by Michael Bond
‘Sacré bleu!’ He couldn’t help himself. Even without the aid of a torch it was clear that anatomically correct though the result might be, its influences owed more to readings of the Kama Sutra than from any medical publication. Explicit was hardly the word. Extraordinaire was more like it.
In a fit of desperation Monsieur Pamplemousse opened Mrs Van Dorman’s purse and felt inside it. There was a small comb, a handkerchief, several articles he couldn’t immediately identify, and then … he found what he was looking for. Undoing the top of a lipstick he put the holder in his mouth, turned the paper over, and began laboriously writing out a message.
MY HANDS ARE TIED. PLEASE FREE ME. I WILL PAY YOU WELL. NAME YOUR PRICE.
His task completed, he passed it under the door and waited for some kind of reaction. His only reward was another burst of giggling.
He was about to remonstrate when a dog barked. The others must have heard it too, for without another word they disappeared down the corridor. Once again there was a shout followed by silence.
Peering through the open window he made out the familiar shape of Pommes Frites crouched in a patch of weeds on the far side. Pommes Frites was much too well trained to give any sign that he had seen his master, but he gradually eased his way across the yard on his stomach until he reached the pile of machinery below the window where he waited, his tail moving gently to and fro.
Monsieur Pamplemousse allowed himself to be seen for a brief moment, then threw Mrs Van Dorman’s purse down to him. Pommes Frites sniffed it once. The message was clear without his master having to utter so much as a word.
Once again, as had so often happened in the past, it was a case of cherchez la femme.
Following a trail carefully laid at strategic points on the outward journey, Pommes Frites set off into the darkness, glad that at long last there was something concrete to do.
Monsieur Pamplemousse watched until he had disappeared from view. It would be some while before he would see Pommes Frites again, but that he would see him before the night was over he had little doubt.
He wondered if the recipients of his note were making equal efforts on his behalf. Somehow, he doubted it. Perhaps all three were tucked up in bed hard at work on more drawings.
Unable to check the hour by virtue of a handicap which Messrs Cupillard Rième could scarcely have been expected to foresee when they designed the dial of his wrist watch, Monsieur Pamplemousse sat down to wait, counting off in his mind first the seconds, then the minutes.
As an exercise in passing the time it soon began to pall, and he had long since given up making the effort when he heard the sound of an engine. And not just any old engine; it was the unmistakable noise made by the 602cc flat-twin, air-cooled engine of a Citroën deux chevaux.
It stopped some distance away and then there was silence again. Mrs Van Dorman was learning fast. Straining his eyes for any sign of movement, Monsieur Pamplemousse stationed himself by the open window. Doubtless Pommes Frites would lead the way; and what was perhaps even more important, it would be done quietly and stealthily so as to avoid waking any of the others. He would be in his element. With luck, there wouldn’t be much longer to wait.
6
COMINGS AND GOINGS
Monsieur Pamplemousse lay back on the bed, too tired even to remove the sword dangling from his belt. Closing his eyes for a moment, he concentrated all his energies on fighting off a growing feeling of claustrophobia at still having his hands securely fastened behind his back. Never before had he felt quite so powerless, or so frustrated.
‘Are you sure you have nothing?’ he called. ‘No safety-pins? Not even a paper-clip?’
‘I have pins galore.’ Mrs Van Dorman searched through a tray on her dressing table. ‘Long ones, short ones, fat ones, thin ones … you name it. I just don’t have anything I can use to make a right angle bend in one.’
‘Merde!’ If only he’d been in his own room. If he’d been in his own room he would have had his emergency case – the one issued by Le Guide; designed to cater for all eventualities. The possibility of having to bend the end of a safety-pin or a piece of stiff wire in order to break open a set of handcuffs, although not specifically envisaged in the list of basic requirements, would have been pas de problème. One twist with the small pair of pliers included in his wisdom by the founder, and he would have been home and dry.
‘Poor Aristide. Are you feeling very frustrated?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse opened his eyes and raised them ceiling-wards as he felt a tug, first on his right leg, then on his left. It was a self-answering question.
Mrs Van Dorman slid his boots under the bed. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘I was thinking that you are very kind. I don’t know what I would have done tonight without you. If it wasn’t for you I would still be incarcerated in that dreadful farmhouse.’ In truth he was thinking many other things as well. His mind was awash with thoughts.
‘What else? You are very quiet.’
‘I was wondering about Pommes Frites’ sense of smell. I am a little worried that he may be losing it.’
‘How can you say that after all he’s been through? He followed you to the farmhouse, then back here. Then he led me all the way back to the farmhouse again while I drove the car. Listen to him … poor thing … he’s quite worn out.’
Almost as though he was aware in his sleep that he was being talked about, Pommes Frites gave a loud snore. It was the first of many to come.
Monsieur Pamplemousse was less than sympathetic. ‘Following me there the first time was second nature; that is what he is trained to do. Going back to it again was simply a matter of covering old ground. As for finding his way to the hotel between whiles – he has his methods. After all the asperge he ate earlier in the evening he could hardly have gone wrong. No, it was something else which makes me wonder. As you say, his nose cannot be entirely redundant, but I wonder if it is only firing on three cylinders.’
