Monsieur Pamplemousse Stands Firm

by Michael Bond

  A single light was burning in the entrance hall but there was no sign of Maurice. Monsieur Pamplemousse pressed the minuterie button for the landing light.

  He paused halfway up the stairs and took a closer look at the painting. It was a Sisley. The signature in the bottom right hand corner was unmistakable. He couldn’t think how he’d missed it. Somehow the very fact of knowing who it was by gave the work a whole new perspective, which he had to admit ruefully said something about his knowledge of art. It was certainly a picture he could ‘live with’: one of his main criteria when it came to passing any kind of judgement.

  The light went out and he groped his way towards another illuminated switch. Then he made his way up the second flight of stairs and along the corridor to his room.

  Elsie was sitting on the end of the bed eating a chocolate-finger sandwich. Pommes Frites lay on the floor at her feet. He jumped up licking his lips guiltily as his master entered the room. His tongue had a noticeably brown tinge to it.

  ‘’Ave one,’ said Elsie. ‘There’s plenty more where this came from.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t wait to be asked twice. It was the gastronomic equivalent of a smoker ‘rolling his own’. The sandwich prepared, he took a bite from one end and then regarded the phenomenon of bread which never seemed to grow stale. Doubtless it was an acquired taste.

  ‘Madame Blanche was looking for you earlier,’ said Elsie. ‘She looked quite put out when she found me in your room.’

  ‘Did she see Pommes Frites?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. If you ask me, I think your cover’s blown.’

  ‘Irretrievably,’ agreed Monsieur Pamplemousse. At least it was Madame Blanche on the warpath and not her husband. ‘Why do you think the Blanches were in Cap Ferret?’

  ‘The same reason as everyone else, I suppose,’ said Elsie. ‘Taking a look at the lighthouse. Or rather, taking a look from it.’

  ‘You did that too?’ It confirmed his worst suspicions.

  ‘Amongst other things.’

  ‘Isn’t it about time you came clean with me? You are not here because you have ambitions to be an Inspector with Le Guide, nor are you here for the simple pleasure of being by the sea.’

  Elsie grinned. ‘That goes for most of us,’ she said. ‘How about yourself? Don’t tell me you’re not intrigued too. A little hotel in the back of nowhere suddenly ’as its walls covered in valuable paintings. It’s like a bleedin’ art gallery.’

  ‘I am here because you are here. I was sent; you came of your own accord, that is the difference.’

  ‘Funny thing, differences,’ said Elsie. ‘I mean, take a simple thing like a shovel. There it is. It does the same thing the whole world over, dunnit. I mean, you’d think after all this time someone would ’ave come up with a Mark whatever world standard shovel. But, no. In England we have shovels that are flat and ’ave a proper ’andle you can grip. In France you ’ave shovels shaped like a heart on the end of a broomstick …’

  ‘So what are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying that if you was to look in the boot of some of the cars parked outside I bet you’d find quite a selection. And what do their owners ’ave in common? Well, for a start they didn’t none of them come ’ere to build sandcastles.’

  ‘So why are they here?’

  ‘You could say a love of art. Reginald thinks a tank wasn’t the only thing what was uncovered by the storms that Wednesday. He reckons there were a few crates of goodies as well.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse remained silent. It was often the best way of finding out things.

  ‘Reginald ’as been doing a spot of research while ’e’s been inside. ’E thinks there must be a link between the storm and the paintings. How they got there in the first place is something else again, but apparently it all goes back to the last war. Some nut-case in the American army who found himself with a lorryload of loot and didn’t know what to do with it. Anyway, Reginald discovered that he stayed in this very hotel.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse began to have a new respect for Elsie’s boy friend. A force to be reckoned with. It was a pity he was on the wrong side of the fence.

  ‘That is very enterprising of him.’

  ‘Reginald has his methods,’ said Elsie. ‘And his contacts. Just ’cause ’e’s inside doesn’t mean to say he can’t use them.’

  ‘What put him on to it in the first place?’

  ‘It’s a small world,’ said Elsie. ‘Once the pictures had been spotted the buzz was on. It was a case of who got ’ere first. Reginald was otherwise engaged so I came instead. As it ’appens, so did one or two others.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Who would you put your money on? The Blanches or your American friends?’

  ‘You must be joking,’ said Elsie. ‘The Blanches couldn’t find a dog’s doings in a snowdrift. My American friends mean business and they’re not going back home until they’ve found what they came for, that’s certain.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse made himself another sandwich. He wondered if they were addictive.

  ‘I’ve been doing all the talking so far,’ said Elsie. ‘Now it’s your turn. What’s the most important thing to remember when you bury something?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse had a distinct feeling of déjà vu. ‘It is as well to remember where you put it.’

  ‘Right in one.’

  ‘For that you would need some kind of landmark nearby. Or possibly one further away from which you could take a bearing. For safety’s sake, preferably the latter.’

  Elsie rose and walked to the window. ‘Stand on this chair and tell me what you see.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse followed her across the room and did as he was bidden.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘To my right I see lights from houses dotted about here and there around the bay. If I stand on my toes I can just make out some fishing boats. Beyond them I can see the outline of Cap Ferret silhouetted in the moonlight. I see the lighthouse flashing …’

  ‘Exactly. It’s just clear of the trees. That’s why Reginald specially wanted me to ’ave this room. It’s the same room what they ’ad at the time.’

