by Michael Bond
There was a moment’s pause.
‘Loosely translated,’ said Jacques, ‘it’s along the lines of “he really shouldn’t ask me to do things like that at a time like this when I’m up to my knees in baiser merde”.
‘I’d better phone you back,’ he added. ‘We’re about to ring the front doorbell.’
His words were punctuated by the familiar crash of a battering ram and moments later, after the phone went dead, there came the sound of shots being fired.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Doucette. ‘I hope that little Scottie will be all right.’
‘It’s probably put him off home-made biscuits for some time to come,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Ah!’ said Doucette. ‘Thank you for reminding me, Aristide. That’s another thing I’ve been meaning to ask you about.’
It was some while before the Villa Léandre regained what was left of its cloistered peace, and what with one thing and another it was dark by the time Monsieur Pamplemousse was able to take Pommes Frites for his evening constitutional.
There had been no sign of Barnaud in the Villa Léandre, and his companion having been whisked off to hospital under an armed guard, by general agreement the unravelling of what everyone had at last come to realise comprised a web of intrigue was put on hold.
Rather than wander aimlessly around the area in front of their apartment block, and wishing to have an aim in view, Monsieur Pamplemousse led the way down the side of the block towards the tiny Place Dalida at the top of some steps leading down from the Butte to the Lamarck-Caulaincourt Métro station.
The square was home to a large bust honouring the renowned singer’s life-long multilingual achievements in the world of stage, screen and cabaret, and not for the first time he fell to wondering how such an extraordinarily beautiful, talented and popular performer, winner of innumerable gold discs and judged second only to President de Gaulle in a vote nominating the person who’d had the greatest impact on French society, could not only have left behind a trail of suicidal lovers, but had ended up taking her own life.
Perhaps in the end it was simply a case of cause and effect.
Making his way back home Monsieur Pamplemousse paused for a moment by the Impasse Girardon while he waited for Pommes Frites to catch up with him. In its way the narrow alley had become as chic and sought after as the Villa Léandre and at night the street lamps lent it an air of enchantment …
Aware of a presence joining him, he was about move on when a single shot rang out, and silhouetted in their light, his friend and mentor slid slowly to the ground and lay motionless at his feet.
It was not for nothing that Pommes Frites had been awarded the Pierre Armand Golden Bone Trophy for being best sniffer dog of the year during his time with the Paris Sûreté. Nor, in fact, did the naming of the award do it full justice, for the requirements covered many other talents besides sniffing.
The ability to follow a scent days after a crime had been committed was a given; that was what he and the rest of the team were all about. But being able to open doors by grasping the handle in his mouth and turning it was another accomplishment that went with the job. And like many of his colleagues who were destined to come up against the rougher elements of humanity from time to time, he had undergone not one, but many sessions on the firing range being exposed to the sound of gunfire at close quarters, and like the others on his course he learnt to take such things in his stride, without losing for one moment the quality they had become renowned for, honed to perfection by the Monks of St Hubert in Belgium; that of being basically good-natured. They simply couldn’t help themselves. It had been in their genes for over a thousand years.
So when, after a moment or two, sensing something untoward was about to happen, Pommes Frites rose to his feet, Monsieur Pamplemousse wasn’t unduly surprised. He had been expecting it. After all, it was what he had been trained to do in an emergency: play possum and watch points.
Barnaud, on the other hand, who had been creeping up behind him knowing none of these things, was taken completely by surprise.
So when Pommes Frites, smelling fear in the air, wrapped his teeth firmly round his wrist, the article he was holding not only went flying, but in trying to drag his arm free he met up with totally unexpected resistance.
It was a classic case of the immovable object up against the irresistible force, and when at last Barnaud did manage to drag himself free he disappeared into the night leaving a trail of blood in his wake.
And so began a whole new chapter.
Barnaud had actually done his stuff admirably, and apart from a doctored version of his app there was an impeccable original which was duly published on the Tuesday to much acclaim from all the food writers of note, who applauded Le Guide’s move into the computer age.
Monsieur Pamplemousse never did get his homing tag back, but then he hoped he wouldn’t need it again, and he soon forgot about it when a case of his favourite Gosset champagne was delivered, compliments of Monsieur Leclercq.
Shortly afterwards a cardboard box arrived and inside it there was a red hat along with a note apologising for any unnecessary worry finding it in the canal might have caused and thanking them both for their hospitality. It was unsigned.
The Director’s wife, when she returned from what she referred to as “a successful outing in Switzerland”, couldn’t resist telling her uncle the full story, to which he replied: ‘Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. I will see what can be arranged. That kind of thing gives the Mafia a bad name.’
Which Monsieur Pamplemousse thought was a satisfactory ending to what could have been a particularly unsatisfactory episode, although he wouldn’t fancy being in Barnaud’s shoes. He only had to look at the object Barnaud had dropped on that near-fatal night to lose any sympathy he might have had. In fact his blood ran cold. A carpet punch is not a pretty sight.
What pleased him most of all, and Doucette too, was that Véronique took over the management of the masterless Scottie, by now fully recovered from his indisposition.
She named him Mr Magoo, which seemed eminently suitable and most mornings he graced the streets surrounding Le Guide’s offices before she came in to work. For the rest of the day he was given full run of the balcony on the seventh floor, and Monsieur Leclercq derived much pleasure from seeing the tip of his black tail go past his picture window from time to time during the day.
Unfailingly bolt upright, it was what Mr Pickering would have called a Happy Ending.
2 See Monsieur Pamplemousse Investigates
3 See Monsieur Pamplemousse Investigates
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ALSO AVAILABLE 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
MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE AND THE TANGLED WEB
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
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London W1T 6DW
www.allisonandbusby.com
First published in 2014.
This ebook edition first published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2014.
Copyright © 2014 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 978–0–7490–1621–0