by Michael Bond
‘Did you leave anything of value?’
Mrs Van Dorman shook her head. ‘I had all my money and travellers’ cheques with me. My jewellery is in the hotel safe.’
‘Passport?’
‘That’s OK too. It was in my handbag.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse crossed to the balcony and tried the French windows. They were locked from the inside.
‘And the main door was locked?’
Mrs Van Dorman nodded. ‘I remember trying it when I left this morning. And it was certainly still locked when I came back in just now.’
‘Then whoever did it must have had a key.’
‘It certainly wasn’t mine. You saw me pick it up from the desk.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. ‘Someone may have “borrowed” it on a pretext. In a hotel this size they would stand a good chance of getting away with it. It might even have been someone who’s stayed here before and “lost” the key. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. There are a dozen ways.’
‘You don’t think it could be one of the staff?’
‘I doubt it. They wouldn’t have made such a mess. Have you reported it yet?’
‘No, I rang you first.’ While they were talking Mrs Van Dorman went through her belongings. ‘Anyway, nothing seems to be missing. Unless …’ she paused by the dressing table. ‘That’s strange. I can’t see Norm’s glass anywhere.’
‘You mean you hadn’t taken it to the police.’
‘No. In the end I was running late, so I thought I’d do it this afternoon. What do you think it means?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a non-committal grunt, but behind it his mind was racing.
Mrs Van Dorman reached for the phone. ‘I guess I’d better call the desk.’
While she was talking, Monsieur Pamplemousse took a last look round the room – under the bed, in the bathroom, and finally in the wardrobe.
‘If you like I will leave Pommes Frites with you.’
‘I’ll be all right once the mess is cleared up. Besides, the costumier should be here any moment.’
‘Well, you know where I am. You only have to call.’
‘Thanks.’ Mrs Van Dorman reached out and gave his hand a squeeze. ‘I’m beginning to wonder what I’d do without you.’
Back in his own room, Monsieur Pamplemousse prowled around for a while lost in thought. He wasn’t normally superstitious, but he was beginning to think that perhaps the Director was right in his fears. Come to think of it, on the journey down even Mrs Van Dorman had admitted to having ‘bad vibes’.
For want of something better to do he picked up the case containing Ellis’s glass and opened it. Removing the glass, he tried sniffing it again, this time warming the outside with his hands first to release the vapour, then emulating Pommes Frites by forming them into a screen so that the smell would be trapped. Ignoring the prickle in his nose and at the back of his throat from the sulphur and the very definite odour of potassium nitrate, he concentrated on the third smell. As with a wine, it needed only a moment – anything longer was a waste of time. First impressions were the most reliable. He tried again and this time it came to him – a very faint trace of almonds; the kind of smell which in its bitter form indicated a badly fined wine. The Germans had a good word for it – mandelbitter.
Mandelbitter, or … Monsieur Pamplemousse put the glass down and gazed at it thoughtfully. Perhaps he was wrong to think in terms of wine; perhaps it wasn’t so much a matter of vin rouge, but rather hareng rouge. What the English would call a ‘red herring’.
It was largely a matter of what one was conditioned to, of reading what one expected to read. Working as he did for Le Guide, his immediate reactions were inclined to be gastronomic. Had he still been with the Sûreté they would have taken him in quite another direction.
Cyanide, par exemple?
4
DINNER WITH DUMAS
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed up at his mount, silhouetted in the cold light from what, given the circumstances, seemed an unnecessarily, not to say an embarrassingly overbright moon. The horse was not only a good deal bigger than he had expected, it also lacked certain fundamental items of equipment which made his own deux chevaux seem, by comparison, positively over-endowed with optional extras; little things like a wheel at all four corners or, more particularly, a handbrake to ensure that it remained stationary when parked. The latter was conspicuous by its absence.
To carry the motoring analogy a stage further, the horse’s progenitors had obviously been of like mind to the late Henry Ford, who had offered would-be purchasers of his Model T the choice of any colour under the sun provided they asked for black, for black it certainly was. Black as the ace of spades.