  Elsie offered Monsieur Pamplemousse a helping hand as he turned away from the window. ‘Well, there you are then. It’s simple innit. What more could you want?

  ‘Reginald’s been living with it for weeks now – eating, sleeping, drinking it. ’E’s ’ad a map of the area pasted to ’is wall. The beauty of it is you don’t even need a compass. You just go out the back door of the hotel, stand under the window of my room, then walk in an exact straight line towards the light. Somewhere along the route you’ll find what you’re looking for.’

  ‘I see certain snags to that theory,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Your path would take you across some five hundred metres of soft sand. It wouldn’t be easy to keep to a straight line. Also, you would need to know exactly where to stop. There must be some other measurement we don’t know about. However, there is another even more fundamental problem.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Elsie.

  ‘The robbery took place in the spring of 1945. D’accord?’

  ‘Yeah. Reginald reckons they got here in April. 20 April to be exact. He ’ad someone check the old register.’

  ‘In that case they wouldn’t have seen the lighthouse,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘What do you mean – they wouldn’t ’ave seen it? Don’t tell me it was blacked out.’

  ‘No. It simply wasn’t there. The Germans destroyed it in 1944 – it wasn’t rebuilt until 1946.’

  Elsie looked at him disbelievingly. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Fate,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘A combination of somewhat unusual happenings took me to the lighthouse this afternoon and by sheer chance I happened to overhear a conversation someone was having with the guide.’

  He almost wished he hadn’t told Elsie, she looked so crestfallen as she sat down on the side of the bed.

 
; ‘I’ll tell you something,’ she said at last. ‘If that’s the case, Reginald’s not the only one who’s got it wrong. There’s going to be hell to pay when the others find out, especially now someone’s killed the goose that laid the golden egg. Old Monsieur Bouet was the only one who knew exactly where the loot was hidden and with him gone the secret’s gone too. So everybody’s back where they started. Only worse.’

  ‘You think it was the Americans?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that. Your guess is as good as mine. But from what I’ve seen and ’eard I wouldn’t put it past any of them. It could be that they tried to force it out of ’im and ’e wouldn’t play ball.’

  ‘And his assistant?’

  Elsie shrugged. ‘Perhaps he came across something ’e shouldn’t ’ave done. Or he just ’appened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘I do not wish to alarm you,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but if all you have told me is true, it seems to me that you could be in considerable danger yourself.’

  ‘Why do you think I’ve told you all this?’ said Elsie.

  ‘I suggest you don’t breathe a word to anyone and that you make sure you lock your door tonight.’

  ‘I’ve got an even better idea,’ said Elsie. ‘Why don’t I stay ’ere again? I feel sort of vulnerable in my room. Especially ’aving a double bed and all. It’s ever so lonely all by yourself in a double bed.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated.

  ‘Go on – be a sport.’ Elsie adopted her little girl lost voice as she pressed herself against him and ran her fingers up the lapel of his jacket. ‘I can’t think of any good reason why not, can you?’

  All too aware of a tingle down the back of his neck, Monsieur Pamplemousse tried hard to leave his mind a blank. His conscience got the better of him.

  ‘How about Reginald?’

  ‘What the eye don’t see the ’eart don’t grieve for,’ said Elsie.

  It was on the tip of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s tongue to ask if Reginald need ever know, but Elsie forestalled him.

  ‘And don’t say ’e need never know ’cause he would. Reginald always does. Mind you, you’re quite right. ’E’d throw a fit. ’E ’ates dog hairs on the sheets.’

  ‘Dog hairs?’ Out of the corner of his eye Monsieur Pamplemousse caught sight of Pommes Frites clambering on to the bed. He was wearing his complacent ‘you win some, you lose some’ look. He turned round twice before settling down plumb in the middle.

  ‘Reginald ’ad one go right up inside his big toe once. Agony it was. It took them ages to get it out. ’E swore never again.

  ‘Night, night, then.’ Dismissing Monsieur Pamplemousse, Elsie planted a kiss on his forehead, then reached inside her dress and produced a key. ‘See you in the morning.’

  The key still felt warm to the touch as Monsieur Pamplemousse let himself into room number eleven. He realised suddenly that he had left everything in with Elsie, but he was too tired to worry. Discarding his clothes on the nearest chair he slipped between the sheets and closed his eyes. Sleep came almost immediately.

  How long it lasted he had no idea. All he knew when he woke was that he had been suffering a recurrent nightmare: one that he often experienced during times of extreme stress. It was the torture of ‘les trois chocolats’: worse than the fiendish Chinese water treatment, more deadly than the wheel.

  It always began the same way. He would find himself dining alone at one of France’s premier restaurants. Always he chose exactly the same menu – Le menu gastronomique – seven courses, a selection from the chef’s repertoire, each one more exotic than its predecessor, each accompanied by a different wine. And always, no matter how the meal began, he would end up with the same dessert – les trois chocolats. A speciality of the house, it was a concoction of such extravagance and such unadulterated richness, it almost beggared description. Moist, yet firm, three different shades of brown … the thick cream … the raspberry coulis … the underlying flavour of Grand Marnier … eating it was an unforgettable experience. It was like hearing the Beethoven Ninth for the very first time.

