by Michael Bond
‘I guess that’s another problem d’Artagnan wouldn’t have had to face.’ Mrs Van Dorman sounded resigned.
‘If we ignore it, perhaps it will go away.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse reckoned without Pommes Frites. Ever alive to his master’s needs, he rose to his feet again and padded round the side of the bed. As far as he was concerned there was too much talk and too little action. The sooner the talking was over and done with and he could go out for a walk the better.
Something hard and wet landed on the pillow beside Monsieur Pamplemousse’s head. As it did so a familiar voice issued from one end.
‘Pamplemousse! What is going on? Are you there?’ The Director’s voice came through loud and clear.
‘Oui, Monsieur. I am here.’
He exchanged a glance with Mrs Van Dorman. It mirrored that worn by Pommes Frites a moment earlier.
‘Pamplemousse, you must remain exactly where you are. Do not move.’
‘Oui, Monsieur. I shall be most happy to oblige.’
Mrs Van Dorman tried, not entirely successfully, to smother a giggle.
‘Pamplemousse … did I hear another voice just then? Do I take it you are not on your own?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse parried the question. ‘Possibly it was a crossed line, Monsieur.’
‘Hmm.’ The Director didn’t sound entirely convinced. Fortunately, he clearly had other things on his mind.
‘Pamplemousse, how long have you been in Vichy?’
‘Two days, Monsieur.’
‘Two days, Pamplemousse, and two nights! I put you in charge, and what happens?
‘One of America’s foremost gastronomic magazine publishers goes missing, two gendarmes have been attacked, three maidens ravished, the police forces of four continents are on the look-out for you, and Le Cercle de Six has become Le Cercle de Cinq. It is no wonder you are on the run from the authorities.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stirred uneasily. The Director made it sound like a new arrangement with variations for words and music of ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’.
‘What is wrong, Pamplemousse? Are you listening?’
‘Oui, Monsieur. It is simply that I am lying with my left ear on the telephone receiver and it is very painful.’
In the few moments it took the Director to absorb the information, Monsieur Pamplemousse managed to adjust to a more comfortable position.
‘May I ask, Pamplemousse, what is wrong with your right ear? Do you have to use your left?’
‘It is difficult to explain, Monsieur, but the simple answer is “oui, c’est très necessaire”. I am sore from all that has happened. Turning is difficult.’
‘In view of the reports I have received concerning your activities over the past twenty-four hours I am not surprised.’
‘It is not what you think, Monsieur. It is mostly from the horse.’
‘When I arranged for you to have a cheval, Pamplemousse, I did not expect you to use it in order to live the part of d’Artagnan to the full – roaming the countryside, terrorising the local populace, pillaging and raping, gauche, droit et centre.
‘It would have been better if I had sent you to the banquet dressed as Henri V – a prince known to all and sundry as Le Vert galant. If my memory serves me correctly, he was awarded the title on account of his excessive sexual activities; activities which remained undiminished until he met his death at the hands of an assassin. Had he been alive today he would have had to look to his laurels, lest he forfeit the title.
‘A warrant has been issued for your arrest. Interpol has been alerted. All manner of crimes have been laid at your doorstep; crimes culled from files which have been gathering dust over the past decade. Years of unsolved cases are beginning to surface. Everything from attempted rape in Yugoslavia to fire-raising in Provence. Fortunately, the description they have of you is somewhat hazy. I suggest you either remove your beard at the earliest opportunity or have it dyed another colour.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse settled back. The Director had the bit well and truly between his teeth. He could be in for a long session.
‘There is absolutely nothing they can charge me with, Monsieur. I may have run away from the police, but who wouldn’t at that hour in the morning on a lonely country road? How was I to know they were who they said they were. They produced no form of identity.’
‘Ortolans, Pamplemousse. Ortolans. Aiding and abetting in the cooking and eating of ortolans – a serious offence.’