‘I think we probably all are at the moment.’ Mrs Van Dorman plumped up his pillow. ‘And what else do we have on our mind?’
‘I was thinking I must send a fax message.’
‘Now? Right this minute? Can’t it wait until morning?’
‘The sooner the better. In Paris I have a set of skeleton keys.’
‘How do you know one of them will fit?’
‘It will. All I have to do is match a key to the make. The mechanism is really very basic. In most cases one key will fit all locks from the same manufacturer.’ Given time he was sure he could instruct Mrs Van Dorman in the ancient art of lock-picking, but to have a set of keys would be an insurance policy in the event that he failed. For all he knew she might be totally impractical; unable to open a can of soup, let alone a pair of menottes.
It would have sounded ungracious to add that for the moment at least he wanted nothing more than to be left alone with his thoughts. He was at a stage when normally he would have made a list of questions that needed answering. If he’d had his notebook … and if he’d been in a position to hold a pen. He let out a sigh. There were so many ‘if’s’.
‘OK.’ Mrs Van Dorman took the hint. ‘Tell me what you want to say. I’ll see if I can wake the night clerk. If he’s not around I’ll send it myself. Where do you want it to go?’
‘It is to my office.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gave her the number, then dictated as succinct a message as possible. ‘Mark it for the attention of the Director’s secretary – Véronique. She will know what to do.’
As the door closed behind Mrs Van Dorman, he tried to get out of bed, but after a moment or two gave up the struggle. His whole body was aching. It felt as though no part of it had gone unscathed from the ride on the horse. Bits that he didn’t know existed were making their presence felt. He glanced at a clock on the bedside table. It was after three o’clock. Alongside the clock was an open box of fudge. It was nice to think of Mrs Van Dorman having a guilty secret.
Monsieur Pamplemousse lay back and
closed his eyes again. Beginning at the beginning, he started running through the various questions uppermost in his mind.
That Norm’s demise had cast little more than a passing shadow on the previous night’s proceedings was patently obvious, but he couldn’t help feeling there was some other element involved.
There was the question of Spencer Troon’s performance over dinner for a start; pretending he’d been poisoned. That it hadn’t exactly endeared him to Elliott was hardly surprising in the circumstances. But what had been behind Spencer’s remark that at least it made him ‘runner-up’? Runner-up to what? Or to whom?
And then there was Pommes Frites’ strange behaviour, which had occasioned his remark to Mrs Van Dorman. Why had he ignored her glass of wine when it was knocked over? He hadn’t given it so much as a passing sniff, treating it almost with contempt. And yet there definitely had been a scent of bitter almonds, reminiscent of the smell they had both received from Ellis’s tasting glass. If he, Pamplemousse, had noticed it, why hadn’t Pommes Frites? Normally he would have been in there like a shot.
His thoughts were broken into at that point by the return of Mrs Van Dorman. She looked flushed as she let herself into the room, opening and closing the door as quietly as possible.
She put a finger to her lips. ‘The gendarme is still outside your room. I think you’d better stay here for the time being.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t feel disposed to argue.
‘Let me cover you up – you’ll get cold.’ Mrs Van Dorman pulled the eiderdown up over him. ‘There’s nothing else we can do until morning. The fax has gone off. And I had a word with the night clerk. I’ve asked him to arrange with the telephonist tomorrow morning to have any calls for you transferred to this room.’
‘You think he will oblige?’
‘I’m sure he will if he wants to earn the rest of his bonus. Besides, the whole place reeks of nepotism. The bell captain is his uncle, and the switchboard operator just happens to be the granddaughter of a friend. He’s promised to pass the word around to the rest of the staff. I get the feeling he doesn’t like the police.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. It was probably an echo of some unmentionable wrong dating back to the war years. The police must have gained a lot of enemies in Vichy during the time the pro-Hitler puppet government was in residence.
‘How about the man outside my door? Do you think he heard you coming up in the lift?’
‘No way. I used the back stairs.’
The thought of Mrs Van Dorman bothering to come up the back stairs on his behalf made Monsieur Pamplemousse feel strangely excited. What was the old saying? The most beautiful moment of a love affair is the one when you are climbing the stairs. Even if the sentiment were true, it didn’t seem like a moment they were destined to share.
Mrs Van Dorman hovered for a moment. ‘Do you mind if I have a quick shower? I’m dying to get out of these clothes. I’ve been corseted long enough.’
‘Of course not.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if he should take her into his confidence. Obviously the whole thing was giving her a kind of vicarious pleasure, but he was reluctant to give voice to thoughts that were still only half formed in his own mind, and the sound of running water put paid for the time being to any hope of conversation.
He had to hand it to her. Not once during the drive back had she questioned his behaviour. Not once had she asked him about his encounter with the police. Nor had she hesitated for a moment, as some women might have done, when she learned they were awaiting his arrival back at the hotel. Rather the reverse; clearly it had set the adrenalin flowing.
Grudgingly, Monsieur Pamplemousse took his hat off to the locals. They had got on to him far quicker than he’d expected them to.
