by Michael Bond
The gendarme considered the matter. ‘The Mairie in Bélisaire is not far away,’ he said dubiously.
‘Then I suggest we make our way there with all possible speed,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘I will take your camera, Monsieur.’
‘Is that necessary?’
‘I am afraid so, Monsieur.’ The gendarme didn’t actually say it might be used in evidence against him, but Monsieur Pamplemousse got the point.
‘May I suggest Monsieur makes use of his chapeau instead?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily swopped his hat for the camera.
The gendarme gave a whistle as he took it. ‘An R4. This is some camera.’ He fondled it with his hands. ‘Lovely finish. You get what you pay for, I suppose. I don’t think I’d want to take it on the beach. One grain of sand and …’
‘You are interested in photography?’
‘A little. But nothing like this. This is what I call a professional job.’ He checked the number of exposures taken, then held the camera up to his eye. ‘I see you are using a wide-angle lens, Monsieur.’
‘I was just taking some general views,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘To establish the geography.’
‘Aaah!’
‘Merde!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly realised his other lens had been in his trouser pocket.
‘There is something wrong, Monsieur?’
‘It is nothing,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. Nothing! Nearly four thousand francs worth of lens. Madame Grante would not be amused.
He glanced anxiously over his shoulder as more shrieks came from the next beach. The worst possible scenario would be if he was linked in any way with what was happening on the other side of the groyne. That, coming on top of everything else, would be the final straw.
There was a click. ‘Nice shutter, too,’ said the gendarme. ‘Very easy movement. Lovely camera.’
‘I do wish you wouldn’t point it in my direction,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse crossly.
Glancing anxiously over his shoulder in case Pommes Frites caught sight of him walking off the beach, Monsieur Pamplemousse followed the gendarme along a slatted wooden walkway leading towards the main road.
He needn’t have worried. Pommes Frites’ mind was on other things. Sensing the moment of truth had arrived, glad to be of service at long last, he was in his element as he darted hither and thither, sniffing a bottom here, checking another one there. Not since the passing out party at the end of his course with the Paris Sûreté had he been able to give such free rein to his natural instincts without fear of repercussions from on high.
After burying his master’s clothing, he had spent some time turning the whole matter over in his mind. Although blessed with lightning reactions in an emergency, Pommes Frites’ thought processes were not always of the fastest. Not for him the snap decisions of a business tycoon; fax machines requiring instant replies would have had short shrift in his kennel; computer salesmen would have been shown the door.
Following a great deal of long-drawn-out reasoning, which he had carried out while exploring the hinterland of Bélisaire, he had begun to wonder if he had done the right thing. Once the seeds of doubt had been sown they had grown rapidly.
It struck him for a start that if Monsieur Pamplemousse had done away with himself he wouldn’t have taken his camera with him. Nor would he have carried out the deed wearing a hat. Monsieur Pamplemousse was very punctilious about that sort of thing. Whichever way he looked at it, from whatever angle, Pommes Frites reached the inescapable conclusion that he’d made a boo boo. There was a distinct possibility his master might not have given up the ghost after all.
It was with such thoughts uppermost in his mind that he returned to the beach only to discover the tide had come in a long way during his rambles. It was while swimming ashore after a fruitless search of the sea bed for his burial ground that he came across the beach full of nudists and hope of finding his master alive and well was born again.
The first bad news for Monsieur Pamplemousse during his walk to the Mairie came in the shape of a black diesel-engined locomotive belonging to the Tramways du Cap Ferret. It was on top of them before he had a chance to hide. With a shriek of protesting metal, the engine rounded a bend pulling behind it three open-sided carriages packed with holiday-makers wending their way home from the beach. The driver gave a toot, and as the whole entourage ground to a halt he leaned out of his cab and exchanged a brief word with the gendarme. Another note was added to the latter’s book.
To Monsieur Pamplemousse’s horror he caught sight of Elsie and her companion sitting in the last carriage. Fortunately he spotted them first, but it was a narrow squeak. He did the only thing possible. To avoid recognition he covered his face with his hat.
As the train rattled on its way several of the passengers applauded, but by then Monsieur Pamplemousse was past caring.
Still bothered by the event, he was ill-prepared for the second encounter. It happened when they reached the shopping mall. The mother of the skate-boarding child was waiting for him. She pursued him down the road pointing an accusing finger and hurling abuse. Seeing Monsieur Pamplemousse in a state of déshabillé clearly confirmed her worst suspicions. Others joined in, until what had started off as a purely personal vendetta grew out of all proportion.
The very, very bad news came as they neared the Mairie; an unlikely modern building not far from the lighthouse. Signs outside advertised an exhibition by local artists. Either they were small in number or space was at a premium. Monsieur Pamplemousse had never seen such a small mairie. As he followed the gendarme up the drive, tempering haste to escape the throng with as much dignity as he could muster in the circumstances, he nearly collided with a couple coming out.
‘Pardon … excusez moi … please forgive me.’ Instinctively Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his hat as he stood back to let them pass.
It was a momentary lapse in concentration and he replaced the chapeau almost immediately, but the damage was done. Stoniness of expression on the distaff side was tempered by one of triumph as the woman looked him up and down.
