by Michael Bond
The cause was immediately apparent, although how it came to be under his kennel he had no idea. It certainly hadn’t been there earlier in the evening.
Having removed the offending object, Pommes Frites stood for a moment holding it in his jaws, wondering what to do next. He was tempted to dispose of it behind the nearest bush, but being still in a decision-making mode he had another thought. He knew where there were some other objects just like the one that had been causing all the trouble. He might have temporarily mislaid the various bits and pieces belonging to the owner of the hotel and his assistant, but this was a chance to vindicate himself.
Following a built-in navigational system which owed as much to extra-sensory perception as it did to William Gilbert’s discovery of magnetic north, Pommes Frites set forth without further delay.
His actions didn’t go unnoticed by a gendarme who had been left sitting in one of the police cars. Reaching for his walkie-talkie, he opened the door and set off in pursuit. A moment later heads appeared at various windows of the hotel. Other walkie-talkies began to crackle; other figures appeared out of the darkness.
Pommes Frites’ course took him towards the dune. Had he, in fact, continued in the same direction across sand and sea, it would have taken him to the very front door of the Semaphore Tower, a kilometre or so to the west of the lighthouse at Cap Ferret, but he didn’t in fact go very far. Having reached a point which was exactly two hundred and ten metres from the hotel or, for those who were mathematically inclined but unwilling to trust their memory, ten times his master’s room number, he stopped in his tracks and began to dig.
For a few moments sand flew in all directions; at such times Pommes Frites was no respecter of persons. The gendarmes who were standing a short distance away craning their necks in order to get a better view of what was happening stepped back a pace or two. Then, as heavy breathing gave way to the sound of claws against wood, they moved forward again in a body.
Pommes Frites paused in his labours and glanced round at them.
It really was a most satisfactory way to round off an evening. And if, in the heat of the moment the saliva from his mouth had caused some of the colours on the canvas to run, it was but a moment’s work to drop the painting into the hole and cover it with sand before anyone noticed.
‘Merde!’ Hearing the sound of doors slamming, Monsieur Pamplemousse rushed to the bedroom window and was just in time to see the Americans’ Peugeot leaving. Seconds later another car took off in pursuit.
‘Don’t worry.’ Elsie joined him just as the tail-lights disappeared through the trees. ‘They won’t get far. Even if the police don’t catch them, there’ll be others on the look out. Reginald may ’ave his faults, but ’e’s never been into that kind of thing. There’s a contract out on them. The underworld don’t like innocent people being killed. They ’ave their code the same as anyone else.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed her curiously as he absorbed the information, trying for a moment to reconcile the matter-of-fact way in which it had been conveyed with the Elsie he had come to know.
‘All the same, forgive me, I must get dressed.’
‘Before you look inside the wardrobe,’ said Elsie, ‘I think I should tell you – there’s something in there …’
‘Something?’ He paused with his hand on the doorhandle.
Elsie took another drag on her cigarette. ‘You’ll see.’
‘Sacre bleu!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse stepped back a pace and gazed at a picture propped up against the back wall. It had an all too familiar look about it.
‘Nice innit,’ said Elsie. ‘Told you it would be a surprise. I ’ope you don’t mind me putting it there but it’s the one place in the ’otel where no one’s liable to look for it, you being who you are and all.
‘Besides, there’s no point in going home empty-’anded. Reginald wouldn’t think much of that. He’s very keen on Sisley, is Reginald.’
10
WASH DAY
‘I must go to the launderette after dinner,’ said Madame Pamplemousse.
‘Oh, dear, must you, Couscous? Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’
‘You won’t have a thing to wear if I don’t. I can’t think what you’ve been up to. Your clothes are in a terrible state.’
‘It was the dunes,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
He buried himself in his newspaper. The news from Arcachon occupied several columns. Two people were helping the police with their inquiries. One had been charged with carrying an offensive weapon. There was no more to report on either Monsieur Bouet or his assistant. Nor, according to the special correspondent on the spot, was there likely to be for some time to come. The police had an impossible task. It was worse than looking for a needle in a haystack. There was nothing about Elsie. No mention of airports being watched. Most of the story was devoted to the police discovery of the loot and its legal ramifications.
‘Anyway,’ said Madame Pamplemousse, ‘it’s a chance to catch up on the gossip. Not that I ever listen to it.’
‘No one ever does,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse vaguely. ‘But everyone likes it all the same.’
‘I want to hear the latest on the Blanches. It seems they’re being held for questioning.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse pricked up his ears. ‘The Blanches? Do I know them?’ he asked innocently.
‘You must do. He has a gallery and he writes about art for one of the journaux. I see his wife in the launderette sometimes. Apparently Monsieur Blanche was caught carrying an offensive weapon. Nobody knows what Madame Blanche is being held for.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse could guess. Trying the patience of an officier for a start. Something must have snapped.