  L’addition taken care of, he would experience the usual difficulty in rising from the table. His 2CV would be waiting for him at the door. Willing hands would lever him into the driving seat and then, as he emerged from the entrance gates and set off down a long country road, a hand would reach round from behind and hold a pad against his face … there would be a whiff of chloroform … then darkness. When he came to he would find himself bound hand and foot to a chair, a spotlight directed on his face.

  And then it would happen. Men in dark suits – usually masked – would emerge from the shadows and take it in turns to question him; one after the other, faster and faster, at the same time spooning more and more chocolate dessert into his mouth until he found himself crying out for mercy.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse sat up in bed and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Somehow the dream had seemed even worse than usual, perhaps because on this occasion his torturers had manifested themselves as the Americans staying in the hotel. He felt for the pillow, but it must have fallen on the floor.

  Gradually he became aware that the sound which had woken him came not from his own voice calling out in a dream, but from somewhere in the distance. It was a police siren and it was getting closer all the time.

  Switching on the light, Monsieur Pamplemousse jumped out of bed and made a grab for a dressing gown hanging on the back of the door. He hurried along the corridor, pressing the minuterie button as he went. Reaching the stairs he peered over the banisters. As he feared, the painting was no longer there.

  Hardly pausing in his stride, he made for his own room and knocked on the door. Elsie opened it almost immediately. Dressed in his pyjamas, she suddenly looked surprisingly small and defenceless. It was the first time he had seen her smoking.

  ‘The picture on the stairs is missing.’

  ‘The Sisley? Gone? Now who would have done a thing like that? You can’t trust anyone these days.’

  Something in her tone of voice stopped Monsieur Pamplemousse in his tracks.

  ‘Look … if you know anything about it …’

  ‘Me?’ Elsie took a drag of her cigarette. Making an almost perfect O with her lips, she blew an equally perfect smoke-ring. They both watched it float away across the room. ‘Why should I know anything about it? What a thing to say!’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse tried hard to contain his impatience as he heard the sound of a car drawing up on the gravel outside the hotel. It was followed almost immediately by a second, then a third. Doors slammed. ‘I’m telling you this for your own good. The pictures are alarmed. The police will be up here at any moment.’

  ‘They’ll ’ave to play hunt the thimble then, won’t they?’ said Elsie. ‘I spy with my little eye something beginning with K.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath. Already he could hear footsteps coming up the stairs.

  ‘Well, I suppose it wouldn’t be a “K” in your language,’ said Elsie, as she stood up to answer a knock on the door. ‘I’m not sure what it is really.’

  The officier took in the scene with the air of one who, though surprised by nothing in this world, left room in his mind for the occasional unexpected twist of its ingredients. He eyed the dressing gown Monsieur Pamplemousse was wearing. It was, to say the least, several sizes too small.

  ‘I take it, Monsieur, you have been here all the time?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated, uncomfortably aware that, as ever, the Blanches were hovering in the background, hanging on his every word. They were both fully dressed. Monsieur Blanche was carrying a spade.

  ‘You should ask Pommes Frites,’ said Elsie. ‘’E could tell you a thing or three.’

  ‘While you are about it, ask him what he is doing staying here under a false name?’ Pushing her way to the front, Madame Blanche pointed to Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  He glar
ed back at her. ‘Madame … you have no proof.’

  ‘Ask him to show us his knees then,’ demanded Madame Blanche. ‘If he has a mole on his left knee then he’s not who he says he is.’

  ‘I’ve never seen no mole, not on either of ’is knees,’ said Elsie. ‘Or anywhere else come to that.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse took hold of the two ends of a silken cord around Elsie’s dressing gown and undid the knot. ‘I will willingly prove you wrong, Madame.’ It was a last ditch chance.

  The officier stiffened. Clearly he had other priorities. ‘That will not be necessary.’

  He turned to the Blanches. ‘I must ask you to go to your room and remain there while we conduct a search of the building.’

  Taking advantage of the commotion as the officier and his men clattered off down the corridor banging on doors as they went, Pommes Frites emerged from under a blanket and made his way downstairs. He was wearing his pained expression. Sleep was proving difficult. If it wasn’t one thing it was another. Elsie had taken up a surprising amount of room. Not only that, but she had been very restless. In and out of bed like a yo-yo. The current goings-on were the last straw. In the circumstances, and in the absence of any orders to the contrary from his master, swopping Monsieur Pamplemousse’s bed for the familiar surroundings of his inflatable kennel seemed a sensible move.

  It didn’t take Pommes Frites long to have second and even third thoughts on the matter. His pained expression gave way to one of puzzlement. No sooner had he settled himself down than he jumped to his feet again. For some reason the floor of his house felt strangely lumpy. He tried changing his position several times, but to no avail. In the end, unable to stand the discomfort a moment longer, he got up and went back outside in order to investigate the matter.