listen in. Given all that was going on he wouldn’t have blamed her.
Switching on the engine, he drove slowly back towards his quarters, scanning the track on either side as he went. He had only gone a matter of some twenty metres or so when he saw what he was looking for. Something silver gleaming in the scrub to his right. It was the end of a long screwdriver. Monsieur Pamplemousse picked it up by the middle of the blade and wrapped the handle carefully in his handkerchief. Paint still adhered to the business end.
His immediate assumption was that someone had done a straight swap of the Director’s name plate and Brother Angelo’s, but as he drew near the site he realised others had been tampered with too. His own name plate was now attached to the door of Mangetout’s trailer. It was no wonder the Director had gone there by mistake. Familiarity bred contempt and the old hands probably never even bothered to look for their names any more. Why should they? Monsieur Pamplemousse had to admit he had stopped doing so himself. It had never occurred to him to check the name plate on his own door, any more than he had bothered to check the name on Brother Angelo’s trailer when he’d broken into it. To compound the problem, when he reached Pommes Frites’ trailer he discovered it bore the name of Gilbert Beaseley.
Someone had taped a message to the door. ‘Hope I have done the right thing. Am a little confused.’ It bore an illegible signature.
Monsieur Pamplemousse tapped on the door and waited a moment before trying the handle. It opened to his touch.
The expression on Pommes Frites’ face when he saw who his visitor was made his previous performance by the Ark pale into insignificance. Unalloyed joy radiated from every pore as he jumped to his feet, scattering bowls of food and water in all directions.
Monsieur Pamplemousse responded in like vein. Words were unnecessary. Recriminations would have been unthinkable; worse than the endless post-mortem of two bridge players raking over past mistakes. What had been done was in the past, and not up for discussion. A touch, a gesture, a lick, the wagging of a tail, a lingering pat, they said it all. Master and hound were as one again.
That fact clearly established, Pommes Frites stretched and wagged his tail in anticipation as he followed his master out of the trailer and back towards their rightful home. The signs were unmistakable. Clearly, there was work to be done.
9
DID HE FALL OR WAS HE PUSHED?
Monsieur Pamplemousse set off with Pommes Frites shortly after breakfast the following morning. It was time he put his money where his thoughts lay. To ‘put up, or shut up’ as the
Americans would say.
It was good to be together again. Together and on the open road. Pommes Frites patently felt the same way. You could tell by the way he was sitting. If Pommes Frites didn’t want to go somewhere, then he always left Monsieur Pamplemousse in no doubt as to his feelings. Driving a 2CV with some fifty kilos or so of solid flesh leaning the wrong way every time you turned a corner was extremely tiring, not to say hazardous. Today he was behaving like a seasoned pillion passenger on the back of a motorcycle; swaying with the movement rather than against it.
With the canvas roof rolled back and the roar of the slipstream in their ears, life was as it should be; the horizon free for the moment of any unpleasant blemishes, the world their oyster.
Leaving Les Baux behind them, Monsieur Pamplemousse headed towards Fontvieille, anxious to put his theory to the test.
His feeling of euphoria was short-lived. The harsh world of reality soon made its presence felt. It was Sunday traffic at its worst. Caught behind a slow-moving coachload of schoolchildren, he turned on the radio. There was music, followed by a news bulletin: a catalogue of international woes. After the headlines came the local items. Pride of place was given to the latest happenings at the film location, but there was no mention of the Director. Sister Agnes must have taken his little talk to heart. Brother Angelo’s mysterious disappearance, now officially admitted, dominated the talk. Speculation as to its possible religious significance was growing.
Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered idly if Beaseley had his radio on. He doubted it. When he’d tried ringing the other’s number before leaving there had been no reply. Quite likely he was out early gathering material for his book.
There was an interview with a local Curé who cast cold water on the very idea of a Second Coming. God, he implied, moved in mysterious ways, but there were limits even to His degree of tolerance. Enlisting the aid of a pop star – an English one at that – was one of them. On the spot interviews with various locals produced a wide variation of views. Clearly there were those who would like to believe the worst – or the best, according to one’s standpoint.