‘Ortolans, Monsieur? But I did not know …’
‘I’m sure you don’t need to be reminded, Pamplemousse, that ignorance of the law is no excuse in the eyes of the authorities. I must admit I was unaware of a change in the regulations myself, but due to over-indulgence – mostly in the area of the Landes – the EEC in their wisdom have deemed ortolans to be a protected species, along with fig-pickers and the Pyrenean Brown bear.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hardly listened. It was true. If they wanted to they could get you on anything. If it hadn’t been ortolans it would have been something else – like stealing the handcuffs. It was one of the first things he had learned in the force. If all else failed, accidentally push them over and charge them with resisting arrest.
‘I wish to goodness I had never got involved in this whole thing,’ continued the Director. ‘We shall be the laughing stock of France if it ever emerges that one of our staff has indulged in nefarious culinary practices.’
‘It was hardly my fault, Monsieur.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt obliged to protest. ‘I did not devise the menu.’ He felt Mrs Van Dorman nodding her head vigorously in agreement. ‘Besides, for all anyone knows I might not even have touched the ortolans. My conscience could well have forbidden it. The evidence is all circumstantial.’
‘That is as may be, Aristide, but it was Thoreau, was it not, who said “Some circumstantial evidence is very strong – as when you find a trout in the milk”?’
‘With all due respect to Thoreau, Monsieur, he did not have to stand up in court and explain to the good burghers of Vichy how he happened to be knocking on the door of a lonely farmhouse in the early hours of the morning dressed as d’Artagnan.’
‘Ah,’ broke in the Director. ‘I am glad you mention that, Pamplemousse. It brings me to the matter of the three maidens. How you came to be there in the first place is beyond me, but the fact remains that notes were sent. Money was proffered. An obscene drawing is to be exhibit “A”. An obscene drawing passed during the hours of darkness to three innocent creatures.’
‘One note, Monsieur, and no money exchanged hands. The “obscene drawing” as you put it, happened to be on the back of the note. As for their innocence, that is something I am unable to comment on since I only caught a brief glimpse of their faces at an upper window.’
‘I hardly think that is a good defence, Pamplemousse. You were the one who pushed the note under the door in the first place. There are three witnesses who are willing to swear to it.’
‘Not in the first place, Monsieur. In the second. They pushed it under the door to me first.’
‘It is your word against theirs, Pamplemousse. One against three.’
‘Are you saying you do not believe me, Monsieur?’
‘No, Pamplemousse, I am not saying that. What I choose to believe or disbelieve is really immaterial. What matters is what those in court believe. I do not fancy your chances. The evidence against you is overwhelming. The wording of the note, “MY HANDS ARE TIED. PLEASE FREE ME. I WILL PAY YOU WELL. NAME YOUR PRICE,” speaks volumes. They are words which will be hard to explain if you are confronted by a skilled interlocutor.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse drew a deep breath and prepared to play his trump card. ‘It will need a very skilled interlocutor indeed, Monsieur, to demonstrate in court precisely how I was able to execute a drawing in such great and explicit detail while my hands were tightly secured behind my back.’
The silence gave him much-needed breathing space. Arguments with the Direct
or always left him feeling drained. He stole a glance at Mrs Van Dorman. It struck him that she was looking unusually thoughtful.
‘You say your hands were secured behind your back?’
‘Oui, Monsieur. With a pair of menottes.’
‘Ah, I see your dilemma. So you did not climb into bed with intent to ravish these girls as their father maintains.’
‘No, Monsieur. I did not. I did not even see their bed, for the very simple reason that I was locked inside another room. A room from which I have since escaped. Furthermore, Monsieur, my hands are still cuffed together. Short of cutting the jacket free, I cannot even undress …’
‘Cut your jacket free!’ The Director reacted in horror at the thought. ‘I trust you will do no such thing, Aristide. It was hired at great expense. I cannot begin to tell you the trouble I experienced clearing the bill with Madame Grante in the first place. If it is damaged in any way I shall never hear the last of it. Nor, I fear, will you.’