Nor did Monsieur Pamplemousse entirely trust the look in its eyes. Rapport between man and beast seemed fairly low on its agenda for the evening.
‘Why is there steam issuing from its nostrils?’ he demanded.
‘It is mostly the effect of the night air, Monsieur. After the heat of the Opera House …’ The groom wiped some foam from the horse’s lower lip with the back of his sleeve.
‘The Opera House?’
‘He is appearing all this week in The Best of Wagner. Unfortunately, rehearsals this afternoon did not go well. Madame Trenchante, the soprano, is not the lightest of singers, you understand? … and the members of the orchestra behaved badly. He is not used to being applauded when he obeys the call of nature. We are hoping for better things at tonight’s performance.’
The man suddenly bent down, grasped the offside front leg of the horse with both hands, and gave it a twist. Taken by surprise, the animal promptly lay down on the gravelled driveway.
‘See, he is feeling better already!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse had no wish to argue with such an obvious expert in equestrian behaviour, but it struck him as being a very moot point. He was uncomfortably aware of an eye gazing up at him, watching his every move. It was a large eye, unblinking and heavily veined. Set against a colour chart it would have registered yellow rather than white. It struck him as the kind of eye which belonged to an animal merely biding its time until the moment arrived when it could get its own back on those around it.
‘That is most kind of you.’ Taking a deep breath, he made to clamber on.
‘Monsieur!’ The man grabbed at his arm. ‘I would not advise it. Not unless you wish to end up in the river. I was merely demonstrating one of his many tricks, but he is not called Le Diable Noir for nothing.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse jumped back. The latest snippet of information did little to assuage his feeling of gloom; a gloom which had set in soon after he left the hotel. The news about the opera explained why there had been so much traffic. In the end he had abandoned all thoughts of using his own car for fear of losing his parking space, choosing instead to walk the half kilometre or so to the Villa André. It also explained why he had been stopped several times on the way for his autograph. He wished now he had taken advantage of the situation. Placido Domingo might have looked even more impressive than Charles de Batz-Castelmore – the name of Dumas’ human model for the character of d’Artagnan, and P. Domingo would certainly have been much quicker to write.
The groom relaxed his grip on the horse, withdrew a silver hunting-cased watch from one of has waistcoat pockets, and flicked open the cover with his thumbnail.
‘If Monsieur will forgive me. It is almost time for the evening performance and we have to be in our places five minutes before the curtain goes up.’
As the horse rose to its feet, Monsieur Pamplemousse looked around for something to stand on – a pair of steps, perhaps? A car roof? – but there was nothing in sight. He glanced towards the house at the end of the short drive. The lights were on and through the open door he could see waiters flitting to and fro. To his relief there was no sign of the photographer the Director had threatened him with. Posterity and Mrs Van Dorman’s magazine would have to do without. Taking a deep breath, he braced h
imself. It was now or never.
‘Monsieur has ridden before?’
‘Oui.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse dismissed such a foolish question with a wave of his hand. ‘Many years ago.’ He forbore to mention that the last time – the one and only time – had been on a camel in the Bois de Boulogne. It would have been a sad confession for one born and brought up in the Auvergne.
‘Aah!’ The tone of voice suggested that his reply was not entirely unexpected. ‘Then I would suggest that if Monsieur wishes to mount he faces the way he is going so that he can place his other foot in the trier.’
Grasping Monsieur Pamplemousse’s left foot in much the same manner as he had used earlier in demonstrating his command over the horse, the groom guided it into a stirrup. Then he cupped his hands together to form a step, placed it under the other foot, and gave a quick heave.
It was hard to say which of those present was most surprised by the events which followed, or who reacted the fastest.
Had the promised cameraman been present, and had his finger been on the button, he might have resolved matters by capturing a photo finish with his lens, but he would have needed to be quick for it was all over in a matter of seconds.
