Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives

by Michael Bond

  ‘You want the bad news first,’ said Claye, when he got back into the room, ‘or the red alert?’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, fearing the worst.

  ‘The bad news is your pooch has gotten himself overdosed on water. I guess it must have been the jerk sauce. He went for it like his mouth was on fire.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at her. ‘I do not understand. How can you overdose on water?’

  ‘Easy, if it’s full of tablets.’ Claye pointed to the floor. ‘Licked it dry.’

  Registering the empty water bowl, Monsieur Pamplemousse looked around anxiously. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Bingo!’ Claye gestured towards the door. ‘Now you’ve hit the real bad news.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you let him out …’

  ‘You don’t think I was going to stay in the same room with him do you? Not the way he was looking at me every time I bent over. You French have a word for humping?’

  ‘Culbuter,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘There are others … Sauter … tomber …’

  ‘Yeah, well, I don’t want to end up as a testimonial to any of those on the back of a packet … you know what I mean?

  ‘One of us had to go. It was either him or me. No prizes for guessing who won!’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse rushed across the room, slipped the security bolt, and flung the door open. He was just in time to see a greyhound go past at speed without giving him so much as a second glance. It had its tail between its legs. Otherwise the corridor was empty, but from somewhere in the distance he heard a group of assorted dogs howling mournfully. None of them sounded remotely like Pommes Frites.

  ‘See what I mean by red alert?’ Claye came up behind him and thrust the box of Krispy Kremes into his hands. ‘I guess some other pooch is having the smile wiped off its backside.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘Pamplemousse …’ Monsieur Leclercq eyed his subordinate wearily from behind his desk. ‘Words fail me …’

  ‘I am sorry to hear you say that, Monsieur.’

  Risking the possibility that his head might receive a direct hit from a passing thunderbolt, Monsieur Pamplemousse managed to look suitably sympathetic.

  Having prepared himself for a broadside, the Director’s loss of speech, although doubtless only temporary, was the best news he’d had that morning.

  One way or another he had spent a sleepless night.

  Doucette had not been best pleased when he arrived back home with Pommes Frites the previous evening, both of them in need of sustenance, particularly as she had just finished clearing the table and packing everything away.

  In the end he drew the short straw. Deprived of food for most of the day, his appetite sharpened for reasons that were not up for general discussion, Pommes Frites lost no time in polishing off the navarin of lamb. It hardly touched the side of his throat. One moment it was there, the next moment it had gone; lost beyond recall, although from the way he kept licking his lips, the taste was well worth savouring.

  Doucette remained unmoved. ‘If you’ve spent the entire evening in a hotel that prides itself on having a three Stock Pot restaurant,’ she said, when he reproached her, ‘and all you’ve had to eat is cheese on toast, that’s your look-out. At least you’ve got a tongue in your head. Pommes Frites hasn’t.’

  ‘Only because he was lying on the kitchen floor with it hanging out for all to see,’ had been his response. ‘If you don’t consider that making your meaning clear, I don’t know what does.’

  At which point Doucette pointed out that having allowed the meal to grow cold while she was waiting for them, she’d hardly had anything to eat either.

  It set the tone for the rest of the evening.

  Offers to share the Krispy Kremes to make up for the lack of any alternative fell on deaf ears, as did the suggestion she could have first go at the Cinnamon Twist.

  The news that he had spent his entire time ensconced in a hotel apartment along with an elderly female bent on administering potency-enhancing drugs, far from producing waves of sympathy, went down like a lead balloon.

  ‘Since when have you needed tablets?’ demanded Doucette, completely ignoring his plea that it only showed how hard he had fought against the very idea of his being unfaithful.

  There were times when telling the truth was not always the best option. Pommes Frites’ uninhibited snores outside the bedroom door that night kept them both awake, only adding fuel to the fire and leaving him in a catch-22 situation.

  It was all to do with a lack of communication. He knew Doucette didn’t really mean it. She always fretted when she felt his life was in some kind of danger, and not wishing to worry her, he had left her in the dark as to what was really going on. So far he hadn’t dared mention Pommes Frites’ own fall from grace. With luck she might never hear of it.

  Rising early, he had been out to buy the morning papers, but even Le Parisien, not noted for being slow off the mark when it came to nosing out succulent titbits of news for its readers, hadn’t picked up on the previous night’s debacle at the Pommes d’Or, preferring instead to chronicle the alleged infidelities of a well-known tennis star.

  Nor had there been any mention on the France Info radio news channel. Public Relations must have gone into top gear with their whitewash brush.

  Alongside everything else that was happening in the world, Pommes Frites’ escapade was probably a very minor matter. But it wasn’t over yet, and you never could tell. Summertime was traditionally the silly season for news, and once the journaux latched on to something it could get blown up out of all proportion.

  But for the time being at least, life went on as usual.

  Taking a short cut through the gardens in the Square Suzanne Buisson on his way down to the newsagent in rue Caulaincourt, the usual quota of health freaks had been in evidence. A man with his back to any passers-by, looking as impassive as the nearby statue of Saint Denis, was in exactly the same pose some ten minutes later when Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way back home.

