by Michael Bond
He pulled up two stools. ‘What will you have?’
‘Adam’s Ale,’ said Elsie.
‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’
‘Aqua pura. Water. I want to keep a straight ’ead. Back in a minute.’
Reflecting that Elsie was full of surprises, Monsieur Pamplemousse ordered a Badoit. It cost more than his vin rouge. Come to think of it, she hadn’t drunk much at dinner either.
Wondering if she had planned to visit the casino all along, he watched as she strolled over to one of the vingt-et-un tables where the Americans were playing. They were concentrating on the game. Although it was too early for any really high play, it looked serious. They had obviously come prepared, for they were all in evening dress. Short, thick-set, hair close-cropped, they could have been taken for extras in a pre-war gangster movie.
After a while Elsie left the table and went across to a caisse at the far end of the room. She returned clutching a handful of plastic chips. From where he was sitting Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t see their value.
The Americans parted to let her in as she rejoined their table and for a while she was lost from view. For someone who hadn’t visited a casino in a long time she seemed very much at home.
Monsieur Pamplemousse sipped his drink and turned his attention to the rest of the room.
There was a certain fascination in watching the speed at which the croupiers worked, just as there was in watching anyone who was highly skilled and professional. Their rakes moved faster than a serpent’s tongue as they cleared the tables after each turn of the wheel, tossing counters back into the appropriate squares with uncanny accuracy.
Once a copper – always a copper. It was a fact that trouble seemed to follow him around, but it was equally true to say that over the years he had developed a nose for it. Perhaps the reverse applied; it was he who attracted the trouble.
Sitting at the end of each roulette table were two men – the Chef de partie and his assistant. Dark-suited, anonymous, unsmiling and completely interchangeable, watching every movement of the play: those of the croupiers as well as the punters. It would be hard to get away with anything. One whiff of suspicion and next time you would be politely but firmly refused admission. The odds were always on the house.
It was also a fact that when he first joined the force he had found himself isolated from many of his old friends. True, he had made new ones, but he had realised very quickly that it would always be a case of ‘us’ and ‘them’ – of his being on the other side of the fence in many people’s eyes.
Draining his glass as Elsie rejoined him, he pointed to hers. ‘You won’t change your mind?’
‘No, thanks, ta ever so.’ Elsie took a swig of her Badoit and then felt in her handbag. ‘Take this. It’ll pay for the meal.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at the pile of notes on the bar counter and shook his head. ‘Le Guide will be paying. Provided we make out a report I will claim it on expenses. That is why we are here.’
‘Go on,’ said Elsie. ‘There’ll be plenty more where that came from before the night’s out. I’m on to a winning streak.’
‘You are staying? Wouldn’t it be better to leave while you are ahead? Winning streaks don’t last for ever. It is a battle between you and the casino and they always win in the end.’ He tried not to make it sound too holier-than-thou.
‘Reginald wouldn’t agree. He says gambling is a battle between you and yourself.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse sighed. He was beginning to feel that if anyone ever published a book of the sayings of Reginald, he ought to be in line for an autographed copy.
‘Why don’t you go on back?’ said Elsie. ‘I’ll be all right. I can get a taxi.’ She snapped her handbag shut and held up the back of her right hand to be kissed. ‘Be good. And if you can’t be good – be careful.’
‘I was about to give you the same advice,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘If you need any help, you know where I am.’
‘A bientôt, as they say.’ Elsie fluttered her eyelashes and kissed him lightly in return.
Not unaware that he probably had lipstick on his brow, but hesitant about removing it with his handkerchief in case he forgot about it later, Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way out of the casino and back to the car. He felt curiously deflated. There was no reason why Elsie should wish to spend the evening with him, and yet he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that in some way he had been used.
Apart from a few pockets of light from out-of-town restaurants, he drove through darkness most of the way back to the Hôtel des Dunes. Arcachon went to bed early.
His mood was not improved by Pommes Frites, who showed his disapproval of the whole evening by pointedly shifting his weight around whenever they turned a corner, going with the tilt of the car rather than against it, so that on several occasions they nearly turned over.
The hotel car park looked deserted. The English family had left early that morning. The Blanches’ Renault was there and so was the Mercedes belonging to the German couple.
The lights were on in the foyer, but there was no other sign of life. Maurice, the general dogsbody, was conspicuous by his absence. Having been up since before dawn attending to the petit déjeuner he’d probably gone to bed early. At least he hadn’t locked up.
Monsieur Pamplemousse went behind the desk and removed his key from a row of hooks on the wall behind it. In a cubby-hole beneath it there was a slip of paper with a message to telephone the Director as soon as possible.
On the way up the stairs he paused halfway and took a long look at the painting. He was no expert, but it did have a certain ‘something’. It could be a copy of an early Impressionist – a Sisley perhaps. It really needed to be seen in daylight and from a distance to get the full effect. He wished now he’d brought a flash attachment for his camera.
Back in his room he closed the shutters, picked up the telephone and dialled the Director’s number. It was answered on the first ring.
‘Pamplemousse! Where have you been? I have been trying to reach you all the evening.’ Once again the Director’s voice had a muffled sound.