Wriggling his hands behind his belt, he managed to turn it until the buckle was at the rear and he was able to grapple with the fastening. There was a clunk as belt, scabbard and sword landed on the floor. The relief was indescribable.
‘Are you OK? It sounded as though you’d fallen out of bed.’ Mrs Van Dorman arrived back in the bedroom. She was wearing a pair of pink silk pyjamas with bell-bottom trousers. The jacket had her initials embroidered on the pocket. The wig had gone, but the beauty spot was still in place. Perhaps she had forgotten it was there, or perhaps she felt it lent an air of abandon to the situation.
‘Mind if I join you?’ Without waiting for an answer she turned out the bedside light.
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a draught of cool air overlaid with a waft of the perfume she had been using earlier in the evening. A moment later the bedclothes were in place again.
He lay silent for a while drinking in the smell of honeysuckle and jasmine. It was like a breath of blossom-time encapsulated between the sheets, refreshing and at the same time curiously disturbing.
‘Now what are you thinking?’
‘I was wondering, statistically, how many men there are in France at this moment dressed as d’Artagnan, in bed with a beautiful lady, their hands powerless behind their back.’ Perhaps in some establishments on the foothills of Montmartre, or in rooms off the rue St Denis where they catered for bizarre tastes.
‘I guess the answer would have to be pretty minimal. And not just in France.’
He sensed a hesitation in her voice. ‘Anyway, you shouldn’t pay compliments you don’t mean.’
‘But I do mean it.’
‘You know something? No one has said that to me for a very long time.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse rolled over on his left side and immediately wished he hadn’t.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked, masking his discomfort.
‘I was thinking, Aristide, you really should remove your sword when you are in bed with a lady.’
‘And I feel it is only fair to warn you,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that is not cold steel you feel.’
‘Oh?’
There was a slight movement beside him as she moved closer, then a moment’s silence.
‘Nor is it!’
‘Tell me,’ it was his turn to ask the questions. ‘How do you think Monsieur d’Artagnan would have behaved in similar circumstances?’
‘From all I have heard he wouldn’t have been above asking a lady for her assistance. It is a question of where your priorities lie.’
The response came in the form of a deep sigh. ‘I doubt’, said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘if he had my problem.’
Unable to contain himself a moment longer, he sat up in bed. Ever since they had set off on the journey back to the hotel, there had been one thought above all others uppermost in his mind. He had tried his best to ignore it, but it was no longer possible. The ride down from the hills had been bad enough. The sound of the shower had been the last straw.
‘Excusez moi … I, too, have a priority … it is one which is of the utmost urgency.’
Easing himself down beneath the eiderdown, Monsieur Pamplemousse encountered a hand. He kissed it briefly, then rolled off the end of the bed.
As he groped his way round the foot and headed towards the bathroom his feet encountered something solid. Giving voice to a yelp of pain, Pommes Frites leapt to his feet and sent his master spinning in the direction of the dressing table.
As the sound of the crash echoed round the room, Mrs Van Dorman switched on the bedside light. ‘Boy!’ she exclaimed, taking in the scene. ‘Do you ever need help!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stirred in his sleep, gradually becoming aware that horizontal shafts of sunlight were filtering through the shutter. He opened one eye. Mrs Van Dorman’s head was on the adjoining pillow, barely inches away from his own. In the half-light she looked different; almost as though there was something missing. He noticed, not for the first time, how blue her eyes were.
‘Bonjour, Aristide.’
‘Bonjour …’ He wanted desperately to rub his own eyes as he tried to force himself awake.
‘You went out like the proverbial light last night. It wa
s all I could do to get you back to bed.’
It was true. He hardly remembered a thing. The combination of the food and the wine and all that followed, had acted like a ‘knock-out’ drop. For the second night running he had slept like a log.
‘What is the time now?’
‘Almost twelve o’clock.’
‘Morbleu!’
‘I don’t plan on going anywhere, Aristide,’ said Mrs Van Dorman. ‘Do you?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt the handcuffs biting into his wrists. His arms were like lead weights. ‘I couldn’t go anywhere,’ he said ruefully, ‘even if I wanted to.’
There was a stirring from somewhere nearby as Pommes Frites stood up and shook himself awake at the sound of voices. A face appeared over the end of the bed. Monsieur Pamplemousse recognised the signs; the doleful look, the chin resting on the cover, the soulful eyes gazing up at the ceiling. An artist searching for models to illustrate a series of paintings based on well-known phrases would have needed to look no further when he came to ‘hang-dog expression’. No doubt Pommes Frites would be making his way towards the door at any moment, pointedly asking for his morning stroll; he was no respecter of moments.
‘DiAnn …’
‘You can call me Dee if you like. Most of my friends do.’
‘Dee …’ It felt strange enough using her Christian name, let alone in a truncated form. ‘May I ask you something?’
‘Go ahead …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated as he heard settling down noises. Perhaps Pommes Frites’ instincts were telling him to build up his reserves again. After all his activity during the night they could probably do with replenishment.
A moment later the subject was driven from his mind as the telephone rang. The sound was so loud and unexpected he nearly fell out of bed.