‘Funnily enough, Monsieur Blanche has a mole on his left knee just like yours.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse lowered the journal and stared at his wife. ‘Do you mean to say you have been discussing my mole in a launderette? Is there nothing sacred?’
‘People let their hair down in launderettes,’ said Doucette. ‘You find out all sorts of things. You would be surprised.’
After the latest revelation, Monsieur Pamplemousse had a feeling nothing would surprise him ever again. It gave truth to the old phrase about washing one’s dirty linen in public. For all he knew the whole building was aware of his impediments. It was bad enough having the details entered on his P63, his personal detail file, back at Le Guide’s headquarters.
Any further conversation was interrupted by the telephone ringing. Madame Pamplemousse picked up the receiver.
‘It is from Arcachon.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a grunt. He’d been expecting the call ever since his arrival back in Paris. Recognising the signs, Madame Pamplemousse disappeared into the kitchen.
The officier went straight into the attack.
‘I take it I am talking to the real Monsieur Aristide Pamplemousse and not his twin brother?’
‘You have a choice,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, in an attempt to break the ice. He waited for an answering chuckle, but none was forthcoming.
‘We have made an inventory of the pictures.’
It wasn’t hard to guess what was coming next. ‘There were a large number still in their original crates. A Cézanne, a minor Botticelli, a Seurat, a Fragonard or two. Together with those in the hotel they came to a total of seventy-five. Then there were a great many items in silver and bronze, statuettes and other bits and pieces. I won’t bore you with all the details. A full list will be published in due course, along with the total value.
‘However, there was one oddity – a painting – measuring some fifty centimetres by thirty. It was more recent than the others and it bore the name of a local artist.’
‘It is a small world,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘It was purchased at an art exhibition being held at the Mairie in Bélisaire. It depicts a scene not dissimilar to the one by Sisley which was stolen from the hotel. Would you know anything about that?’
&n
bsp; ‘Non,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Definitely and most assuredly, non. I can say with my hand on my heart that I have never seen such a painting.’
‘My understanding is that it was purchased by an English girl, answering to the description of your companion. She was most insistent that she be given a receipt describing the scene in detail; a canal in summer time. She said it was in case she was stopped at the airport.’
‘It sounds like a sensible precaution,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘The paint had run and there were teeth marks on the frame.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘she should ask for her money back.’
‘That is all you have to say?’
‘I am sorry, but it is a very bad line. Either that, or I have an attack of my old complaint – temporary loss of hearing.’
‘Considering I stood up for you with Madame Blanche, I think that is very unfair. I have just let her go, but only under pain of being instantly rearrested should she so much as breathe a word.’
‘Life is very unfair at times,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But at least Pommes Frites found the buried treasure for you. In return I would like to keep my self respect.’ There was a long silence.
‘That is your final answer?’
‘Oui.’
There was a click and the line went dead.
‘Dîner is ready,’ called Madame Pamplemousse from the kitchen. ‘We have filets de hareng marinés and poulet rôti.’
The herrings came in a large tureen along with sliced carrots, thinly sliced onion and herbs. The accompanying potatoes, quartered, tossed with vinaigrette, olive oil and parsley and still slightly warm, were in a separate bowl.
Monsieur Pamplemousse poured two glasses of a lightly chilled Pouilly Fumé Les Charmes, and then took the precaution of removing his tie before he sat down.
‘Who was that on the telephone?’ asked Madame Pamplemousse.
‘It was someone from the gendarmerie in Arcachon. One of the officiers.’
‘You sounded very brusque, Aristide.’
‘Not brusque,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I was merely being firm. He wanted some information which I was not prepared to give.’
They ate in silence for a while.
‘Was it nice in Arcachon?’ asked Madame Pamplemousse suddenly.
‘Very,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You would like it. It is not too grand.’
‘And the hotel? Was the hotel nice?’
‘There was a lot to be desired.’
‘I have never been to that part of France. Perhaps we could take a holiday there later in the year. When the crowds have gone.’
‘I think we should leave it until next year,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘People will be flocking to the Dune du Pilat all through the summer.’ He also had no wish to meet up with the officier again until the dust had settled.
He wiped the plate clean with his bread. ‘That was delicious, Couscous. The herrings were exactly as they should be – not too salty.’
‘I took the precaution of soaking them in milk for several hours first,’ said Doucette. ‘They have been marinating in oil ever since you went away so the onions and carrots have had time to soften.’
While she was preparing the second course, Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up the telephone and dialled the Director’s number in Deauville. It was answered on the first ring.
‘Monsieur …’
‘Pamplemousse! What news? I have been trying your hotel all day. The number seems to be permanently engaged.’