‘I have been out for a meal, Monsieur. Then Elsie expressed a desire to visit the casino.’
‘She is with you now, I trust?’
‘Monsieur, I am in my room. What are you suggesting?’
‘No, no, Pamplemousse. You misunderstand me. I am merely asking you if she is at the hotel.’
‘I left her at the casino, Monsieur.’
There was a sharp intake of breath from the other end.
‘Alone? That is not good news.’
‘But, Monsieur, I am hardly her keeper …’
‘Aristide … yesterday I received a telephone call from Angleterre. I was trying to tell you about it last night when we were interrupted. Whoever it was refused to give a name, but there were strange noises going on in the background – shouts, and what sounded like someone drawing a stick across some bars. All the voice said was “Look after Elsie … or else”. It was most confusing. When I asked which Elsie he meant, the caller hung up. Frankly, I am worried. What do you think it can mean?’
‘I have no idea, Monsieur.’ The thought of there being two Elsies was not one he wished to entertain for the moment.
‘I charge you with her safety, Aristide.’
‘But, Monsieur, she is a big girl … well able to look after herself …’ The débâcle with the card trick came back to him.
‘I know she is a big girl, Pamplemousse …’ The Director paused for a moment, clearly drawing on his store of memories. ‘I am also well aware that in the normal course of events she is more than able to look after herself. All I am saying …’ There was a click followed by the dialling tone.
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at the receiver in his hand for a moment or two before replacing it in its cradle.
Pommes Frites looked at him inquiringly. Ever sensitive to the moods of others, he could tell that something was exercising his master’s mind. No
t one to harbour rancour for any length of time, particularly with those he loved, he stood up and wagged his tail sympathetically.
Monsieur Pamplemousse took the hint. Pommes Frites was right. It was time for a walk. In times of stress there was nothing like a good walk to clear the mind.
The wind which had got up during the previous night had dropped again and the air on top of the dunes was as clear as it was possible to be. The tide was neither in nor out. From where he stood he could see the waves shimmering in the moonlight as they broke gently along the line of the beach, but they were too far away for the sound to reach him.
He sat down on the sand for a while, going over in his mind the conversation he’d had with the Director. Despite Elsie’s grumbles, he couldn’t help liking her. No one could possibly accuse her of being negative or standoffish. He had to admit he missed her company. Mentally tossing a coin, he wondered if he ought to go back into Arcachon and make sure she was all right. It came down tails. She would hardly thank him if he did turn up at the casino. Clearly she had wanted to be left to her own devices, and she might well suspect the worst if he reappeared.
Suddenly aware that Pommes Frites was pricking up his ears, Monsieur Pamplemousse concentrated his attention closer to home. At first he could detect nothing, then gradually he heard the soft crunching sound of footsteps in the sand. It was accompanied by heavy breathing. Every few moments it stopped altogether as whoever was responsible paused for a rest. He caught the glimmer of a flashlight.
Signalling Pommes Frites to lie low, Monsieur Pamplemousse flattened himself against the sand. It felt surprisingly warm. He was none too soon. A moment later the bent figure of a man came into view, making heavy weather of the last few metres of the climb before he reached the summit. Head down, he passed by them some ten metres or so away, then rapidly gathered speed, slithering from side to side as he headed back down the way they had just come.
Watching the gnome-like figure as it disappeared in the direction of the hotel, Monsieur Pamplemousse was irresistibly reminded of a scene from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. The only difference being the figure wasn’t wearing a miner’s lamp, and the occasional gleam came not from the head of a pick, but from moonlight striking the handle of a metal detector he was carrying over his shoulder. Neither Dopey nor Sneezy, not Bashful or Doc, and certainly not Happy; Monsieur Blanche looked extremely grumpy and ready for sleep.
6
THE CAST ASSEMBLES
Monsieur Pamplemousse came out of the gendarmerie in Arcachon and joined Pommes Frites who had been waiting patiently on the steps. He paused to breathe in the fresh air, then glanced at his watch. It said 10.34. The sun was already above the top of the buildings on the other side of the street. The best of a glorious July morning had been wasted in the tedium of getting things down on paper. A course in speed-writing wouldn’t have come amiss. If he’d had anything to do with the matter he would have had a go at the man taking notes in an attempt to wean him off pencil-licking. He suspected the officier in charge of the case was being deliberately slow. Several times he’d looked as though he had been on the point of saying something revealing, and each time it boiled down to going over the same old ground once again.
What was he doing in Arcachon? When had he arrived? Had he driven straight down from Paris? What was his occupation? If he lived in the Auvergne what had he been doing in Paris?
Questions, questions, questions.
The more the officier persisted, the more stubborn Monsieur Pamplemousse became, safe in the knowledge that they could hardly accuse him of any crime. Once again, he had conveniently forgotten his carte d’identité, making a great show of searching through his pockets, grimacing and ‘poofing’ as he went. He wouldn’t get away with it a third time. The twenty-four hours’ grace he had been given in which to produce it would go all too quickly, and then what? He would meet that problem when it happened.