‘In that case, Monsieur, perhaps you would be kind enough to suggest an alternative.’
‘Can you not telephone Glandier? If he is as good a magician as you say he is, I am sure he will know of a method of removing a jacket without undoing the menottes. It is the kind of thing one has seen done many times on the stage.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse relaxed. Having let off steam, the Director was obviously going off the boil. Now it was his turn. ‘I’m sure you are right in what you say, Monsieur. It would not do to appear in court alongside you wearing a jacket which has been ripped apart from top to bottom, the lining protruding …’
‘Alongside me, Pamplemousse?’
‘I assume you will be speaking on my behalf, Monsieur. After all, the whole enterprise was your idea. I am only here as your representative.’
The Director sounded dubious. ‘I will, of course, engage a good lawyer to act on your behalf. That is the least I can do. But as for appearing myself, I am not sure that would be wise. The adverse publicity …’ He paused for thought. ‘I shall have to await progress reports before I make a decision.’
‘You shall have one, Monsieur, just as soon as my hands are free. I am working on the case. But if you would rather I didn’t, I can always make a clean breast of things. Before going to the police I could telephone the local journal and try to enlist their sympathy. No doubt they would welcome an article on the banquet …’
It had the desired effect.
‘Don’t misunderstand me, Aristide. Of course I don’t want you to stop what you are doing. I value your judgement in these matters. And if anyone is to receive the benefit of an article I trust it will be the Staff magazine. I shall look forward to seeing the photographs as well in due course, but in the meantime …’
‘In the meantime, Monsieur, in certain areas I have made a good deal of progress. Par exemple, I know the exact whereabouts of Mrs Van Dorman …’
‘You do? Good work, Aristide! This is incroyable. When news started filtering through during the early hours of this morning I tried to telephone her. I was told she was not in her room. Naturally I assumed the worst …’
‘She is safe and well, Monsieur.’
‘But where is she? Tell me. You must bring her back to Paris at once.’
‘I am afraid that is not possible, Monsieur.’
‘Not possible?’
‘There are things I must do before I leave Vichy. I need to satisfy my curiosity over certain matters.’
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mrs Van Dorman nodding vigorously.
‘Besides, I have to wait until the postman arrives.’
‘Ah!’ The Director sounded more cheerful. ‘Now there I have good news for you, Pamplemousse. If you are referring to your fax message about the keys, the night staff alerted Véronique and she came into the office early this morning. She has already taken the necessary action and she assures me they will be with you shortly.
‘As for my being with you, I will do my best to slot you in. However, as you know, the new edition of Le Guide has not long been out and it is always a busy period. In the meantime I will get on to my good friend the Deputy again. I’m sure he will do his best, but in order to pull strings one first has to find the right ends and it is not his region …’
‘Oui, Monsieur.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse allowed the Director sufficient time to justify to his own satisfaction the many reasons why he might not be able to make the journey to Vichy, then uttered his ‘aux revoirs’ and signalled Mrs Van Dorman to cut the call. There was a click as the line went dead.
As she stretched across him to replace the receiver in its cradle, he lay back exhausted.
It was a moment or two before either of them spoke.
‘You know, Aristide,’ said Mrs Van Dorman. ‘You are the only man I’ve ever kissed whose beard tasted of glue.’
‘You have kissed many men with beards?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Come to think of it, no. Come to think of it, you’re the very first.’
‘Perhaps it is a fact of life that all men’s beards taste of glue.’
‘I’ll let you know. You’ve given me a taste for it. I’ll tell you something else. When you kissed me back I heard the proverbial bell ringing.’
‘I heard it too,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I am afraid I can still hear it. It is very persistent.’
‘Maybe you’d better take the call,’ said Mrs Van Dorman. ‘I don’t think it’s going away.’
