by Michael Bond
But even Pommes Frites was hardly prepared for the events of the next few seconds.
Emboldened on the one hand by the wine, and if he’d been totally honest, a sudden desire to impress Mrs Van Dorman, Monsieur Pamplemousse flung caution to the wind. As a schoolboy he had learned the lesson that bravery is often a mixture of foolhardiness coupled with the fear of being laughed at. Given something nobody really wants to do, there are positive advantages in being first to have a go; at least you get it over with. In that way he had gained something of a reputation for bravery; leading the rest of the class into the water when it was time for a swimming lesson on a cold winter’s day, or being first up a tree when a kite became entangled in its uppermost branches.
It was in much the same spirit that he snatched the purse from Mrs Van Dorman and in one swift movement leapt into the air, landing more by luck than judgement fairly and squarely in the middle of the saddle.
For the second time that evening the photographer missed his big moment. There was no possibility of another chance. As Monsieur Pamplemousse landed on its back, Le Diable Noir gave a loud whinny and reared into the air like a bucking bronco determined to free itself of its rider. The fact that horse and rider remained as one was simply because Monsieur Pamplemousse had got his own impedimenta entangled with that of his steed. Clutching Mrs Van Dorman’s purse in one hand, holding on like grim death to the pommeau with his other, stirrups flying in the wind, he disappeared down the drive and out through the open gate as though shot from a canon.
A moment later Pommes Frites woke from his trance and set off in hot pursuit.
Whichever of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s guardian angels was unlucky enough to be taking the late shift that night must have been torn between watching over his charge and keeping an up-to-the-minute record of the events which followed. Doubtless in the circumstances he was forgiven for lapsing into some kind of heavenly shorthand.
X’d boulevard Pres. Kennedy. Entered Parc du Soleil by r. On to D426 then N. on to D270 and D175.
Had he dared, Monsieur Pamplemousse would gladly have swopped Mrs Van Dorman’s purse for Le Diable Noir’s blinkers.
As they headed towards open country the telephone in the local gendarmerie began to ring. It was the first of many calls from late-night motorists and startled householders wakened by the clatter of hooves. But by the time it was answered Monsieur Pamplemousse was already lying in a ditch. The Monts de la Madeleine, which only that morning had seemed so far away, now loomed uncomfortably close.
Thankful to be alive and in one piece, he lay for some while where he had landed. Mercifully the ditch was devoid of water. It was even, by comparison with the saddle, remarkably soft and comfortable and he had no great desire to move.
Gradually growing accustomed to his surroundings and having assured himself that there were no broken bones, Monsieur Pamplemousse relaxed. As he did so he became aware of the sound of an approaching car. Struggling into a sitting position, he gave a desultory wave. Almost immediately he wished he hadn’t.
Temporarily blinded by the headlights, which remained pointing straight at him as the car skidded to a halt, Monsieur Pamplemousse raised an arm to shield his eyes from the glare.
It was too late to hide. Hands reached out and helped him clamber to his feet. There was a pause while he recovered his balance and then the first of the two gendarmes spoke.
‘Monsieur, may I see your papers?’
‘I have no papers,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘At least, not on me. They are in my hotel room.’
The men exchanged glances. ‘Your name, Monsieur?’ enquired the second gendarme.
Monsieur Pamplemousse essayed an attempt at the jocular. ‘I am Charles de Batz-Castelmore, but you may call me d’Artagnan.’
‘Oui, Monsieur,’ said the first, ‘and I am Robespierre.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse recognised the type. Sound in many ways. Painstaking. Given the right instructions, he would be indefatigable in following up an inquiry. But no sense of humour whatsoever.
‘All right,’ he said wearily. ‘My name is Pamplemousse. Late of the Sûreté.’
The two men looked at each other again. ‘Oui, Monsieur,’ said the second one. ‘Now, will you please turn around.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse knew better than to argue. He would have done the same thing in their place; a quick frisk to check for concealed weapons; no guns concealed in the ruff, no hidden knives. Better safe than sorry. There was room for a whole armoury inside his sleeves. He waited patiently while the officer subjected him to a brief body search. First the top half, then the lower. Suddenly he felt his arms being grasped from behind. There was a tightening round his wrists followed by a series of rapid clicks.
‘Sacré bleu!’ He struggled to free himself, but it was too late.
‘What is the meaning of this?’
‘The meaning, Monsieur,’ said the first gendarme, ‘is quite simple. You are under arrest.’
‘Arrest? On what charge?’
‘You really wish to know?’ The man’s voice sounded pained. He turned to his colleague for support. ‘First of all he terrorises half the neighbourhood by rampaging through the streets at one o’clock in the morning on a horse. Then he is found lying in a ditch wearing fancy dress and smelling of drink. Next he gives a series of false names … And he wants to know why we are arresting him!’
The second gendarme gave a hollow laugh.
‘All right,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. He could see there was little point in arguing. ‘I can explain it all when we get to the station. But in the meantime – what about my horse?’
‘Your horse, Monsieur? What horse?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded towards a small clump of trees on the far side of the road. ‘He is somewhere over there. You can hardly leave him to roam around loose all night. Who knows what damage he may cause?