Monsieur Pamplemousse, expecting to find himself flying straight over the top of the horse and therefore bracing himself accordingly, met instead with unexpected resistance, spun round, and collapsed in a heap on the driveway.
Pommes Frites, having until that moment remained coldly aloof from the proceedings, sprang into action. Anticipating the outcome by virtue of his vantage point near the ground, he was already at his master’s side by the time he landed, his tongue at the ready in case first aid was required.
The horse, taken completely unawares by Monsieur Pamplemousse’s sword as it swung round and up, stood for a brief second registering a mixture of shock and disbelief, then gave vent to a cry, more shriek than whinny, before leaping several feet into the air.
Last, but by no means least, although compared to the other three, undoubtedly an also-ran, the groom added his shouts to the mêlée as he struggled to regain control of his charge.
‘Aristide! Are you all right?’
Groping under a nearby bush for his hat, Monsieur Pamplemousse looked up and found himself gazing into the eyes of Mrs Van Dorman.
‘Oui et non. I fear I have lost part of my hat.’
‘By the sound of it you’re lucky if that’s all you’ve lost. I tell you something else. How about we take your entrance as read? The photographer’s still tied up inside the house. Besides, we can leave all that until after we’ve eaten.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the matter for all of a second or two. Mrs Van Dorman wouldn’t have to fill in a P.39 at the end of her trip justifying to Madame Grante in Accounts the reasons for claiming a new set of plumes. He doubted very much whether, as an item, they would have been programmed on to Le Guide’s computer. There would be innumerable complications. He could picture it all. The section on the form for explanations wouldn’t be large enough for a start. Once again he would have to resort to writing ‘please see attached sheet’.
He was also distracted from his task by the nearness of Mrs Van Dorman’s bosom. She was wearing a high-waisted dark blue dress with a lace-edged off-the-shoulder décolletage, the squareness of which emphasised and even enhanced the roundness and fullness of her snowy white balcons. Balcons which, unlike Le Diable Noir, benefitted from being bathed in moonlight. The effect was unexpectedly ravishing, not to say disturbing.
Climbing to his feet with as much grace as possible, Monsieur Pamplemousse adjusted his sword and turned to the groom.
‘Madame is right. I will see you after the performance. I hope it goes well.’
‘Oui, Monsieur.’ The man sounded as relieved as he did.
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at Mrs Van Dorman as they made their way towards the house. ‘You are looking very beautiful.’
‘Thank you, Aristide. And you are looking very dashing. Doublet and hose suit you. You should always wear them. As for the black beard …’
‘I think not. It would make life much too complicated in the mornings.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse spoke with feeling. Even with the help of two men from the theatrical costumiers it had taken him most of the afternoon to get ready. As for undressing again, he wouldn’t know where to begin. All the same, as he took Mrs Van Dorman’s arm he couldn’t help feeling a little je ne sais quoi – ‘a certain something’; his step was undoubtedly lighter. His spirits had been raised and he felt on top of the world; it was a night when anything was possible.
Pausing by the steps leading up to the door he became aware, too, of an unseasonable smell of jasmine – jasmine and honeysuckle: strong and heady. It wasn’t difficult to locate the source. Mrs Van Dorman read his thoughts.
‘I hope you don’t find my perfume too overpowering. I picked it up from Jean Laporte when I was in Paris. It belongs to the period – along with the beauty spots.’ She pointed to a black patch adorning her right cheek. ‘They both served their purpose in covering up bodily imperfections – B. O. and pock-marks. They didn’t call Louis XIV a “sweet-smelling monarch” for nothing. He had them build a blue and white pavilion at Versailles and filled it with flowers. They say he used to spend most of his time there – in between bouts of making love.’
‘Do you have a perfume for every occasion?’
‘I try to. I’m always experimenting. It has to do with the chemistry of the skin. I’ll tell you about it some day.
‘Anyway, here goes …’ She led the way into the house and on into the dining-room where two distinct groups were clustered at the far end.