It was hardly surprising. The Hôtel des Dunes was probably swarming with officials, not to mention the media, all of them wanting to use the telephone. He pitied the poor television cameramen lugging their equipment up and down the dune; worrying about getting sand in their lenses.
‘I thought you would like to know, Monsieur, that you may put your ballpoint away.’
‘My ballpoint, Pamplemousse? What on earth are you talking about?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse suppressed a sigh. Sometimes he wondered if his chief was being deliberately obtuse.
‘The operation, Monsieur,’ he hissed. ‘My reason for being in Arcachon. It has reached a satisfactory conclusion.’
‘You mean?’
‘Elsie is returning to base. With luck she may already be there. She has given up all thoughts of becoming an Inspector. I doubt if she will need to work again for a while.’
‘Aristide, what can I say? I cannot begin to tell you how much I have been through these last few days. I seem to have spent most of my time hiding beneath the duvet. Time has hung heavy.’
‘I, too, have suffered, Monsieur. And I, too, have returned to base. I am speaking from Paris.’
‘Paris? How extraordinary. Doubtless you have seen the news about Arcachon. It is on all the channels. There is no escape from it. How strange that it should all have blown up the moment you leave. You have missed all the excitement.’
‘C’est la vie, Monsieur. That is life!’
The roast chicken came garnished with watercress. Monsieur Pamplemousse dissected it quickly and expertly. Then Madame Pamplemousse put the legs back in the oven for himself and Pommes Frites later. It was what she called ‘the men’s portion’. While she was gone he took a quick nibble. It was what he called ‘carver’s privilege’. The flesh was done to a turn, the skin golden brown. The watercress leaves added a pungent taste.
He went to his wine cupboard in the hall and took out a bottle of ’85 Faiveley Morey St.-Denis Clos des Ormes which he had been saving for a special occasion. Only 95 cases had been made.
‘You are spoiling me, Couscous,’ he said, as Doucette returned carrying a bowl of green salad and a plate piled high with frites. ‘It is a meal fit for a king. I swear the poulet would not disgrace L’Ami Louis.’
Madame Pamplemousse looked pleased. ‘The trick is in rubbing it first with goose fat, then seasoning it with salt. That is how they do it.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse poured the wine. ‘You should have been an Inspector.’
‘I haven’t lived with one all these years without learning a few secrets,’ said Doucette. ‘I hope it makes up for all the bad food you had in the hotel.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked up in surprise. ‘How did you know that?’
‘The Director’s wife was telling me.’
‘Aah! Chantal. Did she tell you anything else?’ In case the news was bad, Monsieur Pamplemousse took the precaution of filling his mouth with food so that if he were to be questioned he would have a little breathing space. He immediately regretted it.
‘She told me about Elsie. It was such a pity the poor girl struck unlucky on her first time out. It must have put her off any thoughts of becoming an Inspector.’
‘Elsie?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse emitted a choking noise.
‘Such a nice girl, and such a good cook. I think she is really very shy. I’m so glad it was she you had to take and not a lot of people I know. Although I must say I wouldn’t have recognised her from the photograph you showed me the other night after the Director’s party. Where you got it from I don’t know.
‘Chantal told me about all the telephone calls. It happened every time she went into the bathroom. She had to wait in there for ages some evenings. Why there had to be such secrecy I really can’t imagine.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse discreetly, ‘Monsieur le Directeur was worried on my behalf. He thought you might be jealous.’
‘Men! You are such vain creatures. You think that every pretty girl is just waiting for the chance to jump into bed with you. I knew you would be safe with Elsie. It’s the unlikely ones you have to watch. People like Madame Blanche.’
‘Couscous! How can you say such things?’
‘Because I know men. And I know Madame Blanche. I think she rather fancies you on the quiet.’
Not for the first time, Monsieur Pamplemousse reflected that there was no knowing women. But that, of
course, was their attraction.
He lifted his glass. ‘Here’s to things past.’
The wine was smooth and full bodied; an explosive mixture of ripe fruit, with a promise of even greater things to come. Mentally he added a second toast; to Elsie – wherever she might be.
‘The past is like a foreign country,’ said Doucette, ‘where they speak a different language.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse digested the observation for a moment or two. ‘That is true,’ he said at last. ‘It was certainly very true of Elsie.’
Taking another sip of the wine he caught Pommes Frites’ eye. Pommes Frites was wearing one of his enigmatic expressions. It was hard to say whether he was registering agreement about Elsie, or whether he was simply waiting for his chicken leg to arrive.
If it were the former, reflected Monsieur Pamplemousse, then Pommes Frites had the advantage over a great many people. At least he and Elsie had got to share the same bed. He hoped Reginald didn’t ever get to know. He might be tempted to put out another contract.
Also 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
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