‘Ici! Ici!’ Warming to his theme, he emitted a series of whistles which, if they did nothing else, produced a satisfactory and clearly recognisable response from further down the road. A single bark indicated that Pommes Frites wasn’t far away.
‘Attendez un moment, Monsieur.’
The possibility that he might do anything other than wait clearly didn’t enter the mind of the gendarmes as they crossed the road. One of them produced a torch and began waving it around in a desultory fashion.
Monsieur Pamplemousse held back until they reached the trees, then he turned and took a flying leap across the ditch. As he landed on the far side he slipped on the turf. For a brief moment he thought he was going to fall. Then, regaining his balance with an almost superhuman effort, he was away. Oblivious to the shouts calling him to stop or else, he set off across the open country as fast as he could.
From somewhere behind him he heard the sound of barking; barking followed by snarls. There were several shrill blasts on a whistle, then silence. By the sound of things Pommes Frites was doing his bit.
Monsieur Pamplemousse wasn’t sure how long he carried on running; it was probably only a matter of minutes, but it seemed like hours. Heart pounding, his breath becoming shorter with every passing moment, he kept going; across fields, in and out of ditches, over rocks, until gradually the running dwindled into a jog, and the jog into a walk. Finally, stumbling over a boulder, he sat down in order to regain his breath.
He still wasn’t sure quite why he had done it. Instinct; a spur of the moment decision. But he’d burned his boats and no mistake.
The irony of the situation suddenly struck home. He, Aristide Pamplemousse, late of the Sûreté, on the run like a common criminal. It was too late to do anything about it now. It had been too late after the first few metres. There was no going back and saying he was sorry. That would go down like a lead balloon. Overcome by a sudden burst of self-pity at the idiocy of the whole thing, he banged his handcuffs against the rock in the hope of dislodging the ratchet – but it only made them tighter still.
Running away when he’d firs
t seen the car headlights was one thing – a not unnatural reaction – he could have pleaded he didn’t realise he was dealing with the police. Escaping from custody was something else again. They would throw the book at him. It sounded bad enough sitting in the middle of a field in the early hours of the morning, but read out in court in the cold light of day, or plastered over the front page of a journal, it could mean the end of everything.
He tried to remember what the gendarmes had said. It was unlikely that they would have linked him with the banquet, if they even knew of its existence. They probably thought he’d been to a fancy dress party, or perhaps they’d assumed he was one of the singers from the Opera House suffering from over-indulgence following an after-the-show party. It wouldn’t take them long to discover the truth. Or would it? It depended how seriously they took the matter, or what else came up. He had a feeling the senior of the two gendarmes wouldn’t rest until he’d got to the bottom of the matter.
One thing was certain. Sitting on his backside would get him nowhere. At all costs he must return to the hotel as quickly as possible. Once daylight came, discovery would be only a matter of time. He made one last effort to free himself, but it was hopeless. The handcuffs were on the last possible notch – they were biting into the flesh. In doing them up behind his back the gendarmes had known a thing or two. At least they hadn’t bothered to double-lock them. In any other circumstances he could have freed himself in a matter of seconds with the aid of a piece of bent wire. It was a simple matter of lifting the ratchet wheel away from the bar. If he had a piece of bent wire!
What he needed most of all was a telephone. Making use of it with his hands behind his back would be something else again, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it. He felt tempted to give a shout – just one – in the hope that Pommes Frites might hear. But that would be tempting providence.
Everything seemed to have gone remarkably quiet. At least it wasn’t raining. The sky was inky black and full of stars. He heard a twig snap somewhere close by. It was followed by a grunting noise, then silence as whatever was responsible stopped in its tracks. Conscious that something unseen was probably watching him, Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a shiver. The cold air was beginning to penetrate his costume.
He wondered what the real d’Artagnan would have done. For a start he would more than likely have been wearing the then equivalent of thermal underwear. He certainly wouldn’t have been without his horse. Ever resourceful, had he lived in the present age he would doubtless have had a portable telephone tucked away somewhere as well.
Clambering to his feet, Monsieur Pamplemousse went on his way. After about a quarter of an hour he saw what he was looking for. Showing up against the skyline were two sets of cables. The first looked like a power line. The second had to be a telephone. Tossing a mental coin as to which way to go, he followed the line of posts up the side of a hill towards a small patch of woodland. Sure enough, when he came out on the other side of the trees he stumbled across a narrow track. The surface looked well worn from frequent use, and at the end of it there was a cluster of farm buildings.
Hopes raised, he made his way towards an iron gate. As he drew near a dog barked a warning. It was quickly taken up by a second animal. He waited for a moment or two, expecting to hear the sound of pounding feet, but they must have been tied up somewhere, for it didn’t materialise. He heard an upper window being flung open and a shout. At least whoever lived there was already awake.
As Monsieur Pamplemousse reached the main building he backed up to the front door and thumped on it with his fists, then turned and stepped back a pace to see if it had any effect. Out of the corner of his eye he sensed a movement from one of the attic windows. Some curtains parted and he had a brief glimpse of three faces peering out at him. He assumed they must be the daughters of the house, for they were all young and patently female. Essaying a wave, he nearly fell over in the attempt, but before any of them had a chance to respond they were pushed to one side and another figure appeared. A double-barrelled shot-gun gleamed momentarily in the moonlight, then the curtains fell back into place.