‘You may not remember,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse weakly, ‘but we met in the hotel. I believe you know my brother, Aristide.’
Madame Blanche’s wind-dried lips parted reluctantly. ‘Indeed I remember meeting you in the hotel. I remember it all too well. But if that is the case, then you are not who you said you were at the time. I suspected as much.’
‘I assure you, Madame …’
‘You can assure me until you are blue in the face,’ said Madame Blanche, her voice trembling with rage, ‘but with my own eyes I have just seen proof positive of your identity. I was right all the time. You are Aristide Pamplemousse. Why you should wish to pretend you are his twin brother I do not know – although I fear the worst.’
Conscious that Madame Blanche had been addressing the crowd as much as himself, Monsieur Pamplemousse did likewise.
‘It is the penalty one pays, Madame, for a moment of madness,’ he boomed. ‘Now that you have divulged our guilty secret to all and sundry, I only hope my wife is as forgiving as your husband must be, although in her case I feel she will find it harder to understand.’
For a moment he thought she was going to explode.
‘Did I hear her say Aristide Pamplemousse?’ asked the gendarme as Monsieur and Madame Blanche swept down the path and pushed their way through the crowd.
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded as he followed the other inside.
‘Not Aristide Pamplemousse, late of the Paris Sûreté?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded again. ‘My twin brother. The poor woman is demented. She keeps mistaking me for him.’
The gendarme looked at his charge with new respect. ‘He is famous.’
‘A very brilliant man,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Formidable.’
‘Formidable, but also flawed would you not say?’
‘No,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I would not say that.’
&nb
sp; ‘If it was the same Aristide Pamplemousse who was dismissed because of that affair with fifty girls at the Folies,’ said the gendarme, ‘there must be something wrong with him.’
‘He was not dismissed,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He took early retirement. And it was not fifty chorus girls, it was only fifteen.’
‘Quinze.’ There was an accompanying whistle. Clearly to anyone stationed in Cap Ferret the number was immaterial. The prospect of being involved with one chorus girl must be fairly remote; fifteen beyond the wildest of dreams.
Glancing back down the road, the gendarme jerked his thumb in the direction of Madame Blanche. ‘Monsieur must be a glutton for punishment.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse followed the direction of the man’s gaze. It was a tiny consolation that the Blanches seemed to be engaged in a violent argument about something.
‘It was a very dark night,’ he said.
‘Pitch black I should think.’
The gendarme led the way past some startled art lovers who were clearly more used to seeing their life studies on canvas rather than face to face, and into a small room at the side of the building.
‘I am sorry to have to treat the brother of Monsieur Aristide Pamplemousse like this.’ He rewound the film, then opened the back of the Leica and removed the spool. ‘But I have some checking-up to do … you understand? I shall not be long.’
‘He would have done the same,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gruffly, ‘but while you are about it I would like to use the telephone.’
‘There is one on the table by the window,’ said the gendarme. ‘I will make the necessary arrangements. I am sure when they hear who you are related to, it will be no problem. In the meantime, I must ask you to wait here.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse grunted. He could hardly do otherwise.
Left to his own devices, he gazed out of the window wondering what to do next. In the circumstances he could hardly ring Doucette. That would really let the cat out of the bag. Questions would be asked. It was Deauville or nothing. He eyed the curtains thoughtfully. They were made of some kind of netting material, but it was better than nothing.
The Director’s number seemed to be permanently engaged. When he eventually got through a maid answered.
Monsieur le Directeur was changing for dinner, but she knew he had been trying to reach Monsieur Pamplemousse.
There was another wait, then the Director himself came on the line. For a change his voice came through loud and clear.
‘Why are you always so impossible to find, Pamplemousse? I have come to the conclusion that I must insist you carry some kind of bleeper. I have tried the hotel. I have tried every restaurant within twenty kilometres which is listed in Le Guide. I have tried the casino. I even telephoned the Police … I spoke to some idiot who said he knew your twin brother. I played along with it, of course. I said he must be mistaken because I happen to know your twin brother very well and he is in Italy.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse groaned inwardly. If the Director had been covering up for him he feared the worst. ‘Aaah, that is bad news, Monsieur.’
‘If it is bad news, Pamplemousse, I do not wish to hear it. I have enough bad news of my own. Today has not been a happy day on the track. My horse came in at ten to three.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t resist it. ‘What time was it due in, Monsieur?’
There was a momentary silence at the other end of the line.
‘Pamplemousse, if that was meant to be a joke, it was in very poor taste. Please be brief. Time is getting on, and …’
‘I am in a very vulnerable position, Monsieur.’
‘Come, come, Aristide. You are no more vulnerable than thousands of others who are making telephone calls at this very moment.’
‘With respect, Monsieur, there is nothing to prevent passers-by seeing into the room …’
‘Can I get this absolutely clear, Pamplemousse? Are you telling me you have no curtains? What kind of establishment is the Hôtel des Dunes?’