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s spirits took a sudden nosedive again. He’d completely forgotten the thespians the Director had engaged for the occasion. He hoped their expectations of his own acting abilities weren’t running too high. If so, they were in for a shock.
Not that it looked as though the expectations of anyone in the room were exactly at fever pitch. As he followed Mrs Van Dorman round the long candle-lit table in the centre of the room, awash with gleaming silver cutlery and sparkling glassware, it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that the atmosphere was decidedly low key. Apart from their dress, it wasn’t hard to distinguish which group was which. The theatricals appeared to be in a state of suspended animation, as though awaiting a cue from some unseen Director before taking the stage. Either that, or they had been given orders not to mingle. The rest of the occupants, perhaps not surprisingly, looked as though they were trying to strike a balance between anticipation of things to come and remembrance of things past.
Someone he recognised as Elliott Garner detached himself from the group of writers and came forward to greet them.
‘DiAnn! Or should I say Madame Joyeux? Congratulations. You are looking wonderful.’
‘Thank you, Elliott. You haven’t met Monsieur Pamplemousse … Aristide. And Pommes Frites …’
Elliott nodded briefly. ‘We saw each other across a crowded kitchen this morning. Although I must admit, I would hardly have recognised you.’ His hand felt cold to the touch.
‘I am sorry if I have held you up,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I had a little disagreement with my cheval. I feel we may neither of us ever be quite the same again.’
‘What is the saying? “Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.”’ Elliott glanced down at Pommes Frites. ‘Now I know we are in France.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at him enquiringly.
‘In New York dogs are not allowed in restaurants.’
‘Now, now, Elliott,’ said Mrs Van Dorman. ‘Pommes Frites is an honoured guest. Besides, this isn’t a restaurant, it’s a private gathering.’
‘I didn’t say he shouldn’t be allowed in.’ There was a hint of petulance. ‘I was only pointing out one of the differences between our two countries.’
‘I think perhaps dogs come under the heading of popular misconceptions,’ said Mon
sieur Pamplemousse. ‘Perhaps because of our eating habits, we are not usually thought of as a nation of animal lovers – but chiens are almost always welcome. If they weren’t people would soon take their custom elsewhere.’
Conscious that Pommes Frites, aware that his name was being taken in vain, had his eye on Elliott Garner as though making notes for future reference, Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to make it crystal clear that if the need arose, he, too, would happily take his custom elsewhere. It was hard to tell if Pommes Frites was grateful or not.
Mrs Van Dorman touched his arm. ‘Come and meet the rest of the party, Aristide.’
‘Paul Robard … Spencer Troon … Harman Lock … Harvey Wentworth …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse took his time. In their formal attire they were hardly recognisable from the pictures he’d seen in the group photograph and he wanted to get them fixed in his mind.
Mrs Van Dorman turned to the second group. ‘Alexandre Dumas, I’m sure you know. Madame de Sauvignon, Monsieur Courbet and Monsieur Auguste Maquet.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed them curiously as they bowed and curtsied. It was type-casting with a vengeance. Alexandre Dumas, in his sixties, portly, wearing a waistcoat several sizes too small, beneath which was one of the soft, pleated and embroidered shirts he had made famous; Madame de Sauvignon, slim, poised, undeniably attractive in a long black dress done up at the collar, but with a revealing area of black net across her front; Courbet every inch the ‘artist’, Maquet, thin-lipped, jealous of Dumas’ success, on which he was later to lay claim.
Monsieur Pamplemousse was so taken up with his own responses, making sure he didn’t have a second, perhaps even more embarrassing accident with his sword, it was a moment or two before he realised that not one of the second group had spoken a word, and another few seconds before the truth dawned on him. They were all having to mime. For no obvious reason he found the thought immensely cheering. It was probably one of the Director’s little economies – or what was perhaps even more likely, having made the Grand gesture, he had encountered opposition from Madame Grante. He could see it all. The endless hair-splitting arguments. The triumphant expression on Madame Grante’s face as she had delivered her coup de grâce; the fact that actors came a lot cheaper if they didn’t have speaking parts.