All in all, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt the outrage of a man caught out concocting a story which he had told so well he’d come to believe in it himself. His twin brother had become so real in his mind, it seemed positively insulting to query his existence.
Ever sensitive to his master’s vicissitudes, and anxious to register support and sympathy, Pommes Frites left his mark on the wheel of a police car parked outside the entrance. As he followed Monsieur along rue Georges Hameau and across rue Général Leclerc towards the railway station where the car had been left he recognised the signs of a pensive mind at work: the wandering gait, the hands in the pockets, the absentminded air of a man lost in thought.
There were two games of boules in progress on the sandy area between the road and the gore. They were probably a permanent fixture. The first was made up of a group of old hands – retired fishermen to a man if their wind-dried faces were anything to go by – and the second a bevy of younger players, among them two women. A sign of the times if ever there was one. Where would it all end? His old father would have died of shock; his mother would have said they were no better than they should be and looked the other way. Coats hung alongside scoreboards nailed to a line of trees only just beginning to sprout after their spring pollarding. The audience sitting on the red hardwood benches was mostly made up of taxi-drivers waiting for the arrival of the next train from Bordeaux.
Monsieur Pamplemousse joined them, watching first one game, then the other, but he found it hard to concentrate and after a moment or two he continued with his walk.
Something untoward was going on at the Hôtel des Dunes, that was for sure. The Super hadn’t said it in so many words, but at one point – either by accident or design – he’d let slip the fact that it had been under observation prior to the murder. He didn’t say why or for how long.
At the end of the parking area Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way back to the pavement and stood waiting for the traffic lights to change before crossing the road. As he did so he happened to glance across towards the far side of the busy square. To his surprise he saw Elsie coming out of the post office on the corner.
Wearing a striped Breton jersey over matching dark-blue slacks and yachting cap, she looked the picture of health. She might well have just stepped out of a commercial advertising the life-giving powers of ozone. Heads turned as she disappeared in the direction of the sea, her high heels giving her bottom a decidedly provocative wiggle.
Monsieur Pamplemousse had to admit that his feeling of relief at seeing Elsie was tinged with guilt. His first reaction when she hadn’t responded to his knock at breakfast time had been one of panic that he’d done nothing to follow up the Director’s telephone call and that something might have happened to her. A hurried check of the rack in the hall had shown that her room key was missing, as was a note he’d left saying he had to leave early and suggesting they meet outside the casino later that morning, so that they could inspect another restaurant at lunch time.
Elsie certainly didn’t look as though she’d spent the night in debauchery; quite the reverse. Most likely she had slept late and then got a taxi into Arcachon. Either that or someone had given her a lift. As for being in the P.T.T., she had probably been doing nothing more mysterious than posting a card to Reginald.
The thought reminded Monsieur Pamplemousse that he hadn’t sent a card to Doucette. It was usually the first thing he did. Following Elsie down avenue Gambetta he stopped outside a tabac and found himself confronted by what at first sight seemed like an embarrassment of riches, but which he quickly narrowed down to a choice between shots of the dunes taken from a variety of angles, the oyster beds at high tide, the same oyster beds six hours later, a distant view of the lighthouse at Cap Ferret taken from the Arcachon side of the bay, the tapping of pine trees for their resin – the second local industry – or what looked like the same nude girl disporting herself on one of the many sheltered beaches round the bay. He decided to play safe with a montage of the first five.
While he was in the shop he bought a map and a local guide to the area in
order to top up on his store of information. Le Guide concentrated on hotels and restaurants. Details concerning the area itself were kept as succinct as possible and there was always something new to learn.
As he waited for his change, Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at the headlines in some of the journaux. Most of them accorded space on the front page to the disappearance of Monsieur Bouet, but there was no mention of foul play, nor of the possibility of there being a second body. The Police must be playing it down for all they were worth. He wondered why. Perhaps they thought it would be bad for the tourist trade just prior to the season.
After making his way through the town he stopped on the front to admire an old double-tiered carousel. The organ music cheered him up a little and he wandered on to the pier to watch the local fishermen angling for their evening meal. He wished now he’d suggested meeting Elsie earlier. She was probably doing a round of the boutiques.
A yellow bulldozer went about its task of levelling the beach. A low-flying Air Force jet shot past making everyone jump.
As he left the pier a coach drew up and began disgorging a load of elderly passengers. Some set off immediately to join a queue for the nearby Aquarium, others sat down on the nearest bench, seeking the shade of the tamarisk trees which lined the promenade; the more adventurous made their way down on to the beach, the men removing their shoes and socks and rolling up their trousers as they entered the sea, the women abandoning all sense of propriety as they lifted their skirts in a way they would never have done at home.
Truffert was right. Water did something to people. He should know. Before becoming an Inspector he’d spent years in the Merchant Navy. It was such a sparkling day Monsieur Pamplemousse was almost tempted to join them. Doucette would have been in there like a shot.
Pommes Frites had no inhibitions. There were shrieks and cries of ‘Ooh, la! la!’ as he dashed into the water.
Monsieur Pamplemousse fitted a wide angle lens to his Leica and recorded the moment for posterity.