He had almost given up waiting when he heard the sound of a bolt being withdrawn on the other side of the door, then another. It was followed by the metallic click of a gun being cocked.
As the door slowly opened he braced himself. ‘Monsieur … please forgive me for waking you at such an hour. I fear I have had an accident with my horse. I wonder if I might use your telephone?’
‘You leave my daughters alone. I saw you waving at them.’ The speaker had an accent you could have cut with a knife. Only a very dim light came from inside the house, but from the colour of the man’s skin he guessed he was dealing with a North African, although what an Arab was doing ensconced on a hillside in the Auvergne goodness only knew. It was no moment to enquire.
‘I assure you, Monsieur. I only wish to use your telephone.’
‘That’s what they all say.’
‘S’il vous plaît, Monsieur? I will not be ungenerous.’ The man peered out at him as though making a swift evaluation of his worth. ‘How much?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated, thinking once again of his P.39s. Unexpected expenses were starting to mount. It was hard to say how much Madame Grante might consider reasonable in the circumstances.
Inspiration struck as he remembered he was still clutching Mrs Van Dorman’s purse. Struggling as best he could to avoid letting the man see the handcuffs, he made a half turn and waved it to and fro. ‘Let us just say “whatever you think is right and proper”.’
The man thought it over for a moment or two. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Gascony.’ It was as good a place as any and it seemed to satisfy the other, for he stood back and motioned with the shot-gun for Monsieur Pamplemousse to enter.
‘All right, then. Just one call. But no wanting funny business afterwards.’
‘Vous êtes très gentil, Monsieur.’
As he entered the house Monsieur Pamplemousse was greeted by a smell of stale air. It was so overpowering he wanted to reach for his handkerchief. Stale food, unwashed bodies, cheap perfume, cats; a public health inspector would have had a field day. Halfway across the room he tripped over something. It felt like a ball and chain.
There was no sign of the other occupants of the house. Everything had gone deathly quiet again. If he hadn’t seen them with his own eyes they might not have existed.
‘Any funny business and I’ll have your couilles off and fry them in batter for déjeuner.’ There was a cackle from halfway up the stairs. He groped his way towards it.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ said the voice.
‘Nor the last.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was glad when they reached the landing. The conversation was getting both one-sided and tedious. Nor did he much care for the gratuitous sound effects which accompanied the remarks.
He stood waiting while the man unlocked a door and then motioned him to enter. There was no doubt about it; he was un bicot; un bicot of the very worst kind. He should have stayed in North Africa where he belonged.
‘In here. And don’t take too long about it.’
Anxious to get the matter over with, Monsieur Pamplemousse did as he was told. The room was in darkness and as he stood waiting for his eyes to get accustomed to the gloom the door slammed shut behind him.
‘Merde!’ It was the second time that evening he’d been caught unawares. He made a dive for the door, but before he was halfway there he heard the sound of a key being turned.
‘Bougnoule! Melon! Come back! Let me out!’
The only response was another cackle.
In desperation Monsieur Pamplemousse delivered a kick in the direction of the sound, then immediately regretted it as he made contact with the door.
Having felt in vain for a light switch and drawn a blank, he hobbled across to the window and looked out. Any hope of making a jump for it faded fast. Immediately below him there was a pile of
old farm implements. Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t fancy his chances if he landed on them. The old man’s wishes might be granted sooner than he expected. Even in the moonlight their barbs and prongs looked lethal.
Seeing everything from a different angle showed that he was in some kind of scrap-yard. Pieces of rusty farm machinery lay everywhere. Most of it looked as though it had been there for years. An old open-topped bus stood in one corner, its chassis broken. Weeds sprouted from unlikely places. Somewhat surprisingly there was a tarmac area which seemed to have been set aside for a makeshift car park. There were lines painted on it to mark the spaces, but there was no sign of a car.
Somewhere amongst it all there had to be a ladder, or at least something that would serve as one. If only he could get at it. He turned away from the window hoping there might at least be a bed with some sheets, but the room seemed totally devoid of furniture. He couldn’t even find anywhere to sit.
Monsieur Pamplemousse spent the next ten minutes or so pacing up and down in a state of growing frustration. After a while he thought he detected a noise coming from the corridor. He crept towards the door and put his ear to it. He could hear someone whispering. It was followed by a giggle.
‘Qui est là?’ At the sound of his voice the noise stopped abruptly.
He tried again. ‘Who is there? Can you open the door?’
‘No. It is not possible. He has the key.’ The voice was female; the accent a softer version of the man’s.
‘In that case, we have an impasse.’ Nice though it was to hear another voice, there seemed little point in pursuing the conversation.
A piece of paper appeared under the door. It was followed by more giggles. Crouching down, Monsieur Pamplemousse managed to pick it up. He took it across to the window, placed it on the sill, then turned and peered at it. He could hardly believe his eyes. Expecting a message of some kind, he was confronted instead with a coloured drawing.