  The rotund uniformed lady, who as long as he could remember wandered around every morning flapping her arms in a desultory fashion, showed no discernible loss of weight. But then, who was to say what she would be like by now if she hadn’t practised her art so assiduously?

  ‘What happened to the code of secrecy, Aristide?’ demanded Monsieur Leclercq, bringing him back down to earth.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse bowed his head.

  ‘As for Pommes Frites’ behaviour …’ The Director gazed down at the figure stretched out on the floor, but if he was expecting any kind of response he was doomed to disappointment. Registering the still-empty outer office, along with the continued absence of a water bowl, and putting two and two together, Pommes Frites had decided to show his disapproval by opting out of things for the time being.

  ‘Advertising to the whole world your presence at the Pommes d’Or in the way that he did …’ continued the Director, ‘I hardly know what to say. One only hopes the Société Centrale pour l’Amélioration des Chiens de Race en France don’t get to hear about it. He is almost certain to be blacklisted. I doubt if he will be allowed to offer his services as a prospective donor of spermatozoa for the foreseeable future.’

  ‘I doubt if he could manage it even he wanted to,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply. ‘Although, having said that, last night’s affair doesn’t seem to have been picked up by the media.’

  Raising his hands ceiling-wards in a gesture of mute despair, Monsieur Leclercq held them aloft for a moment or two. Then he lowered them, brought the extended digits together to form a steeple, and began beating a measured tattoo with his thumbs.

  ‘There is a very good reason for that, Pamplemousse,’ he said, as though explaining matters to a small child. ‘Something in your tone of voice when we spoke on the phone gave me cause for unease, and shortly afterwards I contacted the Pommes d’Or’s head of security. At the time he was otherwise engaged. When he did eventually return my cal
l, the reason became abundantly clear. He was also at pains to point out that everything which took place yesterday evening is preserved on DVD for future generations of dog owners as a salutary example of how not to let their charges behave in public. It may even be used as Exhibit “A” in court.

  ‘The consequence of that last comment was I spent half the night discussing the matter with the hotel Manager, who had been called in specially to deal with a flood of complaints from the guests. Many of them, being of frail disposition, had taken to their beds while seeking legal advice from their attorneys back home. Attorneys, Pamplemousse, who earn their living by making the most of such situations. Satellites connecting the Pommes d’Or with the United States must have been glowing red hot in the night sky.

  ‘Luckily, not wishing the news to get out lest its reputation in the eyes of American dog owners is ruined for ever more, the hotel have succumbed to pressure. Veterinarian surgeons have been called in, and the management has announced that in the interests of preserving peace and goodwill they are prepared to meet all costs and settle out of court.

  ‘I have to say that one of the things I emphasised in passing was that Le Guide is currently checking the ratings of all the major establishments in France, and what a pity it would be if the Pommes d’Or were to be downgraded and lose one or more of its Stock Pots.’

  ‘It would indeed be a pity,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Their restaurant’s cheese on toast is superb. I have seldom tasted better.’

  Monsieur Leclercq stared at him for a full ten seconds. ‘I hardly think cheese on toast merits inclusion in Le Guide’s recommendations for a three Stock Pot restaurant,’ he said.

  ‘I very much doubt if jet-setting gourmets will be flying in from all corners of the world simply to partake of a croque monsieur, however much we recommend it.’

  ‘With respect, Monsieur, cheese on toast is nothing like a croque monsieur. In England it is known as Welsh rarebit.’

  ‘They are a devious nation, the British,’ said the Director. ‘Nothing is what it seems. It is no wonder they make good spies. What is the difference, may I ask?’

  ‘There are variations, of course,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but the classic recipe for croque monsieur as given in Larousse Gastronomique consists of two slices of buttered bread with the crusts removed, filled with thin slices of Gruyère cheese and a slice of lean ham to form a sandwich. The whole is then lightly browned on both sides, either in butter in a frying pan or under a grill, sometimes in the latter case with the top having first received a coating of a Gruyère béchamel sauce.

  ‘Cheese on toast, on the other hand, is simply what it sounds like. Many years ago there was a famous English lady by the name of Madame Beeton who produced a classic book on Household Management. She suggested melting the cheese by means of steam, then adding mustard and pepper before pouring it over the toast, after which it is browned by means of a salamander. She pointed out that it needs to be eaten very quickly before it congeals.’

  Monsieur Leclercq gave a shudder. ‘I do not wish to hear any more, Pamplemousse,’ he said. ‘It sounds to me like the kind of recipe which would find favour with any terrorists who were suffering from a lack of ideas.’

  ‘The Pommes d’Or’s dish only followed the latter recipe in principle,’ persisted Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘As I said to Mrs Beardmore at the time, the quality of the ingredients – the Poilâine bread and the use of Banon cheese – made all the difference. Whoever was responsible had honed the dish to perfection.’

  ‘It would take a lot more than that to convince me,’ said the Director.