Reaching across for the receiver again, she held it against his ear, brushing her lips across his forehead as she did so. Pommes Frites, who had been on his way to render service, assumed his resigned ‘here we go again’ expression and went back to bed.
The voice, when it emerged was even more familiar than the first. Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank.
‘Couscous! How wonderful.’ He made faces at Mrs Van Dorman ‘And how clear your voice is. You could be right here in Vichy.’
‘I am in Vichy, Aristide. I am waiting for someone to show me up to your room. For some reason the staff seem very reluctant to do so.’
In a sudden panic, Monsieur Pamplemousse pressed his head against the mouthpiece. ‘Merde!’ he hissed. ‘It is my wife – Madame Pamplemousse. She is here. In Vichy!’
‘Jesus!’ Mrs Van Dorman was out of bed like a shot.
‘I am sorry, chèrie. What was that you said?’
‘I said why are you covering the mouthpiece, Aristide? Is there someone else with you? If it is another chambermaid …’
‘Couscous. I promise you … on my honour. Have you seen the chambermaid. She is old enough to be my mother …’
‘That did not seem to bother you in La Rochelle.’
‘Once and for all, Doucette …’ Playing for time, Monsieur Pamplemousse watched helplessly while Mrs Van Dorman swept as many of her belongings as she could into a case and bundled it into the wardrobe. ‘La Rochelle is not what you think it was. If only you wouldn’t jump to conclusions. I can explain everything …’ He suddenly realised the receiver had gone dead and he was talking to himself.
‘Quick, she must be on her way.’ Even as he spoke he heard the faint sound of lift doors opening and closing.
Mrs Van Dorman dived into the cupboard. She wasn’t a moment too soon. As the door swung shut behind her, the one leading to the corridor opened and the porter peered nervously round the corner.
‘Monsieur …’
‘Entrez. Entrez.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse did his best to keep the note of impending doom from his voice. ‘Couscous, what a wonderful surprise!’
Doucette looked round suspiciously as she followed the porter into the room. ‘Why are the shutters still drawn, Aristide? Do you know what time it is? I have been up since dawn. The train left Paris at eight forty-three.’
‘And I’, said Monsieur Pamplemousse virtuously, ‘have hardly fermé les yeux all night.’
‘Monsieur?’ Hovering nervously on the sidelines, the porter gestured towards the window.
As the man slowly and laboriously wound up the shutter and the room was flooded with light, Monsieur Pamplemousse took a quick glance at his surroundings. He breathed an inward sigh of relief. Mrs Van Dorman had done a good job. As far as he could tell there was nothing untoward in view. Nothing that he couldn’t talk his way out of.
The porter looked equally relieved as he made good his escape. He was probably worried about his bonus.
As soon as they were on their own Doucette flung open the balcony doors. ‘This room smells like a brothel.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse resisted the temptation to ask how she knew. It was no time for scoring cheap points.
‘Do you have the keys?’
Rummaging in her capacious handbag, Doucette found what she was looking for. ‘Are these the ones? They were in the bureau drawer.’
Spreading them out on the bedcover, she waited while Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced through them.
‘How on earth did this happen – to you of all people?’
‘It is a long story …’
‘An Inspector in the Paris Sûreté.’
‘Ex,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘I’m not surprised.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse chose to ignore the last remark. ‘Try the small one next to the Yale. That should do it.’
Rolling over on to his side he waited patiently for Doucette to undo the first lock. As she bent over him she paused and gave a sniff. ‘What is that scent?’
‘Scent?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Ah, oui, the scent. It is of the period. I wore it at the banquet last night. I resisted the idea at first, but the costumiers insisted. In those days many men of a certain class wore perfume. It was said to be a particular favourite of Louis XIV. That is why they called him the “Sweet-smelling Monarch”. It is made from the petals of jasmine and honeysuckle. If you like it, chèrie, I will buy you some when I get back to Paris. It is from Jean Laporte.’
‘You have become very expert at perfume all of a sudden,’ said Doucette suspiciously.