‘I am not speaking from the Hôtel des Dunes, Monsieur … I am in the Mairie at Cap Ferret. There are no curtains at the window because I am wearing them. There is an art exhibition and people are coming and going all the time …’ Even as he spoke a second coach laden with tourists drew up outside. He retreated across the room as far as the phone cord would allow. ‘They are made of netting, and …’
‘Pamplemousse …’ The Director sounded weary.
‘Oui, Monsieur?’
‘Pamplemousse, it may be a foolish question, but why are you wearing curtains?’
‘Because I have no clothes, Monsieur.’
‘Aah!’ The Director gave a long drawn-out sigh of defeat. ‘I won’t ask any more. But please be brief. My wife and I are getting ready to go out. Chantal is in the bathroom, but she will be with me at any moment. What is it you want? I hope this doesn’t mean your car has broken down yet again. It is high time you took advantage of one of the staff vehicles. I will speak to Madame Grante in the morning.’
‘Monsieur, there has almost certainly been a murder at the Hôtel des Dunes … possibly two … The chef and his principal assistant …’
‘The food is that bad?’ He had gained the Director’s attention at long last. Having gained it, Monsieur Pamplemousse pressed home his advantage.
‘I fear there may be worse to come. I am carrying out your instructions to watch over Elsie, but I am somewhat hampered at present. Elsie and I are separated, and until I get another suit and a good lawyer it will remain that way. After your last message I thought you should know that. I cannot in truth say that I am sorry. As far as I am concerned Elsie can stew in the bouillon from her own pot-au-feu. She is wholly irresponsible. As for her ever becoming an Inspector …’
‘Pamplemousse …’
‘Oui, Monsieur?’
‘This is splendid news. Surely, that is the whole object of the exercise. I knew I could rely on your good offices. All I need from you now is a report to that effect. I fail to see the problem.’
‘Monsieur! Until I am given some new clothes there will be no report. Not only have I lost almost everything I was standing up in, but I am being held in the Mairie at Bélisaire pending charges.’
‘Charges, Pamplemousse? What charges? Surely you are not being accused of the murders?’
‘No, Monsieur, mine are quite minor offences I assure you and I have an answer for all of them …’
‘Pamplemousse, the reason I tried to contact you earlier was to reassure myself that all is well. Now I regret having spoken to you. Tell me the worst. A moment ago you used the word charges. Are you telling me there are more than one?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse did a quick count with his free hand. ‘It depends, Monsieur, on whether or not they wish to throw the book at me. I am afraid I have run out of fingers.
‘Causing a disturbance in a restaurant …
‘Stealing a dog …
‘Causing it unnecessary distress by force feeding it with mustard …
‘Leaving the same restaurant without paying the bill …
‘Then there was an unfortunate incident with a child. I was merely trying to discover where it had bought its skateboard, but its mother thought otherwise … my motives were misunderstood …
‘Travelling on a vehicle belonging to the Tramways du Cap Ferret without the benefit of a ticket …
‘Disturbing the peace sur la plage …
‘Indecent exposure … possibly there will be more than one charge on that count … I am afraid that while I was standing on a chair in order to take down the curtains a coach party arrived …’
‘Pamplemousse!’ There was an explosion from the other end of the line. ‘I do not wish to hear another word.’
‘It is difficult not to expose yourself, Monsieur, when the only item of clothing you possess is a chapeau. Especially when you wish to avoid being recognised lest someone should by some misfortune link your name with Le Guide and telephone one of the les
s reputable journaux. And, of course, it is not just Le Guide. There is Elsie to think of, not to mention your own good name, Monsieur, and that of your wife. In the circumstances she would not be pleased.’
He knew by the silence which followed his last remark that he had scored a direct hit.
‘What is it you require, Aristide? Even at this late hour I will endeavour to pull strings, but it is the very last time. Fortunately it is the height of the season. Deauville is alive with Deputies. This afternoon there were more members of Government to be seen at the race track than there were runners for the whole of the meeting …’
‘Monsieur …’
‘Yes, Pamplemousse?’
‘Monsieur, while you are arranging for my release, I wonder if it would be possible to organise a new set of clothes? I take a size thirty-nine collar. Also some shoes and some money. And, Monsieur …’
‘Yes, Pamplemousse?’ A note of weariness seemed to have crept into the Director’s voice again.
‘If you are talking to Madame Grante, perhaps you would be kind enough to tell her I have mislaid my narrow angle lens?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse replaced the receiver. He had a satisfactory feeling he wouldn’t have much longer to wait. Soon the telephone lines radiating out from Deauville would start to hum.
Drawing up the only available chair, he placed it with its back towards the window and made himself as comfortable as circumstances allowed. If he kept very still there was always the chance that he might be mistaken for a discarded work of art.
Casting his mind back over the afternoon’s events Monsieur Pamplemousse had a sudden thought. He knew there had been something odd about the Blanches. It had been hovering in his subconscious and now he remembered what it was.
Monsieur Blanche had been wearing a leather thong around his neck. Attached to it had been a miniature sextant; an antique model of the kind used by navigators when they wished to take an accurate measurement of the angle between two terrestrial bodies.
Madame Blanche had been carrying a notepad and pencil.
Furthermore, they had both been heading in the direction of the lighthouse.