  He brightened as a thought suddenly struck him. ‘On the other hand, Aristide, you may have hit the proverbial nail on the head. It could prove to be a useful weapon. We can always threaten to include the recipe in our list of the hotel’s top three dishes should they not toe the line. It is an admirable suggestion. It will be one up on Michelin.

  ‘As it is they risk being struck off the Canine Club of France’s list of recommended establishments. That, in turn, would mean we should be obliged to remove the icon indicating chiens are welcome from next year’s edition of Le Guide.’

  ‘Perhaps we could replace it with a dog rampant,’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  Catching sight of the look on the Director’s face, he made haste to spring to Pommes Frites’ defence. ‘It was hardly his fault, Monsieur.’

  In as few words as possible he went over the events of the previous evening.

  Monsieur Leclercq listened in silence as the tale unfolded. Despite everything he couldn’t help but look impressed.

  ‘You mean he swallowed all the pills in one go?’ he said at last. ‘It is no wonder they had an immediate effect.’ He eyed Pommes Frites nervously. ‘I trust it isn’t long lasting.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse offered up his hands in the time-honoured answer to an impossible question.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me Claye was a woman, Monsieur?’ he said.

  The Director had the grace to look momentarily discomfited. ‘This whole cloak-and-dagger world of espionage is new to me, Aristide. On the one hand it is all about the gathering of information. On the other hand no one tells anyone anything. People talk, but they don’t really exchange any worthwhile information for fear it may be wrong.’

  ‘Espionage can be a very lonely business,’ agreed Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You are very much on your own.’

  ‘That being the case,’ said the Director, ‘I felt you should be free to draw your own conclusions.

  ‘Your sorry tale confirms my worst suspicions. That woman is a sex maniac. I trust you didn’t fall victim to her wiles, Aristide?’

  ‘Certainly not, Monsieur.’

  ‘They do say one of the properties of such drugs is that victims often don’t remember what took place,’ mused the Director.

  ‘How she came to be a member of the CIA I cannot understand. I suppose it takes all sorts. Mind you, Claye is not all bad. She actually gave me a book just before I left; a somewhat abstruse volume on the history of the North American Indians. I suppose it is the thought that counts.’

  ‘America is a land of strange mixtures,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply. ‘All things are possible. If you remember, the late head of the FBI, J Edgar Hoover, was well known for his outlandish proclivities. He lost no opportunity in practising them with all and sundry. People entering his office made sure they never turned their back on him.

  ‘While he was in charge he managed to gather material on practically everyone who came within his sights. The files he built up over the years concerning people in high positions were legendary, and he had no hesitation in using the information at his disposal whenever it suited his purpose.’

  ‘Another thing,’ said the Director, going off on a tangent of his own. ‘I suspected there was someone else in the apartment the night I was there. Now I am certain. A short time after we spoke I tried ringing you again to make sure you had left and when Mrs Beardmore answered I distinctly heard a male voice.’

  ‘Perhaps it was coming from her radio,’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘She keeps it in her handbag. It looks like a can of Coca Cola.’

  ‘Pamplemousse!’ barked the Director. ‘This is no time for levity. The voice apart, I say I suspected the presence of another person – a man – because the previous evening, having been entertained with more glasses of water than I have drunk for many a year, I had urgent need for a pipi.

  ‘At Claye’s suggestion, before leaving I availed myself of what she prosaically calls the “comfort station” and you may not believe this, but …’ Monsieur Leclercq lowered his voice. ‘When I put my hand out to raise the seat, it was already up!

  ‘I tell you, I was glad to get out of her suite in one piece. Do you know what her last words to me were?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. It was too early in the day for riddles.

  ‘She questioned my libido. She told me she thought I was p
robably an under-achiever!’ The Director sounded mortified by the experience. Clearly it had been the final indignity. ‘I trust you won’t repeat that to anyone, Aristide.’

  ‘Of course not, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, having already mentally earmarked it for the next staff get-together.

  ‘Did you,’ continued the Director, clearly anxious to change the subject, ‘did you glean anything concrete from your meeting with Mrs Beardmore, other than the fact that her appetites are not confined to the world of the kitchen?’

  ‘She seemed anxious to test a theory of hers that any attack when it comes might not be widespread; polluting the nation’s drinking water, for example, or tampering with the bread supply. Such things would be hard to bring about on a grand scale anyway, and would be counter-productive in that they would alienate the population as a whole.

  ‘She put forward the idea that it could be something more esoteric, something aimed at those in a position of power. She mentioned in passing the fact that the truffle season is approaching …’

  The Director went pale. ‘Sacrebleu! You realise what this would mean, Pamplemousse. Such a thing would strike at the very heart of the French establishment: politicians, captains of industry, the elite – all those in positions of power; the movers and shakers of this world.’

  ‘Mrs Beardmore’s very words, Monsieur.’

  The Director rose to his feet and crossed to the window. Parting one of the slatted blinds, he stared out through the gap at the world beyond.

  ‘This is worse than I pictured in my wildest dreams, Aristide. After such a dry summer there is bound to be a grave shortage of truffles. That, in turn, will undoubtedly sharpen demand at the beginning of the season.’